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Chapter Text

“Be careful,” said Lily Potter as she struggled to carry her son’s school trunk through the crowded train station.

“I’m always careful, Mum,” Harry replied. They both knew that wasn’t true, but sometimes spoken lies were better than unspoken truths.

“I just wish your father could be here. He really wanted to.”

“It’s fine. We do this every year anyway.”
But it wasn’t fine.
This was Harry’s final year at Hogwarts, and his father hadn’t even come to see him off. Harry knew it wasn’t fair to be angry about it—but the anger still crept in. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if his father actually enjoyed being a Death Eater more than he ever admitted.

He frowned. That thought felt wrong—ungrateful, even cruel. The man had raised him. Surely, he didn't enjoy being part of the very thing he once claimed to hate. He used to say it over and over again: being a Death Eater was the worst thing he could imagine.

When the Dark Lord won the war, he’d been surprisingly merciful. He gave powerful opposing wizards a choice: join him or die. James had wanted to resist. It was Lily who had talked him out of it. They had a child to protect; they couldn’t afford more war. Since that day, James Potter had served the Dark Lord loyally.

Harry hated that.

But he had learned to keep his thoughts to himself. There were only two things expected of him: cause no trouble, and be grateful. At least, that’s what his mother always said.

“I should go,” he said, gently taking the trunk from her hