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Chapter Text

Harry Potter was dead.

Or so he thought.

The green light of Voldemort's Killing Curse had flared brightly before him, and in the split second it took for it to reach him, he had felt a sudden peace. The weight of the war, the years of fear and loss, the endless cycle of suffering. It had all melted away, replaced with a calm that he hadn't felt since he was a child. It was as if the world, for once, had stopped spinning.

But then, nothing.

There was no pain. No cold. No eternal darkness.

Instead, he found himself lying on the cold, smooth stone floor of an empty, white expanse. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked several times in confusion, trying to adjust to the stark, unrelenting brightness around him. The space stretched on forever, with no walls, no ceiling, and no end. Only the ground beneath him, soft but firm, like clouds but solid.

For a moment, Harry thought he was dreaming. He thought that maybe this was just the aftereffect of the curse, his mind imagining a serene final resting place before oblivion.

Soft, rhythmic footsteps echoed from the distance.

Harry's gaze traveled toward the source of the sound, he saw a figure emerge from the fog that rolled along the edges of the platform. The figure was tall, draped in black, their form indistinct, as though the shadows themselves had come to life. Their presence was both chilling and comforting, as if the air itself knew of their existence.

Harry’s heart skipped. Something about this figure felt… familiar. Something deep in his soul stirred at the sight, an ancient recognition that he could not place.

"Harry Potter," the figure said, their voice deep, resonating through the emptiness, but not in any way that was harsh. It was a voice that seemed to speak directly to the core of his being, familiar in its cadence, yet foreign in its power.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

“You cannot help” the figure said again, with an odd mixture of sympathy and distance. It took another step forward, their face still hidden, and Harry felt a strange shiver in his chest.

"You cannot help... not yet," the figure repeated.

Harry’s confusion grew, but before he could manage another thought, a second sound reached his ears. A faint, rattling breath, so soft it could have been mistaken for the wind.

Turning his head sharply, Harry found himself staring at the small, twisted child at the edge of the platform. The figure was moving, shifting with an unnatural, jerky rhythm. As if flailing in pain.

And then Harry recognized it.

The broken soul fragment of Tom Riddle, the very same thing that had been lodged inside of him for so long. The piece of Voldemort’s soul that had survived through sheer hatred, a twisted remnant of the Dark Lord's essence, an entity trapped in time. But now it was different. It was raw, vulnerable. Like the last flicker of a dying flame.

Harry didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what to feel. He felt numb, disconnected, as if the weight of his own death had robbed him of the ability to process anything.

But then, the broken soul stirred, groaning as it tried to lift itself from the stone floor.

“Harry... Potter...” the soul rasped. Its voice was a strained whisper, like dry leaves scraping across the ground. The words were slurred, lost in the confusion of its fragmented existence. “You... are you... alive?”

Harry recoiled instinctively. This thing had been a part of him, the source of so much pain, fear, and grief. Voldemort’s very essence, torn apart and bound inside him since birth. He hated it. He hated the power it held over him. But now, in this strange place, the anger felt... distant. The connection to the soul fragment was still there, but now, it felt as if it was from another life, another world entirely.

“I’m not alive,” Harry said bitterly. “Not anymore.”

The fragment looked at him through its empty sockets, as if trying to make sense of the words.

“How?” it whispered, the word echoing with a hollow, painful quality. “How are you here?”

Before Harry could respond, the tall figure in black spoke again, their voice cutting through the confusion like a blade.

“The boy you knew... is not who you think he is.”

Harry’s heart stilled, and for a moment, his mind seemed to grind to a halt, as if trying to comprehend the enormity of the statement.

“I am Death,” the figure said, slowly drawing their hood back, revealing a face not quite human, not quite anything else. It was a pale, ageless face, marked by centuries of knowledge, a face both terrifying and serene. The figure’s eyes, if they could be called eyes were like pools of starlight, infinite and cold, yet strangely warm in their gaze.

“You, Harry Potter, are the Master of Death.”

The words hung in the air like an impossible truth. Harry felt a sudden, fierce pull in his chest, as if something deep inside him was screaming to be recognised. It wasn’t fear that he felt, not quite. It was the overwhelming sense of something... ancient.

“Master of Death?” Harry whispered hoarsely. “But... I’m just a boy. Just Harry.”

The figure stepped forward, their form shifting slightly with every movement, as if the very air around them bent in submission. “You are not who you think you are, either, Harry. Not a Potter, not even a wizard born of the human world.”

Harry’s mind raced. “What do you mean?”

The figure extended a hand, and Harry felt something, an invisible thread, wrap around his chest and tug him closer.

"While James and Lily Potter loved you very much, you are not of their blood. Though the Peverell blood runs strongly through your veins, it is from your true parents. Your birth father, Magnus, is a centaur of great lineage, and a descendant of Antioch Peverell,” Death continued, his voice smooth and calm, yet filled with an undeniable finality. “And your bearer... was none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

Harry recoiled, as if struck by a physical blow. His breath caught in his throat, and for the first time in his life, he felt completely, utterly lost.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “That’s impossible. Voldemort was a monster. A murderer. I’m... I’m not his son. I’m just Harry... just Harry Potter.”

The figure stepped closer, their presence overwhelming, pressing against him in a way that made his chest tighten. "You were never Harry Potter, not truly. You were found in a centaur village in the Fairy Forest, during a raid by the Ministry of Magic and the Order of Phoenix. The Order believed you to be a human child, possibly kidnapped by the centaurs in the chaos. They didn’t know who you were or who your parents were. They thought you were just a casualty of the war.”

Harry’s mind spun. He wanted to scream, to cry, but no words came. All his life, he had known who he was, who he had been told he was. The son of James Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The chosen one. The one who would defeat Voldemort.

But now...

“Yes,” Death whispered, its voice cold and unyielding. “When the Potters' child died, when the infant that Dumbledore believed was prophesied to defeat the Dark Lord was lost. Dumbledore feared the war would be lost, that there was no hope left. In desperation, he seized the opportunity to create a new prophecy child. You, Angelus, were the one he chose. He didn’t know who you were, but he knew you were important.”

Harry’s chest tightened as the words sank in. “So... he didn’t even know who I was?”

“No,” Death said, its tone bitter with irony. “He believed you were just another child orphaned by the war. A potential vessel for the prophecy. But it was never about you, Harry Potter. It was never about your destiny. It was about controlling the outcome of the war. Dumbledore twisted everything to suit his needs.”

Harry stumbled back, shaken by the revelation. His entire life, his identity had been manipulated from the very beginning, not because he was the one destined to defeat Voldemort, but because he had become the last hope. The true prophecy child, the one Dumbledore had believed in, was gone. A new pawn had been placed on the board.

Fury rose within him, boiling deep in his veins. All these years, he had been nothing more than a tool. A weapon. Dumbledore had played him like a game piece, manipulating every aspect of his life.

“Dumbledore,” Harry spat, his voice trembling with rage. “He used me. He lied to me. He—he... he destroyed my life!”

The fragment of Voldemort’s soul stirred again, its voice low, trembling with confusion and guilt. “I—I didn’t mean..., I didn’t know. I couldn’t—”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists, his chest heaving with the pressure of emotions he could no longer contain. His mind raced, disbelief warring with the raw pain of betrayal. The truth that had just been revealed felt like a crushing weight, and the fury inside him twisted into a gnawing confusion.

“What do you mean?” Harry demanded, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “You... you were the one who created the Horcruxes. You tore yourself apart. You—” Harry's voice caught in his throat. “You were the one who tried to kill me. You did everything you could to destroy me, and you didn't even know I was your son?”

The broken piece of Voldemort’s soul shuddered, as if suffocating under the weight of Harry’s accusations. Its voice was low and ragged as it continued, laced with grief.

“Angelus…” Voldemort whispered the name like a prayer. “I never saw him again. My son... my baby... he was taken from me that night. When the raid occurred, we believed... I believed he was killed in the chaos. James Potter... he was the one who... he was the one who led the Order to the village that night. We had no way of knowing—no way of finding him. I never got to hold him again. Never got to see him grow.”

The sorrow in Voldemort’s voice hit Harry like a physical blow. His breath caught. His mind reeled as the impossible thought took root.

"James Potter… you think my father—" Harry began, his throat tight. "killed your son?”

Voldemort’s fragment nodded faintly, its twisted, gnarled form trembling under the weight of the memory. “Yes,” it said softly, the deep sorrow thick in its voice. “I thought James Potter had slain my child. He was seen entering our bough where Angelus was sleeping, he took our baby... he took him from us. I vowed revenge on the Potters, on all of them, for killing Angelus that night.”

Harry stood there, frozen by the devastating implications of the confession. He had known of the Potters’ role in the fall of Voldemort, but never this. This was something else entirely.

“But...” Harry’s voice faltered as his thoughts began to race. “I look like him... like James. Everyone always says I have his hair—” He paused, forcing the words out, “and my mums eyes. How is that possible?”

“Dumbledore and the Potters performed a blood adoption ritual after they took you, Angelus. They bound you to the Potter line, altering your very being so the world would believe you were their child. Your hair, your eyes, even the way your magic was recognised, all altered to mirror James and Lily Potter. The ritual made you theirs in both appearance and blood. Dumbledore wanted you to blend seamlessly into their family and step into the role of the prophecy child. It was never about who you truly were. It was about creating the ‘Boy Who Lived,’ a figure the world could rally behind, and ensuring the prophecy would be fulfilled.”

Harry’s breath caught again. His mind spun. A blood adoption. Magic that had rewritten not only his name, but his very blood and face. His life...his identity had been stolen, not just by Dumbledore’s lies and the Potters’ compliance, but by a ritual that had buried the truth of who he was and who he had been born to be.

The rage that had burned inside him a moment ago now twisted into something darker. He wasn’t just a pawn in a game; he was a fabrication. A person born of lies and twisted magic, bound to a path he never chose.

His father, James Potter, had never killed Voldemort's child. His father was never even his father. But Dumbledore, in his desperation to maintain control, had turned the world upside down to fit his own narrative. And in doing so, had wiped away the truth of Harry’s origins, leaving him a ghost of someone else’s design.

Harry’s voice was barely a whisper. “So everything about me, everything I thought I knew... was a lie?”

Harry felt the floor beneath him shift, the ground seeming to wobble with the revelation. His mind screamed for answers, for clarity, but all he could hear was the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.

“But I didn’t die that night,” Harry said, his voice trembling with disbelief. “You thought I was dead, but I wasn’t... I was the one who survived, the one you tried to kill all these years.” He paused, then added, almost in a whisper, “Your son, Angelus... that’s me. I’m your son.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Harry didn’t know what to do with them. He couldn’t even begin to fathom the implications of what Voldemort had said. His mind, however, wasn’t finished processing. It kept circling back to the one fact that his heart couldn’t accept.

“How could you not know?” Harry finally whispered, more to himself than to Voldemort. “How could you not know your own son was right under your nose all these years? How could you—?”

Voldemort’s fractured soul seemed to recoil slightly at the words, as if Harry’s accusation was a dagger to what remained of his shattered heart. “I was broken,” he muttered, the words filled with a kind of helpless agony. “My soul was torn apart, divided, and the only thing I cared about was revenge. I couldn’t see past my hatred, couldn’t see what I had lost. Even when I realised you were... alive, I never considered the possibility that you might be... my son. I only wanted vengeance. Vengeance on the Potters, on anyone who had taken anything from me.”

The soul’s voice cracked as it continued, a tremor of something deeper.A mixture of sorrow and self-loathing breaking through. “I didn’t know. I was...I was consumed by my rage and obsession. I was blinded by my own insanity.”

For the first time, Harry felt a flicker of something he hadn’t expected: pity. It wasn’t much, but it was there. Voldemort, for all his monstrous actions, for all the terror he had unleashed on the world, was still a father who had lost his child. A father who had been broken beyond recognition by his own obsession with power and vengeance.

“I never wanted to hurt Angelus... to hurt you,” Voldemort whispered, his voice raw, “but I couldn’t stop myself. I thought you were James Potter's. The son of an enemy who took my own son from me. Then, I was told of a prophecy. A prophecy that said you would destroy me. I became enraged. I wanted nothing more than to avenge my baby and kill every Potter." Harry’s mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. First anger, then confusion and finally hurt. But beneath it all, there was a kernel of something softer: a deep, unspoken pain, a connection that neither of them had chosen, but one that now linked them in a way that Harry couldn’t escape.

"You—" Harry started, the words catching in his throat again. He wanted to scream at him, to call him a monster, but all that came out was the raw, unfiltered emotion of a child who felt he had been betrayed by everyone he had ever known. "You didn’t know. You didn’t even try to know. All this time, I thought you just wanted to kill me for who I was... But it was more than that, wasn’t it? You didn’t even know what you were doing."

The fragment of Voldemort’s soul trembled as if the weight of the truth was pressing down on it, as if it had no defense against the pain of what had happened. It seemed to sag, defeated by the realisation, by the understanding that he had, in the end, never truly known what he had lost.

“You were always there,” Harry whispered, his voice trembling as he looked down at his hands, remembering the years of suffering and confusion, the weight of the scar on his forehead that had always been a reminder of the Dark Lord’s obsession with him. “Always... always right there. And I never knew... I never knew who I really was.”

The broken soul of Voldemort let out a long, ragged breath, and for the first time, Harry saw the faintest hint of regret in its dark eyes.

“I was lost,” Voldemort whispered, his voice barely audible. “And so were you.”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to process the enormity of what had just been revealed to him. His whole life, everything he had been told, every choice he had made, had been based on a lie. The pain of it all threatened to swallow him whole, but somewhere deep within, a part of him knew that he could never go back to the way things were. Not now. Not after all of this.

And Death, still standing like an eternal shadow in the distance, watched them both in silence.

The silence hung heavy in the air, thick with the weight of the revelation. Harry could feel his chest tighten, the sting of betrayal and confusion still fresh, but something else began to press on him, a deep, gnawing sense of responsibility.

Voldemort’s shattered soul, curled in the corner of his mind, seemed to flicker with a strange, faint echo of something resembling fear.

Then, Death spoke.

“It is time to make things right,” the voice said, its tone deep and infinite, like a gust of wind brushing through a desolate field. The air around Harry seemed to hum, the faint crackling of energy whispering in the corners of his perception. “Both of you have deviated from the path chosen for you. Your lives, Angelus Magnus Peverell, and yours, Tom Marvolo Riddle, were meant for greatness. You died too soon, before your time.”

Harry’s stomach twisted as the reality of his own death hit him again, but there was no time to dwell on it. Death’s words were pressing forward, relentless in their revelation.

“Because of the Second Wizarding War, the world you knew, the world you fought for, has unravelled. The magical world is no longer hidden. Muggles have learned of magic and, out of fear, they will seek to destroy it. The very existence of magic, everything you held dear, is now in danger of being obliterated.”

Harry froze. The weight of those words settled over him like a crushing wave, drowning him in a sudden wave of helplessness. He had spent so much of his life fighting for survival, for victory he had never considered the greater consequences, the aftermath of everything that had happened.

“And the fault lies with both you and Albus Dumbledore,” Death continued, its voice solemn. “Dumbledore's obsession with power and choice to take you from your rightful family, and you, Tom, your twisted obsession with vengeance, all of it has led to this point. Because of your war, the magical world’s secret has been exposed. There is no going back now. The time of secrecy is over. Muggles will no longer allow magic to remain hidden, and their fear will lead them to destroy everything.”

Harry could feel a coldness creep into his bones at those words, a terrifying certainty that threatened to overwhelm him. The world he had fought for, the world that had shaped him into the person he was, was now on the brink of extinction, and it had been Dumbledore's choices, Dumbledore's actions, that had contributed to this fall.

“The balance has shifted,” Death said, its voice low but resolute. “Fate’s design has been shattered, and now the very fabric of magic trembles on the edge of destruction. The Second Wizarding War was never meant to be won. It was never meant to unfold the way it did. Dumbledore’s machinations, his desire to control the outcome, tipped the scales of fate.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. 

“And you,” Death said, turning its gaze toward Voldemort’s broken fragment, “you, Tom Riddle, your soul was never meant to be splintered. The hunger for revenge has driven you to destroy the very thing you loved, your own son. The world was never meant to fall into chaos under your rule.”

Voldemort’s soul shuddered, its remnants of consciousness clinging to the truth, to the weight of Death’s words. “I… I couldn’t have known,” it whispered in agony.

“None of you could see it,” Death agreed. “The path was twisted, the threads of fate torn apart by your actions. Now, because of this, everything you know, everything that is magical, is on the verge of being destroyed. The veil that separated Muggles and the Wizarding World is gone. The magical world will cease to exist as you know it.”

Harry’s head spun. The future he had lived through... the wars, the deaths, the constant fighting. Had all been for nothing. He had believed in victory, in defeating Voldemort, but this… this was a fate far worse than anything he had ever imagined. A world where magic was no more.

“You both must go back,” Death said softly, but its words carried the weight of an ancient inevitability. “Seven years. I will send you both back to the day before the summer you re-entered the Wizarding world, before the Second Wizarding War took root. Before the prophecy and the lies twisted the fates of so many.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Go back?

"Seven years,” Death continued, its voice like a final decree. “You will return to the beginning. To the moment where everything could still be changed. You will be sent back, and the past will no longer be as it was. You will have the chance to stop Dumbledore, to stop the path that led to this destruction, and ensure that magic remains hidden. No longer will you live in the shadow of fate. No longer will you be a pawn of Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry’s mind reeled. Go back? The thought terrified him, and yet…There was a strange, painful sense of relief in it, too. A chance to undo the mistakes, to stop the war before it started, to prevent the magical world from being exposed.

“But how?” Harry breathed. “How can we… how can I stop this? How can I fix what has been done?”

Death’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “You and your family must reunite and work together. Only together can you begin to undo the damage that has been done. Tom Riddle, you must reunite with your Horcruxes to become whole again. Only then will you be able to regain your full power and sanity, and find the clarity you lost in your obsession with revenge. It is only through this that you will be able to help restore balance. Only then can you ensure that magic remains hidden, and that the Wizarding World remains protected.”

Harry looked toward Voldemort’s broken soul, and for the first time, he saw it as more than just the enemy. He saw it as something else... a part of himself, a piece of the man who had given him life, a father who had been consumed by darkness. In the shattered pieces of Voldemort’s soul, Harry saw not just a monster, but a person who had been lost.

And for the first time, Harry didn’t hate him. He didn’t even feel anger. There was only a strange, sad pity.

“Death favors you, Harry,” Death’s voice rumbled, its tone heavy with something that almost sounded like affection. “You are the Master of Death, and it is through you that balance will be restored. But the task will not be easy. The world you must return to will not be as it once was. There are forces at work that will seek to stop you, and your path will be fraught with danger.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, but as he looked at the broken soul fragment of Voldemort, and then at the shadowy form of Death, something within him stirred. This was his chance, not just for redemption, but for a future where magic could survive. Where the world he knew, his parents, his friends, the very magic he had fought for could exist in peace.

It was the only chance he had left.

And with that, the decision was made.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to the familiar sound of Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice cutting through the morning silence. It was the same harsh, piercing tone that had woken him every day of his miserable existence under the stairs.

“Up! Get up! Now!”

Blinking his eyes open, Harry winced at the bright light streaming through the small gap in the cupboard door. He could hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen and the faint hum of the television in the living room. It was an ordinary day, or at least it should have been. The same routine, the same coldness. The same emptiness.

Except it wasn’t the same, was it?

He felt a strange pull, an unsettling twinge deep within himself. The small cupboard under the stairs, his childhood prison, felt even more cramped than usual. As he lay in the cupboard, memories of another life flashed behind his eyes, vivid and jarring, like scenes from a movie reel. Memories of a boy also called Harry Potter.

But Harry Potter no longer seemed like the right name for him.

The name Angelus swirled in his thoughts. His true name. His true identity. A name whispered to him by Death itself. A name that tied him to a past he hadn’t known, to parents he had never truly met, and to a legacy far more complicated than he could have ever imagined.

With a groan, Angelus sat up, the familiar ache in his back reminding him that sleeping on a thin, baby mattress on the cold, hard floor was still uncomfortable, no matter how many years he had endured it.

Aunt Petunia’s voice screeched from the top of the stairs again. “I said get up, boy!”

He sighed. Of course, Petunia hadn’t changed. She never would.

Pushing aside the old, threadbare blankets that hadn’t been warm in years, Angelus forced himself to stand and shuffle out of the cupboard.

He couldn’t shake the strange memories lingering just beneath the surface, like shadows waiting to take form. It was almost as if something inside him was waiting to awaken, something far stronger than the magic he’d once known. And with the absence of the Horcrux, the piece of Voldemort’s soul that had once been inside him, he felt… incomplete.

He reached for the kitchen door handle, then stopped. Something didn't feel right. 

There was something different about him; he felt lighter somehow. Like a pressure he hadn’t even known was there had suddenly lifted, leaving his head clear for the first time in years. Curious and unsettled, he turned and slipped into the downstairs toilet to wash up.

When he looked into the mirror, his breath caught. The lightning-bolt scar, once a vivid red and raw as though it had never fully healed, was now faded. So faint it barely stood out against his skin. 

His hand rose instinctively to touch it, fingertips brushing the smooth skin. The truth hit him. The Horcrux was gone.

The realisation sank like a stone in his stomach. It terrified him. Had the Horcrux not travelled back in time with him? Was it lost? Or worse, had it died?

Angelus squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself. No. He couldn’t panic. Not yet. He needed to keep things as similar to how they had been before. The plan Death had given him, to find his parents and keep magic a secret, was still in motion. The stakes were too high to risk revealing the truth to anyone, especially Dumbledore. He had to keep pretending. He had to stay on track.

I’ll figure it out later, he thought firmly. First, I need to get through today.

With a deep sigh, Angelus opened the cupboard door and walked into the hallway.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of routine. The air was thick with the Dursleys' usual humdrum, their petty grievances filling the space where Angelus had once believed he could find peace. Aunt Petunia, as cruel as ever, handed him a measly breakfast, half a slice of burnt toast and a glass of watered-down milk. It wasn’t much, but it was what he’d come to expect.

Dudley was already on the couch, stuffing his face with chocolate biscuits and rattling off numbers to anyone who would listen. His birthday presents sprawled across the room, each more lavish than the last.

"Thirty-six!" Dudley exclaimed, counting the packages like they were treasures, his voice thick with self-importance. "That's two less than last year!" His face red and eyes gleaming with anger.

“Darling, you haven’t counted Aunt Marge’s present,” Petunia cooed, looking over her son’s shoulder with a false sweetness that barely masked her anxiety over a pending tantrum. “See, it’s here, under this big one.” She gestured to a massive box with a bow, clearly an afterthought in comparison to the pile of presents already waiting.

Dudley grunted, and without missing a beat, Aunt Petunia added, "And we’ll get you two more while we're at the zoo. We can't have you falling behind now, can we?" The indulgence in her voice was sickening, the weight of her favouritism pressing down on Angelus’s chest, making him feel even more like an outsider than he already did. But he no longer cared about the Dursleys’ petty squabbles.

Angelus barely noticed them as he picked at his toast, his thoughts far away, tangled in the whirlwind of his newfound identity. Angelus. His true name. Not Harry Potter. Not the boy who had survived. But someone with a past so far removed from the lies he had been told, that it made everything feel... false. Dumbledore’s manipulations, the lies, the war... He had been a pawn in a game he hadn’t understood, but now, with this second chance, he could rewrite it. He could stop Voldemort, stop his father from becoming the monster he had been.

But it wasn’t that simple, was it?

"Hello? Hello?" Aunt Petunia’s voice sliced through his thoughts as she picked up the phone, her tone tight with expectation. The conversation started innocuously enough, with a few polite pleasantries. Angelus wasn’t listening, not really. He was still wrapped in the confusion of his own thoughts, his mind whirling with questions. What did he do now? Should he leave the Dursleys? But, if he did, where would he go? He didn't know how to reach his father or even where he was, and Hagrid still had his vault key.

"That’s terrible!" Aunt Petunia suddenly snapped, her voice rising with indignation. "You broke your leg, you say? and you are sure you cannot take the boy?" She paused, listening to the other side of the conversation, looking both angry and worried.

Angelus froze at the mention of the name boy. He had forgotten about this. For a fleeting moment, his heart leapt with hope. Could this be an opportunity? If he were left alone, he would finally have time to think and plan. Perhaps he could sneak out...find a way to contact his parents, or maybe even make it to Diagon Alley and just go from there.

His eyes flicked toward the door of the kitchen. I could go there. I could be free of the Dursleys and think things through...anywhere is better than here.

'You could leave me here in my cupboard,' Angelus offered hopefully

But the moment his thoughts turned to hope, Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice cut through the silence again.

“And come back to find the house in ruins?” she snarled, clearly enraged at the thought. “I don’t think so boy.”

Angelus’s heart sank.

“Like you can manage not to get yourself into any trouble, and ruin everything”, Aunt Petunia continued, turning back to the phone and sneering as though the very idea of him stepping outside was an inconvenience. "Well, I suppose that means we’ll just have to take him with us, won’t we? It’s not like we have a choice now."

Her tone was laden with contempt, as though the very suggestion that he might not accompany them was a threat to her comfortable world. She hung up the phone with a finality that left Angelus feeling small and irrelevant, as if his mere existence was an annoyance to them all. It probably was.

“Get your coat,” Aunt Petunia said, her voice cold. “You'll have to come with us to the zoo. And no funny business this time, boy. You will behave and stay out of the way.”

Angelus stood, slowly feeling the weight of his situation pressing down on him again. I don’t want to go to the zoo. I don’t want to be anywhere with them. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone, to have time to think, to figure out what had happened to the piece of Voldemort’s soul inside him and what he could do next. But it seemed fate had other plans, as it always did.

As he trudged to the door, frustration and despair twisting in his chest, the door slammed behind him as he followed the Dursleys out, the noise loud in the quiet street. The rest of the morning might have been routine, but for Angelus, it felt as though everything had shifted. Things were different now.

That day continued on much like last time, with the Dursleys taking Angelus to the zoo.  Angelus kept to himself, following Dudley and Piers quietly from exhibit to exhibit. He had learned long ago that it was best to keep quiet and avoid attracting attention, especially now that he was feeling the pressure of his new identity. But when they reached the reptile house, something inside him stirred.

A feeling. A calling.

He wandered slowly past the glass enclosures, his gaze lingering on the snakes. He hadn’t even realised that he was walking toward the exhibit until he stood in front of a familiar glass tank, the snake inside coiled lazily, flicking its tongue.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, his mind racing.

I should leave. I shouldn’t make a scene. Don’t do anything foolish.

But something, something deep inside him, urged him forward. He felt the pull of the glass, the energy that was building inside him. This time, he wasn’t just Harry Potter. He wasn’t just the boy who had survived.

He was Angelus Peverell. The son of Tom Riddle.

And Angelus had magic that was stronger than he ever realised.

Tentatively, he stepped closer to the glass, ignoring the stern voice of his aunt in the background, warning Dudley not to get too close to whatever exhibit he was looking at. Angelus leaned in, staring into the snake’s dark eyes, and before he could stop himself, he whispered, “I know you’re listening.”

The snake’s eyes flickered, and it tilted its head, as if it understood.

Angelus leaned closer, pressing his palm against the glass. He closed his eyes, drawing in a steady breath, willing the barrier to vanish. Demanding it to disappear. But nothing happened.

Frustration twisted in his chest. He tried to remember how he had done it last time, what had pushed the magic through him. Then it struck him: anger. The raw, burning need to strike back at Dudley for his years of torment and cruelty.

He thought about all the times Dudley had punched him. About Dudley and his friends shoving him into a rubbish bin behind the school, locking him in with rotting food and rats. The time Dudley slammed a door on his hand, breaking his fingers. When Dudley had pushed down the stairs, breaking his hand in the fall. About every bruise, every taunt, and every laugh at Angelus's expense.

Angelus channelled his anger, clinging to his fear and hatred of the Dursleys, of Dudley. He imagined the snake breaking free, slithering out, its fangs bared at Dudley’s pale, stupid face.

"Go on," he hissed softly in Parseltongue. "Work. Please, work."

The glass seemed to shiver under his hand. And slowly, it began to melt away, the solid surface thinning and fading, until it dissolved like mist. Leaving nothing but open air between him and the snake.

The snake slid out, gliding gracefully across the floor of the enclosure. It was a beautiful creature, its scales gleaming a rich shade of emerald green, and it seemed to sense that it had just been freed. The crowd panicked, a shriek rising from a woman in the back, but Angelus paid no attention to her, eyes locked on the snake. His heart thumped in his chest. He could feel its yearning, its instinctive desire for freedom, to return to the wild, to its natural home.

“You don’t belong in here,” Angelus murmured softly, speaking more to himself than to anyone else. He had always felt out of place with the Dursleys, but now... now he was feeling something different. A kinship. The snake looked at him, its flickering tongue tasting the air, and then, as if responding to his unspoken words, it turned its head slightly.

“You deserve to be free,” Angelus said, stepping closer. “You don't deserve to be kept in a cage, like me.”

The snake’s tongue flickered again, and its body coiled loosely, as though listening, waiting.

Angelus’s lips curved into a faint smile.

"Go," he urged gently in Parseltongue. "Leave this place. And on your way out, give the fat one over there a fright he won’t forget."

And then, before he could say anything more, the snake gave a final flick of its tongue and slithered swiftly across the floor, snapping at Dudley’s heels as it passed. Dudley let out a panicked yell, stumbling back and trying to hide behind his mother, though his bulk made the effort pitiful at best. The snake continued past them both and vanished through the open door, disappearing outside.

The crowd was still panicking, some people yelling, some calling for a zookeeper, but Angelus didn’t care. His mind was elsewhere.

For the first time in his life, Angelus wondered if he even had a home. A place where he truly belonged. He had been tossed between identities for so long; boy, the unwanted orphan. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and figurehead for the light; Now, Angelus, the son of Voldemort and a centaur, he had never heard of or met.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden shout of the zookeeper, who hurried in to find and stop the snake from escaping, but it was already gone.

At that moment, he felt a rush of exhilaration at what he had done. He had done magic, real magic. He could do this. He could change things.

But just as quickly, the spell wore off. Angelus stiffened as Vernon Dursley stormed over, his face red with rage.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing, boy?” Vernon hissed. 

Angelus barely had time to react before he was yanked back toward the exit, his mind reeling. He didn’t even try to explain. It wouldn’t have made any difference to them, anyway.

Later that evening, after being yelled at and roughly shaken by Vernon, Angelus was sent back to the cupboard under the stairs, locked away with nothing but his thoughts. Vernon’s furious voice still echoed in his ears, the weight of Dursley's rough hands still tingling on his arms. “You’ll pay for this, you freak!” Vernon had screamed, his face red with rage. And Angelus, helpless against the onslaught, could only wish for his parents to come and rescue him. 

In the dark, the silence of the cupboard pressed in on him like a physical weight. He barely noticed the absence of food. The real emptiness gnawed at him from the inside. His thoughts kept returning to the strange events of the day, the glass vanishing and setting the snake free. He should have been feeling pleased that his magic had worked so easily, that he had deliberately tapped into something so powerful. But, instead, a deep, unsettling thought began to creep into his mind once again.

Sitting on the thin mattress in the cupboard, Angelus stared into the dark, doubt gnawing at him. What if it had all been a dream? What if Death’s words, the memories, the truth of who he really was—what if none of it had been real?

His chest tightened. Maybe the Horcrux hadn’t survived the jump back through time. Maybe Voldemort hadn’t either. Perhaps both had been lost, or worse...destroyed. If that were true, then what did that make him now? Just Harry Potter? Just the unwanted boy locked under the stairs, with no one coming to take him away.

The thought made his stomach twist painfully. What if he never found them? What if he never had a family, never had someone to love him, never escaped the Dursleys at all? He wanted to believe, had to believe, that his fathers were out there, waiting for him, searching for him. But doubt whispered cruelly in the back of his mind.

But even if the memories are true and he really did have parents, how would he find them and convince them he was their son? How could he make Voldemort believe he was truly his son, when in this world, in this time, he was nothing but Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived?

Angelus pulled his knees closer to his chest, the weight of it pressing down on him. He wanted freedom. He wanted love. But in the silence of the cupboard, all he had were questions and the fear that maybe, just maybe, none of it was real, that he would never be free of the Dursleys.

Angelus clenched his fists, pressing them against his knees. He couldn’t afford to panic...not yet. He had to focus, think clearly. He needed time. Time to understand what had happened to him and the Horcrux, and time to figure out what he was supposed to do next.

For now, though, he had to wait. He couldn’t risk changing anything too soon. Not until he figured out how to reach his family and reunite with his fathers. The ones who would know what to do. They were the only ones who could help him now, help him understand who he truly was and what his purpose is in all this madness.

But he cannot trust Dumbledore. He could feel it deep down. Dumbledore’s manipulations, the web of lies and half-truths that the old man had spun around him. He couldn’t trust him. Not anymore. But that meant he had to play the part of Harry Potter. He had to keep up the act, keep everyone convinced that he was the same boy who had survived the Killing Curse all those years ago. At least for now.

He shifted slightly, leaning down and glanced under the crack of the cupboard door. The rest of the house was dark, and the Dursleys were settled into their usual evening routine of getting ready for bed. They’d fall asleep soon, and he could sneak out for food. Maybe escape to Diagon Alley.

The thought of leaving was tempting. But he knew he couldn’t risk it, not yet. He had no way of getting there or accessing his vault. And chances are, even if he did make it to London, he would most likely get caught and brought straight back here.

He exhaled slowly and tried to settle his thoughts. At least his Hogwarts letter was coming soon, only a month away. The thought of returning to Hogwarts, to the place that once felt like his true home, gave him a small flicker of hope. Maybe there, he could contact Voldemort and reveal the truth to him and reunite with his true family. But one thing he was sure of, he would not be the boy Dumbledore and the rest of the Wizarding world expected him to be.

But for now, he just had to wait. And that was something he had always been good at.

Chapter Text

The summer holidays had begun, and as usual, Angelus found himself abandoned. The Dursleys were off in London, shopping for Dudley’s Smelting uniform, a task which, to no one’s surprise, seemed to be more about pampering Dudley than anything else. Angelus had been sent to Mrs. Figg’s house once more, to be watched over by the squib who couldn’t care less about him.

Mrs. Figg, as usual, was distracted, sitting in front of the television with a cup of tea in hand, muttering about some soap opera that Angelus had no interest in. He had been here before, countless times, but now, with his mind full of his new identity, he found himself far more aware of his surroundings.

He excused himself, pretending he needed to use the bathroom. The small, musty hallway of Mrs. Figg's house was cluttered with her collection of faded cat figurines. As he passed, his eyes caught sight of newspapers in the rubbish bin by the door. He paused, reaching for a crumpled Daily Prophet that had been discarded on top.

Angelus skimmed the front page and froze, his pulse quickening. A headline blared at him:

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN

LATEST:

Investigations Continue Into the Break-In at Gringotts on 1 July, Widely Believed to Be the Work of Dark Wizards or Witches Unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken during the recent break-in. A spokesperson confirmed that a full audit of the affected vault had been carried out and that all items registered to the vault were accounted for.

Pressed for further details, the goblin declined to name the vault in question, stating only: “Gringotts’ security is absolute. What is ours to know will remain ours to keep.”

The Ministry has launched its own investigation into the incident, though progress has been slow. Officials confirmed that the family who own the vault wish to remain anonymous and have refused to cooperate with enquiries at this time. However, rumour has it that Aurors have been questioning the Lestrange family in connection with the break-in. The Prophet’s own search of Ministry records uncovered a warrant to interview Bellatrix Lestrange, who remains imprisoned in Azkaban to this day.

Angelus felt a sudden chill run down his spine. The Hufflepuff Cup. His father’s third Horcrux was hidden away in a vault owned by Bellatrix Lestrange. The Horcrux that had been in his scar must have survived the time travel and merged back with his father. His father must be collecting all of his Horcruxes.

His mind raced. Was that what had been taken from Gringotts? Was this part of his father’s plan to regain full strength, to reunite with his soul pieces? 

Before he could dwell on it any further, he heard Mrs. Figg shout from the other room, asking if he needed any help. He quickly shoved the newspaper back into the rubbish and returned to her. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of polite conversation as Mrs Figg rambled on about cats, oblivious to the turmoil swirling in Angelus's mind.

The next morning, the house was filled with the usual clamour of breakfast-time chaos. Petunia was in the kitchen, her face contorted in concentration as she dyed Dudley’s old clothes for Harry’s soon-to-be-needed Stonewall High uniform. Angelus felt a small flicker of satisfaction as he watched her, knowing that his days of wearing Dudley’s oversized cast-offs were almost over. He wouldn’t need to suffer the humiliation of high school in those hideous, grey, ill-fitting clothes. No, Hogwarts was his destination. A world of magic, a world where he could be free from the Dursleys' cruel mockery.

Vernon sat at the table, grumbling over his newspaper while Dudley, armed with his Smelting’s stick, waved it about, whacking the backs of chairs, and occasionally hitting Angelus’s arm with it when he passed too close. Angelus dodged the blows, but his mind wasn’t on Dudley’s antics. It was on the life that awaited him in the wizarding world.

Suddenly, the click of the letterbox echoed through the front door, and the Dursleys froze, all eyes snapping toward it.

'Get the post, Dudley,' Vernon grunted without lowering his paper.

'Make the freak get it.'

“Get the post, boy,” Vernon ordered, still not bothering to look up from his newspaper.

Angelus, feeling the familiar sting of their treatment, glanced at Dudley, who was now twirling his stick in lazy circles, clearly uninterested in leaving his seat. Angelus gritted his teeth and went for the kitchen door.

As he reached for the handle, the tip of Dudley’s Smelting stick made a sudden jab toward his ribs. He nimbly sidestepped, rolling his eyes at Dudley’s pathetic attempts to hit him.

Angelus flipped through the door, and there, lying innocently on the doormat, was the usual pile of mail, bills, a postcard from Marge, and a very familiar brown envelope, unmistakable in its parchment texture.

His Hogwarts letter.

Addressed simply:

Mr H. Potter
The cupboard under the stairs,
4 Privet Drive,
Little Whinging

His heart skipped a beat. For a moment, Angelus considered opening it right there. The temptation was overwhelming. He reached out, fingers trembling, but then he froze.

If he opened it now, would things still happen the way they were meant to? He remembered that Hagrid had only come for him after the Dursleys spent days denying him his letters. If he read this one too soon, would Hagrid still come? And if he didn’t… how would Angelus get to London? How would he reach Diagon Alley, or get hold of his key?

A sudden thought struck him; he could hide the letter. He could take it, keep it hidden, and figure out a way to reply and still get to Diagon Alley without revealing his true identity. With a glance over his shoulder, he shoved the letter into his pocket.

He returned to the kitchen with the rest of the mail, trying to seem as casual as possible. Vernon, his eyes squinting in suspicion, snatched up the pile of letters.

'Here, boy. Take this to your aunt,' Vernon grunted, handing him his plate as if Angelus were a servant.

As Angelus passed by, Dudley noticed the letter sticking out of his pocket.

'DAD!' said Dudley suddenly. 'Dad, the Freaks got something in his pocket!'

Angelus’s heart skipped, but he stayed calm. “It’s just a scrap piece of paper,” he said, trying to brush past. But Dudley was insistent.

'No, it’s not! It’s a letter,' he said, grinning. He snatched it out of Angelus’s pocket and waved it at his father.

Vernon’s eyes narrowed. "Give me that," he growled, snatching it from Dudley’s hands before Angelus could stop him.

Then, much like last time ordered both Dudley and Angelus out of the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind them.

That evening after burning Angelus' Hogwarts letter. Vernon visited Angelus in the cupboard under the stairs.

"Boy...about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

And like last time, Angelus moved his meagre belongings upstairs while Dudley screamed in rage at the loss of his second bedroom. Kicking his mother and whacking Vernon with his Smeltings stick. 

Just like before, more and more letters from Hogwarts arrived. First, they were pushed under the front door, then shoved through the narrow window of the downstairs toilet, and even hidden in the eggs the milkman delivered. Only now they were addressed:

Mr H. Potter
The smallest bedroom
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging

Vernon was beside himself, furious beyond reason, and spent the night nailing up the letterbox, boarding up the windows, and making sure no more letters could get in. He shouted and fumed, pacing around the house like a madman. Every new attempt to block the letters was met with more frantic ways of getting them into the house, until the morning of July 29, the living room was filled with letters pouring from the fireplace like bullets.

The madness reached its peak when Vernon decided that they needed to leave. He packed the family into the car, driving them far out of town, away from the prying eyes of the wizarding world.

Driving all day to the outskirts of a small, run-down old town. Staying the night at a gloomy hotel. Where, like before, a hundred Hogwarts letters were delivered to the front desk. Where in green ink they were now addressed:

Mr H. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth

Vernon, no longer caring about dignity or reason, immediately grabbed and destroyed all the letters from the front desk. He was determined to outrun this madness, no matter where it took him.

Back in the car, He drove them across the countryside, past dense forests, rolling ploughed fields, and over a long suspension bridge that creaked and groaned beneath the weight of the car. The road twisted and turned, and eventually, they found themselves on a desolate, windswept coast. The air was bitter and salty, whipping through the trees surrounding the car park as Vernon parked by a wooden hut and jetty.

Outside the car, the wind howled, and the rain began to fall in sheets. Vernon stepped out, his coat pulled tightly around him, and approached a figure standing under the dim glow of a lantern. The man was toothless, wearing a yellow raincoat that hung loosely around his thin frame. His face was weathered, and his eyes glinted in the moonlight.

"Got the package?" Vernon barked, his voice a low growl.

The man nodded, slowly reaching behind him and pulling out a long, thin parcel wrapped in brown paper. With a grunt, he handed it over to Vernon in exchange for a wad of cash. "Don’t say I didn’t warn ye," the man muttered, pointing to a small rowing boat tied to a nearby jetty, barely visible in the gloom.

Vernon scowled but didn’t hesitate. He shoved the parcel under his arm and strode toward the boat. In the icy rain, with the waves crashing violently against the shore, he clambered into the boat. Angelus and the rest of the Dursleys reluctantly climbed in after him.

The Angelus and Vernon rowed for what seemed like hours, the freezing rain and harsh waves battering them as they slowly made their way through the choppy waters. Every stroke seemed to take them further into the desolate unknown. The cold seeped into their bones, and the wind stung Angelus's face, but it was nothing compared to the strange, distant feeling in his chest. He felt both haunted and relieved.

Eventually, they reached a miserable, run-down shack perched precariously on a rock that jutted out into the sea. The building leaned at an odd angle, as if it had been forgotten by the world long ago. The boat scraped against the jagged rocks as they climbed out, their feet sinking into the wet, slippery muck. Vernon didn’t spare a glance for his family; he marched straight up to the shack’s door and slammed it open with a force that made the entire structure shudder.

The place was as desolate as it looked, surrounded by nothing but rugged cliffs, crashing waves, and the furious, unrelenting storm. It felt as though the world had forgotten this spot entirely—a place where even time seemed to lose its meaning.

Inside, there were only two rooms. The main one was sparse, with nothing but a damp, cold fireplace and a moth-eaten sofa, the fabric frayed and torn. The windows were caked with grime, and the air smelled horribly of seaweed and mildew. The cold seeped through the cracks in the walls, and the storm outside added to the overwhelming sense of isolation.

Vernon immediately headed to the fireplace, futilely trying to get a fire going.

"Well, could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said, trying to sound cheerful, though his voice cracked slightly.

He was convinced that no more letters would find their way to this isolated place—he’d finally outsmarted them.

Later that night, as the storm continued to howl, Angelus lay on the floor of the shack, his body stiff against the cold, hardwood. Dudley was snoring loudly from the moth-eaten sofa beside him, oblivious to everything. Angelus couldn’t help but glance at the dim, lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, counting down the minutes until his 11th birthday. Time felt like it was stretching, growing longer and slower in the dark, the minutes dragging on in a strange, suffocating stillness as he waited for the moment that would change everything.

Only one minute to go.

But then, just as he began to count down the final seconds, an unsettling thought struck him: What if July 31st wasn’t even his birthday? What if he was already 11? What if the date didn’t matter? What if—

BOOM.

The shack rattled and shook, the walls creaking with the force of the noise. Angelus bolted upright, his heart racing, staring wide-eyed at the door.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

On September 1st at half past ten Angelus stood silently by the Dursleys' car outside King's Cross Station. Vernon grumbled as he heaved Harry's trunk out of the boot and dumped it on a nearby trolley. Like before acting strangely kind and wheeling the trolley into the station for him.

"Well," Vernon grunted, "there you are, boy. Platform nine-platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it yet, do they?" And with a nasty smile left.

Angelus remained where he was, taking in the bustling crowd around him. This time, he knew exactly where to go, but his sharp eyes scanned the station, observing the chaos of Muggles darting to and fro. He spotted the Weasleys almost immediately—their red hair and boisterous chatter were impossible to miss. Molly Weasley’s voice carried over the din as she hurried her children toward the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten.

“Honestly,” Angelus thought, watching them for a moment. “Could they be any more conspicuous?”

Angelus watched them with interest, as first Percy strode confidently toward the barrier first, his chest puffed out with self-importance. Then, Fred and George, followed close behind, their laughter rising above the station noise as they whispered about some prank they’d recently pulled.

He knew he could simply walk through the barrier himself. He remembered exactly how it worked, and doing so would be easy enough. Yet he hesitated. The Weasleys were connected to Dumbledore, a bit too close, perhaps. Logic warned him against drawing attention to himself, especially with everything at stake this time around. But he also remembered how kind the Weasleys had been to him in his previous life, how Ron had been his first real friend. Even with all the memories of a past life swirling in his mind, he was still just a child, a lonely child who longed to make friends.

Taking a breath, Angelus steered his trolley closer to Mrs. Weasley. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice soft, “could you tell me how to get onto the platform?”

Mrs. Weasley turned to him, her face instantly lighting with a warm smile. “Oh, of course, dear! First year, are you?” she asked kindly, and Angelus nodded.

“Not to worry,” she said. “It’s Ron’s first year too. All you need to do is walk straight at the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. Don’t stop, and don’t be afraid. Best to go at a bit of a run if you’re feeling nervous.”

Angelus nodded politely, gripping his trolley a little tighter. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere.

He turned toward the barrier, his heart beating faster, he pushed the trolley forward and broke into a light run.

For a split second, he braced himself for impact, but the wall melted away, and he stepped onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Steam filled the air, curling around the gleaming red engine of the Hogwarts Express. The platform was alive with energy, students rushing about, parents saying their goodbyes, and owls hooting from their cages.

Pushing through the crowd, past already packed carriages, until midway down the train, he finally found an empty compartment. Loading Hedwig's cage first, he came back and grabbed hold of his trunk. A pang of frustration shot through him as he realised just how heavy his trunk was. He braced himself, gripping the handle tightly and trying to heave it up onto the train. His muscles strained, but the trunk barely budged.

Just as he was about to consider using his wand, he was interrupted.

"Want a hand?"

Angelus turned sharply, surprised by the familiar voice. His heart gave a small skip. Standing there with his trademark grin and tousled red hair was none other than George Weasley. Just like in his memories. And very much like before, the Weasley twins helped Angelus lift his trunk onto the train.

“Thank you,” Angelus said quietly, managing a small smile.

“Anytime,” Fred replied, giving him a quick wave as the twins disappeared back down the platform, their laughter echoing behind them.

Settling down on the seat by the window, he looked outside at the Weasley family. Mrs. Weasley was fussing over her children, straightening Ron’s robes and kissing Percy on the cheek. Her gestures were tender, her voice a mix of instructions and affection.

Angelus felt a pang in his chest as he wondered what his own parents might have been like. Would his father, Voldemort, have ever smoothed his hair the way Mrs. Weasley did with Ron? And what about his other father, Magnus, someone he could not remember at all? What was he like? The weight of not knowing settled over him, bittersweet and heavy. With the memories he now has, he could not imagine Voldemort in them ever fixing his robes or hair, let alone kissing him goodbye on the cheek like he could see other parents doing out the window. But maybe that would change with Voldemort now knowing that he was his son and piecing back his fractured soul.

A long, shrill whistle then echoed across the station, and the last of the students milling about the platform boarded the train.

As the train began to move and the station disappeared, the compartment door slid open with Ron standing in the doorway.

"Anyone sitting there?" pointing at the empty seat opposite Angelus.

Shaking his head, Angelus watched as he sat down and nervously looked out the window. 

The awkward silence was mercifully broken when Fred and George appeared at the door.

"Hey, Ron. Are you alright here? We're going to see Lee. He's got a giant tarantula in a compartment further down."

"Great," Ron mumbled on his lap. He was clearly not as enthused as the twins about the spider.

Then, turning to Angelus, "Oh, hi again. Did we introduce ourselves before? I'm Fred, and this is George. And this is Ron."

“Nice to meet you,” Angelus replied. “I’m Harry.”

“Harry Potter?” the twins chorused, their grins widening in surprise.

Angelus nodded, and Ron’s eyes grew wide. “Are you really Harry Potter?” he blurted out.

“Well…” Angelus said, tilting his head as though considering. “Not originally. My parents were big fans, so they had my name changed when I was little. I just hope it won’t be too confusing having two Harry Potters at Hogwarts. Merlin forbid there are more of us running around.”

For a moment, all three Weasleys stared at him. Then Angelus’s lips twitched into a smirk, and Fred and George caught it at once.

“Funny you should say that,” George said, eyes glinting. “Now that you mentioned it I think we've got a Harry Potter in our year too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Fred agreed solemnly. “Must have been a trend after the war. There's probably an army of Harry Potters out there.”

Angelus nodded sagely. “It wouldn't surprise me.My parents even make me dye my hair, I used to be blonde.”

Ron’s face twisted in confusion, then slowly dawned red as the joke clicked. “Oh...you’re having me on, aren't you?” he muttered, his ears burning.

Fred and George roared with laughter, clapping Angelus on the shoulder as they left, still chuckling.

Ron continued staring at Angelus until finally asking "Do you really have the...you know...?" pointing at Angelus's head.

Knowing what he wanted but feeling a little annoyed with the question, with mock seriousness, grabbed his sellotaped glasses. “My glasses?” he asked, feigning confusion. 

Ron’s ears, if possible, turned an even brighter red.

Sensing the awkwardness creeping in, Angelus decided to change the subject. “So, are Fred and George your brothers? They seem cool. What House are they in?”

That seemed to do the trick, and Ron quickly launched into a detailed explanation of his family and siblings.

"...you never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand and Percy's rat," pulling a fat grey rat out of his pocket.

Angelus was immediately conflicted. He recognised the rat as Peter Pettigrew. The Potters betrayer. But he was also his father's servant. If he said something, everyone would immediately become suspicious of how he knew the rat was an animagus, and his father might get angry if he were to lose him a servant. Perhaps it would be best to wait, as at the moment he was in no danger from Pettigrew.

"His name’s Scabbers and he's useless."

“I don’t know,” Angelus said lightly. “Muggles like rats as pets. Maybe it’s because they can carry them in their pockets. I got Hedwig for my birthday, she’s great, but she’d never fit in my pocket.”

While busy talking, the train had taken them out of the city and into the countryside. Angelus was grateful when, just past midday, the compartment door slid open again and revealed a dimpled woman with grey curly hair.

"Anything off the trolley, dears?" sweeping the arm over a cart filled with all sorts of magical foods and drinks.

Having forgotten breakfast this morning, Angelus leapt to his feet as Ron mumbled about having brought sandwiches already.

Looking at the mix of Bertie Botts every-flavour beans, chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties. For twelve sickles and ten bronze Knuts, Angelus bought a little of everything, including a bottle of Gillywater. 

"Help yourself," said Angelus as he dumped everything on the seat beside him. "I'm starving."

It was a nice feeling being able to share food.

Together, they finished all the pasties and moved on to the chocolate frogs.

Unwrapping his first frog, Angelus was surprised when, instead of a man with half-moon glasses and a silver beard, he saw a yellow-eyed man holding a dark green snake.

'Who did you get? I'm missing Agrippa.'

'Hero the Foul!' said Angelus, turning the card over to read:

HERPO THE FOUL 

Master of Dark Magic, Founder of Forbidden Sorcery 

Herpo the Foul, an Ancient Greek Dark wizard, is remembered as one of the most dangerous and influential figures in magical history. Known for his malevolent contributions to the Dark Arts, Herpo is credited with being the first to successfully breed the Basilisk, using his skill in Parseltongue to control the beast. His discovery of this fearsome creature, along with his infamous methods of combining Dark magic with magical creatures, earned him a reputation as one of the most twisted and feared wizards of all time. 

Grabbing another card, their conversation turned to all the cards Ron had. Soon, Angelus had his own small collection: finding Dumbledore again, along with Paracelsus, Merlin, Morgana, and Albert Grunnion. It was while they were playing a game of Dare with Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans that a knock on the door drew their attention to a round-faced boy whom Angelus recalled as Neville Longbottom.

“Sorry to bother you,” Neville said, fidgeting nervously, “but have you seen a toad?”

“We haven’t seen him,” Angelus replied, shaking his head. “But…” He hesitated; he was about to make a joke about it probably having been eaten, but seeing Neville's distraught face changed his mind. “Maybe you could ask one of the older students if there’s a spell to find him. It’d be better than searching the entire train.”

Neville’s face lit up with a mixture of hope and relief. “Do you think that could work?”

Ron, however, made a face. “If I had a toad, I’d lose it on purpose,” he muttered.

Angelus shot Ron a look. “Maybe the toad was a gift,” he said pointedly. “If someone gave it to him, maybe he didn’t want to hurt their feelings by not keeping it.”

Neville nodded quickly, his cheeks flushing. “My Great-Uncle Algie gave him to me,” he admitted. “He was so happy when my letter came that I didn’t want to upset him.”

It wasn’t long after Neville had left to find an older student to help him that the door slid open again. A bushy-haired girl with an air of confidence entered the compartment. “Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.”

Angelus exchanged a glance with Ron before answering. “He was just here,” Angelus said. “I suggested he ask an older student if there’s a spell to help find it.”

The girl nodded briskly. “That’s a good idea. I can't believe that I didn't think of that myself,” She glanced around the compartment, her sharp eyes taking everything in, from the cards scattered on the seat to the beans in their laps. Then her gaze settled on Angelus' forehead, where at some stage he must have swept his hair back.

“You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?” she asked, her tone curious but matter-of-fact.

Angelus gave a small nod. “Yes.”

“I know all about you,” she said, a hint of smugness in her voice. “I’ve read about you in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.” She turned to Ron. “And you are?”

“Ron Weasley,” Ron mumbled, clearly uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

Hermione didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said crisply. “You’d better change into your robes soon; I expect we’ll be arriving soon. And you've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?"

Ron flushed, glaring at her as she left the compartment. “Mental, that one,” he muttered. "I hope she's not in whatever house I'm in."

"What house do you think you will be?" asked Angelus.

"Gryffindor," said Ron. "Everyone in the family is a Gryffindor. I don't know what I would do if I'm not. Imagine if they put me in Slytherin?" Shuddering at just the thought.

"What's wrong with Slytherin? Wasn't Merlin in Slytherin? And I am pretty sure that I read in Hogwarts a history that there were headmasters who were from Slytherin house."

Ron stared at Angelus as if he’d just suggested he join a goblin rebellion. “What’s wrong with Slytherin? It’s the house for dark wizards, isn’t it? You-Know-Who was in Slytherin!”

Angelus raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the seat. “But hasn't Gryffindor had dark wizards too?” he pointed out. “I don’t think a house decides who you are. It’s just a place where people with similar traits are grouped together.”

Ron still looked unconvinced. “Yeah, but Slytherins are always sneaky and slimy. Gryffindors are brave. I’d rather be brave than... You know, whatever it is they are.”

Angelus tilted his head thoughtfully but decided not to argue further, sensing that Ron’s opinion on the matter wasn’t likely to change. “What about the other houses?” he asked instead, steering the conversation away from Slytherin.

“Well, Hufflepuff’s alright,” Ron said after a moment, “but it’s supposed to be for people who aren’t particularly clever or brave. And Ravenclaw’s for the brainy ones. Gryffindor’s where you want to be, though. It's the best house for sure.”

Angelus nodded, though he kept his opinions to himself. What he remembered of Gryffindor house was mostly good memories; he had found friends there, after all. 

Before they could say more, the compartment door slid open yet again.

This time, three boys entered, and Angelus recognised them instantly: Draco Malfoy, flanked by his sidekicks Crabbe and Goyle.

“Is it true?” Malfoy demanded, his voice sharp with curiosity. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

Angelus met Malfoy’s gaze evenly. “No,” he said calmly, his expression unreadable.

Malfoy blinked, then his eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. “Wait—I know you. You’re the boy from Madam Malkin’s! The one who told me they were letting squibs into Hogwarts.” His pale face flushed with anger. “Thought you were clever, didn’t you?”

Angelus’s lips twitched. “Oh, did I say that? Must’ve been mistaken. It's so easy to mix things up when you’re young.”

Malfoy’s sneer sharpened. “If you’re not Harry Potter, then who are you?”

Angelus tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “McCracken,” he said smoothly.

Malfoy frowned, clearly unimpressed. “McCracken? What sort of name is that? I have never heard that name before."

Angelus’s lips twitched as if amused. “It's an old family name from up north.”

Malfoy’s pale brows furrowed in suspicion. “And what’s your first name, then, McCracken?”

“I’m Phil,” Angelus replied without missing a beat. “Phil McCracken.” His voice was level, betraying nothing.

Ron gave a sudden snort that turned into a cough, his shoulders shaking. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed further, his expression caught somewhere between suspicion and indignation as he tried to decide whether he was being mocked.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Malfoy said coldly, his voice laced with irritation.

Angelus tilted his head. “Not really. I’m just answering your questions.”

Malfoy’s sneer returned. “Well, I don’t care who you are. If you had any sense, you’d know better than to make enemies before you even get to Hogwarts.”

Angelus raised an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the kind of person people should be afraid of?”

“I’d watch yourself if I were you,” Malfoy snapped, his pale face flushing slightly pink. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“Neither do you,” Angelus said quietly, his green eyes sharp.

Malfoy stepped closer, but before he could retort, Ron stood abruptly, his fists clenched. “Get out of our compartment,” he growled.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food, and you still seem to have some."

Angelus remained seated, his expression calm but his gaze unwavering. A flicker of irritation sparked inside him, deepening into something more powerful, something he couldn’t quite control.

Suddenly, as Crabbe and Goyle were reaching for the rest of their chocolate frogs, a wave of invisible force rippled through the compartment. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were shoved backward, stumbling into the corridor in a tangled heap.

“What the—” Malfoy sputtered, scrambling to his feet, his cheeks now flushed red with a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged uneasy glances before Malfoy hissed, “Let’s go!” The three of them retreated quickly, muttering under their breath as they went.

Ron stared at Angelus, wide-eyed. “What was that?” he asked, his voice filled with awe.

Angelus shrugged, sinking back into his seat as though nothing had happened. “I don't know,” he said nonchalantly, though he felt the lingering hum of energy in the air.

Ron shook his head and collapsed back into his seat. “Phil McCracken?” he asked, a grin breaking across his face. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

Angelus chuckled softly, shrugging. “Seemed fitting.”

The tension in the compartment began to ease, and Ron sat back down, still grinning. The moment was broken, however, when the door slid open again, and Hermione Granger stood in the doorway.

“What’s going on in here?” she demanded, her sharp gaze taking in the scattered sweets and the dishevelled state of the compartment.

“Nothing,” Angelus replied smoothly, leaning back in his seat as though everything were perfectly normal.

Ron nodded, quickly jumping in. “Yeah, nothing happened. Just sitting here, eating Bertie Bott's Beans, want to try one?”

Hermione didn’t look convinced. Her gaze lingered on Ron’s flushed face and the slight disarray in the compartment. “Really?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Really,” Angelus said, his tone steady and unbothered.

Hermione crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Well, you'd better not have been fighting. You'll be in trouble before school has even started."

“We just told you, nothing happened,” Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"There's no need to be rude. I only came in here to tell you that the driver says we're nearly there. You'd better hurry up and put your robes on.”

Ron glared at her as she swept out of the compartment.

As the door slid shut, Angelus smirked. “She’s an eager one.”

Ron groaned, flopping back in his seat. “Mental, tis what she is.”

Angelus chuckled softly, but his attention soon turned back to the window, where he saw that the sky had gotten dark.

As quickly as they could, Angelus and Ron got their long black robes, got changed and crammed the last of the sweets in their pockets.

They were just in time as a woman's voice echoed through the train.

"We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken to the school separately."

The train slowed down and came to a stop, and Students began pushing their way out onto a tiny, dark platform. Angelus stepped out into the cold night air, shivering slightly but feeling a surge of excitement as he took in the sight of the dimly lit station. A lamp bobbed above the heads of the students, and a booming voice called out:

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there, Harry?”

Hagrid’s big, hairy face beamed over the sea of heads, his enthusiasm contagious.

“C’mon, follow me, any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. The darkness on either side was thick, as though the trail was flanked by dense trees, though Angelus could barely make them out. He didn’t mind the rough footing or the dark, though his excitement only grew with every step.

“Ye’ll all get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called over his shoulder, his voice carrying through the quiet night. “Jus’ round this bend here.”

Angelus quickened his pace slightly, eager to see Hogwarts. As they rounded the bend, the narrow path suddenly opened up, and there was a collective gasp of awe.

The great black lake stretched out before them, its surface so smooth it looked like glass, reflecting the vast castle perched high on the opposite mountain. The castle’s many turrets and towers sparkled in the starry sky, and the sight of it made Angelus’s chest swell with anticipation.

“Ooooooh,” came the voices of several students.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Angelus and Ron climbed into a boat, followed by Hermione and Neville.

As they settled into their seats, Angelus grinned and said, “I read that a giant squid lived in the lake here. Do you think he'll give us a push if we get stuck?”

Ron snorted, clearly amused, while Neville looked slightly alarmed. “Squid?” he asked nervously.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I read about the squid too, according to Hogwarts a History, it's only dangerous if you bother it,” she said, her tone crisp and matter-of-fact.

“Unless of course it’s hungry,” Angelus teased with a grin.

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. “Right then. FORWARD!”

The fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, its glass-like surface perfectly still beneath them. Everyone fell silent, staring up at the great castle towering over them. The boats carried them nearer and nearer to the cliff on which Hogwarts stood, the warm glow of its windows reflecting off the water.

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff. Everyone ducked as the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face.

They drifted through a dark tunnel, the sound of water echoing off the walls. Angelus craned his neck to take it all in, his mind racing with thoughts of all the places to explore and the secrets Hogwarts might hold. The tunnel stretched on for what felt like ages, winding beneath the castle until the boats finally reached an underground harbor.

“Everyone out!” called Hagrid as the boats came to a stop against the rocky shore.

Angelus stepped out onto the pebbles, glancing around the dimly lit space with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Right, follow me!” Hagrid’s lamp bobbed ahead as they clambered up a passageway in the rock, the damp air turning fresher as they emerged onto smooth grass at the base of the castle. The towering structure loomed overhead, its many turrets and towers casting long shadows under the starry sky.

Angelus felt a thrill as they walked up the flight of stone steps to the enormous oak front door. The castle was so close now, and he could hardly wait to step inside.

“Everyone here?” Hagrid called, looking around at the group. “Good, good. Mind yer step, now.”

He turned and raised a gigantic fist, knocking three times on the castle door. The sound echoed through the still night.

Chapter Text

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes stood there. She had a very stern face, and Angelus's first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

She pulled the door wide, revealing an entrance hall so vast that Angelus thought it could easily fit several Muggle mansions. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches, casting long shadows across the flagged floor. The ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase at the far end spiralled upward to the upper floors.

Angelus followed Professor McGonagall with the other first years across the hall. He could hear the hum of voices from a large doorway to the right; the rest of the school was already gathered in the Great Hall. Instead of leading them there, however, Professor McGonagall guided them into a small chamber off the hall. They crowded inside, standing close together as they looked around nervously.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall, her voice crisp and authoritative. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses.”

Angelus glanced around the room. Many of the students looked nervous. He caught Neville fidgeting with the clasp of his cloak and Hermione whispering furiously about what she thought the ceremony might involve.

“The sorting is a very important ceremony,” Professor McGonagall continued. “While you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.”

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.”

Angelus listened intently. He already knew most of this, of course, but hearing it again felt strangely reassuring, grounding him in the familiarity of this world he remembered so well.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in front of the rest of the school,” Professor McGonagall said. “I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Her gaze swept over the fidgeting students, lingering briefly on Neville, whose cloak was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron, whose nose was still faintly smudged. Angelus stood tall, his posture relaxed but confident. He smoothed his robes casually, casting a brief glance at his reflection in the polished stone wall.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” Professor McGonagall finished. “Please wait quietly.”

As she swept out of the room, Angelus caught sight of several nervous glances exchanged between the first years.

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” Angelus asked Ron, though he already knew the answer.

“Some sort of test, I think,” Ron muttered. “Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

Angelus smirked faintly. Fred wasn’t entirely wrong, the Sorting Hat could be intimidating, but he didn’t feel the same dread he had the first time around. 

“Maybe we’ll have to wrestle a troll. Wouldn’t that be a great start to the year?”

Ron gaped at him for a moment before snorting nervously. “I hope not!”

Around them, the nervous energy in the room was palpable. Hermione was whispering all the spells she knew to herself, clearly hoping one of them would be useful, while Neville looked as though he might faint.

Before anyone could dwell further on their fears, something unexpected happened. About twenty ghosts streamed through the back wall, gliding across the chamber as if they hadn’t noticed the group of first years at all.

“What the—?” Angelus exclaimed, feigning surprise as several students around him jumped or screamed.

The ghosts were talking among themselves, their voices echoing faintly in the stone chamber. A fat little monk-like ghost was saying, “Forgive and forget, I say! We ought to give him a second chance—”

“My dear Friar,” interrupted a ghost wearing a ruff and tights, “haven’t we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name, and he’s not even really a ghost...oh!” He stopped abruptly, noticing the group of students.

“New students!” exclaimed the Fat Friar, his ghostly face beaming. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?”

A few students nodded nervously.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” the Friar said cheerfully. “My old house, you know.”

Before the ghosts could say more, Professor McGonagall returned, her presence instantly silencing the room.

“Move along now,” she said sharply, and the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.

“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall instructed.

Angelus fell into step behind a sandy-haired boy, with Ron right behind him. They followed her out of the chamber, across the hall, and through a pair of towering double doors into the Great Hall.

The sight that greeted them was breathtaking. Thousands of floating candles illuminated the hall, their flickering light reflecting off the golden plates and goblets that lined the four long tables. Above them, the enchanted ceiling mirrored the starry night sky outside, giving the illusion that the hall was open to the heavens.

The first years were led to the front of the hall, where a stool and a frayed, patched wizard’s hat sat waiting. Angelus’s attention snapped to the hat as the hall fell silent. The rip near its brim opened wide, and the hat began to sing its Sorting song.

When it finished, the hall erupted into applause, but Angelus barely noticed. His focus was on the hat, his mind racing with possibilities. Would he get Gryffindor again? Or would the hat put him in Slytherin? Could he survive seven years sharing a room with Malfoy and his goons?

Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a long roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she announced.

The names were called one by one, and Angelus watched as students joined their houses amidst cheers and applause. When his name was finally called, whispers erupted across the hall.

“Harry Potter? Did she say Potter?”

Angelus stepped forward, ignoring the murmurs as he approached the stool.

The moment the hat was placed on his head, Angelus felt an odd sensation, as though his thoughts were suddenly laid bare. Then, a voice spoke directly into his mind.

“Well, well,” the Sorting Hat said, its tone thoughtful. “What do we have here? A fascinating blend, indeed. Courage... yes, plenty of courage. Ambition, too. Oh my, quite a lot of it. And cleverness. You’ve certainly got a sharp mind.”

Angelus smirked slightly. Not bad so far.

“And loyalty,” the hat continued. “A deep, unwavering loyalty. Hufflepuff would be an excellent fit for you.”

Hufflepuff? Angelus thought, suppressing a groan. No offence, but I don’t think yellow suits me. It’s just… not my colour.

The hat chuckled softly. “Ah, I see. Not a fan of the cheerful hues, are you? Very well, then. Perhaps Slytherin?”

Angelus immediately tensed. Despite what he’d told Ron and despite not truly believing all Slytherins were bad, he couldn’t stand the thought of sharing a dormitory with Draco Malfoy for the next seven years.

“Not Slytherin?” the hat asked, intrigued. “Are you sure? You could be great there. You have the ambition, the cunning, and the drive to succeed. Slytherin would help you achieve greatness, no doubt about it.”

Greatness is fine, Angelus thought firmly, but the idea of sharing a dormitory with Malfoy for seven years sounds like torture. And living in the dungeons? No, thank you. I like fresh air and sunlight.

The hat chuckled again, its tone amused. “Well, then, what about Ravenclaw? You’ve got the wit and curiosity of a true scholar.”

Ravenclaw? Angelus thought, raising an imaginary eyebrow. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good challenge, but the idea of answering a riddle every time I want to get into the common room sounds… exhausting. What if I desperately needed to pee?

The hat laughed outright at that. “That leaves only one choice then, doesn’t it?”

Gryffindor, Angelus thought, his mind settling on the decision. 

“Ah, yes,” the hat said warmly. “Gryffindor suits you well. Bravery, nerve, and a strong sense of chivalry. You value doing what’s right, even when it’s difficult. Yes… better be… GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat shouted the last word to the hall, and the Gryffindor table erupted in cheers. Angelus removed the hat, handing it back to Professor McGonagall before walking confidently toward the Gryffindor table.

As he sat down amidst the loud applause and welcoming smiles, Angelus felt a sense of satisfaction. Sticking with Gryffindor felt like the safest choice for now. He didn’t want to change too much too soon or draw too much of Dumbledore’s attention by being sorted into a different house. And, the idea of Voldemort’s son being placed in Gryffindor struck him as amusing. He couldn’t help but smirk at the irony.

Percy Weasley shook his hand enthusiastically, while Fred and George hollered, “We got Potter! We got Potter!”

From his seat midway down the table, he could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up. Angelus nodded back with a small smile before his gaze shifted to the centre of the High Table, where Albus Dumbledore sat in a large gold chair. His silver hair and beard gleamed in the candlelight, matching the ethereal glow of the ghosts. But Angelus’s attention was drawn to Professor Quirrell, who was seated a few chairs down.

Quirrell, the seemingly nervous man Angelus had met at the Leaky Cauldron, was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. His fingers tapped against the edge of the table, and his face twitched briefly with an emotion Angelus couldn’t quite place. For a fleeting moment, Angelus wondered if his father, hidden within Quirrell, had taken notice of his sorting. Was Voldemort watching him now? Angelus smirked at him, amused by the reaction, and watched as Quirrell frowned deeply in return.

Just as Quirrell’s eyes met his, Angelus felt a sudden, sharp pinch on his bum, as though someone had flicked him with a tiny burst of magic. He flinched, more out of surprise than pain, and glanced around quickly. There was no one nearby who could have caused it. When he turned back, Quirrell had already looked away, his expression carefully neutral, as if nothing had happened.

Now there were only three people left to be sorted. "Thomas, Dean," who joined Angelus at the Gryffindor table. "Turpin, Lisa," became a Ravenclaw, and then it was Ron's turn. By now Ron’s face was green, and his hands trembled as he approached the stool.

Angelus crossed his fingers under the table, silently rooting for him. A second later, the hat shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers, and Angelus clapped loudly with the rest. Ron stumbled over to the table, his face still a little pale but relieved. He collapsed into the chair next to Angelus.

“Well done, Ron!” Angelus said with a grin. “Gryffindor suits you. The red goes perfectly with your hair, like it was meant to be.”

“Nice work, Ron!” one of the twins called from further down the table.

“We were worried you might break tradition and end up in Hufflepuff,” the other twin teased with a dramatic shudder.

“Shove off,” Ron muttered, though he was grinning now, his face a little redder than before.

"Well done, Ron, excellent," Percy Weasley said pompously across the table as "Zabini, Blaise" was made a Slytherin.

Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away, signalling the end of the ceremony.

The chatter that had started to fill the hall after the Sorting Ceremony was suddenly silenced by a sharp, ringing chime that echoed through the Great Hall. Everyone looked up toward the High Table, where Albus Dumbledore had risen to his feet, a cheerful smile on his face and his arms open wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than seeing them all there.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice warm and rich, carrying effortlessly across the room. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

“Thank you!”

He sat back down, and the hall erupted into clapping and cheering.

Angelus smirked and leaned toward Ron. “Do you think he’s actually mad or just pretending so people underestimate him?” he asked, his voice low and curious.

Ron hesitated, glancing at Dumbledore, who was now chatting animatedly with Professor McGonagall. “Dunno,” he said. “Maybe both?”

Before Angelus could respond, Hermione, sitting nearby, jumped in with an air of authority. “Of course he’s not mad,” she said, sounding scandalised. “He’s brilliant! Albus Dumbledore is one of the greatest wizards of all time. He’s done so many incredible things. Did you know he discovered the twelve uses of dragon’s blood? And he defeated Grindelwald!” Her voice lowered slightly, and she added with obvious pride, “Albus Dumbledore is the reason why I wanted to be in Gryffindor.”

Angelus turned to her with a wry smile. “I picked Gryffindor because I heard it has the comfiest chairs.”

Fred, who was sitting nearby, overheard and immediately grinned. “He’s not wrong,” he said, leaning across the table. “It also has the best views.”

“Yeah,” George added with a nod. “The best common room for relaxing after a long day. Comfy chairs, great views of the forest. It’s the real reason everyone secretly wants to be in Gryffindor.”

“I wanted Gryffindor because my whole family’s been in it. I’d have never heard the end of it if I wasn’t.” Ron said, with a grin. “But it’s also the best house, isn’t it?”

Neville, sitting across from them, chimed in softly. “I wanted Gryffindor because… well, my parents were in it,” he said, looking down at his plate. “And Gran always said I should be more like my dad. She would’ve been so disappointed if I didn’t make it.”

Dean, who was listening quietly, shrugged when the others looked at him. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” he admitted. “Until the Sorting, Gryffindor seemed the friendliest. Everyone was cheering so loudly for each new person, I figured that it seemed nice enough.”

Before they could continue further, a loud growl erupted from Angelus’s stomach, breaking the moment. Everyone looked at him in surprise before bursting into laughter.

Angelus grinned sheepishly and glanced down at the table, only to realise the dishes in front of them were already piled high with food. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the spread: chicken drumsticks arranged in a perfect spiral that slowly rotated on the serving tray, lamb chops were stacked in a pyramid, and even haggis inside tartan-patterned bowls.

The roast potatoes were carved into perfect spheres that rolled gently onto plates with a light tap of the fork, and Yorkshire puddings were served on floating trays that hovered just within reach. Bowls of peas and carrots had been enchanted to shift into swirling patterns of green and orange as they were spooned out. Even the gravy boats moved down the table on their own, pausing politely before each group of students.

Fred, having already piled his plate with food, grinned and raised a goblet of juice. “Here’s to Gryffindor, the house with the comfiest chairs, the best views, and the hungriest students.”

When most of the food on the table had been eaten, the plates cleared themselves, leaving only sparkling clean surfaces. Angelus noticed the table begin to shift again. Slowly, dishes of desserts began appearing, each one more tempting than the last. Treacle tarts gleamed with a golden sheen, and flaky mince pies gave off a warm, spiced aroma. Large bowls of creamy rice pudding sat beside sugared scones and jars of clotted cream. Elegant éclairs and colourful macarons balanced the rustic charm of medieval-style honey cakes and gingerbread shaped into tiny castles and dragons.

Angelus picked up a slice of treacle tart, marvelling at how the buttery crust seemed to melt under his fork. Around him, the conversation turned to family.

“What about you, Dean?” Ron asked as he reached for a jam-filled doughnut.

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “Muggle-born or at least, I think I am. My mum’s a Muggle, and she raised me and my siblings on her own. Never knew my dad, but my mum thinks he might’ve been a wizard. He left when I was little, so I wouldn’t know.”

After Seamus shared his family background, Angelus turned to Neville, who was sitting on the outskirts of the newly sorted students.

“What about you, Neville?”

Neville flushed and glanced down at his bowl of rice pudding. “My parents are both magical,” he began softly, “but I was raised by my gran. For a long time, my family thought I might be a Squib. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to... you know, force some magic out of me. But nothing happened.” He hesitated, then added, “When I was eight, Uncle Algie accidentally dropped me out of an upstairs window during dinner. I bounced all the way down the garden. That’s when they knew. Gran cried, and Uncle Algie bought me Trevor as a reward.” He gestured toward the toad sitting on the table.

The others laughed, but Angelus frowned slightly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s... horrible,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Neville blinked at him in surprise, but before he could answer, Ron spoke up. “That’s just how wizards are,” he said, shrugging. “It’s actually pretty common. Loads of magical families try to trick kids into doing accidental magic to see if they’ve got it in them. My brothers used to do it to me all the time. Fred and George turned my teddy bear into a spider once to see what I’d do.” He shuddered slightly at the memory. “Mum gave them a right telling-off, but I think she laughed about it later.”

Neville looked down, fiddling with his spoon, but Angelus pressed on. “Look, my relatives hated me because I was magical. Locked me up, and called me ‘freak’ or ‘boy’. Every time I did something magical, instead of telling me what I was, they punished me. It’s not the same, I know, but still... You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Neville. You’re here because you belong here, just like the rest of us.”

Neville looked back at Angelus, his expression shifting to one of quiet gratitude. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Angelus offered a small smile and patted Neville’s shoulder. “And if you ever need someone to back you up, I’m here. That’s what friends do.”

Neville smiled, a genuine one this time. “Thanks,” he said again, his voice steadier.

It was much later in the evening, after Dumbledore had given the start-of-term notices, including a warning about the third-floor corridor, that the Gryffindor first-years were led to their common room. Angelus remembered all too well that the corridor hid both the Cerberus, Fluffy, and the Philosopher’s Stone.

Percy and another fifth-year prefect, Lucy-May Perks, a tall brunette with a French braid similar to her sister Sally-Anne, guided the group through the castle’s torch-lit corridors towards the Gryffindor Common Room.

It was as they were walking down the sixth-floor corridor, and Angelus saw the sign for the boys' bathroom that he had a sudden idea.

Chapter Text

The group of first-years trailed behind Percy and Lucy-May as they led them through the castle's torch-lit corridors. Questions from Hermione Granger kept the prefects distracted, providing Angelus with the opportunity he needed. Spotting his moment, he leaned toward Ron and whispered, “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

Ron stopped walking and looked at him with a mix of concern and uncertainty. “Do you want me to wait for you?”

Angelus shook his head, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a quick stop, and I’ll catch up. No need to hold back the group.”

Ron hesitated before nodding. “All right, but don’t take too long. You wouldn’t want to get lost on your first night at Hogwarts.”

Angelus chuckled lightly. “I won’t. Go on, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

With that, Ron gave him one last look before continuing with the group, his attention soon drawn back to the lively chatter of the other students.

Slipping into the nearest bathroom, Angelus stepped inside and let the door close softly behind him. He waited, pressing his ear to the door until the sounds of footsteps and voices faded into the distance. His heart raced not from nerves, but from a steely determination.

Once he was sure the coast was clear, Angelus stepped back out into the corridor. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows as he retraced his steps, heading toward the first floor. He knew Quirrell’s office was near the North Tower, and if his suspicions about Quirrell already being possessed by his father were correct, this might be the first opportunity to meet him without interference.

Angelus moved quietly through the dimly lit corridors, his footsteps barely audible against the cold stone floors. He hugged the walls, his green eyes sharp and alert for any movement.

To avoid being seen, he ducked behind tapestries and partially open doors whenever he heard the distant shuffle of footsteps or the murmur of students heading slowly to their dormitories. His heart raced each time he heard someone coming; the thrill of sneaking through Hogwarts was exhilarating.

As Angelus drew closer to the junction leading to the forbidden third-floor corridor, a chill ran down his spine. He stopped abruptly, the sensation of being watched prickling at the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the shadowed hall behind him. There was nothing, no sound, no movement. The silence was almost oppressive.

It’s just the castle, he told himself, though the feeling lingered. He turned back around, forcing himself to focus on the task ahead, his footsteps slower and more cautious now.

As he passed a large tapestry depicting a man in a white toga transforming into a falcon and back again, something unexpected happened. Without warning, he was yanked sideways, straight through what he’d assumed was a solid stone wall opposite the tapestry.

For a moment, Angelus panicked, flailing as the wall swallowed him whole. He stumbled forward, his shoes kicking up a cloud of dust as he was pulled by magic into a dim, musty room.

His heart pounded, fear clawing at his chest as he struggled to process what had just happened. Turning quickly, he found himself face-to-face with Professor Quirrell, the faint light from the torch casting deep shadows across the man’s pale, thin features.

Angelus froze, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t planned this far. What should he say? What should he do? He had come here seeking answers, but now, in the presence of the man he believed might now be possessed by his father, his mind was utterly blank.

Before he could say a word, Quirrell moved. Angelus tensed, but instead of an attack, something entirely unexpected happened.

Quirrell swept forward and, in a single motion, pulled Angelus into a firm embrace.

Angelus stiffened at first, his mind racing with confusion. This was not what he had expected. But as the warmth of Quirrell’s arms surrounded him, something strange and unexpected began to happen.

The noises of the room, the faint crackle of the torch, the low whistle of the wind outside, and the distant groan of shifting stone all began to fade into nothingness. The eerie, ancient sounds of the castle slipped away, leaving Angelus cocooned in an odd, magical stillness. Time itself seemed to dissolve, leaving only the sensation of the hug.

It wasn’t just the physical warmth of being held; it was something deeper, something magical. The hug carried an inexplicable sense of love and safety, a feeling that seeped into his very core, dissolving the cold fear that had gripped him moments before.

For the first time in his life, in any life, Angelus felt like he was loved. The embrace felt like magic, though not the kind cast with wands, but something ancient, powerful, and unspoken. It wrapped around him, soothing the parts of him he hadn’t even realised were aching.

This was the first hug Angelus could ever remember receiving in this life, and it was overwhelming. His shoulders relaxed, and his breath steadied, as though he were releasing a tension he had carried for years.

As the sensations began to settle, Angelus became aware of his own movements. Without fully realising it, he had buried his face into Quirrell’s neck, the soft fabric of the professor’s turban brushing against his cheek. A deep sense of comfort swept through him as his arms instinctively wrapped around Quirrell, returning the embrace.

He felt something, a light, fluttering sensation, press against the top of his head. It took him a moment to realise they were kisses, gentle and fleeting, placed almost reverently on his hair.

“Angelus,” Quirrell whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “My precious boy. I’ve missed you so much.”

Angelus’s breath hitched at the words, the sheer intensity of the moment rooting him in place.

“My sweet baby,” Quirrell continued, his tone soft and soothing. “Daddy loves you. So much. Always.”

The words washed over Angelus like a balm, their weight and sincerity sinking deep into him. He felt his throat tighten, an unfamiliar warmth welling up in his chest. He had never heard those words before, not in this life, nor in the echoes of the past.

After what felt like hours, but was more likely only a minute or two, Quirrell took a step back, his hands resting firmly on Angelus’s shoulders. His eyes, though still shadowed by the flickering torchlight, were filled with both affection and concern.

“What are you doing wandering the corridors alone so late?” Quirrell asked, his voice quieter now, but tinged with worry.

Angelus hesitated for a moment before replying. “I wanted to see you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Quirrell’s expression softened further, though the worry didn’t leave his features. “And I wanted to see you, too, my sweet boy. More than anything,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. Then his face darkened slightly, his tone becoming more serious. “But right now, it’s too dangerous. Everyone knows you’ve wandered off, and they’re looking for you. You need to go back to the…” He paused, his lips curling with distaste as he continued, “…Gryffindor common room.”

Angelus raised an eyebrow, catching the venom in his father’s tone. “You don’t like Gryffindor?” he teased lightly, trying to defuse the tension.

Quirrell’s lips curled into a scowl, his tone sharp with derision. “Of course, I don’t like Gryffindor. I’m a Slytherin. And you, Angelus, are a Slytherin too, whether you like it or not.”

Angelus hesitated, then raised his head slightly. “The hat said I’d be great in Gryffindor that I’m brave and chivalrous,” he said, smirking at his father, though his tone was half-defensive.

Quirrell’s lips twitched into a faint smirk of his own. “Don’t lie to me, Angelus,” he said, his voice carrying a knowing edge. “You thought it would be funny, Voldemort’s son, the heir of Slytherin, sitting with the brave and noble Gryffindors. You imagined how much it would irritate me, didn’t you?”

Angelus froze, his smirk fading as the words sank in. “You… you read my mind?” he asked, his voice quiet but tense.

Quirrell’s smile widened, though there was a hint of disappointment in his eyes. “Of course, I did. And while I see the humour in your reasoning, I hope you don’t think for a moment that I approve. If you had chosen Gryffindor because you’re brave, well, I could understand that. Or even if you didn’t want to disrupt the timeline too much, I might have accepted it.”

His tone grew sharper as he leaned closer. “But for a joke? Really, Angelus, you’re just like your Papa. Do you have any idea how much easier it would have been for me to keep an eye on you if you’d been in Slytherin? How much simpler it would have been to meet without suspicion?”

Angelus shifted uncomfortably under Quirrell’s intense gaze, his stomach twisting with a mix of guilt and defensiveness. “Papa?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with hope. “Where is he? Is he here too?”

A faint smile tugged at Quirrell’s lips, and there was a softness in his expression that Angelus hadn’t expected. “Magnus is here,” he said. “He’s staying in the Forbidden Forest, keeping watch. He wanted to see you, but we agreed it would be too dangerous for him to enter the castle.”

“When will I get to see him?” Angelus asked, his voice quiet but insistent.

“Soon,” Quirrell promised. “But not yet. You must be careful, Angelus. Keep your head down, don’t draw attention to yourself, and stay vigilant. Trust me on this.”

Angelus hesitated, his heart torn between the desire to stay with his father and the nagging sense that he should listen.

“At the moment, your mind is an open book to anyone skilled enough to read it,” Quirrell added gravely. “Including Dumbledore. Soon, I will teach you Occlumency, but until then, avoid making eye contact with anyone for too long. Now, it is time to go.”

Angelus frowned, frustration bubbling up inside him. “I don’t want to go,” he argued, his voice firmer now. “I want to stay with you. I can help you. I can—”

“Angelus,” his father interrupted gently but firmly. “Your papa and I would love nothing more than to have you back with us. To have you safe, where you belong. But if Harry Potter were to suddenly disappear, Dumbledore would never stop looking for you. He’d tear this castle apart brick by brick to find you. For now, it is safer for you to stay here and keep pretending. Do you understand?”

Angelus hesitated, his chest tightening as he tried to reconcile his emotions. “I understand,” he said softly, though the ache in his voice betrayed his frustration. He hated the idea of waiting, of pretending, but deep down, he knew his father was right.

Quirrell’s gaze softened, and he nodded approvingly. “Good. Now, come. I’ll take you back to the Gryffindor common room before anyone notices you’ve been gone too long.”

Quirrell led Angelus through the dimly lit corridors, their footsteps echoing softly against the cold stone floor. Angelus kept close, his mind spinning with everything that had just happened. The castle seemed eerily quiet now, the flickering torches casting long shadows along the walls.

As they neared the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, the familiar portrait of the Fat Lady came into view. Standing just outside was Professor McGonagall, her stern expression etched with a mix of worry and irritation.

“There you are!” she said sharply, her eyes narrowing as she spotted Angelus. “Where have you been?”

Angelus opened his mouth to respond, but Quirrell stepped forward first, wringing his hands and adopting his usual nervous demeanour. “I-I found him on the s-second floor, Professor,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “H-he seemed to have g-gotten turned around while t-trying to backtrack to the Great Hall… after g-going to the b-bathroom. He was l-looking for s-someone to help him find his way back to the c-common room.”

McGonagall’s expression softened slightly, though her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “You’re very lucky Professor Quirrell found you, Potter,” she said firmly, her tone a mix of relief and sternness. “You should have spoken to one of the prefects before wandering off. They would have waited for you.”

Angelus nodded quickly, doing his best to look contrite. “Yes, Professor. I’m sorry.”

McGonagall’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, her sharp eyes assessing him closely before she sighed. “Get inside and go to bed, Potter. It’s been a long day, and I expect you to follow the rules from now on.”

“Yes, Professor,” Angelus replied, glancing back briefly at Quirrell. His father gave him a subtle nod before turning and shuffling away, his footsteps fading into the shadows of the corridor.

The Fat Lady swung open with a quiet grumble as Angelus stepped inside the Gryffindor common room. The warmth of the fire greeted him immediately, its golden glow casting dancing shadows on the walls and furniture. The room was quiet now, most students having already gone to bed.

Angelus climbed the spiral staircase to the first-year boys’ dormitory. When he pushed the door open, he found the other boys sitting up in their beds, still in their pyjamas. Their faces were a mix of curiosity and relief as they spotted him.

“There you are!” Ron exclaimed, his freckled face lighting up. “Where’ve you been? We thought you’d gotten cursed by a Slytherin or something!”

Angelus grinned sheepishly, pulling off his robes as he walked toward his bed. “Got lost,” he said with a shrug. “Turns out this castle is bigger than it looks.”

The other boys chuckled, the tension in the room easing as Angelus changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed. Despite the day’s events, a sense of camaraderie filled the room, warm and comforting.

As Angelus lay back against the pillows, he stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting back to the hug, his father’s words, and the promise of finally meeting his Papa Magnus. A small smile tugged at his lips as he closed his eyes.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, he allowed himself a moment of peace. 

Chapter Text

The whispers began the moment Angelus left the first-year boys’ dormitory the next morning.

“Did you see his scar?”

“That’s him! The short one with the glasses!”

“Harry Potter, right?”

It was relentless. Students lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him. Others doubled back in the corridors just to pass him again. The constant staring made Angelus want to pull his hood up and vanish into the castle’s endless hallways.

Their first day was chaotic from the start. Hogwarts was a maze of stairs, corridors, and peculiar doors. With over a hundred staircases, some grand and sweeping, others narrow and creaky—there was no shortage of ways to get lost. The doors didn’t make things any easier, either; some opened only when you asked politely or tickled the right spot, while others were mere solid walls pretending to be doors. And everything seemed to move, portraits wandered to visit each other, and even the suits of armour seemed to have a mind of their own. 

The ghosts only added to the chaos, gliding through walls and doors unexpectedly. Nearly Headless Nick was always kind enough to offer directions, but Peeves the Poltergeist was a whole different problem. If you ran into him while you were late for class, he’d make sure your day was even worse by dropping either water balloons or balled up parchment on your head, pulling rugs out from under you, or sneakily grabbing your nose and screeching, “GOT YOUR CONK!”

Then there was Argus Filch! The ever-grumpy old caretaker was always on the lookout for misbehaving students. On their first morning, Ron and Angelus found themselves on the wrong side of Filch when they tried to sneak into the third-floor corridor. They had been hoping to catch a glimpse of what Angelus knew to be Hagrid’s three-headed dog, Fluffy, guarding the trapdoor to the Philosopher's Stone. When they were caught, they tried to lie, saying they were lost, but Filch wasn’t fooled. He was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when Professor Quirrell appeared, much to their relief. As Quirrell helped rescue them from the shabby man, Angelus was fairly certain he felt the same strange shock on his rear that had occurred at the welcome feast, though he kept his thoughts to himself.

Classes, Angelus quickly discovered, were a mix of wonder and frustration. The first lessons seemed mostly focused on introducing the classes and setting expectations. For now, most were theory-heavy, laying the groundwork for practical work to come.

Astronomy had them up at midnight on the tallest tower, peering through telescopes to map the stars and constellations. Professor Sinistra’s explanations of planetary alignments and magical phenomena were fascinating, but the chill of the night air made it difficult to stay focused.

Herbology took place in the greenhouses behind the castle, where Professor Sprout introduced them to magical plants like Screechsnap, which twitched violently when touched, and Puffapods, whose brightly coloured seedpods would burst into flowers if dropped. The students mostly listened and took notes as Sprout explained the plants’ uses and dangers, but they were itching to get hands-on experience.

History of Magic, however, was an ordeal. The ghostly Professor Binns floated into the classroom through the blackboard and immediately began droning on about the Goblin Wars, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was their very first magical history lesson. His monotone delivery was so dull that many students fell asleep within minutes, their heads nodding onto their desks.

Angelus, already prepared for this, reached into his bag and pulled out A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. Much to Hermione’s horror, instead of taking notes, he propped the book up on his desk and began reading.

“What are you doing?” Hermione hissed from the seat next to him, her eyes wide with disapproval. “You can’t ignore a teacher!”

Angelus raised an eyebrow, glancing briefly at the front of the classroom where Binns was still droning on about some skirmish over wand rights. Then shrugged, turning a page. “It’s not like he’s saying anything we can’t find in the book. Besides, it doesn’t look like Binns has noticed or cares.”

Hermione looked scandalised but didn’t argue further, though she kept shooting Angelus disapproving looks throughout the class.

Meanwhile, Ron, sitting on Angelus’s other side, leaned over and whispered, “I don’t know how you can stay awake long enough to read. I can’t even keep my eyes open.”

By the end of the lesson, more than half the class was either asleep or doodling on their parchments. 

Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall was the class Angelus had been looking forward to most. Having actually read the textbook over the summer and prepared himself thoroughly this time around, he was confident that his memories of a previous life would give him an advantage. After all, how hard could it be to turn a matchstick into a needle?

The lesson began with Professor McGonagall’s stern warning about the dangers of Transfiguration. “Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous magics you will learn at Hogwarts,” she announced, her sharp gaze sweeping over the class. “Anyone caught messing around in my class will find themselves in detention for a week. You have been warned.”

To demonstrate, she then transformed her desk into a pig and back again with a flick of her wand, leaving the class wide-eyed with awe. Angelus felt a surge of determination, he would excel in this class.

However, reality didn’t quite match his expectations.

The first exercise was to turn a matchstick into a needle. Angelus waved his wand confidently, uttering the incantation. Nothing happened. He frowned and tried again, but the matchstick stubbornly refused to change.

Around the room, most of the students were struggling to even make their matchsticks twitch. At least Angelus wasn’t alone in his struggle, though he had been certain he’d outperform everyone.

Determined to be the first, Angelus tried again, focusing all his will on the matchstick. This time, something happened, a partial success. His matchstick had transformed into a needle… almost. It had the shape and point of a needle but remained wooden instead of turning into metal.

“Good effort, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, her tone clipped but encouraging as she passed by his desk.

But Angelus wasn’t satisfied. He was supposed to be good at this.

Gritting his teeth, he tried again, pouring more magic into the spell. For a brief moment, he thought he had it, but then— BANG!

The desk in front of him exploded with a loud crack, sending splinters flying and drawing startled gasps and laughter from the other first-year Gryffindor boys. Ron doubled over with laughter, Seamus nearly fell off his chair, and even Neville managed a nervous chuckle.

Professor McGonagall, however, looked horrified. “Mr. Potter!” she exclaimed, striding over to the remains of his desk, her sharp eyes scanning the damage. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”

Angelus, his face flaming red, stammered, “Sorry Professor, it was an accident, honest!”

McGonagall sighed, rubbing her temples before flicking her wand to repair the shattered desk. “Next time,” she said, her voice cool but firm, “put a little less magic into your spell. Transfiguration requires precision and control, not brute force.”

“Yes, Professor,” Angelus mumbled, sinking into his seat as the rest of the class tried and failed not to snicker, except for Hermione, who sat frowning at him with clear disapproval.

Friday morning brought their first Potions lesson in the dungeons. Navigating the dungeons was no easy task; the stone corridors were dark and cold, lit only by faint torches that cast flickering shadows on the walls.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place,” Ron muttered, shivering as they turned another corner.

As they rounded the final corner to the Potions classroom, they came to a halt. Standing in front of the door, blocking their path, was Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

“Well, well,” Malfoy drawled, his pale face twisted in a sneer. “Look who it is, Phil McCrackin himself.”

Angelus smirked slightly, crossing his arms. “Still mad about that, Malfoy? I thought you’d appreciate the humour.”

Malfoy’s pale cheeks flushed with anger. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he snapped. “You humiliated me on the train, and I won’t forget it. My father will hear about this, especially how you used magic to push me over. Let’s see how long you last at Hogwarts when the Ministry comes for you.”

Behind Angelus, Seamus Finnigan, who had been walking behind them, burst into laughter. “Phil McCrackin?” he repeated, clutching his sides. “That’s brilliant!”

Malfoy glared at Seamus, his expression darkening. “Shut up, Finnigan. This has nothing to do with you.”

Angelus’s smirk widened. “And what exactly is your father and the Ministry going to do to me? Send me to prison because you tripped over your laces?”

Malfoy sneered at Angelus one last time. “You’ll regret this, Potter,” he hissed before turning on his heel and stalking into the Potions classroom, with Crabbe and Goyle trailing after him.

Inside the class, the chill in the air was made worse by the jars of preserved creatures lining the walls. Professor Snape’s piercing black eyes fixed on Angelus during roll call.

“Ah, yes,” Snape murmured, his tone icy. “Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity.”

Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands. Malfoy cast a smug glance at Angelus, but Angelus ignored him, his expression calm as though completely unaffected.

Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His black eyes swept the room, cold and calculating. There was no warmth in them, only a penetrating sharpness that reminded Angelus of dark tunnels winding endlessly underground.

“You are here,” Snape began, his voice low but commanding, “to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the Gryffindor side of the room before continuing, “I don’t expect you to really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death, if you aren’t as hopelessly incompetent as I usually find my students.”

The room was silent, captivated by Snape’s words despite his disdainful tone. Hermione sat on the edge of her seat, her hand itching toward her quill as if desperate to start proving herself.

“Potter,” Snape said suddenly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Angelus tilted his head, his expression cool and confident. “Absolutely no idea”, he replied, his tone casual but edged with a faint hint of cheerfulness.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Tut, tut, fame clearly isn't everything."

He ignored Hermione's desperately waving hand and locked his cold, dark eyes onto Angelus.

"Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Angelus tilted his head slightly, his expression cool and confident. "I don’t know, Professor," he replied with casual cheer. "Maybe the cupboard behind you?"

A few Gryffindors snorted, while Ron quickly covered a grin. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle glowered from their seats, but Angelus kept his expression calm, unfazed by their irritation.

Snape’s lip twitched in fury, but he ignored the reactions. "Last question, Potter. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Angelus leaned back in his chair, smirking faintly. “Don’t you know, Professor? I thought you were the Potions Master. Maybe you should ask Hermione, she looks like she’s dying to help you out.”

Several Gryffindors coughed to stifle laughter, and Seamus actually let out a loud snicker. Hermione, however, froze with a look of horror.

Snape’s voice cut through the air like ice. "Sit down," he snapped at Hermione, who immediately obeyed.

He turned back to the class, his sneer deepening. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood create a potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and can save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, also known as aconite. Now..."

His eyes swept the room, daring anyone to interrupt. "Why aren’t you all copying this down?"

There was a frantic scramble for quills and parchment as the class began to jot down notes.

Snape let the sound of quills fill the room for a moment before he added coldly, "And ten points will be taken from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter."

Angelus leaned back in his seat, his smirk unwavering. Losing points didn’t bother him, not when it was worth irritating Snape just a little. As the lesson continued, he kept his expression neutral but couldn’t help the satisfaction that lingered as his classmates cast him amused glances.

As the lesson continued, Snape assigned pairs to brew a simple boil-curing potion. He swept through the dungeon, his black robes billowing as he criticised nearly everyone’s work. Of course, Malfoy received glowing praise; his perfectly stewed horned slugs were displayed like a trophy.

Of course, things didn’t go as smoothly for Neville, whose potion began to bubble ominously before his cauldron melted into a twisted, steaming blob. Acid-green smoke hissed across the floor, forcing the class to climb onto their stools as Neville whimpered in dismay, covered in angry red boils.

Snape sneered at him. “Idiot boy! Did you add the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?”

Neville stood shaking miserably, and Snape waved his wand to clear the spilled potion. “Take him to the hospital wing,” Snape ordered Seamus. Then his cold gaze landed on Angelus.

“You, Potter, why didn’t you stop him? Thought you’d let him fail to make yourself look better, did you?”

Angelus met Snape’s glare, his voice calm but edged with confidence. “Actually, I was focused on making my own potion, Professor. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing? I would have thought it was your job as a teacher to keep an eye out and prevent us from getting hurt.”

“Another ten points from Gryffindor,” he spat. “Perhaps next time, Potter, you’ll learn to pay attention to what’s happening around you.”

Angelus raised an eyebrow but said nothing, returning to his potion with an air of unbothered composure.

As they left the dungeon, Ron clapped Angelus on the back. “Blimey, you’ve got guts, standing up to Snape like that.”

After lunch, Hedwig swooped into the Great Hall, dropping a note onto Angelus’s plate. It was from Hagrid, inviting him to tea at three. Angelus felt a rush of relief; he needed something to look forward to.

Turning to Ron, he grinned. “Want to come with me? I’d rather not risk going alone and getting lost again. That would be embarrassing.”

Ron chuckled. “Yeah, wouldn’t want you stumbling into the forbidden forest.”

As they made their way to Hagrid’s hut, which sat on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the air grew noticeably cooler. The ancient trees loomed tall and imposing, their branches intertwining like gnarled fingers, casting dappled shadows on the ground. A faint mist curled around their roots, giving the woods an eerie, almost magical aura.

Angelus couldn’t help but glance toward the forest as they walked. The trees seemed alive, shifting ever so slightly as if aware of their presence. Just as they approached the clearing where Hagrid’s hut stood, a faint rustling reached his ears, followed by the sharp crack of a branch snapping underfoot. He froze mid-step, instinctively turning toward the sound.

“Did you hear that?” Angelus asked, his voice low as he squinted into the shadowy depths of the trees.

Ron frowned, looking toward the forest. “Probably just an animal,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Angelus took a step towards the dense thicket, where the shadows seemed to shift unnaturally. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a flicker of movement, but the thought vanished as the sound of a door creaking open drew his attention.

“Oi! Over here!”

Hagrid’s booming voice echoed through the clearing. He stood in the doorway of his hut, his broad silhouette illuminated by the warm firelight spilling out. Fang, his enormous Great Dane, was trying to run out to greet them, barking loudly as his tail wagged furiously.

“Come on, lads, don’t stand about gawkin’!” Hagrid called, motioning for them to come inside whilst holding Fang's collar.

After settling into the cozy, single-room hut, Hagrid handed each of them a steaming mug of tea and a plate of rock-hard, tooth-breaking rock cakes. The conversation began with Hagrid’s warm recognition of Ron’s distinctive red hair and freckles.

“Another Weasley, eh?” Hagrid said, his eyes crinkling with a smile as he poured tea. “How’s your brother Charlie?”

Ron beamed. “He’s great! He’s studying dragons in Romania. Writes home about them all the time. Mum says he spends more time with them than with people.”

Hagrid chuckled, his enormous hand stroking Fang’s head as the boarhound drooled happily onto the floor. “Dragons, eh? Always knew Charlie had a knack for creatures. Tell him I said hello next time you write.”

As Ron launched into a story about one of Charlie’s more daring dragon encounters, Angelus’s gaze wandered. Something under the edge of Hagrid’s tea cozy caught his eye, a corner of newsprint, partially hidden. Casually, he reached out and lifted the cozy, revealing a Daily Prophet clipping.

“What’s this?” Angelus asked, holding it up.

Hagrid froze for a moment, then quickly busied himself with refilling the teapot. “Jus’ some old news, nothin’ important,” he muttered.

But Angelus’s curiosity was piqued. He scanned the clipping, his brow furrowing as he read about a break-in at Gringotts.

Second Gringotts Break-In
A second break-in at Gringotts this year has left the wizarding community shaken. Gringotts reported the break-in on 31 July. Goblins insist that only one vault was breached, but that nothing had been taken, as the vault had already been emptied earlier that day.

While reading the article, Angelus knew from his past life memories that his father had orchestrated the break-in last time. Was it him again this time?

“Hagrid,” Angelus said aloud, feigning ignorance, “this says there was another break-in at Gringotts on my birthday. Do you think it happened while we were there?”

Hagrid stiffened slightly, his large hands tightening around his teacup. “Could’ve been,” he said gruffly, avoiding Angelus’s gaze. “But the goblins, they keep their vaults safe, don’t they? Probably just some fools thinkin’ they could outsmart ‘em.”

Angelus narrowed his eyes, studying Hagrid’s deliberate avoidance of the subject. His suspicions deepened. If his father was already working to restore his soul by reclaiming his Horcruxes, why would he still need the Philosopher’s Stone? 

Chapter Text

The notice pinned to the Gryffindor common room board announcing flying lessons sent a ripple of excitement through the first years. Angelus found himself grinning as he read it.

“Finally!” he said, his voice laced with anticipation. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

“You’d better not be too confident,” Ron warned with a grin. “It’s not as easy as it looks. Even Fred and George complain about the school brooms.”

Angelus shrugged, his grin widening. “Old faulty brooms? Brilliant! Nothing like a broom that might fling you into the Forbidden Forest to really spice up the lesson. I can’t wait.”

While Angelus and Ron were brimming with excitement, the rest of the first-years were a mix of emotions. Seamus was one of the more confident ones, boasting loudly about his supposed exploits on brooms back home.

“I’ve been flying since I could walk,” Seamus declared. “Last summer, I was so high I could touch the clouds.”

“Really?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you could fly that high on a broom.”

Seamus puffed up. “Of course you can!”

Dean, however, looked less sure. “Well, I’ve never been on a broom before,” he admitted, glancing around nervously. “Seeing as I didn’t know about magic before my letter came.”

Neville shifted uneasily as the group around the notice board buzzed with excitement. While other students were boasting about their broom-flying escapades, he kept quiet, his gaze fixed on his shoes. It wasn’t until Ron noticed his silence that he spoke up.

“You all right, Neville?” Ron asked, frowning slightly.

Neville hesitated, then shrugged, his voice quiet. “I’ve never been on a broom before.”

Ron blinked. “Never? Not even a little bit?”

Neville shook his head, his face flushing. “Gran never let me. Said I’d probably hurt myself.” He paused, his expression growing sheepish. “She might’ve had a point, though. I fell down the stairs a lot when I was little. Once, I even broke my arm falling out of a tree.”

The group fell silent for a moment before Seamus, who had been in the middle of another one of his exaggerated stories, piped up. “Falling out of a tree? That’s nothing! I once fell off a broom at twenty feet and landed without a scratch.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just say you’ve never fallen off a broom before?”

Seamus spluttered, caught in his contradiction, while Angelus tried to hide his amusement. Neville, however, still looked anxious.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Neville,” Angelus said, his tone encouraging. “Besides, it's our first flying lesson. They’re not going to let us do anything too dangerous. We probably won’t even be allowed to fly higher than a foot off the ground.”

Neville didn’t seem convinced. “What if the broom doesn’t listen to me? What if it just takes off on its own?”

Hermione, who had been listening intently, stepped in. “I am pretty sure that there are books in the library about how to fly a broom. I’m going to go there after class and check one out. If you want to come with me?”

Neville looked at her hopefully. “Do you really think a book would help?”

Hermione nodded firmly. “Absolutely. Books have tonnes of information and are never wrong.”

“Er, thanks,” Neville mumbled.

Ron rolled his eyes. “It’s flying, not a Potions exam. You’ll be fine, Neville. Just hold on tight and don’t look down.”

Neville gave a weak smile but still looked uneasy. Angelus stepped forward, clapping a reassuring hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Relax, Neville. Flying can’t be that hard. I bet it’s just like skateboarding, only in the air.”

Neville blinked at him. “Skateboarding?”

Ron frowned, looking genuinely confused. “What’s skateboarding?”

Angelus smirked. “It’s a Muggle thing. You stand on a board with wheels and ride around. It’s all about balance and a bit of nerve. I've always wanted to try one.”

Ron looked sceptical. “Standing on a board with wheels sounds mental. Why would anyone do that on purpose?”

Angelus chuckled. “Because it’s fun, Ron. And flying’s got to be even better, right? No wheels to worry about, just wind and freedom. How hard can it be?”

Neville’s lips twitched into a hesitant smile. “You really think it’ll be like that?”

“Absolutely,” Angelus said confidently, his tone light but encouraging. “And if it’s not, well, we’ll just have to muddle through together. No one’s expecting us to be Quidditch stars on our first go.”

Neville relaxed slightly, though he still clutched Hermione’s book. “I suppose you’re right.”

At breakfast the next morning, the first-years buzzed with a mix of excitement and nerves about their upcoming flying lesson. Hermione, determined to prepare for everything, had spent the evening reading all the flying books that she had borrowed from the library and seemed eager to share her newfound knowledge.

“You see,” Hermione began, her voice carrying over the clatter of cutlery, “the secret to flying is understanding the balance between you and the broomstick. It’s not just about holding on tight; it’s about maintaining proper posture and focus.”

Ron groaned quietly and muttered to Angelus, “I swear, she’s going to write a whole essay on flying before we even get on the brooms.”

Ignoring him, Hermione continued, “Did you know the original Cleansweep brooms were created by the Cleansweep Broom Company in 1926? They revolutionised personal broom travel! And you have to be careful with how you grip the handle. If your hands are too tight or sit just a little too low, it might throw off the alignment.”

Angelus, sitting next to Seamus, raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, his tone light but teasing. “You’re saying the secret to flying is not holding the wood too tightly?”

Seamus nearly spat out his pumpkin juice, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Yeah, Harry,” he said, his voice laced with mock seriousness, “you’ve got to be gentle with your wood. Treat it right, and it’ll take you places.”

Hermione, however, looked unimpressed. “I’m being serious,” she said, her tone exasperated. “Flying is about focus and proper technique. It’s not a joke.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not a joke,” Angelus said, his grin widening. “It’s all about respect for your wood. Isn’t that right, Seamus?”

“Absolutely,” Seamus agreed, nodding sagely. “You’ve got to be firm but not too firm. It’s an art, really.”

Neville, clutching his fork tightly, looked paler by the second. “What if the broom just doesn’t listen to me at all?”

“Oh, it’ll listen,” Hermione said briskly. “You just have to be confident and show the broom who’s in charge.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Maybe the brooms will do better if we read them a bedtime story first.”

Angelus chuckled. “Or give them a pep talk before takeoff. ‘You’re the best piece of wood out there. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’”

The Gryffindors around them laughed, but Neville still looked uneasy.

Just then, a barn owl swooped down and dropped a package in front of Neville. His face lit up with excitement as he carefully unwrapped it, revealing a small glass ball filled with swirling white smoke.

“It’s a Remembrall!” Neville exclaimed, holding it up for everyone to see. “It turns red when you’ve forgotten something.”

Curious, Angelus held out his hand. “Mind if I give it a go?”

Neville passed it over, and the moment Angelus held it, the ball glowed a vibrant red. Angelus raised an eyebrow, smirking. “So, does it tell you what you’ve forgotten, or do you have to spend the rest of the day playing ‘What Did I Forget?’”

Ron snorted with laughter, but Hermione frowned, her lips pursed as though about to offer a factual explanation. She didn’t get the chance, however, because at that moment, Draco Malfoy approached, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle.

“What’s this?” Malfoy drawled, his pale face twisting into a sneer. He reached out as if to snatch the Remembrall from Angelus’s hand.

Angelus pulled it back with ease, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Do you always go around trying to take other people’s stuff? I didn’t realise you had kleptomania, Malfoy. You should’ve mentioned it sooner. Muggles have doctors who can help with that, you know.”

The Gryffindors roared with laughter, and Malfoy’s composure faltered for a brief moment. His face flushed as he turned sharply, muttering something to Crabbe and Goyle before stalking away.

Later that afternoon, the Gryffindors hurried down the front steps toward the flat lawn near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat rows on the ground.

“Look at these brooms,” Ron said, inspecting one. “I think this one’s older than my dad.”

Angelus chuckled. “I’m not sure whether to fly it or take it to a museum.”

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, strode onto the field. Her sharp yellow eyes swept over the students. “What are you waiting for?” she barked. “Everyone, stand by a broomstick!”

Angelus picked up one of the brooms, noting the worn handle and stray twigs sticking out. “It’s got character,” he remarked to Ron, earning a grin.

“Stick out your right hand and say ‘Up!’” Madam Hooch instructed.

“UP!” the class shouted in unison.

Angelus’s broom jumped into his hand immediately. He glanced around, smirking as Ron’s broom paused uncertainly, then swung up into his face, and Hermione’s appeared to be rolling on the ground away from her.

Madam Hooch moved along the rows, correcting grips and stances. When she reached Malfoy, she frowned, adjusting his hands on the broom. “You’ve been gripping it wrong for years,” she said sharply. “You could damage your wrists holding a broom like that.”

Angelus leaned toward Ron, his lips twitching with a smirk. “Figures Malfoy doesn’t know how to handle his wood properly,” he whispered.

Ron let out a strangled cough, his face turning red as he struggled to stifle his laughter. “You’re going to get us in trouble,” he muttered, barely able to keep a straight face.

“Now mount your brooms and kick off from the ground, rise a few feet, then come back down,” Madam Hooch instructed. “On my whistle—”

But before she could blow, Neville panicked, kicking off too hard. His broom rocketed into the air.

“Neville!” Angelus shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Lean forward, lower your weight!”

But Neville was too frightened to listen. He shot higher and higher before slipping off with a gasp.

WHAM! He hit the ground with a sickening crack. Madam Hooch rushed over, examining him quickly. “Broken wrist,” she muttered. “The rest of you, stay put! If I see anyone else in the air, you’ll be out of Hogwarts faster than you can say ‘Quidditch!’”

As soon as Madam Hooch escorted Neville away, Malfoy’s laughter rang out. “Did you see his face? The great lump looked like he was going to wet himself!”

Angelus stepped forward, his voice sharp. “You’re one to talk, Malfoy. At least Neville doesn’t need his goons to hold him up.”

Malfoy sneered but faltered slightly. Spotting the Remembrall on the grass, he snatched it up. “Look what I’ve got. It’s Longbottom’s stupid ball.”

“What’s your deal, Malfoy? Is kleptomania your favourite pastime, or is it just that your parents don’t care enough to get you your own things?” Angelus said, his voice calm but cutting. “Now, give Neville’s Remembrall back.”

Malfoy’s sneer deepened as he held the glass ball aloft. “If you want it so badly, Potter, come and get it,” he taunted, mounting his broom and shooting into the air with a smug grin.

Angelus smirked, moving to mount his own broom. Before he could kick off, Hermione stepped in front of him, her expression panicked. “Harry, don’t! Madam Hooch said no flying. You’ll get us all in trouble!”

Angelus raised an eyebrow. “Letting him get away with it isn’t exactly going to make things better, Hermione.” Then, with a grin, he added, “Besides, what kind of Gryffindor would I be if I didn’t stand up for Neville?”

Before Hermione could protest further, Angelus kicked off.

The wind whipped through his hair as he soared upward, the broom responding instinctively. “So, Malfoy,” he shouted, “what’s the plan? Hover there and hope I get bored?”

Malfoy sneered, his broom hovering unsteadily. “You think you’re clever, don’t you, Potter? Just because you can keep a broom steady for five minutes doesn’t mean you’re better than me.”

Angelus grinned, steering his broom closer. “Better than you? Malfoy, I haven’t even tried yet. Let me guess, you’re stalling because you’re afraid I might actually take you down.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Malfoy snapped, gripping the Remembrall tightly. “You’ve got a big mouth, Potter. Let’s see if you’re as good a flier as you think you are.”

“Oh, I think it is already obvious that I am good,” Angelus said with a wink, circling Malfoy with casual precision. “But what about you? Are you going to keep holding onto that ball like a toddler clinging to his blankie, or are you going to make a move?”

Malfoy flushed red. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

“Of course not,” Angelus said with mock sympathy. “Who needs skill when you’ve got Crabbe and Goyle to back you up on the ground? Too bad they can’t fly up here to save your pride.”

Malfoy snarled, lifting the Remembrall above his head. “You want it so badly? Fine! Catch it!” With that, he hurled the glass ball high into the air, sending it arcing downward.

Angelus immediately leaned forward, his broom diving with precision. The rush of wind filled his ears as he raced toward the falling ball. The ground loomed closer, but Angelus reached out, snatching the Remembrall just in time. With a sharp pull on the broom handle, he leveled out smoothly, landing gracefully on the grass below.

He held the Remembrall up, grinning triumphantly.

“HARRY POTTER!”

Angelus turned to see Professor McGonagall striding across the lawn, her expression somewhere between shock and fury. Her glasses glinted ominously in the sunlight, and she looked as if she were barely holding back a lecture that could strip paint off the castle walls.

Angelus stepped forward, ready to face the music, as McGonagall’s gaze swept over him and then the scattered students. “Explain yourself,” she demanded, her voice cold.

Before Angelus could speak, Ron piped up. “Professor, it wasn’t his fault! Malfoy stole Neville’s Remembrall and threw it, and Harry just—”

“Enough, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall interrupted, holding up a hand. “Potter, follow me. Now.”

The Gryffindors murmured anxiously as Angelus gave them a quick, reassuring smile and followed McGonagall toward the castle. He jogged slightly to keep up with her brisk pace, still holding the broom and remembrall.

McGonagall marched up the grand staircase with determined strides, her robes billowing behind her. They passed Professor Quirrell and Filch, who were huddled in a quiet but intense conversation at the base of the staircase. Quirrell’s hands wrung nervously, while Filch gestured animatedly toward something in the distance. Neither seemed to notice as McGonagall swept past them.

The journey continued toward the South Tower, the stone halls growing quieter as they left the main thoroughfares of the castle. Finally, they stopped outside the Charms classroom, where McGonagall opened the door just enough to poke her head inside. “Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, may I borrow Wood for a moment?”

Angelus tried hard not to smile as a tall, burly fifth-year with a serious expression emerged from the classroom. He looked between McGonagall and Angelus, clearly unsure what was happening.

“Follow me,” McGonagall said curtly, leading them to an empty classroom nearby.

Once inside, McGonagall turned to Wood, her tone brisk. “Wood, I’ve found you a Seeker.”

Wood’s eyes widened in surprise. “A Seeker? Are you serious, Professor?”

“Absolutely,” McGonagall said, her voice firm. “Potter here performed a fifty-foot dive and caught that glass ball without so much as a scratch. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broom, Potter?”

Angelus nodded. “Yes, Professor, but I think I misunderstood you. You want me to be sicker?”

McGonagall gave Angelus a pointed look, her tone crisp but tinged with a hint of excitement. “A Seeker, Potter. It is one of the most important positions in Quidditch.” She paused, as if considering how much detail to provide. “Quidditch is a wizarding sport played on broomsticks, involving two teams of seven players each. The goal is to score more points than the opposing team before the game ends.”

She gestured with her hands as she continued, her voice growing more animated. “There are three types of balls in play: the Quaffle, which the Chasers pass between them to score goals worth ten points each; the Bludgers, which the Beaters hit to disrupt the opposing team; and finally, the Golden Snitch.”

Her expression sharpened as she looked directly at Angelus. “The Seeker’s job, Potter, is to catch the Snitch, a small, winged ball that’s incredibly fast and nearly impossible to see. Capturing it ends the game and earns your team an additional 150 points. More often than not, it determines the outcome of the match.”

Angelus nodded slowly, pretending to absorb the information.

“This is great,” Wood said, his voice enthusiastic. “You’ve got the perfect build for it light and agile. We’ll win the house cup for sure with Potter on the team. You’ll need a proper broom, though. A Nimbus Two Thousand at the very least.”

McGonagall frowned slightly. “I’ll speak to Professor Dumbledore about bending the first-year rule. Heaven knows we need a better team this year. We can let Slytherin win again.”

Just as McGonagall turned back to speak to Angelus, beginning with, “Your father was an ex-” she was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor. Professor Quirrell came striding toward them, his hands wringing nervously and his gaze darting around as if expecting something to leap out at him.

“I-Is there… a p-p-problem here?” he stammered, his eyes darting between Angelus and McGonagall.

McGonagall explained the incident briskly. Quirrell’s gaze flickered to Angelus, his expression a mix of worry and disapproval. “P-Potter… were you supposed to be flying?”

Angelus hesitated. “No, sir, but—”

“N-No buts,” Quirrell interrupted, his stammer lending an uncharacteristic sharpness to his words. “R-Rules exist for a reason, M-Mr. Potter. I-I’ll be assigning you a detention. M-Meet me in my office at 9 a.m. on Saturday.”

“Professor Quirrell,” McGonagall began, her tone sharp, “I’ve already dealt with—”

“W-With respect, P-Professor,” Quirrell interjected, his tone faltering but resolute, “r-rewarding students for breaking the r-rules sets a dangerous precedent. My d-detention stands.”

He turned back to Angelus, his hands twitching. “D-Don’t be late.”

With that, Quirrell left, his robes billowing slightly as he exited. McGonagall muttered something under her breath before dismissing Angelus, a rare flicker of amusement in her eyes. “You’d better make this worth it, Potter. Gryffindor needs that Cup.”

Angelus was beaming with pride as he recounted the events of the day to Ron over dinner. “And then, right when I thought McGonagall was going to expel me, she says, ‘Wood, I’ve found you a Seeker.’ Can you believe it?”

Ron’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide. “A Seeker? But first years never Harry, that’s incredible! You must be the youngest house player in, like, a century.”

Angelus grinned, helping himself to more mashed potatoes. “I know. Training starts next week. Oh, and I’m not supposed to tell anyone. So, don’t tell anyone.”

Ron let out a low whistle, clearly impressed

Fred and George wandered over, their identical grins widening as they spotted Angelus. “Our little Seeker,” Fred said, clapping him on the back.

“Wood told us,” George added. “We’re Beaters. Looks like Gryffindor’s finally got a team worth talking about.”

“About time we put those Slytherins in their place,” Fred said, smirking.

Before they could continue, a sneering voice interrupted. “What’s this? Celebrating early, are we?” Malfoy stood nearby, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. His pale face twisted with disdain. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Potter. You won’t make it through your first game.”

 “Enjoying your last meal, Potter? When are you heading back to the Muggles?”

Angelus didn’t miss a beat. “You seem awfully interested in my life, Malfoy. Bored of your own already?”

Malfoy’s sneer deepened, but he pressed on. “You’re pretty bold on the ground with your little friends around.”

Angelus leaned back in his seat, completely unfazed. “Is that your idea of an insult? You might want to work on your material.”

The taunt earned a few chuckles from nearby Gryffindors, and Malfoy’s pale cheeks flushed. He straightened, clearly trying to regain the upper hand. “How about a wizard’s duel? Tonight at midnight in the Trophy room.”

Angelus raised an eyebrow. “The trophy room? At midnight? Why? Afraid of people seeing you lose?”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Malfoy’s face, but he quickly covered it. “Of course I’m not scared, I can take you on anytime. I bet you don’t even know what a wizard's duel is, do you?”

Ron immediately stepped in, puffing out his chest. “Don’t be stupid, Malfoy. Of course, Harry knows what a duel is, and I’m his second. Who's yours?”

“Crabbe,” Malfoy said, clearly picking the bigger goon

Angelus leaned forward, his grin sharp. “Midnight it is then. Try not to get lost on the way, Malfoy.”

Malfoy bristled, but with a flick of his robes, he stalked off, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him.

Ron turned to Angelus, his excitement barely contained. “You really are going to duel him, aren’t you? Do you know any good spells?”

Angelus shrugged, his expression casual. “I’ll think of something. Worst case, I can just punch him in his stupid face.”

Before Ron could reply, Hermione Granger appeared, her expression a mixture of disapproval and exasperation. “You can’t be serious! Wandering around the castle at night? You’ll lose Gryffindor points if you’re caught.”

Angelus leaned back in his seat, unfazed by her scolding. “And how, exactly, is this any of your business?”

Hermione huffed, her voice firm. “You’re being reckless, and you know it. What’s the point of getting into trouble over Malfoy?”

Angelus smirked. “Trouble’s part of the fun, Granger. Besides, it's none of your business.”

Hermione glared at him but eventually stormed off, muttering about irresponsible boys. Ron shook his head. “She’s insufferable.”

Angelus chuckled. “She’s not wrong, but let’s face it, Malfoy’s probably too much of a coward to show up anyway.”

“So, why agree to it?”

Angelus’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Because, Ron, whether Malfoy turns up or not, it’s a perfect excuse to explore the castle at night. Who knows? Maybe we’ll finally figure out what’s on the third floor.”

The first year boys' dormitory was finally quiet, the faint glow of the dying fire casting long shadows across the walls. Angelus lay in bed, his excitement barely contained as he waited for the sound of soft snores from his dormmates. When he was sure the coast was clear, he nudged Ron.

“Everyone’s asleep,” Angelus whispered. “Let’s go.”

Ron yawned, rubbing his eyes as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Right, midnight duel. What could possibly go wrong?”

Angelus grinned. “Plenty, but that’s half the fun.”

They pulled on their robes and grabbed their wands before tiptoeing down the spiral staircase to the common room. The embers of the fire glowed faintly, casting flickering light on the armchairs. Just as they reached the portrait hole, Hermione’s voice cut through the silence.

“You’re not really going, are you?”

They turned to see Hermione standing by one of the armchairs, arms crossed and looking thoroughly unimpressed. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Granger. Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Ron growled.

Hermione huffed. “I can’t believe you are doing this, Harry. I almost told Percy on you.”

“Relax, Granger,” Angelus said, pushing the portrait open. “We’ll be back before anyone notices. You should go back to bed.”

“Absolutely not, someone has to stop you from doing something reckless”, Hermione snapped, stepping out of the portrait after them, her lecture in full swing. “What if you get caught? Think of the points Gryffindor will lose! Do you only care about yourselves?”

Hermione continued her lecture, as Angelus stepped out into the dark corridor with Ron right behind him. As they climbed through, a soft sniffling noise made them freeze.

Curled up on the floor just outside the portrait was Neville, his face pale and his robes slightly rumpled. He sat up quickly when he spotted them, his expression a mix of relief and panic. “Thank goodness you’re here! I’ve been stuck out here for ages. I forgot the password, and the Fat Lady left!”

On hearing this, Hermione whirled back toward the portrait, to find that the Fat Lady’s frame was indeed empty. “Oh no,” she whispered, her face falling. “She’s gone!”

Angelus chuckled. “Well, that’s a bit inconvenient for you, isn’t it?”

Hermione whirled around, panic flashing in her eyes. “What do you mean by inconvenient? How am I supposed to get back in?”

“You could wait here,” Ron suggested, though his tone made it clear he didn’t expect her to agree.

“Out here? Alone? What if Filch or the Bloody Baron comes by?” Hermione hissed.

“Then I guess you’re coming with us,” Angelus said lightly, gesturing for her to follow. “Better keep up.”

“Don’t leave me!” Neville pleaded, scrambling to his feet. “I don’t want to stay here alone. The Bloody Baron’s been floating by, and he's terrifying!”

Angelus exchanged a glance with Ron before sighing. “Fine. But no tripping over your own feet, Neville. Try to keep quiet.”

Neville scrambled to join them as they crept along the corridor. The castle was eerily silent, with only the occasional creak of ancient wood or distant rustle of tapestries to break the stillness. Angelus felt the familiar rush of excitement of a midnight escapade through the castle, just as he remembered it.

After a few minutes, a sharp whisper behind them made Angelus groan. “Wait for me!”

Hermione was hurrying after them, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to shield against the chill of the night. “You can’t just leave me behind. If Filch finds us, I’ll tell him I was trying to stop you.”

Angelus smirked. “Of course you will. And if we find something interesting, you can tell everyone you were there to see it too.”

Hermione huffed. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Probably,” Angelus agreed lightly. “But that’s what makes it fun.”

They crept through the castle, ducking behind suits of armour and into shadowed alcoves at the faintest sound. When they reached the trophy room, they slipped inside, the moonlight catching on the polished surfaces of shields, cups, and statues.

“He’s not here,” Ron whispered furiously.

Angelus leaned casually against a display case. “Typical Malfoy. All talk and no backbone.”

The faint sound of Filch’s voice from the corridor outside sent a jolt of adrenaline through them. “Sniff around, my sweet. They’ve got to be here somewhere.”

Angelus gestured for silence and motioned for the others to follow him. They slipped out of the room just as Filch’s shadow appeared at the door. But Neville tripped over a loose tile, sending a loud clatter echoing through the hall. Filch’s voice sharpened. “That way, Mrs. Norris!”

“Move!” Angelus hissed, taking the lead. They darted down a side corridor, Neville and Ron stumbling in their haste. Angelus turned a corner sharply, leading them through a tapestry and into a hidden passage.

They didn’t stop until they were well away, all of them panting for breath. “That was close,” Angelus muttered, leaning against a wall.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Hermione snapped, though her voice was less certain now.

Angelus straightened, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, we’re already out. Might as well see what’s on the third floor.”

“You can’t be serious!” Hermione whispered harshly.

Angelus’s grin widened. “Come on, Hermione. Don’t you want to see what they’re hiding in there?”

Without waiting for an answer, Angelus led the way, his steps light and confident despite the unease rippling through the group. They moved cautiously, the castle eerily silent save for the occasional creak of wood or distant echo of shifting stone. As they neared the third-floor corridor, their progress was abruptly halted by a familiar cackling voice.

“Well, well, what have we here? Ickle Firsties out of bed?” Peeves floated lazily down from a chandelier, his translucent form glowing faintly in the dim moonlight. His mischievous grin widened. “Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty! Shall I tell Filch?”

“Peeves,” Angelus said smoothly, stepping forward before anyone else could panic. “Surely you don’t want to ruin a perfectly good night of mischief by tattling on us?”

The poltergeist’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Oh, but Filch does love a good midnight chase. Think of the fun!”

“Think of the mess,” Angelus countered, his tone casual. “Filch locking us up means no more mischief for us, and no more chaos for you to enjoy. Where’s the fun in that?”

Peeves tilted his head, considering. “Hmm… you make a fair point. But what’s in it for old Peevesy if I let you lot go?”

Angelus smirked, fishing into his pocket and pulling out a small bundle. “Dung bombs. Fresh ones. And all yours.”

Peeves cackled gleefully, swooping down to snatch the bundle. “Oh, you are a clever one, aren’t you? Fine, off you go. But if you get caught, don’t say Peeves didn’t warn you!”

With that, Peeves zoomed off, his laughter echoing through the halls.

As they hurried off, Hermione shot Angelus an incredulous look. “Why,” she demanded, “do you have dung bombs in your pocket?”

Angelus smirked, his tone nonchalant. “Because you never know when you might need one.”

Hermione looked utterly appalled. “That is the most ridiculous—”

“Practical,” Angelus interrupted smoothly. “You might think it's ridiculous, but I think it's practical. Case in point: because of my practical thinking, we just avoided getting caught by Filch because of those dung bombs. If anything, I’d say they’re essential.”

Ron snickered, giving Angelus a thumbs-up. “Genius, mate. Absolute genius.”

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

Angelus grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Good. Because I’m not sharing my other one.”

“Other one?” Hermione exclaimed, her voice rising slightly before she clamped her hands over her mouth, remembering they were sneaking through the castle.

They continued toward the forbidden corridor, their footsteps quickening as they heard the faint sound of Filch’s shuffling steps in the distance. “He’s coming this way!” Hermione whispered urgently.

They reached the door to the forbidden corridor, only to find it locked. Angelus didn’t hesitate, drawing his wand and muttering, “Alohomora.” The lock clicked, and the door creaked open.

“Hurry,” Angelus said, ushering them inside just as Filch’s shadow appeared at the far end of the hallway.

The moment they stepped into the corridor, a low growl rumbled through the air. Angelus pushed the door shut behind them and turned, his eyes widening slightly. There, towering over a trapdoor in the center of the room, stood Fluffy, the enormous three-headed dog. Each of its three pairs of eyes glowed faintly, fixed on the intruders.

“Awesome,” Angelus whispered, his voice filled with awe rather than fear.

One of Fluffy’s heads growled deeply, its lips curling to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Hermione let out a quiet squeak of terror, clutching Neville, who seemed too frozen to move.

“We’ve seen it,” Ron whispered urgently, tugging at Angelus’s sleeve. “Now let’s get out before it decides to eat us!”

Reluctantly, Angelus allowed Ron to pull him back toward the door. “Fine, fine,” he muttered. “But you have to admit it’s impressive.”

They quickly ran out of the room, shutting the door behind them just as Fluffy’s growls grew louder. Filch’s footsteps had faded, but they didn’t waste time lingering in the corridor. As they hurried back toward the Gryffindor common room, Angelus couldn’t help but grin.

“That,” he said, his voice low and filled with excitement, “was worth it.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with chatter as students settled in for breakfast. Angelus and Ron joined the Gryffindor table, still grinning about the previous night’s events. The enchanted ceiling reflected a crisp, clear sky, the perfect backdrop for their lively conversation.

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” Ron said, reaching for a slice of toast. “If any dog needs exercise, that one does.” 

Angelus smirked, piling bacon onto his plate. “I don’t know, Ron. He might be better company than some of the people here.” 

Hermione, seated nearby with a book propped open, looked up sharply. “You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she snapped, folding her arms. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “The floor?”

Angelus tilted his head in mock thought. “I was too busy admiring its teeth to notice its feet.”

Hermione sighed, her exasperation palpable. “No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s guarding something.”

Angelus and Ron exchanged glances. “Guarding what?” Ron asked.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said with a huff, “but it’s clearly important. And sneaking out at night to poke around is reckless and foolish. You could have been killed or worse, expelled.”

Angelus grinned, taking a bite of toast. “Relax, Hermione. We survived, didn’t we? And besides, if Hogwarts didn’t want us to explore, they wouldn’t have made it so tempting.”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but her words were drowned out by the rush of wings overhead. The morning post had arrived. Owls swooped into the hall, carrying letters, parcels, and the occasional howler. Angelus barely looked up until six screech owls descended together, dropping a long, thin package right before him. It landed with a thud, knocking over his goblet of pumpkin juice.

Several heads turned as a smaller owl swooped down and dropped a letter on the package. Angelus grabbed the letter, tearing it open:

DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.
It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don’t want everybody to know you’ve got a broomstick or they’ll all want one.
Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o’clock for your first training session.

—Professor McGonagall

Angelus passed the note to Ron, who read it with wide eyes. “A Nimbus Two Thousand!” he said in awe. “I’ve never even touched one.”

Angelus smirked, eyeing the package. “Well, it’s my lucky day.”

They quickly finished breakfast, eager to inspect the broom in private. As they stood to leave, Malfoy appeared with Crabbe and Goyle, blocking their path. His pale face twisted into a sneer. “What’s this, Potter? Looks like a broomstick. You’re in for it now, first-years aren’t allowed brooms.”

Angelus grabbed the package tightly, his expression calm. “Jealous, Malfoy? Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s a secondhand shop somewhere that sells brooms to match your worth.”

Ron snorted, but Malfoy’s sneer deepened. “Let’s see it, then,” he said, reaching for the package.

Angelus held it out of reach. “Touch it, and you’ll find yourself in need of the Hospital Wing.”

Before Malfoy could respond, Professor Flitwick appeared at his elbow. “What’s going on here, boys?”

“Potter’s got a broomstick!” Malfoy exclaimed, hoping for a reprimand.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” Flitwick said cheerfully. “Professor McGonagall informed me of the special circumstances. And what model is it, Potter?”

“A Nimbus Two Thousand,” Angelus replied, his grin widening. He added, with a glance at Malfoy, “It’s thanks to him that I’m on the team. If he hadn’t stolen Neville’s Remembrall, I wouldn’t have had the chance to try out.”

Malfoy’s face flushed, and Ron struggled to contain his laughter. They left the hall, Ron practically skipping beside Angelus.

“Malfoy looked ready to burst,” Ron said, grinning. “You think he’ll cry about it to his dad?”

“Probably,” Angelus replied, smirking.

Back in the Gryffindor Common room, Hermione intercepted them, her eyes fixed on the broom-shaped package. “So, I suppose you think this is a reward for breaking the rules?”

Angelus raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t call a detention with Quirrell on Saturday morning a reward. But thanks for your concern, Hermione.”

Her frown faltered slightly, and she seemed caught off guard. “Detention?”

“Yeah,” Angelus said lightly. “So technically, I didn’t get away with anything. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve better things to do than listen to your nagging.”

Hermione huffed but turned away, muttering something about priorities. Ron leaned closer to Angelus as they continued to the dormitory. “She’s not going to let that go, is she?”

Angelus smirked. “Definitely not.”

Lessons passed in a blur for Angelus. Between lessons, his mind wandered to the Nimbus Two Thousand under his bed or the Quidditch field where he’d be training that evening. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

At dinner, Angelus bolted down his meal without even noticing what he was eating. As soon as the last bite was gone, he nudged Ron. “Come on, let’s see this broom properly.”

The two of them rushed up to their dormitory. Angelus carefully unwrapped the long package, revealing a sleek, mahogany broomstick with “Nimbus Two Thousand” etched in gold near the handle.

“Wow,” Ron whispered, reverently running a hand along the polished wood. “It’s beautiful.”

Angelus smirked. “Perfect for a first-year rule breaker like me.”

As seven o’clock approached, Angelus grabbed the broom and headed for the Quidditch field. Ron wished him luck, but Angelus didn’t feel he needed it.

The stadium was massive, with tall stands rising around the field and golden hoops glinting at either end. The air was crisp, the sky darkening into twilight. Angelus ran a hand over the Nimbus and mounted it, kicking off lightly. The moment he was airborne, exhilaration coursed through him. The broom moved with precision, responding to the lightest touch. He swooped in and out of the golden goalposts, testing its speed and agility. He hadn’t felt this free in either of his lives.

As he looped back toward the ground, Oliver Wood’s voice called out, “Potter, come down!”

Landing smoothly, Angelus dismounted, his grin wide. “I’ve got to say, this broom’s the best.”

Wood, carrying a large wooden crate, grinned back. “I see what McGonagall meant. You’re a natural. Tonight, I’ll explain the rules, and then you’ll join team practice three times a week.”

He opened the crate to reveal four balls of varying sizes. “So like McGonagall said, there are seven players on each side: three Chasers, one Keeper, two Beaters, and one Seeker, that's you. The Chasers pass this—” He held up a red ball about the size of a soccer ball. “—the Quaffle, and try to score by getting it through one of those hoops. Ten points per goal.”

Wood explained that he, as Keeper, guarded the hoops against the other team’s Chasers. Then he moved on to the Bludgers, releasing one of the black balls strapped in the crate. It shot straight for Angelus, who swatted it away with the bat Wood handed him.

“Beaters handle those,” Wood said, wrangling the Bludger back into the crate. “They protect their teammates and try to knock Bludgers toward the opposing team. The Weasley twins are excellent at it.”

Finally, Wood held up a tiny golden ball with fluttering silver wings. “This is the Golden Snitch. It's your job to catch it. Worth 150 points, it nearly always decides the game. It’s fast, hard to see, and everyone will be trying to stop you from catching it.”

Angelus nodded, his confidence steady.

After a quick demonstration with golf balls, where Wood tested his reflexes by throwing them at random, Angelus hadn’t missed a single catch.

“You’re a natural,” Wood said, practically glowing with pride. “This year’s Quidditch Cup is ours.”

As they packed up for the night, Angelus couldn’t shake the sensation that someone or something was watching him. It had started earlier, while he was flying. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he’d seen movement near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. At first, he dismissed it as a trick of the wind or shadows cast by the swaying trees.

Now, as they walked back toward the castle, his gaze drifted once more to the dark line of trees. This time, there was no mistaking it, a figure with the upper body of a human and the lower body of a horse moved gracefully into the cover of the forest, disappearing among the thick foliage.

Angelus paused, a strange mix of curiosity and hope fluttering in his chest. He had learned of his centaur heritage from Death and had since devoured books on their lore. Centaurs were beings of immense power and mystery, their existence intertwined with the stars and the secrets of the earth. They were said to possess incredible powers of divination and a deep connection with nature.

The myths surrounding their origins were equally captivating. One story told of centaurs being descendants of Centaurus, the son of Apollo, cursed to roam the earth as a half-human, half-horse after his defeat by Theseus and the Lapiths. Another spoke of ancient Greek warriors from Mount Pelion who shared an extraordinary bond with their horses. Men who fought alongside their steeds in battle, their connection so profound that their quest to become Animagi led to permanent transformations into the beings now known as centaurs.

More than the myths, Angelus’s thoughts centred on the possibility of this centaur being his Papa, Magnus, a figure Death had mentioned—a centaur who had befriended his father during his time at Hogwarts and was said to be residing in the Forbidden Forest, waiting to meet Angelus.

Compelled by curiosity and the faint hope of reconnecting with a part of his past, Angelus turned and began striding toward the forest. His heart beat faster with each step, a mix of anticipation and trepidation building within him.

“Oi, Potter!” came Wood’s voice, breaking through Angelus’s focused thoughts. A moment later, Wood jogged up to him, grabbing his arm lightly but firmly. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Angelus hesitated, glancing toward the dark line of trees. “I thought I saw something… someone. A centaur, maybe.”

Wood’s expression shifted from confusion to concern. “A centaur? You’re serious?”

Angelus nodded, his gaze still fixed on the forest.

Wood ran a hand through his hair, his tone softening. “Look, I’m not saying you didn’t see something, but the Forbidden Forest isn’t the place for a midnight stroll. You’ve read about it, haven’t you? There are things in there that’d make a werewolf on a full moon seem like a tame house pet.”

Angelus frowned but didn’t move. “But what if it’s—”

Wood, cut him off, his voice kind but firm. “Mate, I get it. You’re curious, but this isn’t the way to find out. The professors didn’t slap the word ‘forbidden’ on that forest for fun, you know.” He glanced back toward the castle. “Come on, you don’t want to get caught sneaking out here. Trust me, detention with McGonagall is worse than anything in those trees.”

Reluctantly, Angelus allowed Wood to steer him back toward the castle. 

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chatter as Angelus and Ron sat together at the Gryffindor table, plates piled with bacon and eggs. The sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, casting a warm glow over the long tables. Angelus picked at his food, his mind torn between thoughts of last night’s exhilarating Quidditch practice and the looming detention he had with Quirrell.

“So,” Ron said between mouthfuls of toast, “how was practice? Was Wood impressed?”

Angelus grinned, finally digging into his breakfast. “Impressed doesn’t even cover it. He kept calling me a natural. The Nimbus is amazing, it responds to the slightest touch. I caught every ball he threw at me.”

Ron gave a low whistle, looking genuinely impressed. “Sounds brilliant. You’re going to be famous before the first match.”

Angelus chuckled but didn’t respond. Instead, his thoughts turned to his detention. “So what’s your plan for today while I’m stuck in detention?”

Ron smirked. “The twins promised to take me down to the Quidditch pitch. They’re letting me have a go on one of their brooms. I might even try a few tricks.”

Before Angelus could reply, Hermione, who had been quietly eating beside them, looked up, her brow furrowed. “You should be working on your Transfiguration homework, not gallivanting off to the Quidditch pitch.”

Ron groaned, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Hermione. It’s Saturday. We’ve got all weekend to complete our homework.”

“That’s what you said last weekend, and you barely finished your potions homework on time,” Hermione retorted. She turned to Angelus. “What about you? Have you started the essay for transfiguration yet?”

Angelus shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve got it under control. Besides, detention first, homework later.”

Hermione sighed, clearly exasperated. “Well, I’m heading to the library to get started. Some of us actually care about our grades.”

Ron waved her off as she stood, clutching her books and storming out of the Great Hall. “She needs to sort out her priorities,” he muttered. “Does she ever take a break?”

Angelus chuckled, but his laughter faded as he glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for his detention. With a sigh, he stood and pushed his plate away. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll need it,” Ron said, grinning. “Quirrell’s bound to be all stutters and garlic.”

Angelus laughed, though his stomach churned with nerves as he left the hall.

The door to Professor Quirrell’s office was ajar, a faint light spilling out into the corridor. Angelus hesitated briefly before pushing it open. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of garlic, and Quirrell sat at his desk, his hands nervously wringing together.

“Ah, P-p-p-potter,” Quirrell greeted, his stammer faint but present. “You’re p-punctual. C-come in.”

Angelus entered the dimly lit office, his eyes darting around the room. The walls were lined with shelves of books and jars filled with strange, murky substances, their contents swirling ominously. He stood awkwardly as Quirrell gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

As soon as Angelus sat down, Quirrell waved his wand sharply. The door swung shut with a quiet thud, and a sudden shift in the air made Angelus shiver. A tingling sensation swept over his skin, and he immediately recognised it as a network of magical wards being activated. The atmosphere in the room grew heavier, the faint hum of magic buzzing at the edges of his awareness.

Angelus straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing. “What was that?” he asked.

Quirrell’s demeanour shifted. The nervous, stammering professor seemed to melt away, replaced by what was more clearly his father, who spoke with a strong, measured confidence. “A precaution,” his father said smoothly, his hands no longer fidgeting. “The wards I raised will alert me if anyone approaches the door and ensure our conversation remains private.”

Then, with an arched brow and a piercing gaze, he asked, “Now, what’s this I hear about you wandering around the third floor with your friends Thursday night?”

Angelus froze, eyes going wide. Of all the questions he thought his father might ask him, that was not one of them.

“I—what?” Angelus stammered, quickly masking his surprise with a nervous chuckle. “Who told you that?”

His father leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Let’s just say I have ways of keeping informed of your activities.”

Angelus felt a prickling unease at the pointed statement. His father’s gaze was unwavering, sharp enough to pierce through whatever flimsy excuse Angelus might muster. He shifted in his seat, the weight of his father's stern gaze pressing down on him.

“So,” his father continued, his voice smooth yet laced with quiet authority, “would you like to tell me what compelled you to sneak into the third-floor corridor? Or shall I recount the tale myself?”

Angelus hesitated, his mind scrambling for a believable explanation. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was… exploring. It’s a big castle and..., umm..., you never said I couldn’t go there.”

His father’s eyebrow arched, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “I never told you? Dumbledore's warning and what happened last time should have been warning enough.”

Angelus sat back in the chair, his eyes fixed on Quirrell, no, his father. The weight of his father’s words still hung heavy in the air.

“You could have been hurt, Angelus. That creature is not some pet you can tame with charm and a smile,” Quirrell said, his voice steady but firm.

Angelus’s expression wavered between guilt and defensiveness. “I wasn’t trying to tame it. I just… thought it would be fun to see him again, for real and… see if the traps were actually there. I…umm… I handled Fluffy before. I remember how to—”

Quirrell cut him off with a sharp look. “Handled Fluffy? Those are just memories, Angelus. That was not you. Not as you are now. Did you think that those memories would be enough to protect you against a fully grown Cerberus, especially one as unpredictable as that fool Hagrid?”

Angelus bit his lip, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “I wasn’t in any real danger,” he insisted. “I know how to handle Fluffy. He listens to music, doesn’t he? I thought I could…”

“Handle him?” his father interrupted sharply, his tone icy. “Angelus, this is not a fairy tale where music and cleverness can save the day. Fluffy is not a pet. He is a highly volatile, magically enhanced Cerberus. The fact that you think you can ‘handle’ him based on a memory of an alternate you isn't bravery, it is folly.”

Angelus flinched at the harshness of his father’s words. The room fell silent, the tension between them thick and unyielding.

After a moment, his father sighed, the sharp edge of his tone softening. “I am not trying to scold you for the sake of it, Angelus. I understand you were curious and need to push boundaries. But your life is not one you should be risking. You are more important than you realise to me and your Papa. We just got you back; we cannot lose you again.”

Angelus’s head snapped up at that, his eyes searching his father’s face for any hint of insincerity. He was still not used to what he found instead: genuine concern.

Angelus swallowed hard, the weight of his father’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. “I just… I didn’t think...”

“No, you didn’t,” his father said, his expression softening into something paternal. “But you are young, and mistakes will happen. The question is, will you learn from them?”

Angelus nodded slowly. “I will.”

Quirrell’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Good. Now, let us discuss something more constructive. What do you know about occlumency and legitimacy?”

For the next hour, his father carefully explained the fundamentals of both Occlumency and Legilimency to Angelus. He guided him through the basics of meditation and the foundational techniques for constructing mental shields. While Angelus wasn’t yet able to fully prevent or repel a Legilimency attack, the initial groundwork was firmly in place.

Angelus followed his father’s instructions, and a surprising realisation dawned on him. Reflecting on his memories of Occlumency lessons with Snape, he couldn’t help but feel that in just one hour under his father’s tutelage, he had made more progress than he ever had during multiple gruelling sessions with Snape. His father’s methods were different, more patient, more tailored to his needs, and the results were already beginning to show.

Finishing up the occlumency lessons, they moved to the green leather couch on the other side of the office. And began discussing the first wizarding war and what happened. Angelus sank into the green leather couch, his gaze fixed on his father, who sat beside him, relaxed yet commanding. The office’s dim light cast a warm glow, softening the sternness of Quirrell’s features.

“You have been wandering about the Horcruxes?” his father began, his voice steady but tinged with something Angelus couldn’t quite place...regret, perhaps? “Magnus never agreed with the idea of making them. He understood my fears after living through the London Blitz, how fragile life could be, how easily it could be snatched away. He was willing to look the other way when I made the first Horcrux. But he clarified that he would not forgive me if I were to make another.”

Angelus leaned forward, intrigued. He knew so little about Magnus and always wanted to know the full story behind what led his father down the path he took.

“For a while, I respected his wishes,” Quirrell continued, his fingers lacing together. “Until you were taken. A week after your kidnapping, there was another raid, a massacre at a base where many werewolf allies of ours were staying. Many werewolves, including children, were killed that night, and I was gravely wounded trying to defend them.”

Quirrell’s voice faltered slightly, his eyes darkening with memory. “In my despair, I made my second Horcrux, the Gaunt ring. Soon after, I created the locket, cup and diadem. Within two months of your kidnapping, I had lost all sight of my original goals. I was consumed by a hunger for power and a burning need for vengeance.”

Angelus’s brow furrowed. “But Dumbledore said you made the Horcruxes before the war. He told me you killed the Riddles in 1943 and used their deaths to make the ring.”

Quirrell’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Dumbledore is wrong, though not entirely. By the time I found my father and his parents, they had already been killed by Morfin Gaunt. Morfin blamed them for his father’s death and my mother’s abandonment. As a teenager, I was filled with anger over my abandonment. If I had found them alive…” He trailed off, his gaze distant. “I cannot say what I might have done.”

“And the locket?” Angelus pressed. “Dumbledore claimed you killed some old lady called Smith and used her death to make the locket Horcrux.”

A shadow crossed Quirrell’s face. “Hepzibah Smith’s death was… an accident, though I admit I bear some responsibility. I learned she had the Slytherin locket and broke into her home to retrieve it. Her house elf caught me. I confounded the elf and took the locket and the cup, but in my shock at getting caught, I may have overpowered the spell. I found out later that the confused elf had poisoned her master.”

Angelus frowned, his mind racing with questions. “Have you merged back with all your Horcruxes now? Why don’t you have a body?”

“I have managed to reclaim three of my Horcruxes,” Quirrell replied, his tone measured. “Including the fragment that once resided in your scar. But two remain out of my reach: the diary and the locket. The diary is locked behind unbreachable wards at Malfoy Manor. The locket was taken from its hiding place in the cave.”

Angelus’s eyes lit up. “I think I might know where the locket is. Regulus Black took it. His house-elf had it until the Order of the Phoenix took over Grimmauld Place. Maybe if we free Sirius from Azkaban, he could help us get into the house and get the locket back.”

Quirrell nodded slowly, a faint gleam of approval in his eyes. “That is an idea worth exploring after I regain my body and establish a new identity. To free Sirius or anyone from Azkaban would need to be done by legal means. I will need the Ministry and the Wizengamot on my side. It will require careful planning.”

“But, how will you get a new body and identity?” Angelus asked, leaning forward.

“That,” Quirrell said with a faint smile, “is why I need the Philosopher’s Stone. With it, I can perform a ritual to restore my body. As for the identity, during the last war, I forged alliances with goblins and influential wizards overseas. They can help me craft a new identity, one that will pass all ICW and Ministry checks. It may not fool Dumbledore, but it will be enough to establish a better reputation and allow me to walk in public again.”

The two fell into a thoughtful silence, the gravity of their conversation weighing heavily on Angelus.

Quirrell glanced at the clock on his desk and let out a small sigh. “It seems we’ve lost track of time. It’s nearly lunchtime.”

Angelus blinked, startled by how quickly the hours had passed.

Quirrell stood, a frown on his face “If anyone asks, tell them that I had you writing lines but you got smart with me, so I made you stay longer.”

Angelus smirked faintly. “And if they ask what I said?”

Quirrell’s lips twitched in amusement. “Something about how the garlic fumes were destroying your brain cells”

Angelus laughed softly, but his father’s expression grew serious. He stepped closer, resting a hand on Angelus’s shoulder. “Behave, Angelus, and stay out of trouble. I don’t want to hear about any more reckless adventures.”

“I’ll try,” Angelus said with a small grin, though his tone carried sincerity.

Quirrell smiled before pulling Angelus into a brief, firm hug. “Remember,” he murmured, his voice low, “I love you, and will always protect you.”

Angelus nodded, his throat tight. “I know.”

With a final pat on the shoulder, Quirrell released him. “Go on. Get some lunch before the Gryffindors send a search party.”

As Angelus walked back to the Great Hall, a sense of warmth bloomed in his chest, his thoughts swirling with everything he had learned that morning. He was no longer alone; he had a real family who loved and supported him, who genuinely cared when he broke the rules or put himself in danger, and Angelus wanted to make them proud. 

Chapter Text

Time seemed to fly by, with Angelus now swept up in the whirlwind of Hogwart’s life. His days were a blur of activity between classes, mountains of homework, and weekly Quidditch practices. He had little time to dwell on anything else, though he often found his thoughts drifting to the Forbidden Forest during quiet moments. Despite his best efforts to keep an eye out, he had yet to catch another glimpse of a centaur at the edge of the trees, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined the encounter entirely.

It was in the early hours on the morning of Halloween, the sky outside still cloaked in darkness, when Angelus began to stir, feeling a gentle hand stroking his hair and the warmth of a kiss pressed to his forehead.

“Dad?” he mumbled groggily.

“Sshhhh, go back to sleep,” came the soft reply.

Believing it was only a dream, Angelus rolled over, sinking back into the haze of sleep. But then something hard at the foot of his bed caught his attention. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he noticed a small wooden trunk nestled by his feet.

Quickly, he peered through the curtains of his four-poster bed. The dormitory was bathed in the faint glow of dying embers from the fireplace. All the other beds had their curtains drawn shut, Neville’s and Ron’s snores echoing softly through the room. Finding no one else in the room, Angelus grabbed his glasses and wand drew the curtains closed, and whispered, “Lumos.”

The faint glow of his wand illuminated the trunk and a letter rested neatly on top. Heart pounding, he picked up the envelope and broke the wax seal. The letter inside was written in an unfamiliar cursive handwriting. 

My Dearest Angelus,

Happy 11th birthday. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you in person, but know I’m proud of you daily.

The trunk contains gifts from your dad and me. Tap the lock with your wand and say ‘open’ in Parseltongue to open it. To lock it again, tap the lock and say ‘close’. I hope what’s inside reminds you of how much you are loved and cared for.

Stay strong, my child. The time will come when we can be together again. Until then, know that I’m always thinking of you.

With love,
Papa

Angelus held the letter close to his chest, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He didn’t want to cry, but the ache of missing his parents welled up inside him. He was still trying to process what the letter had revealed. His birthday wasn’t July 31, as he’d always been told. The truth shocked him, yet it also felt strangely comforting. Knowing this detail, knowing anything about himself, made him feel more grounded. After a moment, he took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and turned his attention to the trunk.

Following the instructions in the letter, Angelus tapped the lock with his wand and whispered, “Open,” in Parseltongue. The latch clicked, and he lifted the lid to find a fat plush red and gold lion sitting on top, its button eyes twinkling and its silky mane soft under his fingers. He smiled, hugging it tightly to his chest as he looked back in the trunk.

Next, wrapped neatly together in dark green paper, were several items: a book titled The Magical Boys’ Book of Knowledge, its cover adorned with illustrations of wizards casting spells and brewing potions; a brightly coloured box of Zonko’s prank products, sneezing powders, trick wands, and Fainting Fancies; and a soft brown leather wand holster, embossed with a subtle pattern of stars. Angelus ran his fingers over the holster, smiling as he imagined how handy it would be during lessons.

The next layer contained another neatly wrapped red package. Inside was a hand-knitted maroon jumper with golden patterning, featuring a small Snitch that appeared to dart around as if in flight. Alongside it were a matching maroon beanie and gloves, the wool soft and warm to the touch. Tucked next to them were intricately carved wooden figurines of magical creatures, a phoenix, a Niffler, and a hippogriff, each beautifully detailed. Angelus held up the phoenix, marvelling at its smooth, polished wings and delicate features. It was small enough to fit in his palm, but the craftsmanship made it seem alive, as though it might take flight at any moment.

At the very bottom of the trunk, carefully folded, were brand new clothes: a thick navy blue wool cloak, light-coloured long-sleeved shirts, black and blue denim pants, several pairs of woollen socks, and, much to Angelus’s horror, Quidditch-themed underwear adorned with animated golden Snitches and broomsticks. His face turned red as he quickly shoved the underwear back into the trunk, praying no one would ever see them.

Angelus paused, his hands lingering on the neatly folded shirts and pants. For as long as he could remember, he had worn Dudley’s cast-off clothes that were too big, too old, and never truly his. Most of what he wore outside of his Hogwarts uniform still felt like remnants of that life, oversized and ill-fitting. But now, for the first time, he had clothes that weren’t part of his school uniform, entirely new clothes, chosen for him, made for him. The soft fabric and perfect fit spoke of care and intention, something he had never experienced before. The thought sent a swell of emotion through him, a mix of gratitude and disbelief. It was something so simple, yet it felt monumental.

He tapped the lock again, whispering “Close” in Parseltongue, and the trunk sealed itself with a satisfying click. Sitting back with the plush lion tucked under one arm, Angelus felt a warmth spread through him, deeper than the comfort of the gifts themselves. These weren’t just things, they were tokens of love and care. Despite the surprises and the bittersweet longing for a family he couldn’t yet be with, it was the best birthday he could remember. For the first time, Angelus felt like he belonged.

His heart a little lighter, but with a tender ache and a soft sigh, he slid the trunk under his bed, its contents a comforting reminder that he was not alone in the world. Crawling back under the covers, Angelus clutched the soft lion to his chest, feeling its velvety warmth against his skin. He whispered a quiet, heartfelt “Thank you” to the family he knew loved him, before closing his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming of the day he might be with them again.

Two hours later, Angelus woke to the sounds of his dormitory waking up. Walking down to the Great Hall with the other first years, the delicious aroma of baking pumpkin wafted through the corridors, making Angelus's mouth water as he headed to breakfast. The excitement in the castle was palpable, with students chattering about the upcoming feast and festivities. But the real thrill began in Charms class when Professor Flitwick announced they were finally ready to start making objects fly, a spell they’d all been eager to try since the professor’s demonstration with Neville's toad, Trevor.

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practising!” squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on his usual pile of books. “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and ended up with a buffalo on his chest!”

Angelus smirked at the thought. Wandering if he changed ‘leviosa’ to ‘levibovis’, would he be able to summon a flying ox? Flitwick began pairing the class for practice, and Angelus ended up with Seamus Finnigan.

“Want to go first?” Angelus asked, glancing at the fluffy white feather sitting on their desk.

“Sure,” Seamus replied, his voice confident, yet he gripped his wand like it might fly out of his hand on its own.

Seamus pointed his wand at the feather. “Wingardium Leviosa!” he whispered, swishing and flicking his wand like Flitwick modelled. The feather wobbled but stubbornly refused to leave the desk.

Seamus frowned. “Maybe it’s broken,” he muttered, jabbing the feather with his wand.

“Wait, don’t—” Angelus started, but it was too late. A small flame erupted from the feather, and Seamus yelped as Angelus grabbed his book and hastily smothered the fire.

“Brilliant start,” Angelus muttered, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated.

Across the room, Draco Malfoy was snickering at the chaos while gesturing dramatically with his wand. Angelus’s green eyes narrowed. A mischievous idea sparked in his mind.

“Watch this,” Angelus whispered to Seamus, angling his wand toward Malfoy’s feather.

“Wingardium leviosa,” with a swift swish and flick, he aimed to send Malfoy’s feather flying into his face.

The feather wobbled unnaturally before zooming forward, smacking Malfoy on the chin. The Slytherin’s hand flew to his face as he looked around in confusion. Angelus ducked behind the cover of his book, stifling a laugh.

“You’re mad,” Seamus muttered, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

At the next table, Ron Weasley was having as much luck as Seamus “Wingardium Leviosa!” he shouted, waving his wand so forcefully it looked like he was trying to swat a fly.

“You’re saying it wrong,” Hermione Granger snapped. “It’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa. Make the ‘gar’ nice and long.”

Ron glared. “You do it, then, if you’re so clever.”

Hermione rolled up her sleeves, raised her wand, and calmly said, “Wingardium Leviosa.” The feather floated gracefully into the air, hovering several feet above their heads.

“Oh, well done!” squeaked Professor Flitwick, clapping. “Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s done it!”

Ron sat fuming at his table for the rest of the lesson. After class had ended he stomped into the crowded corridor beside Angelus, muttering under his breath. “It’s no wonder no one can stand her. She’s a nightmare, honestly.”

Angelus frowned at the harshness of Ron’s words. Before he could respond, Hermione pushed past them, her face pale and streaked with tears.

“I think she heard you,” Angelus said quietly.

“So?” Ron replied defensively, though he looked uncomfortable. “She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends.”

Angelus stopped abruptly, turning to face Ron. “That’s a rotten thing to say,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “Just because she’s good at magic doesn’t mean you get to be cruel.”

Ron flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that…”

“Didn’t you?” Angelus asked, his piercing gaze unwavering. Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

His mind churned as he made his way to Transfiguration. Hermione might be overbearing and a little annoying, but Angelus understood how it felt to be alone, unwanted and misunderstood. Resolving to make it right, he decided to find Hermione after lunch and let her know she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

Like before, Hermione did not turn up to transfiguration. By the time lunch rolled around, he learned from Lavender Brown that Hermione was again crying in the girls’ bathroom and hadn’t been seen since charms that morning.

A pang of guilt shot through Angelus. He should have gone after her right away. Resolving to talk to her after lunch, he sat down at the Gryffindor table, half-heartedly picking at his food. His plan, however, was interrupted when an owl swooped into the Great Hall, flying faster than usual and heading straight for the staff table. The bird landed in front of his father, who nervously took the note tied to its leg. As he read the note, Quirrell’s face turned an alarming shade of white. Without a word, he stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor, and rushed out of the hall, the note clutched tightly in his fist.

Angelus stared after him, his brow furrowed. Something was wrong. He tried to shake off the uneasy feeling gnawing at his stomach. He needed to focus on finding Hermione.

After finishing his lunch quickly, Angelus made his way to the girls’ bathroom. He hesitated outside the door, feeling awkward about being there, but knocked softly anyway.

“Hermione?” he called. “It’s me, Harry. Can I come in? I just want to talk.”

“Go away!” Hermione’s voice came back, shaky and muffled.

Angelus sighed, his hand lingering on the doorframe. “I’m sorry about what Ron said,” he began. “He was out of line. You didn’t deserve that.”

There was no reply, only the sound of sniffling. Angelus hesitated a moment longer, then sighed. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone for now. But I’m here if you need someone to talk to.”

With a heavy heart, he turned away and decided to head to the library. Maybe he could find something to take his mind off the unsettling events of the day. As he entered the library, though, he overheard a group of older students whispering near the Restricted Section.

“Did you hear?” one of them said in a hushed tone. “Professor Quirrell didn’t show up for Defence Against the Dark Arts after lunch.”

“Yeah, and someone said he left the school entirely,” another added. “Just disappeared. No one knows where he’s gone.”

Angelus stopped in his tracks, their words sending a fresh wave of worry through him. His mind raced with questions. Where had his father gone? Why had he looked so shocked? What could have happened to make him leave so suddenly? Hermione’s plight slipped from his mind as Angelus left the library, wandering through the castle until dinner. 

Later that evening Angelus entered the Great Hall with Neville, who he had found whilst wandering. Angelus was still stewing over Ron's cruel comment about Hermione and had no desire to sit near him. Instead, he and Neville found seats toward the far end of the Gryffindor table. The Hall was spectacularly decorated, with a thousand live bats fluttering across the ceiling and swooping low over the tables, making the pumpkin candles flicker and dance.

Angelus’s thoughts drifted as he noticed his father was still missing from the staff table. His stomach knotted uneasily as he recalled the pale expression on his father’s face after reading the note earlier. Was his absence related to that strange owl? When would he be back? Angelus picked at his food, his worry growing, though he tried to hide it from Neville, who was happily tucking into a roast potato.

The feast continued, and Angelus was starting to relax. The food was delicious, and the warm atmosphere of the Hall was comforting. Just as the desserts began to appear—steaming puddings, cauldrons of custard, and mountains of treacle tarts—a sudden commotion at the entrance caught everyone’s attention.

Three seventh-year Slytherins and a Gryffindor burst into the Hall, their faces pale and panicked. “Help! There’s a troll in the castle!” one of the Slytherins shouted. 

The Hall erupted in chaos as students scrambled to their feet, some screaming and others looking toward the staff table for direction. Prefects began shouting orders, trying to herd their Houses toward the exits. Angelus, with Neville not far behind, ran to find Ron, who was standing with Seamus and Dean.

“Hermione!” Angelus hissed, his heart dropping. “She’s still in the bathroom, she doesn’t know!”

Ron’s eyes widened in realisation. “What do we do?”

“Percy!” Angelus shouted, trying to wave the prefect over. “Hermione’s—”

But Percy, preoccupied with leading the first-years, didn’t notice and kept walking ahead. Angelus cursed under his breath. “Come on,” he said to Ron. “We’ll warn a teacher.”

Neville, looking terrified but determined, followed them as they pushed against the tide of students leaving the Hall. However, when they arrived at the staff table, they found it completely deserted.

“No teachers,” Angelus muttered, glancing around the empty Hall. “Great. Now what?”

Ron shifted nervously. “We’ve got to find her ourselves.”

Angelus nodded grimly, and they set off toward the bathroom where Hermione had been last seen. As they hurried down a dim corridor, Angelus’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of movement. He grabbed Ron and Neville’s arms and pulled them back behind the corner.

“It’s Snape,” he whispered, watching as the professor strode down the hallway, heading toward the third floor.

“What’s he doing?” Ron asked, frowning.

Angelus didn’t answer. He was too busy hoping that if Snape was heading for the third floor Fluffy might bite him again. The thought brought a brief, grim satisfaction before he refocused on the task at hand.

As they rounded a corner, the foul stench of the troll hit them like a wall. A low grunting noise echoed down the corridor, followed by the heavy shuffling of massive feet.

“There it is!” Neville whispered, pointing as the troll lumbered toward a doorway. It paused, scratching its ear with its enormous club, before stepping inside.

Angelus froze. “That’s the girls’ bathroom.”

“Hermione!” Ron gasped.

They sprinted to the bathroom door, hearts pounding. Angelus yanked it open, and they stumbled inside. The sight before them was horrifying: the troll stood in the middle of the room, smashing sinks off the walls as it advanced on Hermione, who was pressed against the far wall, frozen in terror.

Angelus, thinking quickly, ran forward. He pointed his wand at the troll and shouted the first spell that came to mind. “Mucus ad nauseam!” A sickly green mist shot toward the troll, but it only seemed to irritate the creature, which roared and turned toward Angelus.

“Great,” Angelus muttered, dancing backward as the troll swung its massive club at him. He dodged just in time, the club shattering a stall behind him. “Okay, uh—Locomotor Mortis!” he tried desperately, but the spell had no effect.

The troll roared again, grabbed Angelus by the leg, and lifted him into the air. Dangling upside down, Angelus flailed and tried to free himself, but the troll only shook him like a rag doll.

“Oi, pea-brain!” Ron shouted from across the room as he and Neville picked up and threw whatever they could grab at the troll. But it had little effect.

Angelus, now dizzy and panicking, tried pointing his wand upside down at the troll’s club. “Wingardi… Wingar…Wingardium Levi..levi…”

This seemed to inspire Ron to finally pull out his wand and wave it. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The troll’s massive club floated upward, flipping in midair before crashing down with a sickening thud onto its head. The troll swayed, its grip on Angelus loosening before it collapsed to the floor with a thunderous crash. Angelus landed in a heap, gasping for breath.

Hermione, still trembling, slid to the floor. Neville helped Angelus to his feet just as the door burst open, revealing Professor McGonagall and Snape.

While Snape examined the troll, McGonagall looked at the three boys in anger, “What on earth were you doing?” McGonagall demanded, her voice trembling with fury. “You’re lucky to be alive! Why are you not in Gryffindor Tower?”

Hermione stepped forward, “They were looking for me, Professor. I went looking for the troll. I thought I could handle it.”

McGonagall opened her mouth to speak, but Angelus raised a hand to stop her. “It’s not her fault, Professor,” he said, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. “We knew Hermione was in the bathroom, and we came to warn her, but the troll was already up here.”

McGonagall’s expression softened slightly, though her lips were still tightly pressed together, “Very well, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for your recklessness, from each of you,” she said sternly, “You are very lucky you were not killed. All the same, I understand that you were just trying to help Miss Granger. Therefore, I will also award ten points to each of you for your bravery. Now, all of you, back to your common room at once.”

As they left the bathroom, Angelus glanced at Hermione, who gave him a small, grateful smile. The four of them, Angelus, Ron, Hermione, and Neville, made their way back up to Gryffindor Tower in silence, each lost in their thoughts.

When they climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, they were greeted by a boisterous scene. The room was packed with students, the air filled with laughter and chatter as everyone continued the feast from the Great Hall. Tables were piled high with food and drink, and the warm glow of the fire added to the celebratory atmosphere.

The moment the rest of the first years spotted them, they hurried over, excitement and curiosity written all over their faces.

“Where have you been?” Seamus demanded, his eyes wide.

“Did you see the troll?” Dean asked, almost breathless.

“What happened?” Lavender chimed in. 

Angelus and Ron exchanged glances, unsure where to begin. Neville, however, spoke up, his voice shaky but firm. “H-Harry and Ron fought the troll,” he said, looking at Angelus and Ron with awe. “They saved Hermione.”

The first years gasped in unison, their expressions shifting to a mix of shock and admiration. Angelus felt his face flush as everyone began talking at once, bombarding them with questions. For now, he was just grateful they were safe and could only hope that his father, wherever he was, was too. 

Chapter Text

As November arrived, the weather turned bitterly cold. The mountains around the castle were blanketed in icy grey frost, and the lake shimmered like chilled steel. The ground sparkled with frost each morning, crunching underfoot as students hurried to class. From the upstairs windows, Angelus often saw Hagrid out on the Quidditch pitch, bundled in his enormous moleskin coat, rabbit fur gloves, and beaverskin boots, defrosting broomsticks for the teams.

Hardly anyone had seen Angelus play because Wood had decided that, as their secret weapon, Angelus should be kept, well, hidden. Despite Wood’s efforts, word had leaked out, and Angelus couldn’t decide what was worse, his teammates’ overconfident assurances that he would be amazing (which he already knew) or the constant jokes from others about needing to cast cushioning charm on the ground or bring a stretcher down in case he fell.

In the days leading up to the match, Angelus found himself more grateful than ever for his friends. Since the troll incident, Hermione had become much more relaxed, and their group, Angelus, Ron, Hermione, and Neville, had developed an easy camaraderie. They often sat together in the common room, working through their endless pile of homework. Hermione, with her meticulous notes and knack for explaining concepts, was instrumental in helping Neville and Ron manage the workload. Angelus occasionally stepped in as well, but he was often distracted by his Quidditch practices.

Ron had also been a great help in fueling Angelus’s excitement about the upcoming match. Despite his usual laziness with homework, Ron eagerly dove into Angelus’s training notes, pointing out strategies and suggesting tricks he’d seen older players use during past Gryffindor games. The two of them spent hours poring over Angelus’s Quidditch Through the Ages book. Late into the evenings, they flipped through its pages, fascinated by the details of the sport. Angelus was particularly interested in moves like the Wronski Feint, a trick he knew from his memories of his past life, but had yet to try in this life. They laughed over the absurdity of the seven hundred Quidditch fouls, all committed during the 1473 World Cup, and speculated about the craziest plays they might try.

That afternoon, the three of them were huddled in the freezing courtyard during a break. Angelus and Hermione had conjured jars of bright blue flames to keep them warm, a spell Nevile asked if he could be taught later. They sat with their backs to the jars of blue flames, enjoying the comforting heat, when Snape limped across the yard, his robes billowing around him.

Angelus’s sharp eyes immediately caught the awkwardness of Snape’s gait. The professor’s leg was injured, and Angelus’s heart quickened. He exchanged a glance with Ron, both having noted the limping over the past couple of days. 

“Quick, hide the fire,” Angelus whispered, moving slightly in front of the jars. Unfortunately, their movement seemed to catch Snape’s attention. He turned and made his way over to them.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?” Snape’s dark eyes fell on the book Angelus had tucked under his arm.

“It’s Quidditch Through the Ages, sir,” Angelus replied, gripping it tighter.

“Library books are not to be taken outside the school,” Snape said coldly, holding out his hand. “Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor.”

Angelus’s jaw tightened as he stared at Snape. “It’s not a library book. It’s my book. I bought it in Diagon Alley.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, his expression hardening. “Regardless, hand it over. Now.”

“No,” Angelus said firmly, holding the book closer to his chest. “There’s no rule against students carrying their books outside. You’re just making this up.”

Snape’s tone turned icier. “Potter, unless you’d like to lose even more points for Gryffindor, I suggest you stop arguing and hand me the book.”

Angelus glared at him, his grip tightening as he hesitated. “This isn’t fair,” he muttered under his breath, but he finally thrust the book forward. “Here. Happy now?”

Snape snatched the book from his hands without another word and turned on his heel, limping away.

Angelus stared after him, his hands clenched into fists. “He’s just inventing rules as he goes,” he muttered furiously. “It’s my book. He has no right to take it.”

“Yeah, he’s a real piece of work,” Ron said, his scowl matching Angelus’s. He glanced at Snape’s retreating figure. “What’s wrong with his leg, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Angelus snapped, his temper flaring again. “But I hope it hurts.”

The Gryffindor common room was noisy that evening, filled with students chatting and laughing around the fire. Angelus, Ron, Neville, and Hermione sat together near the window, Hermione helping Neville and Ron with their Charms homework. She refused to let them copy outright but explained the concepts patiently enough to steer them toward the right answers. Angelus, still fuming about his book, stared out the window, his mind elsewhere.

“I want my book back,” he said abruptly, standing up.

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Good luck with that.”

“I’m serious,” Angelus said. “It’s mine, not the school’s, and he knows it. I’ll ask him in the staffroom. Maybe with other teachers around, he won’t have an excuse to keep it.”

Hermione and Neville exchanged doubtful looks but didn’t argue. “Better you than me,” Ron muttered as Angelus headed out.

Angelus stormed through the dimly lit corridors, his frustration simmering after his encounter with Snape. He was determined to get his book back, even if it meant confronting Snape in front of other teachers. As he approached the staffroom, he rounded a corner and nearly collided with Quirrell.

“P-Potter?” Quirrell stammered, his eyes wide with what appeared to be surprise. His nervous demeanour seemed to amplify under the gaze of nearby portraits. “What are you doing wandering the c-corridors at this hour?”

Angelus blinked, momentarily thrown off by Quirrell’s sudden appearance. He glanced around at the surrounding portraits, many of whom were now paying close attention. Quirrell’s stutter grew more pronounced as he continued, “This is a highly irregular, young man. Y-you will c-come with me to my office and explain yourself.”

Angelus hesitated but quickly understood the act. “Yes, sir,” he replied, his voice subdued as he followed his father.

Once they were inside Quirrell’s office, the wards activated with a faint hum as the door clicked shut. The stuttering, nervous facade dropped instantly. Quirrell turned to Angelus, his eyes filled with relief and concern, just as Angelus launched himself into his father’s arms.

“You’re back!” Angelus exclaimed, his voice muffled against Quirrell’s robes. “Where were you?”

Quirrell hugged him tightly, his expression softening. “I’m sorry, my son. I couldn’t send word to you; it all happened so quickly. The note was from Magorian, the leader of the centaur colony. He told me that your Papa and several others had been injured.”

Angelus stepped back, his face pale. “Injured? What happened?”

Quirrell sighed and gestured for Angelus to sit on the leather sofa. “A group of juvenile Occamies had nested in the forest. Something must have frightened them; juveniles are particularly aggressive when startled, and they grow rapidly when threatened. The centaurs heard the Occamies’ cries and went to investigate, but were attacked. Magnus sustained broken ribs, a fractured foreleg, and a concussion.”

Angelus’s heart clenched. “Is he going to be okay?”

Quirrell placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Yes, Magnus will recover. I was able to assist with the healing. The centaurs are strong and resilient, but the situation is delicate. They’re wary of human magic, but they trusted me enough to let me help.”

Angelus nodded, though worry still lingered in his eyes. “But why were there Occamies in the forest? They weren’t there before, at least, not in the timeline I remember.”

“That’s what concerns me,” Quirrell admitted, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking about it, and even small changes we’ve made to this timeline may have set off a chain reaction. Perhaps someone decided to bring Occamies to Hogwarts, and they escaped into the forest. Or perhaps the Occamies were here last time, but a different creature in the forest disturbed them this time.”

Angelus frowned. “You mean everything we do has a ripple effect?”

“Exactly,” Quirrell said. “Changing the timeline is unavoidable, Angelus. Even the smallest, most innocuous choices can create larger shifts in time. Take your first Transfiguration lesson, for example. You struggled with changing a matchstick into a needle because, in this timeline, only your soul was sent back by Death, not your body or magical core.”

Angelus tilted his head, listening intently.

Quirrell continued, “While your soul retains memories of spells and experiences from your past life, your current body and magical core are only eleven years old. Your body doesn’t have muscle memory, and your magical core hasn’t built the strength or refinement to perform advanced spells. It’s why, even though you remember learning certain spells or reading about goblin wars, you can’t recall every detail or instantly perform what you once could.”

Angelus furrowed his brow. “So, some memories didn’t come through at all?”

“Not everything,” Quirrell confirmed. “Your soul carries fragments of what it deemed most significant, what shaped you, what you found most important. While you would have learned about potions or historical events previously, those memories might not have left a deep enough imprint to carry into this life. That’s why it’s impossible to remember everything you were taught at Hogwarts as Harry Potter or to perform spells you mastered back then.”

Angelus sighed, the weight of the explanation sinking in. “So, I have to relearn everything.”

Quirrell gave Angelus a small, understanding smile. “Not everything,” he said gently. “Some things will come back to you more easily because of your soul’s imprint. But yes, this life requires patience, Angelus. You’ll find that trying to perfectly replicate the past is not only impossible but also unwise. This timeline is changing, and we must learn to adapt.”

Angelus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s frustrating, though. Knowing what I could do before and feeling like I’m starting over.”

Quirrell’s smile faded slightly as he watched Angelus wrestle with his emotions. “I understand. Truly, I do. But you’re stronger than you realise, and you are not alone, you will always have me and your Papa to help you.”

Angelus was quiet for a moment, but his thoughts drifted back to Magnus. His brow furrowed as his worry bubbled back to the surface. “When can I see him?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern. “When can I see Papa? Is he still hurt? What if the Occamies or whatever attacked them come back?”

Quirrell sighed and leaned forward, rubbing his forehead, his expression heavy with both sympathy and concern. “Magnus is recovering. I was able to heal much of his injuries, and the centaurs are watching over him now. But it’s too dangerous for you to go into the forest, Angelus. We don’t know what caused the Occamies to attack, and until we do, your papa and I are not willing to risk your safety.”

Angelus frowned, his fists clenching in his lap. “But I —”

“No buts,” Quirrell interrupted firmly, though his tone was still kind. “Your safety is our priority. Magnus would never forgive me if anything happened to you. Trust that he’s being well cared for.”

Angelus looked away, biting his lip. “So, I’m just supposed to wait?”

Quirrell nodded. “For now, yes. But your papa and I have been working on a plan to bring you home for the summer.”

Angelus blinked, surprised. “Home? Where’s home?”

Quirrell’s expression softened, and a small, nostalgic smile crept onto his face. “It’s a little place we built in a magical community hidden deep in the fairy forest in Wye Valley. After it was raided by the order, some of the residents raised more wards around the community to protect it from further attacks, including the Fidelius charm. Dumbledore or anyone else who does not have permission can enter.”

Angelus’s curiosity piqued. “Fairy Forest? Is that where you met Papa? I thought you met in the Forbidden Forest?”

Quirrell chuckled, his eyes growing distant as he leaned back. “In a way, you’re right. I did meet Magnus in the Forbidden Forest, but not as an adult. I was a first-year student at Hogwarts.”

Angelus tilted his head, intrigued. “You met him when you were my age?”

Quirrell nodded, his expression growing more serious. “I was a very different person back then. It was… a lonely time. I didn’t fit in at Hogwarts. I was sorted into Slytherin, but because I was an orphan with an unknown name, I was considered a  Mudblood; as a result, I was not welcome in Slytherin, especially not by the more fanatic purebloods. And the students from the other houses didn’t accept or trust me because I was in Slytherin.”

Angelus’s stomach twisted as he imagined his father at eleven, isolated and ostracised. “That’s awful.”

Quirrell’s gaze was steady but far away. “It was. The bullying was relentless. One day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to escape, so I foolishly decided to explore the Forbidden Forest, not caring about the rules or the risks. I just wanted to get away from the castle and other students”

Angelus leaned forward, sensing that there was more to the story. Quirrell’s voice grew quieter. “That’s when everything changed.”

Eleven-year-old Tom Riddle darted between the trees, his heart pounding as he walked deeper into the Forbidden Forest. The cool evening air burned his lungs, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get away from all the taunts, the sneers, and the jeers that had followed him since the day he was sorted into Slytherin.

I’ll never be accepted, Tom thought bitterly, tears stinging his eyes. Not at Hogwarts. Not anywhere.

He slowed his pace, eventually coming to a halt in a small clearing. The moonlight filtered through the dense canopy above, casting ghostly patterns on the ground. For the first time that day, Tom felt a flicker of relief. No one would bother him here. He could breathe.

But the relief was short-lived.

Laughter echoed through the trees, sharp and cruel. Tom’s stomach twisted as he spun around, pulling out his wand and gripping it tightly. Emerging from the shadows were three older students, fifth-year Slytherins Alton Shunpike, Penny Wilkes, and Torrance Jenkins.

“Well, well,” Shunpike sneered, his face illuminated by the faint light of his wand. “Look who thought he could run off and hide.”

“Little Orphan Riddle,” Wilkes added, her voice dripping with mockery. “All alone, like the pathetic Mudblood he is.”

Tom clenched his jaw, his grip on his wand tightening. “Leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone?” Jenkins drawled, stepping forward. His eyes glinted maliciously. “You’re in our House, Riddle. You think you can disgrace Slytherin and then just wander off like nothing happened?”

Tom tried to step back, but his foot caught on a root, and he stumbled. Shunpike laughed, raising his wand. “Let’s teach the Mudblood a lesson, shall we?”

The first curse hit him square in the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. Tom gasped, leaning over and grasping his chest. Another spell hit him, this one making his legs buckle as he collapsed to the ground.

“Get up,” Wilkes said coldly, jabbing her wand toward him. “Or maybe Jenkins should help you.”

Tom’s heart raced as Jenkins raised his wand, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “ Crucio. ”

The pain was instant and excruciating. Tom screamed, his body writhing on the ground as every nerve felt like it was on fire. The older students laughed, their cruel voices echoing in his ears. Just when he thought the agony couldn’t get worse, Jenkins indeed the curse.

“Enough,” Shunpike said lazily. “Don’t kill him. We’ll have to clean up the mess.”

Jenkins didn’t listen, his grin widening as he raised his wand again. “But I don’t think the mudblood has learnt his proper place yet.

“Crucio. ”

Then, a sharp, furious voice rang out, cutting through the chaos. “LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

The curse ended abruptly. Tom collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Through blurry vision, he saw a figure emerge from the shadows, a tall, slim centaur, looking no older than a human teenager. His eyes burned with anger, his muscles tensed beneath his coat, and his tail lashed furiously behind him.

“What’s this, a baby centaur?” Shunpike sneered, though his voice wavered. “Run along before you get hurt.”

Magnus’s large hooves stamped the ground with a sharp crack, and his nostrils flared. “Leave. Him. Alone,” he growled, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “Now.”

Jenkins scoffed, his wand still raised. “You don’t scare us, pony. Run back to your herd before we show you what real magic looks like.”

Magnus’s glare darkened, his frame shifting as he took a deliberate step forward. “Try it,” he spat. “See how far you get.”

Wilkes laughed nervously, but Shunpike, emboldened by Jenkins, pointed his wand at Magnus. “You’ll regret that, beast.”

Shunpike fired a hex, but Magnus moved with the swiftness of a lightning strike. He dodged the spell and charged forward, his hooves pounding the earth. He slammed into Shunpike, sending the boy sprawling onto his back. Before Wilkes could react, Magnus lashed out with his hind legs, his hooves narrowly missing her as she shrieked and scrambled backward.

Jenkins, wide-eyed but desperate to maintain control, snarled, “You’re dead, you stupid animal!” He fired another curse, but Magnus reared up, deflecting the spell off his front hoof with an effortless kick to a low-hanging branch that sent it crashing down, forcing Jenkins to stumble away.

“Enough!” Magnus roared, his voice cracking with raw emotion. He stomped a hoof, the ground shaking beneath the force. “Leave. Now!”

The three bullies hesitated, their arrogance faltering in the face of Magnus’s fury. “You’ll regret this,” Jenkins muttered, but he was already retreating, pulling a shaken Shunpike to his feet. Wilkes shot Magnus one last terrified look before fleeing after the boys, their footsteps quickly fading into the distance.

Magnus’s chest heaved with exertion, his tail flicking as he glared after them to ensure they were truly gone. When he finally turned back to Tom, his expression softened slightly, though his voice still carried a sharp edge. “Are you hurt?”

Tom, trembling and still catching his breath, sat up weakly. “I… I don’t think so.”

Magnus crouched down, his anger replaced by quiet determination. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” He extended a hand, his touch surprisingly gentle as he helped Tom to his feet.

“My name’s Magnus, what’s yours?”

For the first time since entering the magical world, Tom felt safe and accepted.

Quirrell smiled as he returned to the present. “That moment changed everything for me. Magnus didn’t just save me, he showed me that there were people in this world who could be trusted. He taught me what loyalty and protection meant.”

Angelus hesitated for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “I think… I think I saw Papa. Or at least, I think I saw a centaur at the edge of the forest during my first Quidditch practice.”

Quirrell raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “You may have. He has not mentioned anything to me, but, it would not surprise me if your Papa had come closer to the school to keep an eye on you.”

Angelus’s heart swelled at the thought, but Quirrell’s expression grew serious. “That said, Magnus wouldn’t want you wandering too close to the forest. The forest is dangerous even for you.”

Angelus nodded, understanding. “I didn’t go in… I just saw something when I was by the pitch.”

Quirrell’s stern expression softened, and he rose from his chair. “It’s getting late, Angelus. You need to get some rest. Tomorrow is a big day, and I’m sure you want to be at your best for the match.”

Angelus stood reluctantly, following his father to the door. Quirrell rested his hand on the doorknob and paused, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “Before you go… where were you going before I caught you?”

“I was going to the staffroom. Snape took my Quidditch Through the Ages book.”

Quirrell’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why did he take it?”

Angelus scowled, the frustration evident on his face. “He said library books couldn’t leave the castle, but it’s my book. He just made the rule up.”

Quirrell’s lips pressed into a thin line, but his voice was calm and reassuring. “I’ll look into it. I promise I’ll get your book back.”

Quirrell opened the door and then stepped back, his hand resting on Angelus’s shoulder for a moment. “G-g-goodnight, P-Potter. And good luck tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Angelus went to bed feeling restless, but not with nerves; he was brimming with energy. He was eager to finally show everyone what he could do. Neville was snoring loudly in the bed next to his, but Angelus lay awake, replaying Wood’s strategy in his mind and imagining the cheers of the crowd as he caught the Snitch. Eventually, the exhaustion of the day caught up with him, and he drifted into dreams of victory.

The next morning dawned bright and cold. The Great Hall buzzed with excitement, the delicious smell of fried sausages wafting through the air. Angelus sat at the Gryffindor table, calmly buttering toast while the chatter of students filled the room.

“You’ve got to eat a proper breakfast,” Hermione said, eyeing his modest plate.

“I am,” Angelus replied, smirking. “I don’t need much. It’s not like I’m going to lose.”

Ron snorted. “A bit cocky, aren’t you?”

Angelus shrugged. “Why not? I’ve trained for this. Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance.”

Hermione looked like she wanted to scold him, but Ron grinned. “That’s the spirit, mate.”

By eleven o’clock, the entire school had gathered in the stands surrounding the Quidditch pitch. Gryffindor and Slytherin supporters were decked out in their house colours, with Gryffindor fans waving flashing banners, including one that read Potter for President, complete with a roaring lion that Hermione had enchanted to change colours.

In the locker room, the Gryffindor team donned their scarlet robes. Oliver Wood stood in front of them, his expression serious.

“This is it,” he said. “The big one. We’ve trained hard, and we’re ready. Harry, remember the plan. Let the Chasers handle the early plays and keep your eyes open for the Snitch. Play smart, play fast, and let’s show Slytherin who’s boss.”

Angelus nodded confidently. “Got it.”

Fred Weasley grinned. “Look at him. Cool as a cucumber.”

“That’s what we need,” George added. “A Seeker who doesn’t lose his head.”

“Focus, everyone!” Wood barked. “We’re going to win this.”

They walked out onto the pitch to a roar of cheers. Angelus glanced up at the Gryffindor stands, his heart skipping when he spotted the flashing banner. His friends were waving enthusiastically, and he gave them a quick thumbs-up before mounting his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Madam Hooch called the teams to the centre of the pitch, her sharp gaze moving between the players. “Now, I want a nice, clean game. No funny business,” she said, her eyes lingering on Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain.

The whistle blew, and the players shot into the air.

Angelus hovered above the action, scanning for the Snitch while keeping an ear on Lee Jordan’s commentary. Gryffindor Chasers Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell dominated the early game, weaving through the Slytherin defence with ease.

Ee Jordan’s voice boomed over the stands. “And they’re off! Gryffindor in possession, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, weaving through Slytherin like they’re standing still. Pass to Spinnet back to Johnson, and she scores! Ten-zero to Gryffindor!”

The Gryffindor section erupted in cheers. Up in the stands, Ron jumped to his feet, waving his scarf. “Yes! Go, Angelina!”

“Sit down, you’re blocking the view!” Seamus groaned, tugging him back into his seat.

On the pitch, Angelus hovered above the action, his eyes scanning for the Snitch. Below, Fred and George Weasley were relentless, sending Bludgers hurtling toward the Slytherin players. One came dangerously close to Marcus Flint, forcing him to drop the Quaffle.

“And Gryffindor regains possession!” Lee shouted. “Katie Bell with the Quaffle now—dodges Pucey—nice dive—GOAL! Twenty-zero to Gryffindor!”

The game grew faster and more aggressive as Slytherin fought to close the gap. Flint managed to score, narrowing the score to twenty-ten, but Gryffindor quickly pulled ahead again. The stands were alive with excitement, students waving scarves and chanting in unison.

Angelus, meanwhile, spotted a flash of gold near the Gryffindor goalposts. His heart leapt, and he leaned forward on his broom, accelerating smoothly toward the Snitch.

“It looks like Potters spotted the snitch!” Lee announced, the crowd erupting in cheers.

Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs noticed too and gave chase, but Angelus’s Nimbus Two Thousand easily outpaced him. The Snitch darted left, and Angelus followed with a sharp, graceful turn. He stretched out his hand, the golden wings fluttering tantalizingly close. With one final burst of speed, he caught it, holding it high as the Gryffindor stands exploded with cheers.

“Potter’s got the Snitch! Gryffindor wins by one hundred and seventy points to ten!” Lee shouted, his voice barely audible over the thunderous applause.

Angelus landed smoothly, grinning as his teammates swarmed him. “That was brilliant!” Fred exclaimed, clapping him on the back.

“You made it look easy,” George added, laughing. “Flint’s probably crying into his robes right now.”

In the stands, Hermione and Ron were on their feet, cheering as loudly as anyone. Neville was so excited he dropped the binoculars, but Seamus caught them just in time.

Later that afternoon, Angelus, Ron, Hermione, and Neville gathered in Hagrid’s hut. The cozy room was filled with the comforting warmth of the fire, and Fang lay sprawled in front of it, snoring softly. Hagrid poured them all mugs of tea, setting down a plate of rock cakes that no one dared touch after Neville had chipped a tooth on one of the previous visits.

“That was incredible, ‘arry!” Hagrid said, his cheeks flushed with pride. “I’ve never seen anyone fly like that in all me years watchin’ Quidditch!”

Angelus shrugged modestly, though his wide grin gave away his pride. 

“Slytherin didn’t stand a chance,” Ron said, shaking his head. “You should’ve seen Flint’s face when you caught the Snitch. He looked like he’d swallowed a Bludger.”

Hermione sipped her tea, her tone more serious. “I noticed something else during the match… Snape.”

Angelus frowned. “What about him?”

“Did anyone else notice how he was glaring at you?” Hermione asked, leaning forward in her chair. “All through the game, he was glaring at you. I swear, at one point, he looked so mad I thought he was going to jinx your broom.”

“Snape wouldn’t do that,” Hagrid said firmly, his brows knitting together. “He’s a professor, an’ he’d never hurt a student.”

“Are you sure about that?” Angelus said, his voice edged with doubt. “He already took my Quidditch book before the match. Maybe he wanted to mess with my head.”

Hermione nodded. “It’s suspicious, Hagrid. Why else would he take Harry’s book? He didn’t have any reason to.”

“And don’t forget Halloween night,” Ron added. “We saw Snape heading to the third floor, where that three-headed dog is. He was limping the next day, so whatever happened, it wasn’t good.”

Hagrid’s face darkened, but he waved a hand dismissively. “Now, listen here. I told yeh before, Snape’s a Hogwarts teacher. He wouldn’t harm you, and he wouldn’t go meddlin’ on the third floor.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Angelus said. “If he wasn’t near the third floor, how did he get bitten in the leg? And what’s that dog doing there anyway?”

Hagrid’s large hands fidgeted with his teacup, and he suddenly seemed very interested in the fire. “Now, don’t you lot go stickin’ yer noses where they don’t belong? That dog’s there for a reason and that’s between Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel.”

The room went silent, the name hanging in the air like a spell.

“Nicolas Flamel?” Angelus repeated, his brow furrowing. “Who’s that?”

Hagrid’s face turned beet red. “I shouldn’t’ve said that. Forget it. Forget I said anythin’.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed in confusion, and Ron looked equally puzzled. “Nicolas Flamel?” Hermione repeated. “Who’s that?”

Neville glanced between them, biting his lip nervously. “Do you think he’s got something to do with what the dog’s guarding?”

Hagrid stood abruptly, clearly flustered. “I’ve said too much. Now, you lot need to drop this, d’yeh hear me? What that dog’s guardin’ is none of yer business, and pokin’ around’ll only get yeh into trouble. Now, finish yer tea and off with yeh!”

Angelus sipped his tea calmly, the smallest hint of a smile on his face. Unlike his friends, he already knew who Nicolas Flamel was, and exactly what the three-headed dog was guarding. The Philosopher’s Stone. The key to helping his father get his body back.

He glanced at Ron, Hermione, and Neville, who were all still puzzling over the name. While they didn’t know it yet, Angelus was certain their curiosity would lead them to uncover the truth soon enough. If everything went according to his plan, their discovery would put them exactly where he needed them to be, helping him get the Stone.

Chapter Text

December arrived with a cold snap that blanketed Hogwarts in snow. The lake froze solid, its surface like frosted glass, and icicles hung from the castle’s towers. The few owls that managed to deliver mail through the stormy skies had to be nursed back to health by Hagrid before they could fly again.

Despite the frigid weather, Angelus, Ron, Hermione, and Neville spent most of their free time in the library, poring over books to uncover the identity of Nicolas Flamel. Early in their search, Angelus had shown the others a Dumbledore chocolate frog card he had kept from the train ride to Hogwarts, which mentioned Flamel in connection with alchemy. The revelation gave Hermione the idea to search library sections devoted to history and alchemy.

Unfortunately, the alchemy section was surprisingly small, and upper-classmen had already checked out the relevant books. Hermione, the most methodical of the group, was frustrated by the lack of material. “It’s ridiculous,” she grumbled, scribbling on her growing list of references. “You’d think a subject as important as alchemy would have a better selection.”

Adding to Angelus’s frustration, who remembered from his previous life that Hermione had found Flamel’s name in an old tome, he couldn’t recall its title or exactly when she had borrowed it. In this timeline, Hermione hadn’t come across it yet, leaving them at a dead end.

“We’ve been through everything in the alchemy section,” Angelus said, exasperated. “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place?”

“We could try magical biographies again,” Neville suggested timidly, though his voice lacked confidence. “You know, in case he’s in one of those.”

Ron groaned, slumping back in his chair. “If I see one more book about boring old wizards who invented cauldron bottoms, I’m going to lose it.”

Hermione closed her book with a thud, her expression souring. “This would be much easier if we could get into the Restricted Section. I bet Flamel would be in one of the books in there.”

Angelus, knowing the book he sought wasn’t in the Restricted Section, had tried multiple times to sneak in, purely for the thrill of it and curious to see what books were in there. He had even tried to convince his father to grant him a pass.

Quirrell, however, was unimpressed. “You’re much too young for the books in the Restricted Section, Angelus,” he said firmly, much to his son’s annoyance.

What his father didn’t realise was that his refusal only fueled Angelus’s desire to get into the section. The more his father told him it was off-limits, the more determined Angelus became to defy him. The temptation of forbidden knowledge was too great to resist.

One mid-December afternoon, Angelus decided to make another attempt to sneak into the Restricted Section. Timing his move carefully, he waited until Madam Pince was distracted at the far end of the library, reshelving books with her characteristic precision. The rope marking the Restricted Section gleamed tantalizingly in the dim light, and Angelus’s heart raced as he prepared to move.

To avoid suspicion, he hovered near a nearby shelf, pretending to browse through the books. His fingers trailed along the spines, his eyes darting toward Madam Pince every few seconds. Finally, his hand landed on a hefty tome titled Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. Both curious about what could have been written about him in it and Figuring it would make a decent cover, he pulled it off the shelf. And opened it idly, flipping through the pages with an air of boredom.

But as he idly flipped through pages on notable British events 1970s looking for his entry, he stopped in surprise as he came across a familiar name.

Magnus H. Peverell.

Angelus froze, his fingers tightening around the edges of the book as he scanned the entry:

Grimrot Affliction: A Modern Magical Plague

Grimrot Affliction, a highly contagious magical disease, was first identified in 1961 among wizarding communities in Southeast Asia. The initial documented case involved Bayu Suram Mati, an Indonesian wizard who became ill after drinking water conjured using the recently invented Aquafluere Charm. The disease spread rapidly across European and Asian magical populations, particularly in isolated communities reliant on the charm for clean water.

Symptoms of Grimrot Affliction included severe magical exhaustion, uncontrollable vomiting of a dark, tar-like substance, and the visible darkening of veins, which gave the disease its ominous name. By 1973, the epidemic had breached Muggle communities in areas with high magical populations, raising urgent concerns about the potential exposure of wizarding society. Over 7,000 cases were reported, with the death toll exceeding 600.

Despite extensive research efforts, no fast-acting cure has been developed for those infected with Grimrot Affliction. However, in 1974, British alchemist Magnus H. Peverell* achieved a breakthrough by creating the first effective vaccine. His innovation not only contained the spread of the disease but also highlighted the need for stricter magical hygiene practices, including improved regulations on water conjuration spells.

*For further reading on Magnus H. Peverell, see Chapter 62: Notable Magicians of the 20th Century.

Angelus’s breath caught. The name and timing were too coincidental to ignore. How many Peverells were still in Europe? From what he knew, he and his parents were the last of the line. And how many wizards named Magnus could there be? His hands trembled as he flipped through the book to Chapter 62, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Magnus H. Peverell: A Luminary in Magical Research

Magnus H. Peverell, an alumnus of the esteemed Universitas Magiae Genevensis in Switzerland (Class of 1965), became the youngest alchemy master of the century. Peverell is married to fellow alumnus Thomas M. R. Reverell, a distinguished scholar of magical law and history. Despite his notable contributions, Peverell's early life remains largely undocumented. He is widely believed to have been born in Britain and is thought to be one of the last known descendants of the legendary Peverell line.

Following his academic success, Peverell dedicated his career to advancing magical research and addressing some of the wizarding world's most challenging problems. Among his significant accomplishments are the development of the Grimrot Affliction vaccine in 1974, which saved countless lives and prevented further outbreaks, and his pioneering achievement in 1972, where he became the first magician to reverse a maledictus curse. This groundbreaking procedure halted the transformation of Kuro Kitsutsuki, a witch afflicted by a hereditary blood curse before her change into a bird became irreversible.

Angelus stared at the page, the words swirling in his mind. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Magnus H. Peverell was not just a brilliant alchemist—he was also his Papa. But why hadn’t his father mentioned this in any of their conversations? 

Angelus’s gaze drifted toward the Restricted Section. He had come across plenty of entries about the Peverell Line in his research on Nicholas Flamel. Most entries focused on the three brothers, but one thing that was common in all the entries was the mention of the family being known practitioners of Necromancy, a dark art now banned by the ministry. If there was any place where detailed, uncensored information about the Peverell family might exist, it would undoubtedly be in the Restricted Section. 

Emboldened by his discovery, he placed the book back on the shelf and edged closer to the gate, his wand slipping into his hand as he prepared to cast the unlocking charm.

Just as he reached for the latch, a sharp voice cut through the silence. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Angelus froze and turned to see Madam Pince bearing down on him, her piercing eyes aflame. She brandished a feather duster like a weapon, her bony finger pointing accusingly at him.

“You have no business here! Out! Out at once!” she shrieked, the sound echoing through the library.

Caught, Angelus reluctantly followed her to the library doors. She kept a firm grip on his arm, practically dragging him to the corridor. Just as they reached the doorway, Professor Quirrell appeared, his expression flickering between surprise and concern.

“P-Potter?” Quirrell stammered, his eyes darting between Angelus and the irate librarian. “What’s g-g-going on here?”

“This boy,” Madam Pince hissed, her tone dripping with outrage, “was attempting to sneak into the Restricted Section! I caught him red-handed.”

Quirrell frowned, his eyes hardening. “I-I-I c-can handle this, M-Madam.”

Madam Pince sniffed, clearly still fuming. “See that you do,” she said curtly before retreating into the library, her robes swishing indignantly.

Quirrell turned to Angelus, his frown deepening. “W-with me Po-Po-Potter,” he said, his voice firm.

Quirrell led Angelus back to his office, the walk silent except for the soft scuffle of their shoes against the stone floor. Once inside, Quirrell closed the door firmly behind them and turned, his nervous demeanour now replaced with a stern resolve.

“What were you thinking, Angelus?” he asked, his voice sharp. “I told you before to stay out of the restricted section.”

Angelus, already angry at not being told the truth, was ready for an argument. “You can’t tell me what to do. I can read whatever book I want.”

Unimpressed, his father crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk. “You will find Angelus, that as my child you will do exactly what I tell you to do. Especially when it is to keep you safe.”

Angelus glared, his fists clenching at his sides. “Safe? Do you think keeping secrets is keeping me safe? I’m not a little kid—you can’t just decide what I’m allowed to know.”

Quirrell’s brow furrowed, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t about keeping secrets, Angelus. It’s about understanding what’s beyond your reach right now.”

“Beyond my reach?” Angelus scoffed. “I’ve seen more than most wizards twice my age! I’ve fought—”

“No,” Quirrell interrupted sharply, his voice rising just enough to cut through Angelus’s tirade, “your past life has fought, fought because he was forced to, not because he was ready for it. And if I have any say, you won’t face any kinds of dangers.”

Angelus’s defiance flickered for a moment, but the lingering anger in his chest refused to subside. “What danger? I was only going to look at some old books”

Quirrell sighed, rubbing his temples before giving Angelus a probing look. “And what, exactly, were you hoping to find in the Restricted Section?”

Angelus hesitated for a moment, then looked up, his green eyes narrowing. “The Peverells. Why didn’t you tell me Papa was an alchemist like Flamel?”

Quirrell froze, his surprise evident.

“I saw it in a book in the library,” Angelus replied quickly, his words spilling out.” Why didn’t you tell me?”

Quirrell regarded Angelus for a long moment, his expression softening as if he were carefully weighing every word. Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and regret. “I never meant to hide that from you,” he began, his voice quieter now, tinged with sorrow. “I didn’t know your Papa was mentioned in a book, and I hadn’t thought to tell you—it didn’t seem important compared to everything else. For years, we thought you were gone. The only thing that has ever mattered to me, or your Papa, is keeping you safe and never losing you again.”

Angelus tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his bright green eyes, though a shadow of hurt lingered there. “Why wouldn’t Papa be in books? He’s brilliant.”

Quirrell gave a small, almost wistful nod. “Magnus is brilliant,” he agreed, his voice filled with quiet pride. But then his expression darkened, and he spoke more gravely. “But, your Papa is also a centaur, Angelus. And to the Ministry, that makes him no better than a creature. No matter how extraordinary his work is, few would accept it if they knew the truth.”

Anger bubbled up in Angelus, his fists clenching. “That’s not fair! Is that why you became a Dark Lord? Because the Ministry won’t accept Papa?”

Quirrell’s gaze sharpened, his tone growing heavy with conviction. “The Ministry won’t accept any of us,” he said firmly, his words carrying years of bitterness. “The wizarding world is riddled with prejudice, run by old pureblood families who hold onto their power with iron fists. They see people like me, a Muggle-born, and people like your Papa, as less than them. I became a Dark Lord to fight for a better future for you, a world where you can pursue an education and a career without anyone looking down on you because of who your parents are.”

Angelus blinked, the anger momentarily replaced by confusion. “But… if the Ministry says Papa’s a creature, how did he even get into a university?”

Quirrell’s lips twitched in a faint, rueful smile. “Because no one knew he was a centaur. Most magical creatures and beings have learned how to hide their true appearances just to survive. Genevensis is one of the few institutions that doesn’t demand proof of blood lineage or birth certificates. All we needed was money, determination, and the ability to pass their rigorous entrance exams. We worked in Knockturn Alley for over a decade, scrimping and saving, to make that dream a reality.”

Angelus stared, his mind racing with this revelation. He opened his mouth to speak, but Quirrell raised a hand, stopping him.

“And speaking of education,” Quirrell said, his tone suddenly sharp, “it’s time we returned to discussing yours. Have you been practising your Occlumency every night?”

Angelus stiffened his expression, growing defensive. “...Yes,” he said cautiously.

Quirrell’s eyes narrowed. “Show me.”

Angelus shifted uncomfortably, muttering, “Do we have to do this now?”

“Yes,” Quirrell said, his voice firm. “Show me.”

Angelus reluctantly closed his eyes, his face scrunching in concentration. Quirrell’s wand flicked lightly, and a probing pressure entered Angelus’s mind. Within moments, Angelus flinched, his mental defences crumbling like sand.

Quirrell pulled back, sighing. “The good news is you’re starting to recognise when someone enters your mind. The bad news is your mind palace is still… nonexistent.”

Angelus scowled. “It’s too hard! You said I couldn’t use a place everyone knows, but Hogwarts is the only place I can think of, and everyone knows Hogwarts.”

Quirrell regarded him thoughtfully, then nodded. “We’ll set the mind palace aside for now. Instead, we’ll focus on strengthening your shields. It won’t stop someone like Dumbledore or Snape from seeing your memories, but it should help you recognise Legilimency in time to run.”

Angelus groaned, flopping back in his chair. “Do we have to? I’m tired, and I can’t feel my legs.”

Quirrell’s eyebrow arched. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t need your legs to read and write. Take out your homework. Every subject.”

Angelus groaned even louder, throwing his head back dramatically. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Homework? Now?”

Quirrell’s expression didn’t waver. “Yes. Now. As you need a reminder to focus on what matters, not on sneaking into places you don’t belong.”

“But my feet hurt!” Angelus protested weakly, though he was already reaching for his bag.

“Good thing you’re not writing with your toes,” Quirrell said dryly, motioning for him to get started.

Grumbling under his breath, Angelus pulled out his books and parchment. For the next hour, Quirrell meticulously went through each assignment. He pointed out errors, offered suggestions, and asked questions, his tone alternating between firm and encouraging. Angelus answered begrudgingly at first, his irritation evident, but as the session continued, his resistance began to fade. By the end, he was too mentally drained to protest further.

Quirrell leaned back, studying Angelus with a mixture of exhaustion and fondness. “You may not realise it yet,” he said quietly, “but everything we do is to protect you.”

Angelus drained both mentally and emotionally, could only nod.

The next week, the common room was bustling with students looking for lost items and the odd students frantically trying to finish off their homework before leaving for the holidays. Angelus slouched in one of the chairs near the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, reading a history book, when Hermione burst through the portrait hole, clutching an enormous, ancient tome.

“I’ve found it!” she announced breathlessly, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

Ron, who had been trying and failing to construct a card tower with Neville, looked up, frowning. “Found what?”

“Nicolas Flamel,” Hermione said triumphantly, plopping the heavy book onto the table in front of them. “I saw a seventh-year returning this to the library, and I just had a feeling. I flipped through it, and there he was!”

Angelus straightened. “You found his name?” he asked, leaning forward.

Hermione nodded eagerly, opening the book to a marked page. “Listen to this,” she said, pointing to the text. “‘Nicolas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone.’”

“The what?” Ron asked, squinting at the page.

“The Philosopher’s Stone,” Hermione explained, her voice filled with awe. “It’s a legendary substance that can turn any metal into pure gold and produce the Elixir of Life, which makes the drinker immortal.”

Neville’s jaw dropped. “And that’s what the dog is guarding?”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, nodding. “Flamel must’ve asked Dumbledore to keep it safe. They’re friends, after all.”

Ron whistled, his eyes wide. “No wonder Snape’s after it. Who wouldn’t want something like that?”

Angelus leaned back in his chair, masking the spark of satisfaction in his expression. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?” he said casually.

Neville frowned, his voice trembling slightly. “But what if Snape gets it? What if he finds a way past the dog?”

“Pretty sure he’s more likely to get eaten,” Angelus smirked, his tone light and teasing, knowing full well that Snape had no interest in the Stone.

The rest of the week passed quickly, and soon, with Hermione and Neville, as well as most of Gryffindor having gone home to spend the holidays with their families, Angelus and Ron found themselves enjoying the rare quiet of the Gryffindor common room. The Weasleys, who stayed behind while their parents visited Charlie in Romania, filled the castle with lively mischief. Angelus, Ron, and the twins spent their days leading up to Christmas making the most of their freedom.

The days leading up to Christmas were busy, with Angelus joining Fred, George, and Ron flying on the Quidditch pitch, where they spent hours flying and attempting ridiculous trick shots. The twins coached Angelus and Ron on their infamous "Bludger Dodger Dive," though Angelus suspected the twins just wanted to see who could dodge the large snowball representing the bludger and crash into the snowbanks most spectacularly.

When not on the pitch, they took full advantage of the fresh snowfall. Their snowmen began as simple figures but, with the aid of their magic, quickly turned into detailed works of art or mockery, depending on perspective. Fred and George crafted a towering snowman of Percy, complete with a prefect badge and pompous expression, while Angelus sculpted a miniature Snape with exaggeratedly large, hooked features. Ron laughed so hard he fell backward into the snow, spluttering, “If Snape sees that, you’ll be scrubbing cauldrons until you’re grey.”

“Worth it,” Angelus said with a mischievous grin, brushing snow off his gloves.

By Christmas Eve, their endless energy shifted toward having a full-scale snowball fight near the castle steps. The crisp air stung their cheeks, but the thrill of the battle kept them warm as they ducked, dodged, and lobbed snowballs at each other with relentless enthusiasm.

Fred and George, as usual, played dirty, with George distracting Angelus Angelus by pelting him with snowballs in the face while Fred snuck up behind him. “Gotcha!” Fred crowed as he shoved a snowball down the back of Angelus’s cloak.

“Fuck!” Angelus shouted, spinning around and retaliating with a flurry of snowballs. His aim was precise, and Fred ended up flat on his back in the snow, laughing so hard he couldn’t get up.

Ron, meanwhile, was attempting to build a snow barrier but found himself under siege from all three of them. “Oi! Traitors!” he yelled as he ducked behind his crumbling wall.

Amidst the chaos, Angelus spotted Percy in the distance, striding purposefully down the main path toward the castle. His robes billowed slightly, and his expression was one of studious concentration.

Angelus grinned and nudged Fred. “Look who’s coming.”

Fred followed his gaze and snickered. “Oh, this is too good to pass up.”

The group quickly gathered their remaining snowballs and crouched behind a low snowbank. As Percy drew closer, Angelus whispered, “Wait for it… wait… now!”

The four of them popped up in unison, unleashing a storm of snowballs. Percy yelped as he was pelted from all sides, his arms flailing as he tried to shield himself.

“Who’s there? Show yourselves!” Percy bellowed, spinning around, his face red with indignation.

But they had already ducked back down, muffling their laughter with gloved hands. Percy muttered something about “immature hooligans” before storming off, brushing snow from his robes.

“That was brilliant!” Ron declared, still laughing. “Did you see his face?”

“Priceless,” Fred agreed, clapping Angelus on the back.

The success of their ambush sparked an idea. “You know,” Angelus said, his eyes gleaming, “we could do this all day if we set up the perfect ambush.”

Fred and George exchanged a look, identical grins spreading across their faces. “What do you have in mind?” Fred asked.

“Something big,” Angelus said. “Something they’ll never see coming.”

While Fred and Ron got to work on making more snowballs, Angelus and George went and scouted the perfect location. A massive pine tree near the school’s main footpath caught their attention. “This is perfect,” Angelus said, examining the sturdy branches.

Fred and George got to work with sticking charms, camouflaging everyone with leaves and branches as they climbed high into the tree. Ron and Angelus stuck larger fallen branches together to make a tray to hold their snowballs up in the tree. By the time they were finished, they were camouflaged high up in the tree with the perfect setup for an ambush.

Their first victim after Percy was a group of fellow first-years from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Snowballs rained down on them, sending them scattering and squealing with indignation. “Who’s doing this?” one shouted, but the pranksters stayed hidden, their laughter muffled.

Next, they targeted two burly Slytherin boys. The snowballs hit their mark, and the boys roared in outrage, searching around, looking for where the snowballs had come from. After being hit three more times, they left shaking their fists in the air. “Cowards!” one yelled.

Then came Hagrid. As the giant of a man ambled down the path, they launched their snowballs. To their surprise, Hagrid only laughed, brushing the snow off his coat. “Well done!” he bellowed before continuing on his way.

Their crowning moment came when Angelus spotted Snape striding down the path. “You wouldn’t,” Ron whispered, his eyes wide.

Angelus grinned. “Oh, I absolutely would.”

With careful aim, Angelus lobbed a snowball that hit Snape squarely on the back of his head as he walked past. The Potions Master froze, slowly turning to glare at the area around the tree “Who dares?” he growled.

The group held their breath, biting back laughter as Snape’s icy gaze swept across the grounds, lingering on the snowmen nearby. After a tense moment, he flung out his hand, blasting the snowmen away before glaring and stalking off, muttering furiously under his breath.

“That,” Fred whispered, “was the bravest thing ever.”

By the time Professor Quirrell shuffled into view, the group was emboldened by their successes. Snowballs rained down on him, striking his turban and shoulders. He stumbled forward, flailing and spluttering.

But unfortunately, Angelus’s burst of laughter gave their location away. Quirrell raised his wand, and the tree exploded in a flurry of snow, sending the pranksters tumbling to the ground. Before they could recover, Quirrell flicked his wand again, and snowballs began pelting them with precision.

“Retreat!” Fred shouted, laughing as they scrambled to their feet and ran toward the castle.

Soaked, breathless, and grinning, they collapsed in the warmth of Gryffindor Tower. “This is the best holiday ever,” Angelus declared, peeling off his wet gloves.

Chapter Text

Angelus woke early on Christmas morning, the cozy warmth of the crackling fireplace filling the room despite the frost coating the windows. The faint orange glow cast flickering shadows across the walls, mingling with the soft snores of Ron and the occasional creak of the old wooden floor. Sitting up, clutching his stuffed lion in his right hand, he rubbed his eyes with his left and immediately spotted a pile of packages at the foot of his bed. His heart skipped; he still wasn’t used to the thrill of receiving presents.

“Merry Christmas!” Ron mumbled sleepily from his bed, his face half-buried in his pillow.

“Merry Christmas,” Angelus replied, hiding his lion under his blankets and scrambling out of bed. Excitement bubbled in his chest as he reached for the first package.

Unwrapping the first gift, he found three more handcrafted wooden figurines: a demiguise, a dragon, and a thestral. Each was as beautifully detailed as the ones he’d received for his birthday, and a warm sense of love and connection washed over him. Alongside the figurines lay a thin braided leather bracelet, woven with smooth purple beads. Attached was a note written in a familiar, elegant script he now recognised as his Papa’s:

My dearest child,

Wishing you a joyful Winter Solstice and that your Yule was filled with light, warmth, and happiness. The bracelet is crafted with amethysts, a stone known to bring clarity of thought and help strengthen your Occlumency shields. May it help guide and protect you.

With all my love,
Papa

Angelus ran his fingers over the bracelet, his heart swelling with affection. The thoughtful gift was a tangible reminder that he now had a family that loved him. Yet, a pang of embarrassment followed—he hadn’t known what his parents liked. His gifts to them had been modest, a collection of sweets he’d owl-ordered with the last of his Gringotts withdrawal.

Setting the note aside, he moved to the next package. Inside was a set of books: The Art of Magical Mayhem, Series 1-3. Angelus grinned as he flipped through the pages, mentally noting spells he wanted to try later. It was the perfect gift for someone as curious and occasionally mischievous as he was.

From Hagrid, he received a hand-whittled wooden flute that emitted odd, owlish sounds when played. Hermione had sent a large box of Chocolate Frogs, and the Weasleys had sent him an emerald-green, hand-knitted sweater along with a box of homemade fudge, which Ron immediately reached for, grinning as he said, “Mum outdid herself this year.”

Then his eyes fell on a package wrapped in simple brown paper that had been at the bottom of the pile. A visceral hatred surged through him, sharp and consuming. He didn’t need to open it to know what it was. The Invisibility Cloak. A cloak he had once cherished—believing it to be his father’s, a relic of love and family he’d never known. Now, just the sight of it and the lies it represented filled him with nothing but rage.

He wanted to destroy it. The urge to toss it into the fire, to watch it burn and let the smoke carry away the remnants of those stolen years, was almost overwhelming. Grabbing the package with shaking hands, he began to rise from the bed, his thoughts spiralling.

The dormitory door slammed open with a bang.

“Merry Christmas!” Fred Weasley bellowed, his voice cutting through Angelus’s dark thoughts. George followed close behind, his face split in a wide grin.

“Up and at ‘em, lads! Breakfast waits for no one!” George added, bounding into the room with all the energy of a child on a sugar high.

Angelus was startled; the sudden interruption jolting him out of his anger. The package slipped from his grip and onto the floor without a sound. 

George, noticing Angelus’s tense posture, raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the long face, mate? Christmas isn’t a time for brooding.”

Thinking quickly, Angelus smirked and grabbed the nearest pillow, whacking George squarely in the face. “Think fast, Weasley, too slow!"

George stumbled back, mock-offended. “Oh, it’s war, is it?”

Fred joined in immediately, launching a pillow at Ron, who had only just woken up. “Oi! I just got up!” Ron yelled, grabbing a pillow to retaliate.

Feathers flew as the four boys dove into an impromptu pillow fight. Angelus darted across the room, dodging George’s swing and retaliating with a perfectly aimed throw at Fred’s head. Laughter echoed through the dormitory, the earlier tension in Angelus’s chest loosening with each swing.

“Knock it off!” Percy’s exasperated voice rang out as he stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “Breakfast is ready, and if you don’t come down now, you’ll miss it.”

Reluctantly, the battle ended, and the boys trudged downstairs, still laughing and brushing feathers from their hair. The package lying on the floor, forgotten.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was a cheerful, chaotic affair. The long tables were piled high with golden platters of bacon, sausages, toast, eggs, and mountains of pancakes drizzled with syrup. Angelus sat with Ron and the twins at the Gryffindor table, the chatter of excited students filling the air. The ceiling above reflected a dazzling winter sky, snowflakes drifting lazily down before vanishing inches above their heads.

“Pass the eggs, will you?” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of toast.

Angelus smirked and flicked his wand, levitating the plate of eggs to hover just out of Ron’s reach.

“I really hate you sometimes,” Ron grumbled, jumping up and snatching the eggs out of midair before Angelus could move them again.

After stuffing themselves to near bursting, Angelus and the Weasley brothers decided it was the perfect day to play magical tag through the castle. The objective is quite simple, cast the brightest and most horrendous hair-colour-changing charm on someone to tag them, then run for your life.

The game started innocently enough in the empty corridors near the Charms classroom. Fred was the first target, his bright red hair turning a shocking lime green as George gleefully shouted, "Capillus Inmutatio!"

“I’ll get you for that!” Fred yelled, racing after George.

Angelus dodged around a corner, laughing as Fred turned the tables and hit George, whose hair turned a garish orange. “Merlin! You look like a pumpkin!” Angelus laughed before sprinting down the hall with Ron hot on his heels.

The next hour was spent ducking and diving behind tapestries and suits of armour, trying to ambush each other. Angelus eventually cornered Ron in the second-floor corridor. “Got you now, Weasley!” he called, pointing his wand.

Ron ducked around a corner just as Angelus cast the charm. Instead of Ron, the spell hit Mrs. Norris, who had been slinking silently down the hallway. The cat froze, her fur turning a vibrant shade of bubblegum pink.

Angelus stared in shock for a moment before bursting into laughter. 

However, his laughter quickly died as a familiar, furious voice echoed down the corridor. “YOU!” Filch’s scream was enough to make Angelus’s hair stand on end.

“You’ve ruined her! My sweet, precious Mrs. Norris! I’ll have you scrubbing bedpans for a month, boy!”

Angelus didn’t wait for more. “It wasn’t me!” he yelled over his shoulder, sprinting down the hall as Filch gave chase.

Running at full speed, Angelus rounded a corner and nearly collided with a group of teachers coming from the opposite direction. He skidded to a halt just in time, his wide eyes locking onto Professors Kettleburn, Flitwick, and Quirrell, who had stopped mid-step, startled by his sudden appearance. Their expressions ranged from confusion to mild amusement as they took in the dishevelled, panting boy. For a moment, surprise rooted him in place. Then, Filch’s furious shout snapped him out of his shock, adrenaline surging anew.

“Get back here, boy! I’ll have you hanging from your toes in the dungeon for this!” Filch’s enraged voice echoed down the corridor, accompanied by the sharp clatter of his hurried steps.

Without a word, Angelus bolted down the corridor before any of the teachers could intervene. His hurried footsteps and Filch’s bellowing filled the air, leaving the professors staring after him, Quirrell’s mouth, if anyone had been looking, twitching into what could almost be called a bemused smile.

Heart pounding, Angelus raced through the corridors and up the stairways. Filch’s shouts had long grown fainter. But he was not going to stop and risk getting caught. He turned a corner and skidded to a halt in front of a blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

“I need a place to hide. I need a place to hide. I need a place to hide,” he muttered desperately, pacing back and forth three times. To his relief, a door materialised.

Angelus slipped inside and locked the door firmly behind him. Turning, he found a vast room, filled with towering piles of objects. Broken furniture, books, and mysterious artifacts stretched as far as the eye could see. Angelus was in the Room of Hidden Things.

Curiosity quickly replaced his fear as Angelus began to explore. He sifted through endless piles of junk and finding objects that piqued his interest. A particularly intriguing book caught his eye: Advanced Charms for Spying and Surveillance. Flipping through the pages, then adding it to a growing pile of treasures near the door.

Amongst the clutter, he found a pair of omnioclulars, a broken Nevermiss slingshot, and an ever-bashing boomerang. “This place is awesome!” he said, grinning.

A leather satchel soon caught his attention. Which he began filling with his growing treasure, now including a collection of fireworks, a lock-picking pocket knife, and, to his astonishment, what appeared to be a working time-turner. Angelus stared at the delicate hourglass in awe before carefully placing it in the bag.

Digging deeper into the cluttered piles, Angelus unearthed a heavy plain wooden trunk. The trunk's lid creaked loudly as he pried it open, revealing a dazzling collection of gems and stones in various shapes and colours. “These must be worth a fortune,” he murmured, picking up and examining what looked to be a large diamond. 

As he dropped the gem back into the trunk, his gaze drifted to the bracelet from his Papa that now adorned his wrist, and he wondered if he could use these stones to make bracelets of his own. Pocketing as many stones as he could, he resolved to visit the library later and see what he could find about stones and jewellery-making spells.

Moving to the next trunk, his excitement built as he brushed off cobwebs clinging to its battered surface. The wood was cracked and scarred, its brass hinges tarnished green with age. He had to heave the lid open with a grunt, its weight resisting as if it hadn’t been opened in centuries, revealing an assortment of old swords, daggers, and other bladed weapons nestled inside. 

Most of them were dull, their edges chipped from years of neglect. But one dagger caught his attention. Unlike the others, it gleamed faintly, as though untouched by time. Angelus carefully picked it up, brushing away a layer of dust to reveal a blade that shimmered in the light.

The dagger was elegant and lightweight, the hilt wrapped in soft black leather, and its blade intricately engraved with runes that glinted in the dim light. Angelus grinned as he tucked the dagger into the leather satchel with the rest of his treasures.

Soon, it was midday, and Angelus had to leave the room for lunch. The Great Hall was a spectacle of festive cheer. Twelve towering Christmas trees sparkled with candles, icicles, and garlands. Holly and mistletoe adorned the walls, and the tables were laden with food. The smells of roasted turkey, gravy, and freshly baked rolls filled the air, making Angelus’s stomach rumble.

The Weasleys ushered Angelus over to a seat near the centre of the table, Fred and George grinning as they nudged him into place. Plates and goblets filled themselves as soon as the students sat down, and the feast began in earnest. Angelus eagerly piled his plate high with turkey, roast potatoes, and carrots, the delicious smells making his mouth water.

As Angelus took his first bite, savouring the flavours, Ron leaned closer, his curiosity evident. “Where’ve you been? You disappeared for ages.”

Swallowing a mouthful of roast potatoes, Angelus shrugged. “Hiding from Filch,” he replied nonchalantly.

Before Ron could press further, the sound of a deafening bang interrupted the conversation. Fred and George had wasted no time pulling one of the wizard crackers lining the tables. A cloud of blue smoke erupted, showering the surrounding area with an assortment of prizes, including a tiny rubber dragon and a pair of luminous, non-explodable balloons. The twins grinned triumphantly as the table burst into laughter, the festive chaos pulling everyone into the holiday spirit.

Angelus pulled a cracker with Ron, releasing a small gold crown and several tiny fireworks. The crown immediately perched itself on Angelus’s head, earning a laugh from everyone around him.

At the staff table, Dumbledore wore a flowered bonnet, laughing heartily at a joke Flitwick whispered to him. Hagrid, red-faced from the wine, raised his goblet in a toast to McGonagall, who blushed and adjusted her crooked hat with a smile.

After pudding, flaming Christmas cakes embedded with silver sickles, the group left the table laden with prizes from their crackers. Angelus, pocketing a pack of water balloons, a chess set and a tiny, enchanted snow globe that played carols when shaken.

Angelus sat at the feast, cheerfully enjoying the chaos of the Weasleys' antics. Between the jokes, laughter, and magical crackers erupting into surprises, his eyes caught Fred and George slipping away from the table. Something about their quick exit piqued his curiosity, and as Fred passed, Angelus spotted a familiar-looking scrap of parchment poking out of his pocket.

His heart skipped. The Marauder’s Map. A map that could show anyone’s location within Hogwarts. If they had it, they could easily see him visiting his father and start asking questions. 

Making a quick excuse to Ron about needing the bathroom, Angelus quietly slipped away. He followed the twins at a safe distance, his wand clutched in his hand. The twins moved swiftly through the corridors, heading toward the second floor, when their path was suddenly blocked by Filch, still fuming after Mrs. Norris's earlier mishap.

“You two!” Filch barked, his voice echoing down the stone hallway. “What are you up to?”

Angelus smirked from his hiding spot around the corner. Filch’s timing was perfect. The twins started arguing with the caretaker, their voices rising in protest. Seeing his opportunity, Angelus pulled out the enchanted fireworks he’d found earlier in the Room of Requirement. With a flick of his wand, he sent them whizzing toward the trio.

The hallway exploded in a riot of colourful light and noise. Fireworks spiralled and crackled from every direction, forcing Filch and the twins to duck and shield themselves. Amid the chaos, Angelus focused on the map. Pointing his wand at Fred’s pocket, he muttered, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The map floated out smoothly, drifting behind a nearby suit of armour. As the fireworks continued their display, Angelus released the ever-bashing boomerang he had tucked into his pocket. The enchanted object zoomed after the trio, smacking them on their heads and backs, forcing them to scramble up the corridor, yelling in confusion.

With the coast clear, Angelus darted over to the armour and pocketed the map. He glanced down the hall to make sure they weren’t returning. Realising the twins might notice the map’s absence and circle back, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his emergency stash of dung bombs. Just as he raised his arm to throw it, a firm hand grabbed his wrist from behind.

Startled, Angelus spun around to find himself face-to-face with Quirrell, who was watching him with a bemused expression.

“Having fun?” His father asked, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

Angelus blinked, caught red-handed. “Um…not as much fun as I could be having?”

Quirrell chuckled, releasing his wrist. “Put the Dungbombs away and take out the balloons I saw you acquire.” Then, pulling out his wand. “Now, let me show you something much more effective.”

Curious, Angelus watched as Quirrell first conjured hundreds of feathers which he then sent hovering high in the air. Then, flicked his wand. “Lentus Liguidium,” and filled the balloon with a clear sticky substance and floated it up to join the feathers.

“Your turn,” Quirrell prompted, placing his hand on Angelus’s shoulder.

Angelus gripped his wand tightly, mimicking his father’s movements. “Lentus Liguidium.”

The balloon expanded between them, a faint gurgling sound emanating from within as the glue filled it. Angelus grinned as he turned and levitated it up to the ceiling by his father's. Then continued with the others until ten more balloons were hovering in the middle of the corridor.

“And now,” Quirrell continued, as he beckoned Angelus down the corridor and under the balloons, “the trigger. This part requires precision. On the floor, you need to place a charm that activates and explodes the balloons when someone steps on it.”

Angelus watched intently as Quirrell etched a pattern onto the stone floor with his wand, muttering an incantation under his breath. A faint yellow light appeared, pulsing softly before fading from sight.

“Now you try,” Quirrell said, stepping aside.

Angelus knelt and traced the same runes, his wand steady. “ Displodo Supra Obiectum. ”

But nothing happened.

“Try again, picture what you want in your head as you cast.”

“ Displodo Supra Obiectum. ” This time, a faint yellow light flared from his wand.

“Well done,” Quirrell said, his voice warm with approval. “Now, let’s test it.” Moving a little way back down the corridor, Quirrell quickly charmed a small mock setup of the trap. Beckoning Angelus to stand beside him, took a small stone from his pocket and gently tossed it onto the area of the floor where the trap was set.

The effect was immediate. The balloons above exploded with a wet splat, sending first the glue and then the feathers cascading down onto the floor, leaving a sticky, feathery mess. Angelus burst out laughing, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clapping his hands together.

“That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed, his eyes alight with excitement.

Quirrell smirked. “And much more sophisticated than a simple dung bomb, wouldn’t you agree?”

Angelus nodded, his grin widening. “Definitely.”

Quirrell ruffled his hair affectionately. “Now, I suggest you make your way back to Gryffindor Tower before the twins or Filch find you.”

And with a final wave of his wand, he removed the evidence of the exploded balloon and strolled away back down the corridor.

Later that night, after being thoroughly beaten at chess and laughing at the Weasley twins, who burst into the common room covered in glue and feathers and proceeded to chase Percy around, threatening to hug him, Angelus retreated to his bed. Drawing the curtains closed, he pulled out the Marauder’s Map and unfolded it carefully.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The map’s magical ink bloomed across the parchment, revealing the familiar layout of Hogwarts and its grounds. He scanned the castle, his finger trailing over the moving labels. Filch was patrolling the library, pacing up and down near the Restricted Section. Angelus smirked, imagining the caretaker muttering to himself and hoping to catch someone sneaking in.

Shifting his attention, Angelus searched for something more intriguing. He spotted footsteps labelled Severus Snape moving briskly down a corridor, heading toward Filch’s office, and two other footsteps lingering nearby: Fred Weasley and George Weasley. The twins had clearly snuck out, likely hoping to find the map in Filch’s office. 

Turning his focus to Quirrell’s office, Angelus frowned when he didn’t see any footsteps. He scanned the rest of the castle, even checking the Third Floor corridor. 

Just as he was about to give up, he noticed two footsteps almost on top of each other, leaving the castle. Quirinus Quirrell and Thomas Peverell. His heart skipped at the sight of his father’s name. Tracking their movement as they crossed the grounds, clearly heading toward the forest. Then, out of the corner of the top right-hand side, a new label appeared in the forest, moving toward the other two: Magnus Peverell.

Scrambling out of bed, Angelus dashed down the stairs into the common room. Throwing himself onto the window seat that overlooked the grounds and the edge of the Forbidden Forest, he pressed his face to the cold glass. The moonlight bathed the scene in a silvery glow, and he strained his eyes to see.

At first, the darkness made it difficult to see anything beyond the frost-covered glass. Then, near the forest's edge, he spotted a figure, a man standing still, silhouetted against the trees. Moments later, another figure emerged from the shadows. A figure that was, without a doubt, a centaur. 

Pressing his forehead to the cold glass, Angelus’s breath fogged the window as he strained to see more. The two figures stood close, their postures suggesting a quiet but intense conversation. Angelus couldn’t hear their words, but he didn’t need to. Just knowing his parents, that his Papa was out there, so close, filled him with a mixture of longing.

Suddenly, the centaur turned, his gaze shifting toward the castle. Angelus froze. Even though it was impossible, he was certain his Papa was looking directly at him. The moment felt endless, a silent connection passing between them, unspoken but profound.

Eventually, the figures parted ways, disappearing back into the shadows of the forest. Angelus remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the trees where they had stood. Even as the night stretched on, he couldn’t tear himself away. The hope and longing kept him tethered to the window, unwilling to move.

That night, Angelus fell asleep curled up on the window seat, his wand still clutched in his hand and head resting on the window overlooking the forest. The flickering firelight danced across his peaceful face as he dreamed of the forest, his Papa, and the promise of one day reuniting with both his parents. 

Chapter Text

Angelus was walking through a dark forest, the air thick with fog that clung to his skin. The only sounds were his footsteps' soft crunch and the eerie leaves rustling in the distance. Suddenly, a horrible clicking and rattling sound echoed from the bushes nearby. His heart raced as the sound grew louder, and he instinctively broke into a run.

As he sprinted, the trees blurred past him, the clicking and rustling following close behind. Fear gripped him as the noises grew nearer, relentless in their pursuit. In the distance, a man’s voice called out, strained and desperate, “Angelus!”

“Papa!” Angelus screamed, his voice trembling as he ran faster. The voice called again, louder this time, “Angelus, where are you?” But the clicking sound seemed to close in around him. He stumbled, his legs burning with exertion, and just as he thought he might escape, something barreled into him from behind.

Angelus fell hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. He rolled onto his back, his heart hammering as he scanned the darkness. The clicking grew louder, an ominous cacophony echoing through the trees. A shadow loomed over him, its yellow eyes glowing menacingly as it closed in. Panic surged through him as the man’s voice, now filled with fear, screamed his name. “Angelus!”

The terror jolted him awake, his body trembling and covered in a cold sweat. Panicked, he flailed and tumbled off the window seat, landing hard on the cold floor of the Gryffindor common room. Standing shakily, he stretched and rubbed his eyes before making his way up to the boys’ dormitory. As he opened his trunk to gather his clothes for the day, a faint whispering began to echo in his ears. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it grew stronger as a strange pull seemed to draw his gaze to the packaged Invisibility Cloak lying on the floor beside his bed.

Angelus stared at the package, his breathing shallow, the whispering growing louder in his mind. A loud snort from Ron’s bed broke the spell, startling him, and the whispering disappeared as if it was never there. Shrugging his shoulders, Angelus quickly grabbed the brown package and chucked it into the bottom of his trunk, slamming the lid shut and heading to the bathroom.

For the next four days, Angelus tried to keep himself busy while the Invisibility Cloak remained wrapped in his trunk. He spent much of his time in the library, poring over books, or sitting by the fire in Gryffindor Tower with Ron. With most of the students gone, they now got the chance to claim the best armchairs by the fire. Where they sat for hours, playing chess and plotting pranks on Malfoy. Though most of their schemes were wildly impractical, the laughter eased the tension that had been building inside Angelus. 

Angelus found himself laughing more than he had in weeks, the warmth of the fire and Ron's friendship easing the tension that had been building inside him. The Invisibility Cloak continued to remain untouched at the bottom of his trunk. Even so, Angelus couldn’t stop thinking about it. It lingered at the edges of his mind, and at night, he dreamt unsettling dreams of shadows and whispers. On New Year’s Eve, the nightmare of the dark forest returned, more vivid than ever.

He was running through the fog, the horrible clicking sound chasing him, the shadow with glowing yellow eyes looming closer. Just as he felt claws graze his back, he jolted awake, gasping for air. His heart pounded as he sat up in bed, but before he could fully collect himself, an unnatural calm washed over him, like a spell taking hold.

His limbs moved on their own, his mind blank and foggy as though submerged in a thick mist. He found himself unlatching his trunk and pulling out the brown package, his hands moving with eerie precision. The whispering grew louder, like faint echoes from a distant void, pulling him forward. Mechanically, he unwrapped the cloak, its silvery fabric shimmering faintly in the dim light of the dormitory.

Angelus moved through the empty halls in a daze, the castle silent around him. His surroundings blurred as his bare feet glided over the cold stone floor. Soon, he reached a door he recognized but couldn’t place, his hand pushing it open with a low creak. Inside, the moonlight illuminated the ornate frame of a large mirror, its surface gleaming faintly in the dusty room.

The Mirror of Erised loomed before him, its ornate frame glinting faintly in the pale moonlight that filtered through the dusty windows. The enchanted mirror stood silent yet alive, exuding an eerie pull that whispered to him, its call irresistible. A soft murmuring sound began to echo in his ears, like distant voices beckoning him forward. Angelus felt an unrelenting compulsion to approach, his steps silent and steady, drawn as if by an invisible thread.

The closer he got, the louder the whispers became a low hum that seemed to burrow into his mind. His hand reached out, trembling, and he raised his head toward the glass, desperate to see what it would show him, his heart's deepest desire.

But just as his gaze met the gleaming surface, a voice tore through the whispering like a blade, piercing and sharp: “RUN!” it commanded, loud and absolute, shaking him to his core. The sound was neither gentle nor kind; it was forceful, unyielding, and left no room for hesitation.

Heart pounding, Angelus turned and fled, the cloak billowing behind him as he disappeared beneath its shimmering fabric. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, his bare feet gliding across the cold stone floor until he reached Quirrell’s office. His invisible fists hammered frantically on the door. For a moment, there was silence, and then the door creaked open slightly.

Quirrell stepped out, his eyes darting around the corridor, his wand trembling slightly in his hand. "Wh-Who’s there?" he stuttered, his voice tense with both fear and curiosity. "Sh-sh-show yourself!"

Realizing he was still under the cloak, Angelus slowly pulled it off, revealing himself in the dim corridor. Quirrell’s eyes widened briefly at the sight of his pale, frightened face. Without a word, he beckoned Angelus inside, his movements urgent but silent.

Once the door shut behind them, Quirrell waved his wand, and a series of candles flared to life, casting a warm, flickering glow around the room. He turned to Angelus, his expression now calm but serious. "Angelus?" he asked, his tone quiet but edged with concern, as he gestured for Angelus to sit. “Darling, what happened?”

Angelus recounted everything, the nightmares, the Mirror, the voices and the command to run. His voice faltered as he described the scream that broke through the enchantment, the fear it instilled in him still fresh and raw. Quirrell’s expression darkened as he listened, his gaze drifting to the cloak now crumpled on the floor.

“You said there were voices,” Quirrell said slowly, his tone measured. “What did they sound like? Did they feel familiar?”

Angelus hesitated, his brow furrowed. “At first… it was like whispering. A lot of voices, soft and low. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they were… drawing me in. I couldn’t stop myself from moving toward the mirror.” He paused, clutching his arms as if trying to steady himself. “But the scream, it was different. It was loud and kind of sounded familiar.”

Quirrell leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “The scream, the voice that told you to run, what did it feel like? Did it sound… human?”

Angelus shivered. “No? I don't know,” he said after a moment, shaking his head. “It didn’t sound human at all. It wasn’t like the whispers. It was… cold. Powerful. Like it didn’t care if I was scared, it just wanted me to obey.”

Angelus’s eyes then widened as realisation dawned. He looked up at his father, his voice trembling. “I heard it before,” he whispered, “when we died. I think it was Death.”

Quirrell’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression darkening further. “Death,” he repeated, his tone heavy.

Quirrell’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression darkening further. “Death,” he repeated, his tone heavy. “Of course. It makes sense. If the mirror is tied to Dumbledore’s plans, and the cloak’s enchantments are meant to draw you there, Death would not stand idly by.”

Angelus’s breath hitched. “But why would Death help me? It’s… It’s Death! Shouldn’t it want to take me instead of saving me?”

Quirrell shook his head, his voice firm but quiet. “Death is not an ally of Dumbledore or anyone else, for that matter. It has no allegiance to light or dark, only to balance. If it intervened to protect you, then it sees you as necessary to maintain that balance.”

Angelus stared at the floor, his hands twisting in his lap. “But… what does it want from me? Why would it care if I went to the mirror?”

Quirrell’s gaze grew distant, his voice lowering. “Because Dumbledore cares. He’s using that mirror to lure you to pull you into his schemes. If Death believes your presence in the world is vital, it would act to ensure you are not caught in Dumbledore’s web. It understands the stakes far better than either of us.”

Angelus looked up at Quirrell, fear and confusion swirling in his eyes. “And the whispers, the ones from the cloak and the mirror, they weren’t Death, were they?”

“No,” Quirrell said grimly, inspecting the cloak with a deep frown. “That was Dumbledore’s magic. Compulsion charms,” he added, his voice laced with irritation. “Designed to influence you to wear the cloak and lead you to the mirror. Dumbledore wanted you to see the mirror for a reason.” He paused, his expression tightening. “He suspects I am here. That’s why he brought the Stone to the castle—to draw me out of hiding. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he manipulated your instincts to protect the Stone last time. He’s likely hoping that this time, the magic that protected you ten years ago will kill me this time.” Quirrell’s voice darkened. “Fulfilling his pathetic prophecy.”

Angelus’s heart raced as his father’s words sank in. “So the voice, it really was Death stopping me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Quirrell nodded, his face grim, shadows dancing across his features in the flickering candlelight. “Yes, Angelus. Death intervened, and we should both be grateful it did. If Dumbledore had been nearby when the mirror’s magic had you under its spell…” He trailed off, his gaze hardening. “He would have easily broken through your Occlumency shields and discovered the truth about you about us.”

Angelus’s chest tightened, his voice barely above a whisper. “What would he do if he found out? Would he… kill me?”

Quirrell’s eyes flickered with something Angelus couldn’t place: hesitation, perhaps, or regret. “No,” he said slowly, carefully. “I don’t believe he would kill you, not for being my child, at least not directly. But he would take you away. He would strip away everything you’ve built here, everything you are, to turn you into a weapon against me. He’d use your knowledge, your connection to me, to stop me from regaining my body. He would make you his pawn.”

Angelus’s fists clenched at his sides, his heart hammering. “So why don’t we leave?” he asked, his voice rising with desperation. “Why don’t we get the Stone tonight and go? Why do we have to stay here? I hate it! I want to go home to Papa!”

Quirrell studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Do you really want to leave Hogwarts for good?” he asked finally, his voice calm but heavy with meaning. “Leave your friends behind? Your life here? I can get the Stone tonight if that is what you truly want. But if we leave now, Angelus, we’ll have to start over far from Britain. Dumbledore would never stop hunting you, his so-called ‘prophecy child.’ He would scour the earth to find you.”

Angelus hesitated, his emotions warring within him. He thought of his friends, of the laughter and normalcy they brought to his otherwise complicated life. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I don’t want to lose my friends, but I don’t want to be Harry Potter anymore. I hate being him. I want to be Angelus.”

Quirrell’s expression softened, a flicker of something almost like pride in his eyes. “And you will be,” he said firmly. “I promise you, Angelus, we are working on a plan, your Papa and I, so that you can stay here in Britain as Angelus, while Dumbledore can still have his ‘Harry Potter.’ But it will take time. You have to trust us.”

Angelus’s brow furrowed, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Why won’t you tell me what the plan is? I’m not a baby! I can help you!”

Quirrell let out a soft, mirthless chuckle, shaking his head. “I think your near-miss with Dumbledore tonight is evidence enough of why I cannot share everything with you yet. If you want to know more, Angelus, you need to focus on strengthening your Occlumency shields. Until you master them, you are vulnerable, and so are we.” He paused, his tone softening. “For now, you will have to trust that your Papa and I are doing everything to protect you.”

Angelus bit his lip, his frustration still simmering. “If my Occlumency is so bad, maybe I shouldn’t stay here,” he muttered. “You should send me to Papa. He would keep me safe.”

Quirrell’s eyes narrowed slightly, his tone measured. “If that is truly what you truly want.” He reached for the cloak and began waving his wand over it, removing the layers of compulsions. The shimmering fabric pulsed faintly under the spellwork. “But if you go, know this: it is not an easy journey. Put this on, go pack, and make sure to bring enough food. It is a three-day walk to the centaur colony, and they are still recovering from the occamy attack. Food is scarce there while they heal from their injuries.”

Angelus’s breath hitched, guilt tightening his chest. “Papa is still hurt?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Quirrell nodded solemnly, not looking up from the cloak. “Centaurs don’t have access to places like St. Mungo’s, Angelus. Healing takes time, especially from injuries like the ones they suffered. Your Papa has been doing his best to recover, but the colony is still weak. Resources are scarce.”

Angelus’s throat tightened, the image of his Papa hurt and struggling flooding his mind. “I could help him. I could take care of him.”

Quirrell finally looked up, his gaze softening as he met Angelus’s eyes. “You’re right,” he said gently. “Your Papa shouldn’t have to go through this alone. He’s done so much for you for all of us. It’s only natural that you’d want to be there for him now.”

Angelus’s heart swelled with relief at his father’s words, his voice trembling. “Then I should go to him, shouldn’t I? He needs me.”

Quirrell nodded slowly as if considering it. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you should go to him if that’s what you truly want.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. “But… think about what that would mean, Angelus. Your Papa is still recovering, as is the colony. Dumbledore won’t stop looking for you, and if he traces you there…” He let the sentence trail off, his voice dropping slightly. “You’d be putting him and everyone there in danger, wouldn’t you?”

Angelus froze. “I… I don’t want to hurt him.”

Quirrell tilted his head, his tone gentle but steady. “Your Papa’s already carrying so much, Angelus. If he had to worry about keeping you safe on top of everything else, it might even delay his recovery”

Angelus bit his lip, his guilt pressing down on him. “But… I could help him. I want to help.”

Quirrell stepped closer, his voice filled with quiet reassurance. “And you will, one day. But you’re not ready yet, my darling. You’re still learning, still growing. Staying here, at Hogwarts, is the best way for you to become stronger, strong enough to protect him when the time comes. Running now would only leave you vulnerable, and your Papa wouldn’t want that for you.”

Angelus glanced down at the cloak, his chest tightening. “I just… I just want to see him.”

Quirrell’s hand rested lightly on Angelus’s shoulder, his grip warm and steady. “And you will see him again,” he promised, his voice soothing. “But for now, we need to focus on what’s in front of us. Your Papa and I are working tirelessly to create a future where you can be yourself, Angelus, not Harry Potter. But it will take time. We need you to trust us.”

Angelus’s throat tightened, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “I just… I don’t know if I can do this.”

Quirrell leaned down slightly, his tone earnest. “You can, Angelus. You’re stronger than you realise. And you’re not alone in this, you have your Papa, and you have me. Together, we’ll make this right. But I need you to stay here and to keep working on your Occlumency. Can you do that for me? For us?”

Angelus hesitated, his mind a storm of emotions, but the quiet conviction in his father’s voice grounded him. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll stay. I’ll keep working and… I’ll wait for your plan.”

Quirrell’s lips curved into a faint smile, pride flickering in his expression. “That’s my boy,” he said softly, pulling Angelus into a brief but firm embrace. “Now go and get some rest, and if you feel any other objects compelling you to do something. Come and tell me.”

Soon the holidays were over. The holidays ended, the castle returned to its normal routine, and Angelus busied himself with lessons and Quidditch practices. Though the Invisibility Cloak now lay at the bottom of his trunk, untouched, his dreams were plagued with vivid nightmares. Some nights, he found himself back in the oppressive forest, chased by the same horrible clicking sounds and shadowy forms. Other nights, he stood before the Mirror of Erised, its surface shimmering with an image he couldn’t quite discern, only for Dumbledore to appear behind him, wand raised, his gaze cold and unyielding. Each time, Angelus woke drenched in sweat, his fear lingering long after the dream ended.

The Quidditch match against Hufflepuff approached, and Wood pushed the team hard during practice. On match day, Angelus faced off against Cedric Diggory, whose skill as a Seeker kept the game evenly matched. Midway through the match, Angelus attempted a daring Wronski Feint, diving toward the ground to fake out Diggory. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed to work, but Diggory realised the ploy and pulled out just in time. The match dragged on for three gruelling hours before Angelus finally caught the Snitch, securing a Gryffindor victory at 310 to 130.

Exhausted but victorious, Angelus landed amid the celebrations but stayed behind on the pitch after the crowd began to disperse. As he packed up his gear, his attention was drawn to a figure slipping out of the stands, Quirrell, moving quickly and avoiding eye contact with anyone as he headed toward the Forbidden Forest. Curious, Angelus mounted his broom. He kicked off silently and flew low over the grounds, keeping to the shadows as he followed Quirrell’s hurried steps toward the forest.

Just as Quirrell reached the tree line, a second figure stepped out from the shadows. Angelus’s heart jumped as he recognised the sharp, deliberate movements of Snape. Lowering himself onto a branch to stay hidden, Angelus strained to hear their conversation.

“Have you figured out how to bypass the beast yet?” Snape demanded, his voice icy.

“I-I don’t know what you’re t-talking about,” Quirrell stammered, his voice trembling.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Quirrell,” Snape hissed, stepping closer. “We both know why you’ve been skulking about the castle at night. I won’t ask again. Have you discovered how to bypass that beast?”

“I-I-I have no idea w-what you’re talking about!” Quirrell insisted, wringing his hands. His wide eyes darted around the clearing as though searching for an escape. “Y-you a-are mis–”

Before Quirrell could finish, a sharp thwack split the air. An arrow shot between them, embedding itself in a tree trunk inches from where they stood. Both men froze, their eyes snapping toward the shadows.

From the trees emerged seven centaurs, their bows raised and aimed directly at Snape. At their head stood Magorian, his dark brown hair flowing over his chestnut body, his expression stern and unyielding. “I thought we told you, human, that you are not welcome in our forest,” he said coldly.

Snape straightened, his expression twisting into a scowl. “I am here on school business—”

“You dare try and lie to us?” came a furious voice. Another centaur stepped forward, this one with olive skin, a black goatee, and a bay-colored body. The centaur glared at Snape, his fingers twitching toward his bow. “The last time you took from this forest without permission, we warned you. Leave now, before we lose our patience.”

Snape’s lips curled in disdain, but he seemed to think better of arguing. With a swirl of his cloak, he turned on his heel and stormed off toward the castle, his footsteps crunching angrily over fallen leaves.

Angelus exhaled the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, but his relief was short-lived. The centaurs remained tense, their bows still half-drawn, their sharp gazes now fixed on Quirrell.

Quirrell, surveying each centaur, frowned. “Why are you so close to the forest’s edge? We had agreed to meet at the village.”

Magorian’s sharp eyes narrowed, his dark brown hair falling over his shoulders as he stepped forward. “Acromantulas,” he said evenly, though there was a slight edge to his tone. “Something has disturbed the colony, and many have strayed from their web. We have been hunting them for the two days.”

“Do you know if it is the same thing that disturbed the Occamy nest?”

Magorian’s gaze grew colder. “We believe so. But, we have yet to determine what it is that is disturbing the creatures.” He paused, his eyes narrowing further. “A unicorn foal has gone missing, and something has come close to the village wards multiple times now.”

Before Quirrell could respond, the bay centaur stepped forward, his olive skin darkened by shadow. “You need to leave,” he said curtly, his tone sharp. “Hagrid has been entering the forest more frequently.”

Quirrell didn’t falter under the scrutiny. “I cannot go yet, Orieus,” he said smoothly. “I need to see if the ritual worked.”

Orieus looked to Magorian; the centaurs all seemed unsettled. It was a red-haired and roan-bodied centaur with a solemn expression from the back that stepped forward and was the one who finally broke the uneasy silence that had fallen over the group.

“The ritual failed; he will try again when the red sun rises on the day after the lunar cycle begins again.”

Quirrell’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his composure, nodding as though he had anticipated the response. The roan centaur hesitated for a moment before continuing, his gaze flickering toward the other centaurs. “The Alchemist has—”

A sudden rustling of leaves cut through the clearing, loud and distinct. All movement ceased as Orieus’s sharp voice commanded, “Quiet.” His bow was raised, one pointed ear twitching as he strained to listen.

Then, the heavy sound of footsteps echoed through the forest, growing nearer. They were deliberate and slow, accompanied by the faint rustle of undergrowth being disturbed. Angelus hovered above in the trees, tense, clutching his broom tightly as his eyes darted through the darkness.

Magorian’s sharp gaze shifted toward the sound. “Bane, Cleon,” he ordered, his voice low but authoritative. “Go. Head Hagrid off before he reaches us.”

Bane nodded and disappeared silently into the trees alongside Cleon, the red-haired, roan-bodied centaur. Their movements were swift, their bows still at the ready. The remaining centaurs exchanged wary glances, the tension among them palpable.

Magorian gave a final look toward Quirrell. “You should not linger here,” he said pointedly before turning to the others. With a subtle signal, the group dispersed into the shadows, their presence melting back into the depths of the forest. Quirrell lingered for a moment, his head bowed and hands clenched into fists at his side, before heading back to the castle.

When Angelus climbed back through the portrait hole into Gryffindor Tower, the common room was alive with celebrations of Gryffindor’s Quidditch victory. Ron, Hermione, and Neville were sitting by a window. They all looked up as he approached, and Hermione frowned immediately at the sight of Angelus’s dishevelled appearance.

“Where have you been?” Hermione hissed, standing up with her hands on her hips. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge!”

“Are you okay?” Neville asked timidly, his round face worried.

Angelus glanced around the crowded room. “Not here,” he muttered, jerking his head toward a quieter corner near the far wall. “Come on.”

Ron, Hermione, and Neville exchanged glances before following Angelus. Once they were far enough from the others, Angelus hesitated, casting another glance around the room to make sure no one was paying attention. Finally, he leaned in and whispered, “I followed Snape into the forest.”

“What?!” Hermione yelped, her voice rising in alarm. Ron’s jaw dropped, and Neville’s eyes widened in disbelief. Angelus quickly shushed them, gesturing frantically for them to keep their voices down.

“You went into the forest ?” Neville whispered, his voice trembling. “Why would you do that?”

“Because he was acting strange,” Angelus said, keeping his voice low. “He was following Quirrell.”

At this, Hermione’s eyebrows raised in surprise “Why?” she said sharply. “What did he want with Professor Quirrell?”

“Snape was threatening Quirrell,” Angelus replied grimly. “He was demanding to know if Quirrell knows how to get passed the dog yet.”

“So we were right,” Hermione whispered, her face pale. “Snape is after the stone, and he’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it.”

Neville’s hands gripped his robes tightly. “But… why Quirrell? Why doesn’t Snape just do it himself?”

“Because there are probably other traps and enchantments protecting the stone,” Angelus pretended to hypothesise. “Snape probably needs help to break through them all.”

Hermione looked stricken, clutching her robes. “Does that mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?”

“It’s doomed,” Ron said flatly, earning a sharp glare from Hermione.

Chapter Text

Quirrell was braver than Angelus’s friends had given him credit for. In the days following the Quidditch match, while Quirrell had become shakier and had lost significant weight (Angelus having now learned that this was actually the toll of his father’s possession on Quirrell). Despite Ron’s initial beliefs he had not cracked under Snape’s scrutiny.

The term continued on quietly, with lessons steadily becoming more difficult for most and homework increasing. As the Easter holidays slowly approached, Hermione became less worried about Snape and the stone and began to focus more on her grades and studying for exams. Beginning to go through and revise all her notes for the year and nagging everyone else to do the same.

“Give it a rest Hermione, exams aren’t for another four months”. Ron pointed out after Hermione had once again tried convincing him and Neville to draw up a study schedule. Angelus for the most part was lucky and given a small reprieve, as he unlike the other two had never shown Hermione his near non-existent class notes/doodles or asked for help. As far as Hermione was aware, he was prepared and already studying. 

Unfortunately, what Angelus initially believed was going to be an easy, quiet term came to an end in Potions. The dungeon classroom was thick with the pungent aroma of various ingredients bubbling away in cauldrons. The dim torchlight flickered off the damp stone walls, casting eerie shadows as students hunched over their workstations, diligently following their assigned potion recipe. Angelus sat beside Neville, stirring his cauldron clockwise as he had just added his crushed Flitterby moth.

Across the room, Malfoy's voice cut through the quiet, dripping with disdain. "I do feel so sorry," said Draco Malfoy, "for all those people who have to use shoddy second-hand cauldrons because their parents are so poor."

Ron’s ears turned red, but before he could retort, Angelus fired back.

"At least some of us don’t need our father’s name to get by," Angelus snapped.

"That’s rich coming from someone who spends all his time bullying others," Hermione added, her voice laced with scorn.

Snape’s head snapped toward them in an instant. "Five points from Gryffindor, each," he declared sharply, his cold eyes dismissing Malfoy entirely. "And if you speak out of turn again, it'll be ten."

Angelus huffed in irritation but turned back to his cauldron. As he continued stirring, something small and dark flashed at the corner of his eye, arcing through the air and landing with a faint plop into Neville’s cauldron.

Neville gasped as his potion immediately began to hiss and bubble violently. Angelus barely had time to yank him backward before the entire concoction exploded in a thick, noxious cloud. A glob of the mixture splattered across Neville’s face, and within moments, his eyes swelled shut as he let out a cry of pain.

"You stupid boy!" Snape’s voice rang out, his expression one of pure disdain. "How hard is it to follow simple instructions?"

"That wasn’t Neville’s fault!" Angelus protested, stepping forward. "Someone threw something into his cauldron! I saw it!"

Malfoy smirked and crossed his arms. "That’s not what I saw. I saw Longbottom grab a whole gurdyroot and chuck it in himself."

"Five points from Gryffindor, Longbottom. You're supposed to add grounded bouncing bulbs, not a whole gurdyroot bulb! Do you have any idea what havoc that could cause?"

Ron shot to his feet, his fists clenched. "That’s not fair! Someone threw it in!” 

"It wasn’t—" Angelus began, but Snape interrupted him.

"Be quiet! Take the idiot boy to the hospital wing before he ruins anything else! And five more points from Gryffindor for talking back to a teacher!"

Seething, Angelus helped Neville to his feet and guided him out of the dungeon, the Slytherins’ muffled laughter echoing behind them.

Later that afternoon, Angelus, Ron, Hermione, and Neville met in the library, huddled around a dimly lit table at the far end of the room. Parchments, ink bottles, and books were scattered around them, but none of them were focused on their studies. Neville’s eyes, still red and watering profusely, were half-lidded as he tried to focus on the conversation, rubbing at them occasionally with his sleeve.

"I saw it," Angelus whispered, leaning in. "Something was thrown into Neville’s cauldron. It was small, dark, looked like a bulb, but I didn’t see who did it."

"Makes sense," Ron muttered. "The Slytherins were snickering for the rest of the lesson. They knew exactly what was going to happen." He frowned, thinking hard. "Who was sitting behind us?"

Hermione flipped through her notes, trying to recall the seating arrangement in the dungeon. "Malfoy was right behind you, Harry. And Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering even before Neville’s cauldron exploded." She sighed. "It had to be Malfoy. Who else would do it?"

"We have to get Malfoy back," Angelus declared, his voice firm.

Hermione immediately shook her head. "That would be against the rules. If we get caught—"

"I—I don’t know…" Neville added hesitantly. "I don’t want any more trouble."

"Oh, come on!" Ron exclaimed. "Malfoy’s been getting away with this for ages. It's time he got a taste of his own medicine."

With some coaxing, Hermione and Neville reluctantly agreed, though Hermione looked less than thrilled. Neville still looked hesitant, but Ron clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, we’ll be careful. He won’t know what hit him."

They spent the next hour whispering over the table, going over every detail. They needed the right moment, a spell strong enough to work but subtle enough not to be immediately traced back to them. Hermione reluctantly contributed, muttering about the consequences, but even she couldn’t help offering suggestions on timing and spell effectiveness. 

Saturday morning dawned, and the Great Hall was only partially filled as students trickled in for breakfast. Ron and Angelus sat at the Gryffindor table, whispering over their plates, meticulously going over the details of their prank.

"We have to catch him when Crabbe and Goyle are with him," Ron muttered. "That way, we get all three of them."

Angelus nodded, stabbing his fork into a sausage. "The best place to do it is on the way to the Owlery. Fewer people around, and most of the Slytherins won’t be nearby. If we time it right, we’ll have them isolated."

Ron smirked. "Have you decided on what we’re going to do?"

Angelus grinned. "I like the Hair Loss Curse. I think the pillock would look great bald."

Ron nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. "Brilliant! He loves his hair. Look how much gel the prat wears! He’d probably spend hours staring at his reflection if he could."

Angelus snickered. "Exactly. He struts around like he owns the place, so let’s see how confident he is without his precious hair."

Hermione, who had been listening with a disapproving frown, sighed. "This is a terrible idea. If you get caught—"

"We won’t," Ron assured her. "It’s foolproof. One small charm, no evidence, and he’ll never know who did it."

Hermione huffed but said nothing more. Neville, looking hesitant but amused, glanced between them. "Just… make sure you don’t get hexed back."

Angelus and Ron exchanged grins before returning to their food, eagerly awaiting the perfect moment to put their plan into action.

Just as they were finalising their strategy, their discussion was interrupted by Malfoy swaggering over, his ever-present cronies flanking him. He smirked at Neville.

"Still crying, Longbottom? You’re such a baby. Want me to get you a blankie to sob into?"

Angelus bristled. "Admitting you brought your blankie to Hogwarts, Malfoy? Not surprising. Must be tough being so far from Mummy and Daddy. At least you’ve got Crabbe and Goyle now, to wipe your arse for you."

Ron snorted. "I bet his parents pay them to hang out with him. How’s that feel, Malfoy? Knowing Mummy and Daddy have to buy you friends?"

Malfoy’s smirk twisted into a sneer. "Jealous, Weasley? At least my family has money. Must be humiliating, knowing you’ll always be a charity case."

“Take that back, you slimy snake,” Ron snapped.

Continuing before they could retort. “You know how I think the hat chooses people for Gryffindor? I think it’s the people it feels sorry for. See, there’s Longbottom, who’s a wimp. The Weasleys, who’ve got no money. Then there’s poor little orphan Potter. You’re so pathetic they had to give you to muggles, and even they probably didn’t want you.”

A blinding rage ignited inside Angelus. Dumbledore’s lies about his parents, the years of uncertainty, the pain of being manipulated, it all surged to the surface. Without thinking, he grabbed the nearest bowl and flung its contents at Malfoy’s face.

A loud splatter echoed through the Great Hall as scrambled eggs dripped from Malfoy’s stunned features.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

Malfoy let out an enraged shriek.

But Angelus wasn’t done.

"DON'T CALL ME AN ORPHAN, YOU INBRED GIT!"

Malfoy barely had time to wipe the egg from his face before Angelus tackled him, knocking him to the ground. Fists flew as Angelus landed a punch to Malfoy’s jaw, sending him sprawling. Malfoy yelped in shock and tried to shove him off, but Angelus was relentless.

Crabbe and Goyle moved to intervene, but Ron and Neville sprang into action. Ron grabbed Crabbe by the arm and yanked him back, sending him stumbling onto the table. Neville, with surprising determination, launched himself at Goyle, who was too slow to react, sending both of them crashing onto the floor.

The Great Hall erupted into chaos. Students scrambled to get out of the way, some cheering, others gasping in horror. Malfoy screeched as Angelus landed another blow to his shoulder, his hands flailing uselessly as he tried to defend himself.

Malfoy struggled under the onslaught, but before he could retaliate, a flurry of robes signalled the arrival of Professors McGonagall and Quirrell.

"Enough!" McGonagall’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip.

Quirrell hurriedly pulled Angelus off Malfoy, holding him firmly by the shoulders. Angelus was breathing hard, his knuckles stinging, but Malfoy looked worse, his face streaked with food and his robes crumpled.

McGonagall loomed over them like an enraged dragon, her eyes blazing with fury and her nostrils flaring as though she might start breathing fire at any moment. "Fighting in the Great Hall? Have you all lost your senses? This is utterly disgraceful!" she thundered, her voice reverberating through the hall.

Malfoy opened his mouth, but the sheer intensity of McGonagall’s glare made him snap it shut. It was as though a dragon had turned its wrathful gaze upon him, ready to incinerate him with a single breath.

"Brawling like common hooligans in the middle of breakfast? Have you all completely lost your minds?" she seethed, her voice booming across the hall. "I have never seen such a disgraceful display from students who ought to know better!"

Her eyes swept across the gathered group, and her fury deepened. "Fifty points will be deducted from each of you! I will not tolerate such reckless, disgraceful behaviour at this school."

A shocked murmur rippled through the hall. Even some of the Slytherins looked surprised by the severity of the punishment.

"That’s not fair!" Malfoy sputtered. "He—"

"Enough, Mr. Malfoy! Unless you would like to lose more house points?"

Malfoy scowled but wisely said nothing more.

McGonagall exhaled sharply, her anger still simmering. "And since you all seem to enjoy brawling so much, you will each serve detention next week with Filch. I trust he will find a fitting punishment for you."

McGonagall turned her furious gaze on each of them in turn, her posture rigid with barely contained rage. Her voice, now dangerously low, carried the same weight as a predator about to strike. "And all of you will learn to control yourselves in the future. If I ever catch you engaging in such disgraceful conduct again, I will personally ensure that your punishment is far worse. Am I understood?"

Angelus, still fuming, nodded stiffly.

"Good. Now, all of you, get out of my sight!"

The punishment spread like wildfire through the castle. Students, who had yet to attend breakfast, upon passing the giant hourglasses that morning, stared in disbelief at Gryffindor’s and Slytherin’s massive point loss. The murmuring grew into outright whispers and gasps as the story unfolded, twisting and turning in different directions depending on who was telling it.

As Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Angelus walked to class on Monday, they quickly discovered their situation had only gotten worse. Older students had taken it upon themselves to remind them of their mistakes at every turn, with tripping jinxes flung at them in the hallways. Neville stumbled the most, landing hard on the stone floors more times than he could count, his face burning with embarrassment. Ron growled under his breath as he helped him up, only for another jinx to send him sprawling forward moments later. Even Angelus, usually quick on his feet, found himself barely dodging the well-aimed hexes.

Slytherins, however, weren’t enjoying the aftermath that week either. At meals, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were exiled to the very end of the Slytherin table, where they sat in stiff silence, pointedly ignored by their own house. Malfoy, for once, didn’t look smug or superior. He kept shooting glares at the other Slytherins, but no one would look his way. Crabbe and Goyle, always glued to Malfoy’s side, seemed at a loss without their usual place of dominance in the Slytherin ranks. The betrayal of their own house had been deemed unforgivable.

Meanwhile, Hermione usually focused on her breakfast and reading, couldn’t help but overhear Lavender and Parvati whispering animatedly beside her. “I heard they had to sleep in the corridor last night,” Lavender was saying, voice tinged with both sympathy and disbelief.

“What? Malfoy?” Parvati gasped, eyes wide.

“Him and those two goons,” Lavender nodded. “Locked out of their common room. No one let them in.”

Hermione’s brows lifted, and she shared a glance with Neville. That was a punishment even she hadn’t expected. The Slytherins truly weren’t forgiving Malfoy for this one.

But while the rest of Gryffindor was stewing over their sudden fall from grace, Angelus wasn’t particularly bothered by the house’s anger over the lost points. What irked him far more was the fact that Professor McGonagall had intervened in the fight. He had wanted to see it through, to stand his ground. The anger simmered beneath his skin every time he thought about it.

And then there was the letter.

Late that night, as he had finally turned in, he had found a folded parchment tucked under his pillow. His father’s handwriting was unmistakable. A reprimand, sharp and precise, detailing his disappointment and what Angelus should have done instead of fighting. Angelus read it twice, his grip tightening with each word. He had expected the school to react this way, but his father’s reaction stung far worse. He shoved the letter deep into his robes and didn’t bring it up again.

Now, as he walked through the halls with hexes flying at their feet, the letter felt heavier than the glares of his housemates.

 A week later, at breakfast, notes were delivered to Angelus, Ron, and Neville. They were all the same:

Your detention will take place at eight o’clock tonight. Meet Mr. Filch in his office.

Professor McGonagall

Ron groaned, stuffing the note into his pocket. Neville turned pale, and Angelus merely flicked his note onto the table, unimpressed. The three of them spent the day dreading what was to come, though Angelus was more annoyed at the inconvenience than fearful of whatever punishment Filch had in store.

At eight o’clock sharp, they arrived at Filch’s office. The moment the door creaked open, they saw the three Slytherins, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, were already there, looking equally sullen. Malfoy’s scowl deepened as he spotted them, but he said nothing.

Filch gave them a malicious grin and thrust a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush at each of them. “Right, off we go,” he said, lighting a lamp. “You’ll be scrubbing the Owlery floor until it’s spotless. I bet you’ll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won’t you, eh?”

Malfoy’s face twisted in outrage. “I can’t do that! That’s servants’ work! My father will hear about this!” he spat, refusing to take his bucket. “I refuse—”

Filch sneered, stepping closer. “Oh, you’ll do as you’re told, boy. Do you think you’re above hard work? You lot would’ve been strung up by your ankles in my day.”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened, but Filch’s glare dared him to push further. Instead, he snatched the bucket from Filch and scowled at the dirty floor.

Filch leered at them as he led the way through the dark corridors. “Oh yes… hard work and pain are the best teachers if you ask me. It’s just a pity they let the old punishments die out… hanging you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, now that taught you a lesson… still got the chains in my office, keep ‘em well oiled, just in case…”

Ron shuddered. Neville swallowed hard. Angelus just rolled his eyes. They had a long night ahead of them.

The moment they stepped into the Owlery, the stench hit them. The heavy scent of bird droppings and damp straw filled the cold air, and the floor was littered with feathers and dried muck. Owls hooted softly from their perches high above, blinking sleepily at the unwelcome visitors.

Filch gave them all a pointed glare. “No magic. No shortcuts. Just good old-fashioned scrubbing. I’ll be back in an hour, and this place better be spotless or else I’ll have you lot scrubbing the toilets with your toothbrushes!”

With that, he turned and left, leaving the six of them standing in the grimy Owlery, buckets and brushes in hand. Malfoy let out a groan of disgust, while Ron muttered under his breath. Angelus simply exhaled sharply before crouching down and getting to work, determined to get through this with as little fuss as possible.

Chapter Text

The Owlery was filled with the sound of scrubbing, brushes scraping against stone, and the occasional sigh or groan as the unfortunate students scrubbed at years of accumulated filth. The only person not partaking in the miserable work was Draco Malfoy, who stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, sneering at the others.

"I am not scrubbing the floor like some filthy house-elf" he declared loudly for what felt like the tenth time. "When my father hears about this, he’ll have McGonagall sacked! This is beneath a Malfoy! My family has been funding Hogwarts for centuries!"

Ron, on his hands and knees with a dripping brush in one hand, let out a growl. "Oh, shut up, Malfoy. If we have to suffer, so do you."

Malfoy scoffed, dramatically lifting a foot to avoid stepping in a puddle of dirty water. "You’ll see. The moment he hears about this, he’ll—"

"Oh, for Merlin’s sake!" Angelus snapped, rubbing his temple in frustration. "Just pick up a brush and scrub, or at least be quiet!"

Neville, who had been diligently working, merely sighed, his face still pale from anxiety.

The time dragged by, and Malfoy still hadn’t lifted a finger. The floor had begun to show signs of cleanliness, but the stench of owl droppings still clung to the air. Just as Ron was about to snap at Malfoy again, the door creaked open, and Filch stepped inside, his beady eyes sweeping the room.

The sight of Malfoy standing idly while the others scrubbed brought a look of pure delight to Filch’s face.

“What’s this, then? Not a single drop of sweat on your brow, boy?” Filch sneered, leaning in close, his breath foul. “Think you're above detention, do you?”

Malfoy flushed red but squared his shoulders. “I refuse to do such degrading work. When my father—"

“No one cares, Malfoy!” snapped Angelus.

Before they could argue further, Filch cut in.

“Lucky for all of you, there’s been a change in plans. I’ve got something much more... fitting.”

Ron and Neville exchanged nervous glances. Angelus merely exhaled sharply through his nose, already predicting this would be a very long night.

“Follow me!” Filch barked, grabbing a lamp and motioning them out of the owlery.

They trudged through the darkened corridors and out onto the grounds, Filch’s gravelly voice filling the silence with tales of past punishments.

“Oh, you lot have it easy,” he sneered. “Hanging by your ankles in the dungeons—that was proper discipline. Would teach you nasty lot some respect. They got rid of the chains, but I kept a few... just in case.”

Neville swallowed hard, looking ready to faint. Even Malfoy wasn’t looking so smug anymore.

The moon was bright, but thick clouds kept drifting over it, throwing it into patches of near darkness. Ahead, the warm glow of Hagrid's hut beckoned.

A distant shout echoed across the grounds. “Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started!”

Ron’s shoulders sagged in relief. “It’s Hagrid,” he muttered. “That’s not so bad.”

Filch scowled, clearly displeased by their relief. “Think you’ll be enjoyin’ yourself, do ya? Think again. You’re headin’ into the forest, and I’d be surprised if you all come out in one piece.”

Malfoy made a strangled noise and came to a dead stop. “The forest? We can’t go in there at night! There are all sorts of things, werewolves, I heard!”

Filch cackled. “Should’ve thought of that before you got into trouble.”

Before Malfoy could protest further, Hagrid strode toward them, his massive crossbow slung over one shoulder, a quiver of arrows at his side. Behind him, near his hut, sat a large canvas sack and a pile of wooden traps.

“What’s this, then?” Hagrid grunted. “I thought yeh were givin’ me seventh-years.”

“Spratt had a bit of a fall down some stairs. Grimmet and Higgs are with the Headmaster now. Thought I’d bring you this lot instead,” Filch explained.

Hagrid sighed deeply. “Suppose they’ll have to do, then. Right, you lot, listen up. Somethin’s stirred up the Acromantula colony, and they’ve been wanderin’ too close to the forest border. The centaurs ain’t happy killin’ any they find. To keep the peace with ‘em, Dumbledore’s agreed we’ll rehome the Acromantulas. Got a friend in Borneo will take ‘em... but first, we gotta catch ‘em.”

He gestured to the traps. “These here are enchanted strong enough to hold an Acromantula without hurtin’ it too bad. You’re gonna split into groups and place ‘em along the trails. Leave some bait,” he added, nodding toward the sack, “to lure ‘em in. But whatever yeh do, don’t get too close to any webbin’. If yeh do... well, let’s just say yeh won’t like the consequences.”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You expect me to go into the forest and catch spiders?”

Hagrid shot him a dark look. “If yeh don’t want ter stay at Hogwarts, you’ll do it.”

Malfoy scoffed, jerking a thumb at Crabbe and Goyle. “Fine. But I’m going with them. I’m not working with them,” he added, sneering at the Gryffindors.

Hagrid shrugged his broad shoulders. “Fine with me. Yeh can take Fang. But don’t expect him to be much help, he’s a ruddy coward.”

With that settled, they grabbed the traps and trudged warily into the Forbidden Forest, the dense canopy quickly swallowing them whole.

As they walked deeper into the Forbidden Forest, the towering trees formed a heavy canopy that blocked out most of the moonlight. The damp earth squelched beneath their boots, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted before the forest returned to its heavy, pressing silence.

“Right,” Hagrid rumbled, coming to a stop at a fork in the path. His lantern cast long shadows, flickering over the mossy ground. He hefted one of the larger wooden traps onto his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. “This is where we split up. Harry, Ron, Neville, you’re with me. We’ll head along the eastern trail. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, you lot take the left path with Fang.”

“Great,” Malfoy sneered, eyeing the slobbering dog at his side. “What a useless mutt.”

“Oi!” Hagrid shot him a glare. “He might be a bit soft, but he’s still more useful than you.”

Malfoy scowled but didn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as Crabbe and Goyle lumbered after him, carrying three wooden traps each, Fang trailing reluctantly behind.

Hagrid led his group down the right-hand path, pushing aside branches heavy with dew. The air grew thicker here, the forest dense with mist that curled low to the ground. Faint click-clicking sounds echoed in the distance, bouncing eerily between the trees.

Angelus tilted his head upward, narrowing his eyes. Silvery strands of thick webbing stretched between the highest branches.

Angelus slowed his steps, eyeing the silvery strands of webbing that glistened in the moonlight directly above them. “Hagrid… is that a spider web?”

Hagrid’s brow furrowed as he followed Angelus’s gaze. “Aye, looks like it. Big one, too. But nothin’ to fret over, yet.”

Ron crouched beside it, his face pale in the moonlight. “Is that…?”

“Unicorn blood,” Hagrid confirmed grimly, his eyes shadowed beneath his thick brows. “But this is old—been here a week, at least.”

Angelus hesitated before asking, “Could an Acromantula have done this?”

Hagrid shook his head firmly. “Nah. Acromantulas prefer deer. Unicorns are too much trouble. Nah, whatever did this… it weren’t a spider.”

Still, he didn’t seem entirely at ease. He set down his lantern and the traps at his feet. “But just in case…” he muttered, setting up one of the larger traps under the webbing. 

The boys exchanged uneasy glances as Hagrid spread out some pellets from the large canvas bag he had placed in what should have been a too-small pocket in his coat. 

“Bit o’ bait,” Hagrid explained, dusting off his hands. “Acromantulas love these. If one’s around, that’ll draw it out.”

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Hagrid pulled his battered pink umbrella from his coat and pointed it at the trap. With a sharp tap against the wooden frame, the umbrella sparked, and a soft blue glow rippled across the structure. The sturdy trap door shimmered and then appeared to vanish entirely, leaving the illusion of an open passageway through the cage.

“There,” Hagrid said with satisfaction, tucking the umbrella back into his coat. “They won’t even see it. The minute one steps inside for the bait—the door’ll snap shut.”

The blue glow faded, leaving the trap looking deceptively simple, with only the bait pellets resting in its centre.

They pressed deeper into the Forbidden Forest, the thick canopy above swallowing what little moonlight filtered through the drifting clouds. The distant click-clicking sounds faded, replaced by a heavy stillness that seemed to press in from all sides. Mist curled low around their feet, and every step sent the damp earth squelching underfoot.

Suddenly, a sharp rustling echoed through the trees. Hagrid stopped dead in his tracks, dropping the lantern and traps and grabbing his crossbow.

“Who's there?” Hagrid called out, his voice echoing into the dark. “Show yerself, I’m armed!”

The underbrush parted, and out of the shadows emerged two centaurs. One was familiar, Ronan, with his chestnut coat, red hair, and deep, sorrowful eyes. But it was the second centaur who drew Angelus’s gaze, a towering figure with a powerful body, large hooves that struck the ground heavily, and long, dark brown hair that framed his face. A short goatee lined his strong jaw, and his golden eyes glinted in the moonlight. A heavy bow was slung across his back, his posture tense and eyes alert.

Hagrid lowered his crossbow slightly, though his grip stayed firm. “Oh, it’s you, Ronan,” he said in relief. “How are yeh?”

Ronan’s deep voice echoed gently through the clearing. “Good evening to you, Hagrid.” He glanced at the boys. “And you’ve brought children, I see.”

“Er...yeah,” Hagrid nodded, motioning toward them. “This is Harry, Ron, and Neville. They’re students up at the school.”

Ronan’s eyes flicked over them with mild curiosity before he added, “A little young to be wandering the forest, aren’t they?”

“They’re with me,” Hagrid assured him. “They’re helpin’ me set traps to catch some Acromantulas. We’re rehoming ’em, don’t want ‘em stirrin’ up trouble and gettin’ hurt.”

Ronan nodded slowly. “Let’s hope they’re taken somewhere they won’t destroy another ecosystem.”

Angelus could’ve sworn he heard a snort from the larger centaur. When he turned his head quickly, he found the golden-eyed centaur already looking at him. Their eyes met for a moment before the centaur gave him a quick smirk and wink before glancing away, his gaze fixed upward at the star-speckled sky.

Hagrid, clearly unsettled, cleared his throat. “Uh, right. And—er—we haven’t met yet.” He gestured toward the larger centaur. “You new to this part o’ the forest?”

The centaur didn’t answer, his sharp gaze still focused on the sky. Finally, he flicked his eyes toward Hagrid for the briefest moment before looking away again, offering no response.

Ronan, as if sensing the tension, spoke up. “The stars are bright tonight,” he mused, ignoring the awkward pause.

Hagrid, though clearly uncomfortable, pushed on. “Listen, Ronan, a unicorn was hurt, not too far from here. You seen anythin’ suspicious?”

Ronan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tipped his head back and studied the night sky. “Pluto is glowing bright tonight.”

“Uhhh, yeah, I know that,” Hagrid grumbled. “But have you seen anything down here?”

“The stars hold many answers,” Ronan said cryptically. “Some not meant for us to question.”

Angelus noticed the larger centaur smirking faintly, though he kept his eyes on the sky.

Hagrid huffed in frustration. “Ruddy centaurs,” he muttered under his breath. “Right. Well, if you do happen to spot somethin’ out o’ the ordinary, I’d appreciate yeh lettin’ me know.”

Neither centaur responded. They stood there, statuesque, watching the sky, though Angelus could feel the golden-eyed centaur’s occasional sideways glances.

“Come on, you lot,” Hagrid finally grunted. “Best be off.”

The boys turned back to Hagrid as he placed his crossbow back over his shoulder and, grabbing his gear, led them back onto the narrow trail, though Angelus glanced over his shoulder one last time. Both centaurs stood unmoving, their figures framed against the misty clearing, their glowing eyes tracking the group as they walked away.

Once they were out of sight, Hagrid shook his head, clearly annoyed. “Never,” he muttered irritably, “try an’ get a straight answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers, always focused on the sky and never on what’s right under their hooves. They know things… but they don’t share ‘em with folk like us.”

They walked on, deeper into the forest, where the trees thickened and shadows clawed at the path. Angelus couldn’t shake the prickling sensation crawling up his spine.

“Hagrid,” he whispered, “I think we’re being watched.”

Hagrid’s large hand tightened around his crossbow. “Aye,” he agreed, glancing around. “Wouldn’t surprise me. There’s plenty o’ things in this forest that’d watch from the shadows. Not all of ‘em friendly.”

They hadn’t gone far before a sharp, distant scream tore through the forest.

Neville yelped, grabbing Ron’s arm, but Ron just rolled his eyes. “It’s probably Malfoy. Bet he saw a slug on his fancy shoes.”

Hagrid, however, was instantly alert. “Could be worse than that. I’ll go check it out.”

Ron paled. “Wait, you’re leaving us?”

“You’ll be fine,” Hagrid promised, hoisting his crossbow and passing his lantern to Angelus. “Stick to the path, lay the rest o’ the traps, and stay together. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Before they could argue, Hagrid crashed off through the undergrowth, branches snapping under his weight until the sound of his heavy boots faded into the distance.

They stood there, the silence pressing down around them again, the faint rustle of leaves the only sound.

Angelus swallowed. “Well… this isn’t ominous at all.”

They glanced around the darkened path, the thick webbing above them catching the moonlight like ghostly threads, before setting about laying another trap, all the while acutely aware of the watchful eyes they could not see.

They then trudged deeper into the forest, the heavy silence broken only by the crunch of twigs underfoot. Angelus led the way, clutching the old, rusted lantern in one hand, its dim, flickering glow casting eerie shadows that danced along the winding path. The faint blue haze of the last trap they had set still shimmered faintly behind them, but the forest was growing darker, thicker, and more suffocating the farther they went.

“Right,” Angelus said, stopping near a twisted oak draped in heavy strands of webbing. He raised the lantern, its light catching on the silvery strands. “This looks like a good spot.”

Neville hesitated, eyeing the thick web above. “Are… are you sure? That looks like...like something’s living up there.”

Ron let out a shaky breath. “I really hate this.”

They worked quickly, setting the trap beneath the heavy webbing. Angelus placed the bait, scattering it in the centre of the wooden structure before taking out his wand and tapping the frame. It shimmered blue for a brief moment before the trap door appeared to vanish.

“Alright, come on,” Angelus muttered, leading them farther down the path, holding the lantern high.

They found a clearing ringed with moss-covered stones, the perfect spot for the third trap. As they crouched to set it, a sudden, distant shout echoed through the trees. The boys froze.

“Did you hear that?” Neville whispered, gripping Angelus’s arm.

Another shout followed, louder this time, mixed with what sounded like heavy thuds, like hooves pounding against the ground. Then came sharp whistling sounds, slicing through the air, followed by something that might have been a shout of pain.

“That—” Neville stammered, “that sounds like a fight!”

The distant noises carried through the trees, more whistling, followed by another heavy thud and something crashing through the undergrowth.

Ron looked pale. “Maybe we should go back. Find Hagrid.”

Angelus hesitated, raising the lantern higher as the flickering light cast long, dancing shadows across the trees. “Yeah… maybe you’re right.”

They turned to head back...but froze instantly.

A massive Acromantula had silently descended from the web-laced trees behind them, its huge body now blocking the path. Its thick, hairy legs flexed, lifting its enormous bulk as its fang-like jaws clicked open, gleaming in the lantern’s trembling light. Its yellow eyes glowed with malicious intent.

“Oh… Merlin,” Ron whispered, his face draining of all colour.

Before they could move, three more Acromantulas dropped from the trees ahead, landing silently on the forest floor. Their jaws clicked rapidly, the sound harsh and metallic, echoing through the clearing.

Ron and Neville let out twin screams, stumbling backward into Angelus, who stumbled and fell to the ground, dropping the lantern and plunging them into darkness.

“Run!” Angelus barked, quickly getting to his feet and pulling on Neville's arm.

“Come on! ” Angelus shouted again.

The Acromantulas surged forward, their hairy legs skittering over the ground with horrifying speed. The boys bolted. Branches clawed at their faces, thorns tearing at their robes as they ran deeper into the forest, the heavy thuds of the spiders close behind, their jaws clicking and snapping in the dark.

Neville stumbled over a root, nearly falling to the ground, but Angelus grabbed Neville’s arm and hauled him up, as the glint of yellow eyes came far too close.

“Keep going!” Angelus urged, pushing Neville forward.

They didn’t dare look back. The forest twisted around them, the faint trail disappearing beneath their feet as they fled blindly into the dark, deeper into the heart of the Forbidden Forest—where far worse things might be waiting.

They didn’t dare look back. The forest twisted around them, the faint trail disappearing beneath their feet as they fled blindly into the dark, deeper into the heart of the Forbidden Forest—where far worse things might be waiting.

Now far from the trail, the only light guiding them came from the fractured moonlight breaking through the dense canopy above. The trees loomed high, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky, casting long, twisted shadows that danced alongside the boys as they ran. Angelus kept to the rear, his breath ragged as he tried to keep pace, the cold night air burning in his lungs.

Twigs snapped beneath their boots, the distant clicking of Acromantula pincers still echoing somewhere behind them, growing fainter, but they weren’t safe yet.

Suddenly, with a deafening crack, a massive Acromantula dropped from the branches above. Angelus barely had time to react as it crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The impact sent him tumbling down a steep hill, branches whipping at his face before his head struck a jagged rock.

Pain exploded through his skull, his vision swimming as he finally came to a stop at the edge of a ravine. The roar of rushing water filled his ears, and through blurred vision, he could just make out the river far below. Blood poured into his eyes, blinding him as he struggled to push himself up, every movement sending waves of agony through his head.

The Acromantula landed hard at his feet, its hairy legs splayed wide, fangs clicking hungrily. Angelus scrambled backward, his hands patting frantically at his robes in search of his wand, only to come up empty. Panic surged through him as he realised he must have dropped it during the fall.

He ducked just in time as the spider lunged, its jaws snapping shut where his head had been moments before. His heart pounded wildly, blood dripping down his face as he staggered to his feet, weaving unsteadily as the world spun.

“Help!” he screamed, his voice cracking as he backpedalled toward the edge of the ravine. “Help, somebody!”

Angelus’s heart leaped. Centaurs.

“Help! Over here!” he shouted, waving wildly as the spider reared up again.

The Acromantula lunged, forcing Angelus to stumble backward, his foot slipping dangerously close to the edge of the ravine. Another bellowing call echoed through the trees, and five centaurs burst through the dense underbrush, arrows already nocked in their bows.

Leading them was the massive, golden-eyed centaur from before. His sharp gaze locked onto Angelus, widening in horror.

“Angelus!” the centaur roared, his hooves slamming into the ground with such force the earth trembled beneath them.

The Acromantula lunged again, its legs crashing into Angelus’s chest, knocking him backward. His heel slipped over the ravine’s edge as the spider pounced. The last thing Angelus saw was the golden-eyed centaur charging forward, his face twisted in rage and fear.

“NO! ” the centaur bellowed.

Angelus fell.

The freezing river below swallowed him whole, the impact like a thousand needles piercing his skin. His lungs screamed for air as the current pulled him under, twisting and pummelling him through the icy depths. Blood from the gash on his head mingled with the swirling water, his limbs heavy and sluggish as he kicked upward, fighting for the surface.

He broke through briefly, gasping for air before the current yanked him under again. Panic clawed at his chest as the cold sapped his strength. Through the churning water above, he saw a blurred shadow racing along the ravine’s edge, the centaur. His golden eyes shone brightly as he followed Angelus’s path downstream, calling out his name.

But Angelus couldn’t respond. The river pulled him further away, dragging him around a sharp bend and out of sight.

I can’t… Angelus’s mind screamed as the cold sapped his strength.

But then, up ahead, a low cliff jutted over the water, vines draping down its rocky face. The flowers hanging from them glowed faintly green, their soft light a beacon in the darkness.

With what little strength he had left, Angelus kicked toward the cliff. His numb fingers reached out, grasping at the vines, but they slipped through his grasp. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, finally catching one with his right hand.

Before he could process it, the vine twisted around his wrist, tightening painfully. Angelus yelped, but the vine was already pulling, hoisting him slowly from the water. He dangled over the rocks, coughing up water, before being dropped roughly onto the ground above.

He gasped, the cold still biting deep into his muscles. For a moment, he thought he was safe. But when he tried to pull his arm free, the vine yanked taut, dragging him backward across the forest floor.

“No—no, no, no!” Angelus clawed at the dirt, his nails breaking as he grabbed for roots and rocks, but the vine was relentless.

A low, guttural rumble vibrated through the ground.

Angelus twisted his head around, just in time to see the massive, gaping maw of a Venus flytrap-like plant looming ahead. Its thick green petals were lined with curved, jagged fangs, its wide mouth glistening with viscous sap.

“ No! ” Angelus screamed, struggling wildly.

The vine pulled tighter, bones in his arm grinding painfully. Adrenaline surged, and he fumbled at the ground, his frozen fingers closing around a loose jagged rock.

“Let me go!”

He swung the rock at the vine, striking it hard. The vine barely flinched.

The plant’s maw seemed to open wider.

Desperate, Angelus hurled the rock at the gaping mouth. It vanished into the dark throat of the plant, making it shudder slightly, but not enough.

With a final yank, the vine hauled him directly into the jaws of the plant.

The moment his arm entered the maw, the powerful jaws snapped shut.

All he could do was watch as the fangs sliced through his arm like butter. Clean and brutal. For a breathless second, he felt nothing but shock. Then the agonising pain hit, white-hot and blinding.

“AAAAAAHHHH! ” His blood-curdling scream tore through the forest.

Blood splattered the grass as he fell backward, collapsing onto the ground, clutching at the bleeding stump where his arm had been. His vision blurred, pain and panic blinding him as he dug his heels into the dirt, pushing himself backward in a frantic scramble to escape. The monstrous plant twitched above him, its fanged maw slowly beginning to open again as if searching for its next bite.

Before he could move away farther, strong arms grabbed him from behind, lifting him clear off the ground.

“NO! LET ME GO!” Angelus thrashed, blinded by blood and pain, his kicks weak and frantic.

“Easy! I’ve got you!” a deep voice shouted over the pounding in his ears.

But Angelus couldn’t see, could barely hear, his vision swirled with black and red. His heart thundered in his chest as his body gave out, the pain and blood loss too much. The last thing he felt was the sensation of being cradled in strong arms before darkness swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Pain! It was the first thing he felt, sharp, searing, inescapable. It clawed at him, radiating from his right side like fire, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, relentless and unyielding. His chest ached, each breath dragging painfully through lungs that felt too tight, too raw, like they had been scraped hollow.

But worse than the pain was the cold.

It wasn’t just clinging to his skin; it was inside him. It had sunk deep, settling in his bones, in his blood, turning his limbs heavy and numb. His body trembled, the shudders rolling through him like aftershocks, yet his muscles barely responded. Too weak and too stiff.

His head throbbed violently, a crushing, suffocating weight pressing in from all sides. Each pulse sent sickening waves of dizziness rolling through him, warping his senses, making it impossible to ground himself.

He tried to open his eyes.

They fluttered…a haze of shifting light and shadows…but exhaustion dragged at him like chains, pulling him down. A ragged breath tore from his throat, weak and raw, and the act alone sent pain lancing through his ribs.

Then he felt it…strong arms cradling him close, the warmth of another body seeping into his chilled skin. Each step the figure took jarred his injuries, but something was grounding in the hold, something steady. Voices swam above the rushing roar in his ears, muffled and distorted like echoes underwater.

“Easy, love. You’re safe now,” rumbled a deep voice. The words weren’t just heard; they reverberated through Angelus’s battered body, a grounding hum in the sea of pain.

He tried to speak, to ask who, but the effort made his head spike with blinding agony. A gasp tore from him, his body flinching violently as a fresh jolt of pain lanced through his skull. His eyelids fluttered again, and this time, a crack of vision broke through: tree branches stretched above, skeletal fingers clawing at a pale sky. The forest. He was still in the forest.

Someone was carrying him.

He strained to see, to understand, but blackness surged again, thick and relentless, and dragged him under.

He resurfaced into warmth.

But his body shook violently.

The tremors wouldn’t stop, rolling through him in relentless waves. His skin burned, not from heat but from the lingering sting of the bitter cold river. His chest was tight and raw, every inhale rattling through him like a struggle. Each breath felt like a weight pressing down, heavy and wrong.

He could still feel someone warm holding him close, the solid press of a chest against his back. A hand in his hair, fingers trembling slightly as they stroked through his damp strands.

“Stay with me, Angelus. You’re doing so well.” It was the same voice from before, but softer now, breaking apart with emotion. The hand stroking through Angelus’s hair trembled, fingers brushing damp strands from his temple.

Angelus forced his eyes open…just a sliver.

A fire crackled softly nearby, sending a flickering orange glow around the room. The air was thick with the scent of earth, woodsmoke…and blood.

Blurry figures hovered nearby…shadows moving in the firelight.

A thin, sharp-boned woman with wild grey hair sat close, her wand sweeping delicate, glowing lines above his chest. The magic pulsed faintly, first gold, then flickering red, before flickering back to gold.

Beside her, a wiry old man crouched low, tipping something warm and bitter against Angelus’ lips.

The taste of iron was sharp on his tongue before he was pulled closer into the warmth of the chest behind him.

“Breathe, love. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

The arm under his shoulders shifted, lifting him slightly, so he wouldn’t choke, but the movement sent a fresh, blinding jolt of pain through his head.

The voices around him came in and out of focus. He caught fragments. Pieces.

“…skull fracture… temperature’s dangerously low.”

“…lungs weak.”

“…infection risk… the wound isn’t…”

The chest Angelus lay against vibrated with a strained exhale. A hand curled tighter into his hair.

"...heal him?"

The woman’s wand hesitated as it hovered over Angelus’ chest.

 “... stabilise him. But…” She hesitated, her voice dipping lower. “...dark magic!”

A long pause.

Then, softer. “I cannot stop the bleeding.”

The old man muttered something in reply, too quiet to catch. Angelus’ head swam, the words slipping through his mind like water.

He barely noticed the healer’s hands pressing against his chest, magic thrumming against his skin. It felt wrong. 

“...toxin in his blood…arm.”

Angelus wanted to ask what about my arm. But the words died in his throat. All he could manage was a pained whimper, his chest spasming weakly.

Immediately, the hand at his back rubbed slowly, grounding circles. “...okay, Angelus….safe now.”

Angelus barely registered the tears that soaked into his hair as the arms around him pulled him closer, rocking him gently.

The pull of darkness returned, gentler this time, and he didn’t fight it. Not with the warmth of his saviour’s arms around him. 

Pain again snapped him awake…white-hot and jagged…slicing through his right side and detonating behind his eyes like lightning. His head throbbed with brutal force, each pulse of his fractured skull sending shockwaves down his spine. His stomach twisted with a hollow, gnawing ache…deep, raw, and cold… leaving him trembling beneath heavy blankets.

He was warm, cocooned under layers of a soft, heavy fabric that smelled faintly of earth and smoke. His body ached, but a heavy, grounding weight around his chest…an arm, strong and solid, pulled him gently against something warm and steady.

His eyes fluttered open, vision swimming as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He could just make out rough beige fabric hanging above him. To his left, a small wood-burning stove crackled, its soft orange glow dancing across the oddly warped walls. The warmth radiating from it was a comfort, despite the throbbing pain in his head.

His cheek rested against something hard and warm, and he could feel the rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat, slow and steady beneath his ear. A hand stroked through his damp hair in slow, grounding motions, fingertips brushing his temple with careful tenderness.

Angelus let out a hoarse breath, pain blooming in fresh waves through his side and head. His body instinctively tried to shift, tried to adjust the sharp pull in his right side, but a hollow, gut-twisting jolt of pain surged through his shoulder. He gasped sharply, an odd cramping sensation travelling through his arm. As if his arm was resting at an odd, painful angle, yet when he tried to move it…

Nothing.

Just a sharp, stabbing pain.

Panic flared in his chest.

“Easy, love. Shhh, I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

The voice rumbled beneath him…deep, rough, and gentle all at once. Fingers swept sweat-matted hair from his forehead, tracing slow, careful lines.

Angelus gasped again, trying to turn toward the voice, but the searing pain in his skull made his vision blur. “M-my…arm…” he rasped, though the word felt like broken glass in his throat.

The hand cradling his head trembled but didn’t falter. “I know, love. Don’t try to move. You’re still healing.”

Angelus’ breath came fast and shallow. The pain running down his right side clawed at him, his mind screaming that something wasn’t right.

“It’s not…not right,” he gasped, his voice strained and trembling.

The arms around him tightened, and he felt the sharp hitch in the chest beneath his cheek.

“Oh, baby…I know. I’m so sorry.” The man’s voice was rough, thick with grief barely held at bay. His hand trembled as he brushed damp strands of hair from Angelus’ temple, his thumb tracing slow, aching circles.

Angelus barely registered the words, the confusion swirling in his mind, the aching wrongness deepening with every breath.

“It hurts,” he whimpered, his left hand weakly clutching at the blankets, fingers curling as though searching for something familiar to hold onto.

There was the faint clink of glass against wood.

“Here, love, drink this, it’ll help you sleep.”

A glass vial was gently pressed against Angelus’s lips. Angelus barely had the strength to resist, the liquid sliding thickly down his throat. The warmth of it spread quickly, dulling the sharpest edges of his pain.

The man pulled him close again, cradling him like something precious, his chin resting against Angelus’ damp hair. “That’s it, love. Just rest now. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” His voice cracked, the weight of his love and grief wrapped around every word.

Angelus’ body sagged, exhaustion pressing down on him like a heavy tide. The steady heartbeat beneath his ear…so warm, so familiar…lulled him deeper.

And as the darkness swallowed him, the last thing he felt was the trembling press of lips against his temple.

When Angelus woke again, everything felt...peaceful.

There was no immediate jolt of pain, no sharp agony snapping him into awareness. Instead, there was warmth…gentle and all-encompassing…wrapping around him like a cocoon. The ache in his body was still there, but it was more distant, dulled to a faint pulse rather than the sharp, agonising pain from before. His mind felt slow, thick with something heavy and warm, like floating in deep water.

The room was quiet, filled only with the soft crackle of the wood-burning stove in the corner. Pale morning light filtered through what he could now make out to be the canvas walls of a tent, painting golden streaks across the fabric. The air smelled of earth and smoke, mingled with something faintly herbal. Lavender?.

He was alone.

The heavy blankets were tucked up to his chin, warm and comforting. He lay still for a moment, letting the strange sense of peace settle over him, his sluggish mind struggling to place why everything felt so… tranquil. His head still throbbed, and his lungs ached with each slow breath, but the overwhelming panic, the sharp edges of fear, those were absent.

A calming potion.

It took him a moment to recognise the effect, but it made sense. He felt too at ease, too distant from the shock and pain that should have been clawing at him. Someone had given him something to keep him calm. To keep him from…

Angelus blinked, slowly turning his head toward the small wooden table beside the large bed. A low groan slipped from his lips as a ripple of discomfort crawled up his spine, but it was manageable.

On the table, a cluster of moving photographs flickered in the firelight. His gaze landed on the closest one, a golden-eyed baby giggling as it chewed on a familiar-looking teddy, tiny hands gripping its soft, golden mane with the clumsy determination of an infant.

The next three pictures had the same baby, but now with what he could assume were the baby’s parents.

In the first, the baby was cradled in the arms of a dark-eyed man with short, wavy black hair, his face lit up in a wide smile that reached his eyes. He held the baby close, the infant’s delighted laughter echoing through the moving photograph as the man pressed a playful kiss to the chubby cheek. The baby’s small hands clung to the man’s white collar, his legs kicking in pure, unrestrained joy.

The second photograph showed the baby asleep, curled on top of the bare chest of a long-haired brunette man with striking golden eyes. The baby’s tiny fist twitched in sleep, still clutching the man’s thick finger. The man’s free hand brushed gently through the baby’s soft hair, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet warmth as he gazed down at the sleeping child.

The third image was of the baby as a newborn, swaddled tightly in a soft blanket, his tiny features peaceful and serene. He shifted slightly in the arms of the black-haired man, a silent yawn stretching his tiny mouth before he settled again. The man’s thumb brushed over the baby’s blanket with infinite care, his eyes filled with awe. Behind him stood the brunette, arms wrapped securely around them both, pressing a kiss to the black-haired man’s temple, his golden eyes crinkled with pure happiness.

Angelus swallowed hard. The sense of peace that had blanketed him wavered, shifting under something heavier…something he didn’t understand. There was something about these images that pulled at him, but his foggy mind couldn’t quite grasp the connection.

A soft breeze pulled at the canvas walls, and a flap in the wall opposite the bed shifted. Voices began to filter in.

“... find Tom? Did he get the message?” A deep, comforting voice, one that should have sent a jolt through him, but the potion still held him in its grasp.

Another voice, rougher, slightly winded, answered. “Intercepted him in the forest…headed this way. There was a band of wizards nearby. A search party led by Dumbledore. They're scouring the area.”

A pause. Then, an older voice, slow and measured: “If Albus is occupied here, this could be our chance. We may not get another opening like this.”

Angelus barely processed the words. They felt distant, like hearing them through a thick layer of glass. But then…

“Do we have everything we need?”

Something in his chest twisted at the sound of the baritone voice. 

He shifted, instinctively trying to push himself up, but the movement only sent him rolling onto his right side. Weakly pushing himself back with his left hand, he pulled back the blankets and looked down. 

His breath caught.

His right shoulder was wrapped in thick, clean bandages, tightly wound and secure—but his mind barely processed that detail.

It was the absence below it that made his heart stutter.

The blankets had fallen just enough to reveal the truth.

His arm was gone.

His entire right arm. The limb was severed just below the shoulder.

Angelus’ breath hitched. 

His arm was gone!

The calming potion’s grip on him was slipping fast.

Then, the unnatural calm wavered…cracking, unravelling as realisation hit him like a thunderclap.

“No, no, no…” His voice came in a hoarse, panicked gasp. His chest heaved, the room tilting as his heart slammed against his ribs, and the sharp stabbing pain returned.

His remaining hand scrambled at the bandages, trying to pull them off.

“Angelus!”

The canvas flap flew open, and before he could do anything, before he could sob, scream, or break any further, strong arms wrapped around him.

He was lifted, pulled against a broad chest, the warmth of another body pressing against his shaking frame. Large hands cradled him, one curled protectively around his back, the other cupping the back of his head, holding him close.

“I’m here, love. I’ve got you. It’s alright…shhh, I’m here.”

Angelus gasped, choking on a sob. His face pressed against solid warmth, the scent of earth, smoke, and something achingly familiar surrounding him.

Then…fingers in his hair, brushing slow, grounding strokes.

His breath hitched. His mind fought through the haze, clawing toward recognition.

He lifted his head, blinking through blurred vision, meeting golden eyes, the same golden eyes from the forest, and from the photographs.

The Centaur.

The same one who had carried him. The one who had soothed him, who had whispered gentle reassurances in the night.

Something deep inside him…some buried memory, some instinct…clicked.

His throat tightened, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Papa?”

Magnus let out a shuddering breath, his golden eyes shimmering with raw emotion. “Yes, love. I’m right here. Papa’s got you.”

He pressed a kiss to Angelus’ temple, his large hand trembling as it cradled the side of his face.

Angelus broke then, the last fraying threads of calm snapping as the panic gave way to deep, aching grief. He clung to Magnus, his left hand scrambling weakly at his shoulder as if he could hold together what had already been lost.

“Shh, baby, you’re safe now. I’ve got you. I promise.”

Magnus reached for a vial on the table, his other arm still cradling Angelus close. He uncorked it swiftly, bringing it to Angelus’ lips.

“Here, love. This will help. Just take a sip for me.”

Angelus whimpered, but he didn’t fight it. The potion was thick and bitter, but warmth spread quickly, dulling the sharpest edges of his pain and exhaustion.

Magnus pulled him in tighter, rocking him gently. “That’s it. Good boy. Just rest now. I’m right here.”

Angelus’ eyelids fluttered, his body going heavy against Magnus’ chest. The pain lingered, but Magnus’ arms wrapped around him, anchoring him and keeping him safe.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled, sleep dragging him under.

Magnus kissed his brow, voice thick with emotion. “Never. I’m not going anywhere. Sleep now, I’ve got you.”

Angelus drifted off to the soft thrum of Magnus’ heartbeat, safe and warm in his arms. The loss still burned, but Magnus’s presence wrapped around him like a shield, holding him together even as the world shifted beneath him.

A loud bang jolted Angelus from the depths of sleep.

His eyes snapped open, his breath catching in his throat as he instinctively curled tighter beneath the heavy blankets. The sharp sound echoed and pierced through the tent walls, mingling with the faint rustling of wind through the canvas and the distant murmur of voices.

The bang came again, loud and insistent, and for a moment, he could do nothing but lie there, staring at the canvas above him, his heart hammering in his chest.

The warmth of thick blankets cocooned him, a stark contrast to the raw ache that throbbed through his right side. He could hear the faint embers of the fire crackling nearby, casting a flickering glow against the tent walls.

He inhaled shakily, forcing himself to take in his surroundings.

The air smelled of earth and potions. The soft weight pressing against his chest was… familiar. Looking down, he found his lion teddy. He could feel its plush, worn fur beneath his fingers, clutched in his left hand.

His only hand.

He swallowed, curling his fingers tighter around the toy. His right arm was gone.

His shoulder and the small part of his arm that was left were still wrapped tightly in bandages; the stabbing pain that once shot through his right side was now gone. The burning, suffocating ache in his lungs was also gone, and his head no longer throbbed with every movement. Everything had been healed, except…

His arm.

Angelus swallowed hard. Releasing his tight grip on the lion, his left hand drifted up…hesitant, uncertain…to press against the thick layers of bandages wrapping his right shoulder.

It still didn’t feel real.

He exhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling away.

How long had he been here? He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for what felt like days, never fully awake, always pulled back under by sleep or the potions pressed to his lips. But now, something felt different. The weight of the exhaustion was still there, but lighter, no longer suffocating. His thoughts, though slow, were clearer.

He had vague memories of cool cloths pressed to his forehead, of being lifted and shifted with careful hands, of voices murmuring reassurances as sleep pulled him under. He remembered broth spooned into his mouth, stories told in soothing tones, and the unfamiliar yet oddly comforting sensation of being read to as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Another bang echoed around the room, louder this time, shaking him fully from his thoughts. He let out a soft huff before carefully pushing himself up.

He was lying in a large, low-set king-sized bed with a wooden headboard carved in swirling ivy patterns. At the foot of it sat a large, old trunk, reinforced with iron corners and worn brass locks.

His gaze briefly drifted toward the tent flap, pulled back just enough to reveal movement on the other side. He could hear gentle sounds, items shifting, and soft footsteps.

Angelus hesitated. His heart was beating too fast, a sudden nervousness curling in his stomach. What if he wasn’t ready to face everything yet?

But then, his stomach grumbled.

He startled at the sound, then let out a quiet, breathy huff. He was starving.

Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet pressing into the soft layering of rugs covering the floor.

The room tilted, and for a second, the world blacked out.

He staggered, catching himself at the last moment on the side of the bed. His vision swam for a few seconds before settling. Realising the world was blurry because he wasn’t wearing his glasses, he looked over at the bedside table, but could not see them anywhere. 

He exhaled through his nose and realised that he would have to make do without them. It would not be the first time. Growing up, Dudley had made a sport of hiding or breaking his glasses. He was used to having to navigate a blurry world for days, sometimes weeks.

Taking a deep breath, he took a careful step forward. Then another. His legs were shaky…weakened from days spent in bed…but they held.

As he moved, he saw beside the stove in the corner a worn green wing-backed chair. Resting atop it, its lid slightly open, was his trunk.

Angelus froze, staring at it. His little trunk. The one he had been given for his birthday, the one that had been under his bed in Gryffindor Tower

Slowly, cautiously, he approached. His breath caught in his throat when he peered inside.

Everything was there.

The gifts from his parents, including the wand holster he had been wearing the night in the forest. Some of his books and items are from Zonko’s. The invisibility cloak. Even the objects he had found in the Room of Requirement.

Pretty much everything he held dear except his wand, broom and the Time-Turner.

Angelus frowned, shifting through the items. His broom had been in the school broom shed. His wand, he remembered, he had dropped somewhere in the forest when the spiders attacked, but he had hoped it had been found by his papa or another centaur. And He knew he had placed the time-turner in the small trunk with the rest of the items he had collected from the room of requirement.

Before he could worry further, the flap in the wall was pushed aside.

“You’re up.”

Angelus turned just as Magnus entered the tent, his golden eyes locking onto him with quiet relief.

The centaur didn’t hesitate; he crossed the space, crouching beside Angelus and pulling him into a firm, strong hug.

Angelus melted into it, his face pressing into the warmth of his Papa’s shoulder.

“Tom brought your trunk,” Magnus explained softly. “Though he had to leave some items behind so no one would get suspicious.”

Angelus hesitated, wanting to ask about his wand and time-turner.

Magnus must have sensed his shift in focus because he gave a gentle squeeze to his shoulder.

“Come, love. You need to eat.”

The mention of food sent another loud growl through Angelus’ stomach, and he flushed slightly, glancing away.

Magnus huffed a quiet chuckle. “Come on, then.”

Another growl from his stomach betrayed him, and Angelus flushed as Magnus chuckled softly and guided him outside.

As soon as they stepped beyond the tent flap, Angelus froze.

They were deep in a forest clearing, massive trees rising like giants around them. The morning light filtered down in golden streaks. The tent he had come from was only one of many, arranged in a semicircle around a central fire. Hollowed grooves wound along the bases of the trees, almost like doorways and to his shock, one centaur ducked into one, disappearing completely, despite it seeming far too narrow to fit anyone.

Other centaurs walked through the camp, some carrying baskets or bows, others seated around fires or practising archery with longbows nearly twice Angelus's height. The camp was quiet but alive, every movement efficient, every voice calm.

A hoot above startled him, and he looked up to see a snowy owl perched high on a branch, wings slightly fluffed, gold eyes trained on him.

“Hedwig?” he whispered, stunned.

Magnus followed his gaze. “She found us two days ago,” he said, voice filled with fondness. “She’s been keeping watch over our tent, waiting for you.”

Angelus blinked rapidly, overwhelmed.

Magnus’s hand pressed gently to his back. “Come,” he said softly. “There are people who want to meet you.”

They made their way toward the fire. Three figures sat there, two centaurs and a human woman.

Angelus’s steps slowed.

The woman’s wild silver hair and ageless face were unmistakable. Her eyes glinted in the firelight, a calm but fierce presence radiating from her.

“Angelus,” Magnus said, voice warm, “this is Perenelle Flamel.”

Angelus stared.

Perenelle Flamel? As in Nicholas Flamel and Perenelle Flamel? The name alone sent a rush of bewilderment through him. The wife of Nicholas Flamel, the creator of the Philosopher’s Stone, who had supposedly lived for centuries and, in the previous timeline, had passed away in 1992 after the stone had been destroyed.

Angelus stared at her, wide-eyed, then turned to Magnus, as if waiting for a correction.

Magnus merely chuckled softly, patting his back before leading him closer.

“You mean… Flamel? As in…”

“The very same,” Perenelle said with a small, knowing smile.

He stumbled over his words, trying to process them.

“But…” He shook his head. “I thought…you were friends with Dumbledore!”

At that, the warmth in Perenelle’s expression cooled. Her eyes flickered with something older, heavier.

“Friends?” she echoed, the word tasting bitter in her mouth. “That’s what he would have liked people to believe.”

Angelus stiffened at her tone. She sighed, shaking her head as she traced her fingers along the rim of a steaming teacup beside her plate.

“Dumbledore briefly apprenticed under my husband over a century ago,” she said. “But our beliefs did not align, and in time, we parted ways.”

Her fingers tightened slightly against the ceramic, her expression darkening.

“And when he stole the Philosopher’s Stone from us, that ensured we would never work with him again.”

Angelus’ breath caught. “He stole it?” he whispered.

Perenelle tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp, watching him carefully. “Yes.”

His mind spun. The Philosopher’s Stone, the one he had nearly been killed protecting in the first year of his previous life, had been stolen from Flamel.

Before Angelus could ask more, Perenelle suddenly smiled, lightening the air around them with an ease that felt far too practised.

“But enough of that,” she said, waving a hand. “Come, let’s eat.”

Angelus glanced at Magnus, who gave him a soft nod before guiding him toward the fire. Seated nearby were two centaurs. One had dark eyes and a strong, steady presence, who he had seen briefly in the forest before. The other centaur, however, was unfamiliar, his silver hair braided over one shoulder, his expression calm yet unreadable.

Magnus gestured toward them. "Angelus, this is Orieus and Elek," he said warmly. "They are old friends, and they wished to meet you."

Elek inclined his head slightly, his piercing silver eyes locking onto Angelus. "It is good to finally meet you," he said, his voice deep and measured. "Your journey has not been an easy one, but you are among those who can guide you now."

As Magnus guided him to a seat near the fire, the scent of something rich and savoury wafted through the air. A large cauldron rested in the flames, its contents bubbling gently. Another bang echoed through the air and Angelus could now make out red sparks flying in the distance. 

Perenelle had been stirring the stew before serving a generous portion into a bowl. Handed it to Angelus with a small smile. “There is a search party in the woods, but they are a ways from here. You have nothing to worry about. Eat! You’ll feel better with a full stomach.”

Angelus hesitated, and Magnus, noticing his struggle, gently took the bowl and settled it in Angelus’s lap, holding the bowl steady for him. His left hand, unfamiliar with the task, struggled to hold and guide the spoon to his mouth, each movement uncertain and clumsy. Each movement felt foreign, his fingers unsure, his grip unsteady. Something as simple as eating felt frustratingly difficult. He clenched his jaw, the act of eating becoming overwhelming as he kept spilling the stew.

Before he could dwell on it, Magnus kept the bowl steady with one hand while his other helped guide Angelus’s unsteady grip, his movements slow and patient as he assisted him in bringing the spoon to his mouth. "It will take time, love," Magnus murmured. "Let me help you."

The first taste was heaven, a perfect blend of spices and rich broth that settled his nerves. He ate slowly, each bite requiring concentration. As he ate, the centaurs began to share stories, tales of their kind, and most importantly, stories about his Papa when he was young. Angelus listened intently, each word a thread weaving a clearer image of the father he had yet to truly know.

As the warmth of the stew filled him, the steady rhythm of the stories and the crackling fire made his eyelids grow heavy. He fought to stay awake, wanting to hear more, but exhaustion crept over him. His head slowly tilted until he was resting against Magnus, who, noticing his weariness, pulled him closer.

“You can hear the rest of the stories another day,” Magnus murmured, his voice filled with quiet affection. Without effort, he picked Angelus up, cradling him easily in his arms. Angelus barely stirred as Magnus carried him back toward the tent, his body heavy with sleep. Once inside, Magnus lay him gently on the bed, tucking the blankets around him. 

As Angelus drifted further into sleep, Magnus remained by his side, smoothing his hair back gently before placing a soft kiss on his forehead. “Rest, love,” he whispered. “You are safe.”

And with that, Angelus fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

As the soft snores of Angelus faded beneath the quiet rustling of the tent’s canvas, Magnus stepped out into the clearing, pulling the flap shut behind him. The fire had burned low, its embers glowing warmly in the darkness.

Around it sat Perenelle, Orieus, and Elek. The centaurs sat in still, silent poise—Orieus with his arms folded over his broad chest, Elek calmly stirring the coals with the end of a charred stick. Perenelle sat upright, her shawl pulled around her shoulders, eyes distant and thoughtful.

All three looked up as Magnus approached.

“He’s asleep,” Magnus said quietly.

Nicholas Flamel emerged from the shadows beyond the fire, his long coat trailing behind him. “Good. Everything is ready.”

Magnus turned to the centaurs. “Will you both stay with Angelus? If he wakes… tell him I’ll be back soon.”

Orieus gave a solemn nod. “He will not be alone. No harm will come to him while we breathe.”

Elek added softly, “Let your mind be at ease. We will watch over your child.”

Perenelle stood, brushing off her skirts. “I could stay,” she offered. “Angelus may need someone gentle if he wakes confused or frightened.”

Nicholas shook his head. “No. I need you in the chamber, Perenelle. Your healing skills are essential for keeping the host stabilised for the ritual. Without you…”

“The host may not survive the transition,” Perenelle finished grimly. She frowned, then looked toward the tent. “But surely we can wait. Just a few more hours, until Angelus has recovered more.”

Orieus’s voice was low but certain. “There is little time. The forest is still being combed by search parties. And it is only a matter of time before Dumbledore begins questioning the herd or visits the camp.”

A long, heavy pause settled over the clearing.

“It is time,” Nicholas said simply. 

Magnus glanced once more toward the tent, then gave a single, resolute nod. 

Without another word, the three turned and vanished into the trees, the firelight flickering behind them as the shadows swallowed their path.

Magnus and Perenelle followed Nicholas down the narrow woodland path, the moonlight flickering through the trees. They arrived at what appeared to be a crumbling stone mausoleum nestled in the hillside, cloaked in shadow. Nicholas pressed a hand to the rune-etched archway and whispered a phrase in an ancient language. The stone shimmered and dissolved.

The entrance shimmered out of existence as the three stepped into the hidden chamber beneath the hill. Ancient runes on the walls flickered awake at their presence, casting a deep violet glow across the vast, expanded space.

Inside Quirrell stood waiting near the centre of the chamber, dressed in simple white linen robes that clung to his frame like a burial shroud. His eyes were hollow with exhaustion, but lucid, focused. There was no trace of fear in his bearing, only a heavy stillness.

“Tom,” Magnus said, approaching him cautiously. “Are you well?”

Quirrell/Tom gave a faint nod. “As well as I can be. Quirrell's body is starting to fail. The strain of two souls is becoming too much for it.” His voice, though rasping, was stronger than usual.

Magnus studied him for a moment, then leaned in slightly. “Were you able to retrieve the Stone without Dumbledore suspecting you?”

A glint of quiet satisfaction lit Quirrell’s eyes. Without a word, he reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out a gleaming, gold object: a Time-Turner.

“I had help,” he said simply. “From our son.” He held the device between his fingers, letting it catch the torchlight. “When I gathered his belongings. I found it at the bottom of his trunk.”

Magnus blinked. “Angelus had a Time-Turner?”

“He did,” Quirrell confirmed. “And thanks to it, I was able to retrieve the Philosopher’s Stone while at the same time being where Dumbledore could see me.”

A beat passed between them, heavy with unspoken awe, pride, and a touch of disbelief.

“How is he?” Quirrell asked then, his voice quieter. “Is he alright? Orieus only said that you had found him. Did the acromantulas hurt him?”

“He is safe and sleeping in my tent,” Magnus replied. “Orieus and Elek are watching over him. He was hurt… Perenelle has been helping heal him.”

Quirrell nodded slowly.

While they spoke, Nicholas and Perenelle were already moving around the chamber. Nicholas muttered to himself in French as he lit the black-flamed cauldron, its base carved into the floor itself. While Perenelle reached into an old, worn trunk against the wall and levitated out a body. Thin, lifeless, and eerie in its stillness. The figure hovered in the air as she guided it slowly through the room with practised precision.

Quirrell caught sight of it, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Is that… you’re using a human body? I thought we were going to use a homunculus.”

Magnus turned toward him, his expression grim. “We tried. Every test on the homunculus failed. They couldn’t sustain a large magical core, let alone strong enough to house a soul. They are too unstable.”

Nicholas added from across the room, “After the last collapse, I contacted an ally in the Department of Mysteries. He sent us this body. The wizard had been subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss. His soul is gone, but the body remains alive. The core, though damaged, still exists. He is far more viable than any construct.”

The body was gently lowered onto one of the stone tables, limbs limp, ribs clearly defined beneath parchment-thin skin. His eyes remained closed, but there was an undeniable aura of magical residue clinging to him, like the ashes of a long-extinguished fire.

Quirrell exhaled slowly. “I see.”

Magnus placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Come. It’s time.”

He guided Quirrell to the second table, where Perenelle stood waiting with a small goblet of potion in hand. She offered him a soft, reassuring smile as he climbed up and lay back.

“This will make it easier,” she said gently. “The transition will be painful. Better to sleep through it.”

Quirrell met her eyes and nodded once before taking the goblet.

The air inside the chamber grew heavier as the ritual began in earnest.

Perenelle stood beside the still body, her wand raised, its tip glowing with silver fire. She chanted in a steady stream of Latin, the ancient syllables winding through the room like threads of invisible silk. Each movement of her wand traced sigils in the air, runes of passage and transformation, of unlocking and surrender.

Nicholas, across the chamber, had begun his preparations beside the roaring black-flamed cauldron. He moved with the deliberate rhythm of someone who had performed this kind of magic before, but never lightly. From the inside pocket of his robe, he extracted the Philosopher’s Stone, its red surface pulsing with a deep, internal glow. He held it reverently over the cauldron and began to chant.

The flame turned violet.

He dropped the stone into the potion. The cauldron responded instantly—its contents surged upward with a roar of blue fire before settling into a molten, glimmering liquid. 

Next came the blood.

A crystal vial, sealed with wax and etched with protective runes, was uncorked with a soft pop of released pressure. Inside shimmered a silver liquid, unicorn blood, freely given beneath the light of a full moon. Even sealed, it radiated gentle magic, calming and ancient. Nicholas handled it with reverence. He poured three precise drops into the cauldron. The potion responded immediately, hissing softly as it caught the light, shimmering gold at the edges before deepening into a luminous, swirling indigo.

Then, Nicholas reached into his robes and produced a wand of pale white wood. Magnus’s gaze narrowed the moment he saw it.

“That’s…” Magnus started.

“I know,” Nicholas said, without looking up. “I have Tom’s full permission to use it.”

“You’re putting it in the cauldron?” Magnus asked, incredulous.

Nicholas nodded. “It won’t be harmed. It’s a conduit. A totem of identity. Using something he has a deep connection to will help strengthen the ritual. The magic will resonate through it.” He paused, glancing up at Magnus. “Trust me. I know what I am doing.”

Magnus said nothing, but his brow furrowed with tension.

Nicholas dropped the wand into the cauldron.

A flare of light erupted blinding, brilliant, and strangely cold. The wand sank beneath the surface like a memory pulled into a dream.

Nicholas’s voice rose, clear and resonant, echoing through the chamber like a bell tolling in deep time.

“Bone of the father. You will rebuild the vessel of your blood.”

He reached into a small ebony box and drew out a satchel of bone dust—carefully prepared from remains donated in reverence. With a flick of his wand, the dust floated into the air like pollen, catching the violet light before descending into the cauldron in a fine, sacred veil. The potion hissed, glowing with a rich, opalescent blue.

“Bone of the grandsire. You will restore the strength of the line.”

Another pinch of finer bone, this time older, crumbled between Nicholas’s fingers and drifted into the mix. Sparks danced across the surface. The cauldron thrummed like a plucked string.

Then Nicholas's voice deepened with emotion as he lifted a silver vial, its contents pale and glinting faintly.

“Flesh of the husband. Skin and nail, freely given. You will rekindle what was once cherished.”

The dusting of skin tissue and nail trimmings fell into the brew like ash in the wind. The potion shimmered gold for a heartbeat, then dimmed to a quiet, steady glow.

Next came a small, silken pouch opened with care. From it, Nicholas drew a coiled lock of fine hair.

“Hair of the son woven by love. You will anchor the soul to hope and future.”

He let it fall into the cauldron. The moment it touched the surface, the potion flared white and then deepened into a swirling, radiant silver.

At last, Nicholas held up a final vial, stopped with wax. Inside, thick and dark, swirled human blood.

“Blood of the self before ruin, before fall. You will complete the circle. You will awaken what sleeps.”

He uncorked the vial. A single drop fell.

The potion exploded in a burst of blinding silver light, a pillar of magic rushing upward with a low, harmonic note that reverberated through the stone. Sparks of every colour shot into the air and rained down like stardust.

The cauldron responded, its surface shifting into concentric ripples, pulsing in time with his words. The magic was wild now, barely contained.

Nicholas raised his wand and turned to the still form lying on the stone table…the soulless wizard. With a sweep of his arm, he levitated the body into the air, slow and reverent, as if lifting a relic.

The body hovered above the cauldron for a moment, limbs dangling in the magic-saturated air.

Then Nicholas lowered him into the potion.

The moment the body touched the surface, the cauldron convulsed, liquid folding inward around the figure like a cocoon. The potion glowed brighter, trembling with energy as the body was submerged.

Perenelle didn’t miss a beat. She moved swiftly across the chamber to the opposite table, where Quirrell lay in deep sleep. His brow furrowed, lips twitching as if his mind still wrestled with the soul it had harboured.

She stood at his head, wand raised high, and began a second chant…this one softer, more fluid, like a lullaby for something ancient and hidden. Her wand danced over his temples, tracing delicate circles as light gathered at its tip.

Then it happened.

A shimmering, translucent thread began to rise from Quirrell’s forehead, like a ribbon of silver mist. It wavered and shimmered, resisting at first, then slowly detached and floated toward the cauldron.

Nicholas extended his hand, guiding the soul thread toward the centre of the brew.

The moment it touched the surface, the potion erupted.

Not violently, but with profound purpose…like the strike of a clock at the destined hour. Blue and gold light rose in a column from the cauldron, swirling with ancient runes and faces half-formed from steam. The stone beneath their feet vibrated with contained force.

The soul thread was drawn into the cauldron, disappearing beneath the surface.

The potion stilled.

The sparks vanished in an instant, as though swallowed by the void. The surface of the cauldron turned mirror-flat, unnaturally calm.

A surge of white steam burst upward in a thick, coiling wave. It rolled out across the chamber, obscuring everything in a silvery mist. Magnus took a step back, his heart thundering in his chest.

For one horrible moment, no one moved. No sound but the soft crackling of the cauldron’s final breath. The mist was so dense, it was impossible to see the figure submerged within.

Magnus’s throat tightened.

The mist shifted.

A dark shape began to rise.

At first, it was just a vague outline, but then the figure straightened, unfolding into a tall, slender man. The steam clung to his skin, trailing down a bare, pale chest, long limbs, sharp collarbones.

And then he stepped forward.

Tom Riddle emerged from the cauldron, whole.

His skin was smooth and ghost-pale, his frame tall and lean, though not skeletal; there was strength beneath the surface. His black hair, damp and curling from the steam, was longer than it had once been, streaked with silver at the temples. His features were sharply cut, aristocratic cheekbones, a fine nose, and a strong jaw softened only by the faint tremor of exhaustion.

His eyes, deep and dark brown, opened fully as he looked around, disoriented, blinking against the mist and the torchlight.

“Tom…” Magnus breathed, already moving.

Tom swayed slightly.

Magnus reached the cauldron just in time to catch him, arms circling his waist. 

Perenelle stepped forward quickly, a soft cotton robe draped over one arm. “Here,” she said gently, helping Magnus pull it around Tom’s shoulders. “He may be cold for a while.”

Tom's eyes found Magnus’s again, and in them, Magnus saw everything.

Recognition. Disbelief. Grief. Love.

“I…” Tom’s voice cracked, barely audible. “It worked?”

Magnus cupped his face, brushing wet hair back from his forehead. “You’re here,” he whispered. “Whole.”

Without hesitation, Tom leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Magnus’s.

Then their mouths met.

It wasn’t a kiss of triumph or passion but of relief. Of reunion. Of something broken being made whole again. Tom’s hands, still shaking, gripped Magnus’s shoulders, as if grounding himself in the moment, anchoring his soul in the one person he trusted most.

“I’m sorry,” Tom murmured against his lips. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Magnus whispered. “But you and Angelus are home now.”

Behind them, Perenelle stepped back, giving them space. 

Tom leaned heavily against Magnus, still pale and unsteady, the cotton robe clinging damply to his frame. His breath came in shallow puffs, each step laboured but determined.

“I want to see him,” Tom whispered. “Take me to Angelus.”

Magnus nodded.

Supporting his weight with an arm wrapped firmly around his waist, Magnus guided him out of the chamber, through the still dark woods and back to the quiet circle of the camp. The fire had burned low but steady, its glow casting soft light across the clearing.

Orieus and Elek were seated near the flames. Both rose instantly as they approached, eyes sharp but not alarmed.

“He is still sleeping,” Elek said, voice low. “He has not stirred.”

“Thank you,” Magnus murmured.

He ducked into the tent with Tom at his side.

Inside, it was warm and still. The only sound was the soft rhythm of Angelus’s breathing, steady beneath the layers of wool blankets. He lay on his side, one arm curled near his face, the other…

Tom froze.

He moved forward, slipping from Magnus’s support with quiet urgency, and dropped to sit at the edge of the bed. His hands trembled as he brushed the hair from Angelus’s forehead, caressing his temple, his cheek, and the shape of his sleeping features like a map he was relearning.

He saw the stump.

The soft wrap of bandages. The space where an arm should be.

His breath caught, and he choked on a sound that wasn’t a sob, but something deeper. A wound breaking open.

“No,” he whispered, his voice splintering. “No…oh, my baby…”

Magnus came up behind him and gently placed both hands on Tom’s shoulders, grounding him.

“He’s alive,” Magnus said softly. “That’s the most important thing.”

Silent tears slipped down Tom’s face. He clutched Angelus’s remaining hand, holding it between both of his, bowing his head over it. “How did this happen?” he asked, voice shaking. “Who did this?”

Magnus exhaled. “He fell in the river. An Aengus Kelpitrap caught him. By the time I got there, the plant had already taken his arm. The plant… produces a toxin, one that resists magic. We couldn’t heal his arm.”

Tom’s jaw clenched as he lowered his head further, his forehead nearly resting on Angelus’s hand.

“We had to use a thread to close the wound,” Magnus added quietly. “Like Muggles do.”

Tom slowly turned his head, eyes glossy with tears, and looked up at Magnus. “There’s a spell,” he said hoarsely. “I know one. I used it before. I could…”

“No.” Magnus interrupted gently but firmly, kneeling beside him. “That was dark magic, Tom. You agreed, you promised to leave that behind.”

Tom opened his mouth to protest, but Magnus reached up, touching his face.

“You know the truth,” he said. “That kind of magic always demands something in return. And it would damage him. Corrupt his magical core. You know it.”

Tom looked down at their son again, his thumb brushing softly along Angelus’s brow, tracing the curve of his cheek.

“He’s safe now,” Magnus said, arms wrapping around him from behind. He leaned in and kissed Tom’s temple, then his cheek, his voice just above a whisper. “He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”

Tom’s breath hitched, but he said nothing more. One hand continued to cradle Angelus’s, while the other brushed gently across the boy’s brow and temple, reverent in its tenderness.

Magnus held him. “He’s strong, and he has both of us to help him.”

They stayed like that in silence for a long while, Tom weeping quietly, Magnus whispering soft reassurances, while Angelus remained asleep and blissfully unaware.

Eventually, Magnus pressed one more kiss to Tom’s hair. “You need rest too,” he said softly. “We’ll begin the next ritual once Angelus wakes. You’ll need your strength.”

Tom hesitated, then nodded.

Magnus helped him ease down beside their son. Tom slipped under the blankets, one arm draped protectively over Angelus’s body.

Within minutes, both father and son were breathing in unison.

Chapter Text

The tent was pitch black.

The fire had long since died to ash, and the canvas walls whispered faintly as the wind slid across them, carrying the distant rustle of trees. Angelus stirred under the thick blankets, barely awake, eyes heavy, his body cocooned in warmth.

He might have gone back to sleep if not for the soft rustle of the tent flap opening.

The cold air hit first, a sharp bite of forest chill. Then came the faint scrape of hooves, followed by a familiar voice murmuring something too low to catch. A second later, the fire reignited in a quiet whoosh, casting flickering orange light through the darkness.

Angelus blinked, groaning softly.

Magnus was crouched near the hearth, right hand extended, now bathed in firelight.

“Go back to sleep, little one,” Magnus said without looking up. His voice was low, warm, almost coaxing.

Angelus yawned, barely able to lift his head. “What time is it…?”

“It’s just past three.”

The centaur moved quietly to the bedside table, his massive form casting shifting shadows on the canvas walls. From among the vials and jars resting there, he retrieved a tall, narrow bottle filled with a softly shimmering blue liquid. It pulsed with gentle light, faint and magical.

Angelus blinked at it. “What’s that?”

Magnus didn’t answer at first. He simply uncorked the vial and raised it to his lips. “The Exasthenízo potion,” he said after a beat. “Temporarily weakens blood curses.”

He drank it in one swift gulp.

The change was nearly immediate. Magnus staggered slightly, his hooves scraping the ground as he gritted his teeth. A low groan escaped him as his entire body began to shift. His equine half dissolving into mist and magic, shrinking inward, bones reshaping and limbs re-forming with what sounded like a deep, grinding crack.

Angelus winced. “Why do you take it if it hurts?”

Magnus leaned against the bedpost, eyes closed, breathing shallow. He wiped a hand over his face. “It’s not painful,” he said after a moment. “More uncomfortable. Like being forced into skin that doesn’t fit.”

He finally straightened and moved to the side of the bed, lowering himself onto the mattress with a soft sigh.

Angelus was still watching him, eyes half-lidded but curious. “Why don’t you take it all the time?”

Magnus pulled a blanket over himself and rolled onto his side, facing Angelus. His voice was quieter now, heavy with sleep. “Because the potion suppresses my magical core as well as the curse.”

“Why?”

He let out a breath. “Because the potion weakens the part of my magic that the curse uses to change me into a centaur. So long as the potion is in my blood, my magic is also weakened.”

Angelus blinked slowly. “Why can’t you just get rid of the curse?”

Magnus shifted, pulling the blanket higher as he sank deeper into the pillow. “Because it’s not a simple curse. What was cast on our ancestors was a curse on our bloodline. A curse meant to slowly turn our ancestors into horses permanently.”

“Like a maledictus?” 

“Yes,” Magnus murmured. “Only… it didn’t finish the change. Something went wrong. Or right. Depends on who you ask. They didn’t become horses; they became something in between. Human minds… bound to altered bodies.”

He paused, breath slowing. “But over time, it rooted into our bloodlines. Changed how our magic behaves, and it’s now part of who we are.”

Angelus watched him in silence, brow furrowed, thoughts racing.

Then, softly, “Do you remember what it was like? Before the curse?”

Magnus let out a sleepy breath. “I wasn’t alive thousands of years ago, love.”

“Oh… right.” Angelus shifted under the blankets. “But do you feel different when you're in human form?”

Magnus hummed. “Yes.”

“Do you wish you were a wizard?”

“No.”

Angelus blinked. “You don’t?”

Magnus’s voice was slower now, thick with tiredness but still warm. “Being human is… convenient. It’s easier to lie down. Easier to sleep with human legs. And I can walk through a Muggle village without causing a riot. But that’s about it.”

He shifted slightly. “As a centaur, I’m stronger magically and physically. It’s who I am and what I have always been.”

Angelus rolled onto his side to face him more fully. “But if the curse didn’t work properly, does that mean someone messed it up? Or was it, like, an accident? Or did someone stop it on purpose? Or…”

Magnus gave a slow exhale. “Angelus.”

“Yes?”

“Go to sleep.”

“I am sleeping. Just talking while I do it.”

Magnus cracked one eye open. “Not how sleep works, baby.”

Angelus smiled faintly. “Okay. Just one more.”

Magnus groaned quietly into the pillow but didn’t argue.

“Do centaurs have their own kind of magic? Like… spells or rituals that wizards don’t use?”

Magnus let out a slow breath, eyes half-lidded. “We don’t use wands, though not by choice. The law says we’re not allowed. So we have to learn wandless magic.”

Angelus stayed quiet, listening.

“Our magic has also evolved over time so that we are more proficient at divination and earth magic,” Magnus continued, voice heavy with sleep. “But other than that, our magic is the same as any wizard's. Now go to sleep.”

“But..”

“Angelus, I love you, but I am too old and too tired to keep up with your midnight interrogation.”

Angelus snorted. “Just one more?”

Magnus closed his eyes again. “You said that three questions ago.”

“But this one’s short!”

“Short questions grow long answers, and long answers keep me awake.”

Angelus pouted in the dark. “But I just want to understand…”

“And I just want to fall asleep and snore peacefully.”

“Do centaurs snore?”

“Yes,” Magnus said flatly. “Terribly. Consider that your final warning.”

Angelus opened his mouth again…

But another voice, dry and muffled by sleep, cut through the quiet from just behind him. “Angelus,” it said, tired and gravelly. “Go. To. Sleep.”

Angelus froze.

He turned slowly, blinking in the firelight, and found a shape stirring under the blankets behind him.

Tom Riddle.

Now fully human. Hair mussed. Eyes half-lidded with sleep. But undeniably him, the face from the photos on the table, and his memories of his past life.

Angelus stared.

And then, without a second thought, he launched himself over the blankets, wrapping his arm around Tom’s chest with surprising strength.

“Dad! ” he exclaimed, voice bursting with joy, all exhaustion forgotten. “You’re…you’re you! You’ve got your body back! And you don’t look all snakey!”

Tom made a soft noise of protest, clearly still half asleep, but his arms came around Angelus instinctively, holding him tightly to his chest. 

Angelus beamed against his chest. “Wait…how did it happen? Was it a ritual? Did you use the stone? How do you get it? Are you staying with us now? Are we staying here, or are we leaving? Where will we go? When will we go?”

Tom gave a tired groan into Angelus’s hair. “Oh no. No no no…”

Magnus didn’t move, but his voice drifted across the bed, deadpan. “Looks like it’s your turn now.”

Tom sighed. “He’s worse than you.”

Magnus hummed. “He’s is from both of us. You really thought he’d just go to sleep quietly?”

“I’m right here, ” Angelus said indignantly, though he didn’t stop smiling or letting his dad go.

Tom exhaled, rubbing slow circles into Angelus’s back. “Baby… I love you. I really do.”

Angelus looked up, wide-eyed. “But?”

“But if you ask one more question tonight, I am going to put a Silencing Charm on you, and you can talk to the tent walls. ”

Magnus grunted in agreement. “Consider this a ceasefire, love. The war of questions resumes after sunrise.”

Angelus gave a small, sheepish laugh and burrowed into Tom’s chest again, warm and safe between the two people he loved most in the world.

“Okay,” he whispered at last.

And this time, he meant it.

Wrapped in their arms, Angelus finally let sleep take him.

The morning sunlight slanted in through the canvas, warm and golden, casting soft shapes across the tent floor. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and outside, birds were chirping like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong.

Angelus sulked.

He sat curled in the corner of the tent, knees pulled tight to his chest, his left arm wrapped firmly around them like he was holding himself together. His right side, the one that ended in bandages and not an arm, was angled slightly away, hidden as much by posture as by intention. He kept his eyes fixed on the canvas wall ahead, blank and beige, as if not looking at anything could keep everything else from mattering.

Magnus had left shortly after breakfast, pressing a kiss to both their heads before he stepped out. Angelus hadn’t acknowledged him. Magnus hadn’t expected him to. He told Tom he’d be back by midday, mentioned a letter from the goblins and a report from Perenelle, tilting his head very subtly toward Angelus and then left the tent.

Tom sat at the small conjured table, letters sitting in a neat pile in front of him, quill in his left hand. Seemingly unfazed by the storm brewing ten feet away.

It had not been a good morning.

He’d tried to dress himself. The pullover shirt had seemed simple, soft and loose. It wasn’t. He got one arm through, then tried to haul it over his head. The collar caught on his ear. The right sleeve flopped behind his shoulder. He couldn’t get a grip. The more he pulled, the more twisted it became, smothering his mouth, tangling around his neck. Panic built fast and hot in his chest.

His heart raced. His breathing hitched. He yanked harder, now half-wrestling the shirt, half-trapped by it.

Tom had crossed the tent silently, knelt beside him, and untangled it. Calm. No judgement. No pity.

He hadn’t said anything. Just helped.

Which somehow made it worse.

Then came breakfast.

Angelus had tried to manage by himself with a bowl of porridge balanced precariously on the edge of the table. But his grip had slipped, and his arm knocked the edge of the bowl. The bowl wobbled. And then the porridge tipped in a thick, awful splatter across the floor.

“Bloody hell, ” he’d muttered before he could stop himself.

“Language,” Tom had said quietly from behind his newspaper.

Angelus had gritted his teeth and tried again, only to drop the spoon onto the floor the second time and mutter something much worse.

That time, Tom looked up.

Now Angelus sat with his forehead resting lightly against his knees, mouth pressed into a hard, silent line, curled in on himself, shutting down beneath the weight of frustration and shame at having failed at the simplest, most ordinary things.

After a long stretch of silence, Tom said without looking up, “There’s a bowl of fruit on the table.”

Angelus didn’t respond.

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Still nothing.

Tom set the quill down. “You can’t stay there all day.”

“I’m not hungry,” Angelus snapped.

Tom’s gaze flicked over, but his voice remained even. “You need to eat.”

Angelus’s fist clenched tighter around his knees. “I said I’m not hungry!”

Tom didn’t reply. He simply turned back to the parchment and said, “The fruit will be here when you’re ready.”

More silence.

Then a soft chime rang through the tent. The flap lifted, and Perenelle Flamel stepped inside, elegant and composed. Her gaze swept the space with quiet precision, pausing briefly on Angelus before settling on Tom.

Tom rose from the chair to greet her. His posture was straight and composed.

“Madame Flamel.”

“Thomas.” She smiled faintly. “You’re looking stronger.”

Tom inclined his head. “Still regaining my strength, but my mind is clearer. And the fog that plagued me for years is gone.”

Perenelle nodded. “Good. Nicholas and Magnus are almost finished setting up the last ritual. I have come to check Angelus’s healing and check he is well enough for the ritual.”

Her eyes turned toward the corner.

Angelus immediately turned his head farther toward the wall.

Perenelle approached slowly. “Angelus, may I take a look at your arm?”

He didn’t answer.

“I just need to examine the healing…”

“No.” 

Perenelle paused. “I understand this is difficult…”

“I said no!” Angelus barked, not looking at her.

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Angelus!”

“I don’t want anyone touching me!”

A tense silence followed.

Perenelle straightened, giving Tom a small glance. “Perhaps now is not the time.”

Tom gave a clipped nod. “Let's leave it. For now.”

He reached for a slip of parchment on the table, then gestured toward the tent flap. “I wanted to ask you about your medical report.” 

They stepped outside. Tom cast a muffling ward around them with a flick of his wand, sealing the conversation from curious ears.

Inside, Angelus didn’t move.

But through the veil of his fringe, he could still see them. Tom holding the parchment up. Perenelle shaking her head. Tom’s hand gestured toward the tent. Toward him.

His stomach twisted.

They’re talking about me.

His hand tightened in his lap.

His heart thudded as the buzzing of the charm grated against his ears like static. Slowly, he uncurled from the corner. Then, he slowly rose and crept along the canvas wall until he was just beside the flap, out of sight.

He edged forward.

Still nothing but that awful buzzing.

He reached out, hand trembling, and tugged the flap just enough to lean forward…

Tom turned instantly, the muffling charm breaking. “Angelus?”

Angelus froze.

“What are you doing?” Tom asked, calm but unmistakably sharp.

Angelus’s hand gripped the flap. “I saw you pointing at me.”

Tom didn’t deny it. “We were having a private discussion.”

Angelus’s face twisted. “Private? Bullsh…”

“Language, ” Tom snapped, eyes narrowing.

“You were talking about me!” Angelus snapped.

Tom’s tone cooled to stone. “We were discussing your medical report. Nothing more.”

Angelus’s face twisted. “So you were talking about me.” 

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your tone.”

“You have no right to hide anything from me!” Angelus shouted. “Tell me what you were talking about!”

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped a note. “Angelus. That’s enough.”

“No!” Angelus threw back. “Tell me what you were talking about.”

Tom stepped forward. “Angelus, you’re upset, and I understand that. But this isn’t the way to…”

“Don’t patronise me!”

“I’m not,” Tom said tightly. “But I won’t be shouted at for protecting your peace of mind.”

“I don’t need protecting!” Angelus screamed. “I need to know what’s going on! I know you’re hiding something!”

“That is enough!” Tom said, sharper now. “We will talk later. When you have calmed down.”

“Fuck you!” Angelus exploded. “You will tell me now!”

“You’re angry,” Tom said tightly. “And upset. But that does not permit you to speak to me like this.”

Angelus stepped forward, shaking. “You think I’m stupid.”

“I do not .”

“You think I’m useless!”

“No. ”

“Then tell me what you were saying!”

Tom exhaled slowly. “We will talk when you are calm. Not when you’re…”

Angelus struck out with his left arm, hard and fast. His palm slapped against Tom’s side, not enough to hurt, but filled with every ounce of his fury. He hit him again. And again.

“I’m not stupid!” he screamed. “I’m not broken! I’m not useless!”

Tom didn’t block him. Didn’t raise his voice. Instead, he stepped forward, catching him gently in his arms, and pulled him tightly to his chest.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

Angelus struggled, fist pounding against Tom’s chest. “You think I’m weak! That I’m useless now…I…I can’t do anything!”

“You are not useless,” Tom murmured into his hair. 

“It’s not fair!” Angelus sobbed. “It’s not fair…it’s not fair!”

“I know,” Tom whispered, voice thick. “I know, love.”

Heavy hoofsteps thudded softly against the earth outside. The tent flap shifted.

Magnus stepped inside, his golden eyes swept the tent, narrowing as they landed on the struggling figures in the centre.

“What’s going on?” he asked, quiet but fierce.

Angelus was still fighting, his left hand balled into a fist, slamming weakly against Tom’s shoulder and chest. “It’s not fair!” he cried. “I want my arm! I need it! I need it!”

Tom didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Instead, he held him tighter.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, love.”

Angelus sobbed harder, his legs buckling beneath him. “It’s not fair! I can’t do anything. I can’t …”

Tom lowered them both to the floor, cradling his son against him. “You’re still healing. It will get better. You have to give it time.”

Magnus stepped closer, his tall form casting long shadows as he bent, slowly and gently, onto his knees. His hands, broad, warm, and rough with calloused fingers, reached out to cup the back of Angelus’s head and shoulder.

“I’m here,” Magnus said softly, voice like the ground after rain. “We’re both here. You’re not alone.”

Angelus turned his face into Tom’s chest, sobbing harder now, gasping between the words. “I hate this, I hate it! I want my arm back. I-I-I want it back. I need it!”

Tom closed his eyes, one hand stroking through his hair. “I know you do.”

“We know,” Magnus said. “And we’re not leaving you, baby. Not now. Not ever.”

His parents didn’t rush him. They didn’t tell him off or tell him to stop.

They just held him as he cried.

Time passed, though Angelus wasn’t sure how much. The fire had been rekindled at some point. The shadows shifted across the canvas. The birds outside had long since fallen quiet, replaced by the soft creak of wood and the murmur of pages turning.

Angelus now lay curled against Tom’s chest on the bed, his breath slow but uneven.

They hadn’t spoken about what happened. Not the screaming. Not the hitting. Not the pain he’d spilled all over the tent floor like a shattered glass. No one had asked him to explain. No one had asked him to apologise.

Instead, Magnus had settled on the floor beside the bed, hooves folded beneath him, voice low and steady as he read aloud from an old, worn book he had retrieved from the trunk at the foot of the bed.

“‘Good morning!’ said Bilbo, and he meant it. The sun was shining, and the grass was very green. But Gandalf looked at him from under long bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat.”

Magnus paused, turning a page with care.

“What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not?’”

Angelus didn’t respond. But his breathing evened out slightly, his face pressed against the soft fabric of Tom’s shirt.

After two chapters and a sip of water quietly offered and accepted, Magnus lowered the book, his voice softer now.

“Angelus,” he said gently, “do you think you’re ready to have your arm checked?”

Angelus stiffened at once, his body going rigid against Tom’s chest.

Magnus added, “Perenelle won’t hurt you. She only wants to be sure it’s healing well enough for the ritual.”

“No,” Angelus said sharply, almost before the words had finished leaving Magnus’s mouth. He didn’t lift his head. “I don’t want anyone looking at me.”

Magnus kept his voice gentle. “It’s important, love.”

“I don’t want to.”

Tom’s voice was calm behind him. “Would it help if it were your papa who checked? Not Perenelle?”

Magnus shook his head quickly. “I’m not trained…”

“He trusts you,” Tom said flatly, with a look that silenced the rest.

Angelus didn’t respond, but after a long pause, he slowly allowed Tom to help him sit up. His movements were stiff, his eyes fixed on the blankets.

Tom carefully pulled the shirt over his head.

Magnus rose onto his knees beside the bed and reached for the bandages. He unwound them slowly, gently, each layer revealing more of the healing stump, red and raw around the thick, black stitches.

Angelus squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away.

“It’s alright,” Tom murmured, fingers brushing his hair. “You don’t have to look.”

Magnus didn’t speak. He uncorked a small vial from the bedside table and dipped his fingers into the shimmering blue salve. Then, with careful hands, he began to rub the cool ointment into the skin.

It tingled, first cold, then warm. It was strange, but not painful.

When he finished, he rebandaged Angelus’ arm and stepped back.

“You’re healing well,” Magnus said softly, his palm still resting gently against the bandaged stump. “There’s no sign of infection. When you're ready, we can perform the next ritual.”

Tom reached for a clean shirt and helped Angelus pull it on, slowly and deliberately.

Then he gathered him gently back into his arms.

Angelus leaned his head against Tom’s shoulder, his voice quiet. “What ritual?”

Tom glanced down, his tone even but edged with quiet certainty. “A ritual to strip away the Potters’ blood adoption. They didn’t just take you in; they performed a blood adoption ritual, making you a Potter. This will undo the adoption and charms they placed on you.”

Angelus blinked. “So… I won’t have to be Harry Potter anymore?”

“No,” Tom said softly, voice low and certain. “This will ensure no one sees or links you to him again. Not Dumbledore, or the Ministry. You’ll be who you were meant to be.”

Angelus’s brow pinched, then slowly relaxed. “Will I look different?”

“Yes,” Magnus said. “A blood adoption changes a person’s DNA and appearance. This ritual will turn you back into your original appearance.”

“What will I look like?”

Tom glanced down at him thoughtfully. Angelus was curled against his side, tucked beneath his arm. Tom’s fingers traced slow, absent circles on his shoulder. “You had your papa’s golden eyes as a baby. Big, bright, and impossible to miss. You used to stare at everything like it was a puzzle you were determined to solve.”

Magnus chuckled. “And you were loud. Not in a bad way. Just very… chatty.”

Tom gave a small nod of amusement. “Endlessly talkative. Always babbling. Constantly telling us your opinions on everything.”

Angelus blinked. “I thought babies couldn’t talk.”

“Didn’t stop you,” Magnus said with a grin. “You’d crawl into my lap and just go off in full baby babble. Dramatic hand gestures and everything.”

Tom nodded. “You had a very firm opinion about everything, food, baths, nap time, and bedtime stories.”

“You once scolded the floor for making you fall.”

“And a kneazle for ignoring you,” Tom added, eyes glinting.

Angelus groaned. “Alright, alright, please no more baby stories.”

“No more stories?” Magnus said. “But we haven’t even gotten to the wand incident.”

Tom looked far too pleased. “You once snuck my wand from the bed and accidentally blasted yourself in the face with a full jet of water.”

Angelus groaned louder. “Please stop.”

“And your feet,” Magnus added with a twinkle in his eye. “So tiny, I could fit my wedding ring around your ankle.”

“Tiny, ticklish feet,” Tom said, glancing down at Angelus with an unmistakable glint in his eye. His arm shifted, tightening just slightly.

Magnus leaned forward. “Do you think he’s still…?”

Angelus’s head popped up. “Don’t you dare.”

But it was too late.

Tom's arms locked around him like a trap. “Too late.”

“DAD!” Angelus shrieked, twisting, just as Magnus pounced and grabbed his right foot.

“Still tiny,” Magnus said with faux solemnity.

“Still ticklish,” Tom confirmed as Angelus howled with laughter.

“Papa! No—stop! STOP! NOOO!”

Angelus thrashed, kicking feebly while Tom held him in place, and Magnus’s fingers expertly attacked the sole of his foot. Laughter poured from him. Full, real, breathless laughter, and when he finally collapsed back against Tom’s chest, gasping, his face was red and his smile wide.

“You,” he panted, “are the worst parents.”

The warmth lingered in the quiet that followed. Angelus leaned into Tom’s side. Content, happy and safe.

Then, softly, he whispered, “Can we do it now? I want my true appearance back.”

Tom and Magnus exchanged a brief glance, something silent passing between them, before Magnus stepped back and offered his hand.

“Let’s go then,” he said gently. “Stay close beside us.”

They stepped out into the morning light together. The forest air was crisp and pine-sweet, the sunlight threading through the high canopy in shafts of gold. Around them, the centaur camp was alive with quiet, rhythmic activity.

To the left, two older centaurs crouched beside a line of taut string, weaving wardstones into the soil with practised hands. Further along, a middle-aged female centaur carved sigils into a wooden staff with the tip of a silver dagger, humming low under her breath. Cook fires crackled at the far end of the clearing, and smoke curled lazily above woven hide tents.

As they passed, several centaurs looked up. Most said nothing, but their gazes lingered on Angelus, not unkind but curious.

Angelus kept close to his parents.

In a sun-dappled glade, a group of adolescent centaurs played a raucous game with a leather ball that sparked and exploded in bursts of coloured smoke whenever it hit the ground. The players laughed and whooped, dodging the magical blasts and kicking with impressive speed.

Angelus slowed, mesmerised by the bright flashes and the way the ball ricocheted like it had a mind of its own.

“Don’t even think about joining in,” Tom said, not glancing back.

“I wasn’t going to,” Angelus muttered, too quickly.

Magnus chuckled under his breath. “Maybe another day.”

They followed a narrow path that branched from the main camp, a trail that twisted through shadowed undergrowth and between gnarled trees whose bark gleamed with moss and faint runes. The air grew cooler, quieter. Each step forward seemed to deepen the hush around them, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

A soft rustle above drew Angelus’s gaze skyward. A flash of white swooped through the canopy, elegant and silent.

Hedwig soared above them, wings gliding effortlessly between the trees. She circled once, then dipped lower, settling on a thick, mossy branch just ahead. Her golden eyes met Angelus’s as if to say, I’m here.

Eventually, the trees thinned, and the mossy undergrowth gave way to an overgrown stone stairwell descending into the earth. At the base stood a half-collapsed mausoleum, its structure hunched and weathered, nearly swallowed by ivy. Cracks marred the stone columns, and the carved name on the lintel had long since worn away.

Magnus stopped in front of the archway and placed a hand against the stone.

The carved runes along the edge pulsed faintly. He whispered something in a language that felt older than Latin—fluid and strange. The stone shimmered, then melted away like rippling water, revealing a narrow stone passageway that sloped downward into the earth.

They passed beneath the archway of stone runes, the forest falling away behind them. Hedwig swept in silently, wings barely stirring the air as she circled once and perched high above on a jutting stone ledge, watching like a sentinel.

Inside was a vast underground chamber carved from the bedrock itself. The walls were etched with glowing silver runes that pulsed with life, and the chamber’s high ceiling opened to a shaft that let in filtered moonlight, giving the whole space an ethereal glow. The centre was dominated by a large black-flamed cauldron, its contents already bubbling with soft light. Two stone tables stood at opposite ends of the ritual circle, identical to the ones from Tom’s restoration.

But this time, only one table was empty.

On the other lay a boy.

He couldn’t have been more than twelve. His skin was waxen, drawn tightly over sharp bones, and his head was shaved, revealing two faint scars on either side of his skull, perfect circles, raw and red like burn marks.

Angelus stopped in his tracks, his stomach twisting. “Who is he… is he dead?”

Perenelle stepped forward from beside the cauldron, her voice calm but heavy. “No, little one. He’s alive, but… not in the way you understand it.”

Angelus looked from the boy to her, confusion written all over his face.

“She means,” Tom said gently from behind, placing a hand on his shoulder, “that the boy’s body still breathes, but his mind is gone. He’s brain-dead.”

“What happened to him?” Angelus asked.

Perenelle’s expression was grim, her voice carefully controlled. “He was tortured,” she said softly. “The Muggles didn’t understand what he was, how his magic worked. They used… strange devices. Forced lightning through his head, over and over, trying to ‘fix’ him. By the time the Ministry’s social services were alerted, his mind had already gone. What remained was just a breathing shell.”

Angelus stared at her, wide-eyed.

“They sent him to the Unspeakables,” she went on, quieter now. “To be studied. Prodded. A magical body without a mind… they wanted to see what it could endure. What secrets it might yield.” She exhaled through her nose. “Nicholas and I intervened and convinced a friend of ours who works there to release him into our care.”

“But why is he here?” Angelus asked, throat tight.

Magnus knelt to his level. “Because we need someone who can take your place. Dumbledore is clever, and if we were to give him a magical construct like a homunculus or golem, he’d know immediately what it was.”

“We needed a real body,” Perenelle said, stepping closer. “Someone the Ministry and the Order could examine. Someone who will respond to their spells and scrutiny. This boy… he won’t survive much longer, even with magic sustaining him. But this way, he will pass peacefully. Cared for. And when he’s gone, they will believe Harry Potter died… and you, Angelus, will be free.”

Nicholas, beside the cauldron, was already preparing the potion, crushed roots, slivers of quartz, blood-red petals dissolving into the brew. Tom knelt beside Angelus, steadying him with both hands.

“It’s time,” Magnus said gently. “Clothes off, love. The potion can’t work if anything comes between it and your skin.”

Angelus flushed. “Do I have to be…completely…?”

“Yes,” Magnus assured. 

With Tom’s help, Angelus undressed and stepped cautiously into the cauldron. The potion lapped at his ankles, cool and slick. It tingled slightly as he lowered himself into the centre.

Tom stood beside him, gaze steady. “I can’t touch you right now,” he said quietly. “Or risk contaminating the potion, but I will be right here by your side.”

While Angelus nervously settled into the shimmering potions, his eyes flicked around the room. Tom remained on this side just out of reach, arms folded behind his back. 

Then, after a long moment, he tilted his head, voice smooth and just slightly curious.

“So… is the Seeker the one who throws the balls through the hoops?”

Angelus squinted at him. “What?”

“In Quidditch.” Tom’s expression was calm, almost scholarly. “I’ve never paid much attention, but I’m fairly certain the Seeker is the one responsible for scoring points?”

Angelus frowned. “No, that’s the Chasers. The Seeker catches the Snitch.”

Tom hummed, as if thoughtfully reconsidering. “Ah. I see. That’s the tiny, fast one, yes? Gold, with wings?”

“You’re messing with me.”

“I assure you,” Tom said mildly, “I’m not. Sports never held my attention. I preferred books.”

“Of course you did,” Angelus muttered.

“I did try once,” Tom said, eyes flicking to the potion. “But it was loud, disorganised, and offered nothing useful. I lost interest.”

Angelus gave him a flat look.

Tom, unbothered, continued in the same even tone. “So if the Seeker catches the Snitch... does that end the game?”

Angelus narrowed his eyes. “You really don’t know?”

Tom arched a brow, a perfect picture of polite interest. “Would I be asking if I did?”

Angelus hesitated, shoulders tense… then finally sighed. “Fine. Yes, it ends the game. But it doesn’t always mean you win.”

“How very inefficient,” Tom said.

Angelus snorted, just barely. “Not if you’re good at it.”

Tom gave a slow nod, like a professor indulging a promising pupil.”

As Angelus continued, half-defensive, half-proud, about fouls and positions and why the Wimbourne Wasps were overrated, Magnus and Nicholas moved into position, their wands slowly rising. The potion darkened in hue, blood-red tendrils curling like ink around Angelus’s legs. The runes on the floor flared faintly beneath the surface of the water.

But Angelus didn’t notice.

Because Tom, calm and composed, nodded at exactly the right intervals, occasionally asking just the right ‘confused’ question to keep him talking.

While Angelus rattled off positions and rules, about bludgers and types of brooms, Magnus and Nicholas moved around the cauldron. Magnus muttered incantations in a low, melodic voice while Nicholas stirred and added more reagents. They moved in precise, practised rhythm, arms weaving runes through the air as the potion shimmered.

It changed from moonlight silver to opalescent blue, then violet, then deep crimson.

The potion stilled.

“Done,” Nicholas said softly.

Tom stepped forward, lifting Angelus from the cauldron. Perenelle held out a set of ceremonial robes, which Tom gently wrapped around his son’s trembling frame. Then he helped him onto the empty stone table.

Angelus shivered but stayed still. His head turned just in time to see the vial of potion brought to the other boy’s lips.

Nicholas nodded once. “Begin.”

As Magnus dipped a finger into a second vial and began drawing blood runes along the boy’s bare chest, Nicholas chanted. The runes flared, bright red, then sank into the skin. Magic crackled.

At first, nothing happened.

Then the boy’s body twitched.

The runes Magnus had drawn flared red, then gold, and slowly began to sink into the skin, as though being absorbed into the bone beneath.

Angelus stared.

The boy’s cheeks pinked faintly. Colour bloomed along his throat and chest. His limbs bubbled and stretched. Black stubble pushed from his scalp, growing in patchy and then thickening into a mess of wild, dark hair. His eyebrows darkened and thickened to match.

Then the scars began to appear.

A lightning-shaped mark split across his brow like a brand. A burn on his right palm from when Petunia held his hand over the stove after he burned the Dursleys’ breakfast. A slight, unnatural crook to the right wrist, Angelus remembered he also hid beneath long sleeves and sweaters. From an improperly healed break after Dudley had slammed a door on his hand.

Tom’s jaw tightened.

Angelus saw it. Before Tom could speak, he whispered, “What happens next?”

Magnus looked up. “Now we change you back.”

He and Nicholas placed rune stones around Angelus’s body, forming a precise pattern. Tom knelt at Angelus’s head, taking his hand.

Perenelle handed Angelus a small crystal vial filled with a pearlescent liquid. “Drink this, my dear. It will help you sleep through the change.”

Angelus hesitated only a moment, then tipped it back. The potion was cool and sweet, like sugared chamomile. It slid down easily.

The chanting began again. This time deeper, stronger, filled with old power. Angelus felt the weight of it press down like a heavy blanket. His limbs relaxed. His eyes slid shut.

A warmth spread through Angelus’s chest, his limbs. He exhaled, his body sinking into the stone beneath him. His fingers uncurled. His muscles relaxed.

Tom leaned down, his hands gently cupping Angelus’s left hand.

The chanting rose around him, deep and steady, full of strange and ancient words. It wrapped around him like a lullaby. Magic pressed into the room, thick and rhythmic, pulsing like a heartbeat under the stone floor.

His breathing slowed.

The world seemed to blur at the edges, the ceiling above softening to pale light. Sounds became distant, like he was floating just below the surface of a still pool. His muscles loosened. He felt warm. Safe.

Tom’s hands rested gently over his. “It’s alright,” he murmured, low and steady. “I won’t leave you.”

Angelus exhaled. His thoughts drifted. The world faded.

Then something snapped.

A jolt shot through his spine, sharp and brutal, like lightning cleaving him in half. His back arched violently off the table. A strangled scream tore from his throat, hoarse and raw, full of disbelief and agony.

Then came the fire.

Not flames, but something worse, something alive and searing that poured through his blood. His veins burned. His bones twisted. His skin felt as though it were being peeled from muscle. Every nerve lit up with pain so intense it blotted out thought.

The chanting broke. Voices erupted.

“Something’s wrong!” Nicholas shouted. “Something is interfering with the ritual!”

Tom’s voice cut through, rough with panic. “What’s happening? Do something!”

“Hold him down!” Magnus barked. “Don’t let him fall!”

Another surge of agony wracked him, tearing a sob from his throat. “It hurts! Make it stop! Papa! Please, make it stop! Dad? Daddy, help me. It hurts…it hurts!”

His lungs locked tight. His heart pounded once, twice, then began to stutter. The burning surged again, twisting his organs, his ribs, his very blood. The table trembled beneath him. His mouth opened in a soundless cry.

Overhead, Hedwig screamed, a high, shrill sound that cut through the air like a blade. She swooped and circled above, white wings flashing in fury and fear, her cries echoing through the stone chamber.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

The pain was everywhere.

And then the edges of his vision darkened, swallowed by flickering black spots.

The world pulled away.

Hands pressed against his chest, rhythmic, urgent. Magnus. “Come on, baby…stay with me… please.”

But Angelus was falling, fast and far.

And then…

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Angelus gasped, a ragged breath tearing from his throat as he jolted upright.

He lay on a smooth, pale stone floor that glowed faintly with a soft, pearly light. His pain was gone. His body felt light, like he was weightless and floating on a cloud.

He sat up slowly.

Above him arched a high, mist-shrouded ceiling, impossibly tall, like the rafters of a great station hall blurred at the edges. The light came from everywhere and nowhere, casting gentle shadows that never held still.

It was quiet and peaceful. But, also unnatural.

Angelus looked around, heart beginning to race.

The white stone. The distant echoes. The impossible stillness.

He knew this place.

Not from this life. He personally had never stood here, but he remembered it. Like a dream that didn’t belong to him. A whisper of memory curled around the edges of his thoughts.

King’s Cross.

Not the real one. Not the one where he’d pretended to belong. Not the platform where he boarded the train alone, surrounded by borrowed names and false smiles.

He stood up and froze.

His body was... whole.

He looked down. No scars. No burns. And two whole arms again. Almost like he had never lost his right arm.

A soft sound broke the stillness.

A stifled sob.

Angelus turned slowly and followed the faint, broken noise.

It led him behind one of the wide marble pillars holding the arching ceiling.

And there, curled in on himself, gaunt and trembling, was the boy from the ritual chamber.

Angelus stopped immediately as recognition struck him like a blow.

The boy’s shaved head. His sunken face. The scars on his skull, two small circular burns. His limbs were still thin and now covered in bruises and old scars. A tattered hospital gown hung off him in folds, his bare feet curled under him as he rocked back and forth, whimpering silently.

Angelus stepped forward, his heart breaking. Unlike Angelus’s own restored body, this boy bore every wound. Every mark. Every horror he had witnessed.

He knelt carefully. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay, you’re safe now. You don’t have to be afraid.”

The boy gave no sign of hearing him. His lips kept moving, soundless, rhythmic. His eyes were distant and unseeing.

Angelus reached out a hand, but hesitated.

“I wouldn’t,” said a voice behind him.

Angelus turned quickly.

Another boy stood there. A familiar boy who looked to be seventeen. Black hair fell untidily over his forehead. He wore a simple white shirt and trousers, his posture relaxed but watchful. He had no scar. No glasses. But Angelus knew that face.

“We can't help him,” the boy said gently, stepping closer. “He can’t hear us. He’s beyond our help.”

Angelus looked back at the broken child, throat tight. “Why is he here?”

The older boy's voice was quiet. “I don’t know. Maybe after taking our blood, he became linked to us in some way. He was already here when I got here."

Angelus looked at the boy one last time, then stood slowly.

The two of them turned away from the boy behind the pillar, walking together toward the centre of the platform.

As they approached a lone bench, his older self gave a small, sad smile. “It's nice to finally talk to you and be heard.”

Angelus looked at him sidelong. “You... you’re me, aren't you? You're the one who Death sent back. The one whose memories I have?"

He nodded. “Yes.”

Angelus hesitated. “But you still look like…”

“I know,” Harry said. “I guess I still see myself this way. As Harry Potter. That’s the only name I ever knew. The only person I know how to be.”

Angelus sat beside him slowly. “And this is where you came. When you died.”

Harry nodded. “Before Death sent me back in time. Into your body.”

“So I’m dead?”

“I suppose so,” Harry said quietly.

Angelus looked down at his hands. “I thought... we were the same. That our souls had merged.”

Harry shook his head, gentle but firm. “No. My soul was sent back to give you a chance. We shared a body for a while, but we were never truly one. You were always your own person, even with my soul inside you.”

Angelus frowned. “But I remember things. Flashes. Feelings. Sometimes I just know things I shouldn’t. I thought that meant I was you.”

“They’re echoes,” Harry said softly. “Impressions. You absorbed fragments. But not my full memories. Not the understanding behind them. That stayed with me.”

Angelus sat back, quiet. “I tried Alohomora once. The word came to me, and the wand motion too. But nothing happened.”

Harry offered a faint smile. “Because recognising something isn’t the same as understanding it. It’s like watching a healer mend bones and thinking you could do it yourself. Memory isn’t mastery.”

Angelus gave a slow nod. “Dad said the same. That they’re not my memories. That I didn’t live them.”

“He’s right,” Harry said gently. “You didn’t live that life. You just carry pieces of it—faint and borrowed. And they don’t define who you are now.”

Angelus swallowed. “What happened, then?”

Harry’s eyes turned distant. “When Death sent me back... it wasn’t like stepping into a body. It was like being a ghost. I had no body or voice. No will of my own. I couldn’t control anything. I just flew through time. Through memories I’d lived years ago. Until I came to Privet Drive."

He looked away into the distance. “I was pulled through the walls of Privet Drive. To the cupboard under the stairs. Where I found you sleeping on the floor. And then... I was pulled in. Into your body.”

His fingers pressed lightly against his chest.

“I felt your soul. And I understood what Death wanted: to merge our souls together. For my soul to absorb yours. But I couldn’t do it. I’d be no better than the diary horcrux, trying to steal Ginny’s life and body. I couldn’t do that to anyone. Not even to a younger version of myself. So I fought it.”

Angelus whispered, “Is that how you ended up back here?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I stayed. Trapped. I was still in your body, but buried deep in the back of your mind, it was like I was trapped in a cage, and there was a thick wall between us. I could see everything. Hear everything. But no one could hear me."

His voice softened. “I hated it at first. Not being able to speak. To move. But then... I got to watch you. To see you become someone I never had the chance to be. You had love. A family. You finally got to be a kid. To be yourself and have fun. You weren’t afraid all the time or pressured into being a hero."

Before Angelus could respond, the air changed.

Death appeared.

He stepped forward soundlessly, his long cloak trailing behind him like mist that clung to the edges of eternity.

“You understand now,” Death said.

Harry stood. “You thought we’d merge.”

“I did,” Death replied. “It worked before, with others. With your father. I believed it would work again. That your souls would join and become one.”

“But he didn’t,” Angelus said quietly. “I’m not him.”

“No,” Death agreed. “You are entirely your own soul.”

Harry looked at Death, then back at Angelus. “And now you want to fix it.”

“I offer the choice,” Death said. “You could become one soul. No more division. Share your strength and all your memories.”

Harry shook his head. “No. It’s too late. He’s changed. I’ve changed. We’re not the same person anymore.”

“You would not kill him,” Death said. “You would become something new.”

“But in doing so,” Harry said softly, “I would take everything from him. His life. His family. His future. And I won’t do that.”

Death tilted his head. “You are still the same soul.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Not anymore.”

As they argued back and forth, Angelus watched silently.

Thinking, he turned, his gaze drifting again across the empty platform. The mist beyond the platform pulsed faintly, and the faint echo of far-off weeping still tugged at something inside him.

He turned back.

“What happens now?” he interrupted.

Death looked at him. “That is for you both to decide.”

“We... get to choose?”

“You are Peverells,” Death said. “Descendants of a line who have long walked beside me. As masters of death, you have earned a voice in your fate.”

Angelus glanced at Harry, then back. “So we can go on. Or go back.”

“Yes,” Death said. “You may move on, or return to your parents.”

“And if we go back?” Angelus asked.

“Your souls will merge into one, as they were meant to. Or... you may return as you are now. Separate, but sharing one body.”

Harry’s expression tightened. “Is there no other option? I cannot go back to being trapped in Angelus’s body, and I will not take his soul, his life, from him. I would rather go on and die.”

“No! Please, don’t leave me,” Angelus said quickly. “There must be another way.”

Death was silent for a beat.

Then he said, “There is one other way. I could send him back into a different body.” Turning back to Harry, he continued. “One that has only recently died. If you agree, you could have a body of your own again. But you would no longer be a Peverell. You would need to be blood-adopted by your parents to become their son in truth, as you were always meant to be.”

Angelus’s face lit with hope as he turned back to Harry. “We could be brothers. We always wanted a brother or sister, and now we will have each other.”

Death nodded. “A body of your own would allow you to work with Magnus and Thomas and prevent the war.”

Harry was quiet, his jaw working. “War? I thought we had already prevented the war. Why would there be another war?”

“The Second Wizarding War, yes,” Death said. “But not the Muggle war on the magical world. The Muggle world is continuing to grow and advance. Their technology and machines are more advanced. While the majority of magicals remain unaware of the Muggle world and the dangers it brings. It is only a matter of time before, through their technology and wizard ignorance, muggles discover the magical world. They may admire and worship you at first, but given time, their fear and hatred will grow, and they will destroy your world.”

“There is something you do not know,” Death said. “Decades ago, the magical university in Switzerland entrusted Magnus with a secret project, a project born from fear of the Muggle world's growing population and technological advancement. A project that might one day prevent the war I spoke of.”

Harry listened silently.

“You understand the Muggle world,” Death continued. “Their technology. Their fears. Their potential. If you return with a body of your own, you, with the help of your parents and their allies, can help the magical world. Help guide them before the Muggles learn too much and kill you and everyone you know and love.”

He held out his arms.

A cloak. A wand. A stone.

“The world you came from is no longer,” Death said. “But these are still rightfully yours. They will aid you on your journey, wherever it may lead. They are yours to carry forward—just as Angelus is destined to one day carry the Hallows of his world.”

Harry looked down at the objects in Death’s outstretched hands. The cloak he had once worn. The wand he had claimed. The stone he had turned three times in the forest. Ghosts of a life now gone.

Harry stepped forward, hands trembling slightly, and accepted the Hallows from Death’s outstretched palms. The moment his fingers closed around them, a subtle pulse of magic rippled through the space.

The air grew heavy, pressing around them like the weight of the ocean before a breaking wave. The silence deepened, thick and vibrating, as though the entire platform had inhaled and was holding its breath. Light shimmered across the floor, swirling like mist drawn into a storm.

The space between heartbeats stretched, then snapped.

But before they could part, Angelus cried out, “Wait!”

He turned back to the pillar. “What about him?” he asked. “The boy. What will happen to him?”

Death’s face was unreadable. “He will soon pass on, and his soul will be recycled into a new body.”

Angelus stared, his heart clenching. “Oh! I wish he didn’t have to die. I wish he had a second chance, too. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

Death said nothing. Only tilted his head forward in the faintest of nods.

Then the station dissolved into wind and light.

Angelus woke with a gasp, disoriented and breathing hard.

He was lying on the floor of the ritual chamber, the stone still cool beneath him. Candlelight flickered against the walls. And around him—arms, hands, warmth.

"Angelus?" Magnus’s voice cracked, trembling with disbelief.

Angelus blinked up, vision blurry, head pounding softly. His papa was cradling him against his chest, kneeling on the stone floor. Magnus’s hand was cradling the back of his head, and his cheek was pressed to Angelus’s hair. Tom was beside them, holding on tightly, kissing his forehead, cheek, and brow.

“Angelus. Please...Angelus.”

“Papa?” he croaked.

Magnus froze. Then pulled back, staring at him with wide, wet eyes.

“You’re alive,” he breathed.

Tom made a noise, a half-laugh, half sob, and pressed his forehead to Angelus’s temple.

From behind them, a distressed hoot echoed in the chamber.

Hedwig swooped down from a carved beam, landing on Magnus’s shoulder with a scolding bark. She fluffed her feathers, glaring down at Angelus like she couldn’t decide whether to cry or peck him.

“Sorry, girl,” Angelus rasped.

They helped him sit up gently, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. Nicholas and Perenelle stepped closer from the other side of the chamber, where they had been anxiously waiting.

“I was somewhere else,” Angelus murmured. “A place like King’s Cross, but not really. I had both arms again. And I saw him...Harry. The older soul. The one Death sent back.”

Tom and Magnus exchanged a sharp glance.

“He told me what happened,” Angelus said. “That the souls didn’t merge. He was trapped inside me. Watching. But we were never really one soul.”

He looked between them, voice steadier now. “And then Death offered us a choice: to properly merge or stay as we were. But merging would’ve destroyed me. And Harry wouldn’t do that. He said he couldn’t.”

Perenelle’s face softened.

“I asked if there was another way. And Death agreed. He said he could give Harry a different body. One without a soul. And that if he wants, he can come back and be... adopted again. Be your son.”

Tom knelt beside him. “And you want that?”

Angelus nodded. “He’s not me. I’m not him. But he’s still family.”

Nicholas exhaled slowly, folding his arms, “I’ll admit that defies every magical principle I know. But if Death agreed, and it worked. Then, it’s a new kind of magic.”

Perenelle crouched and gently touched Angelus’s cheek. “It’s the magic and power of love. You didn’t have to ask for him. But you did.”

Angelus gave a small smile. “I didn’t want him to be alone again.”

Tom helped him to his feet. He winced, glancing down.

His right arm was gone again.

But before he could dwell too much and get upset, something else caught his attention: his fingers. They were now thinner and longer. His left hand no longer looked quite the same.

He looked up, then blinked in confusion. His parents were... taller?

Or...no. He had gotten shorter.

“Oh come on,” he groaned. “I was already the shortest in my class.”

Laughing, Tom conjured a tall mirror with a flick of his wand. Hedwig let out a fluttering hoot and swooped over, landing gracefully atop the mirror’s frame. Her feathers ruffled as she settled, golden eyes fixed protectively on Angelus’s reflection.

Angelus stepped forward slowly.

The boy who looked back was not Harry Potter.

His hair had changed, no longer messy and unruly, but now a tidy wave of soft bronze. It shimmered where the light struck it, the front locks curling gently over his brow in a way that framed his face rather than hid it.

His eyes had changed, too. No longer green behind thick lashes, but a glowing, molten gold. They were warm and bright, like candlelight through amber—so startling and vivid that he barely recognised himself. They looked exactly like his Papa's eyes.

He leaned closer, breath hitching in his throat. His ears, no longer the rounded ones he remembered, were now slightly pointed at the tips, elegant and smooth. He touched one gently, stunned by how sharp the edge felt beneath his fingers.

Even his face had changed. It was softer somehow—rounder cheeks, less gaunt, the faint fullness of a boy who had been well-fed and well-loved. His skin was clear, smooth, and glowed faintly with warmth. The shadows that once lingered under his eyes were gone. He looked like a boy who had never been starved, never been locked in a cupboard. Like someone who had been loved and protected.

Everything was perfect, except for one thing.

"Why is everything still blurry... I thought maybe my eyesight would be better somehow," he murmured, disappointment flickering across his face.

Tom stepped closer, crouching down. “You still can’t see properly?”

Angelus nodded. “It’s better. But it's still blurry.”

Magnus reached forward and gently smoothed a curl from his brow. “We’ll take you to a proper optical healer once we’re home.”

Angelus reached up suddenly and lifted his fringe. “Wait... I just realised. My scar’s still there. I’m not going to have to wear makeup or something, am I?”

Perenelle approached, wand drawn. “Curse scars cannot be removed,” she said gently, “but they can be moved.”

She dabbed a potion on his forehead and whispered a spell. Angelus felt a tingling itch.

In the mirror, the lightning bolt scar began to shift, sliding gently to the left, just above his temple—hidden beneath the fringe of his hair.

“There,” Perenelle said. “It’s still part of you. But no longer the first thing the world sees.”

Angelus exhaled, then turned and hugged her. “Thank you.”

He stepped back and looked between his parents, eyes hesitant. “So... um... can Harry live with us too? I mean... I’ve never had a brother before. And he’s older, but... I just... don’t want him to be alone.”

Magnus smiled and took his hand. “Of course he can. He’s family.”

Tom nodded. “We’ll never turn either of you away.”

Nicholas stepped back toward the cauldron. “We’ll stay here and tidy up. You three go get some rest.”

Tom gathered Angelus into his arms once more, and with Magnus at his side, they stepped back into the forest.

As they made their way back through the forest, a soft rush of wings startled them. Hedwig swooped low and landed on a branch beside the trail, her feathers puffed and her golden eyes sharp with distress. She hooted softly, almost accusingly, then flew down to perch on Tom’s shoulder, refusing to be left behind again.

By the time they reached the tent, Angelus’s eyes were already fluttering shut.

 They laid him gently back onto the bed, tucking blankets around him. Hedwig now perched on the headboard, as if to keep watch over him in the night.

Just before he drifted off, he stirred. “What about Harry?” he mumbled. “We need to find him.”

Magnus leaned in, brushing a hand through his hair. “He knows where we are, love. He’ll find us.”

Tom kissed his brow softly. “And when he does, we’ll be waiting.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of Britain, Harry woke in the dark.

It was suffocating. The air was stale and hot, pressing close to his skin. He couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t stretch out fully. His arms were pinned by his sides. Panic clawed at his chest.

He reached upward, and his fingers hit smooth, unmoving wood.

Some sort of box? 

His heart seized. He pushed against the lid, straining, but it didn’t budge. The space was too tight. The wood was too heavy. Dirt pressed against the top from above, holding it in place.

He choked on a breath that wouldn’t come, then screamed raw and terrified, beating his fists against the inside of the lid.

“HELP! SOMEBODY!”

The sound bounced back at him, muffled and useless.

He thrashed, kicked, and shoved with his shoulders. Panic surged as his breath grew ragged, his chest heaving with the effort. He screamed again, until his throat felt torn and his hands ached from pounding the wood.

Then something shifted.

A cool, silken brush slid down his chest. Then something small clattered beside his hip.

He stilled, gulping air.

He reached beneath the fabric and felt something long and wooden. A wand. And beneath it, a round stone, smooth and familiar. He still had the Invisibility Cloak, the Resurrection Stone, and the Elder Wand.

Hope flared.

With shaking fingers, he clutched the wand and aimed it blindly above him.

“Bombarda!”

The explosion above was deafening. Wood shattered. Dirt rained down in a choking wave. He coughed and scrambled upward, clawing through soil and splinters.

Then, finally, he felt air. Cool, fresh night air.

He hauled himself free and collapsed on the grass, gasping, covered in mud and blood and tears.

He was in a graveyard.

Lights flickering on in a cottage in the distance. A voice shouted, rough with sleep and suspicion. “What’s going on? Who’s there?”

Harry forced himself to sit up. No time. He couldn’t be caught.

“Reparo,” he gasped, pointing his wand at the shattered coffin and disturbed earth.

The grave reformed with a faint shimmer of magic, the coffin and earth returning to perfect order, as though nothing had ever disturbed it.

Before he turned to leave, he paused.

The headstone stood silently above the spot he’d just escaped. The engraving was faint but elegant.

Here lies a boy unknown.
May angels carry his soul beyond the stars.
A Titan among the fallen.

Then he turned, pulled the cloak over his shoulders, and slipped out of the graveyard.

The streets were dark and empty, slick with puddles as a light rain began to fall. He pulled the cloak tighter, shoulders hunched against the cold, and wandered through the unknown British town. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know where to go.

Eventually, the glint of fluorescent light led him to an empty train station. The ticket booths were closed, the doors locked. He tapped the lock gently with his wand. “Alohomora.” The door clicked open.

Inside was cold but dry. He moved through the quiet space, finding a dusty desk with a faded train map and a rolled-up timetable pinned beside it. Nearby, a folded newspaper sat, yellowed at the corners.

He picked it up and squinted at the date: March 28, 1992.

LOCAL COMMUNITY HONOURS LIFE OF UNKNOWN BOY

In a heartfelt display of compassion, residents of the small market town of Wrenwick have come together to ensure a dignified farewell for a young boy whose name remains unknown. Believed to be around 14 years old, the boy was discovered in an alleyway last week, after a sudden cold snap swept through the region.

Emergency responders described signs of prolonged malnourishment and evidence suggesting the boy had been subject to sustained neglect and abuse. An autopsy confirmed exposure to freezing temperatures as the primary cause of death. Despite efforts, his identity remains unknown.

The mayor, Councillor Edith Halloway, explained the choice of engraving. “We wanted something timeless. Something to show that even though we never knew his name, he mattered. That he was seen, honoured, and not forgotten. We hope that now, in death, he finds the strength and peace that life denied him, that he flies with angels beyond the stars.”

Investigators say they will not rest until justice is served. "This boy deserved better," said Inspector Rowe of the local constabulary. "One day, we hope to give him his name back."

Harry stared at it for a long moment.

Then he quietly folded the paper, placed it back, and rummaged through a drawer. A single muesli bar lay forgotten inside. He opened it and ate slowly, then curled into a corner beneath the cloak.

The floor was cold, but the cloak kept him somewhat warm.

The next morning, a door opened and shut somewhere in the building, stirring him from uneasy dreams.

He sat up quickly, scanning the train schedule and checking the time. He noted a train to Scotland would be arriving soon.

Without hesitation, he slipped out the door and boarded the train just before it departed, bound for Scotland, and the family waiting for him in the forest.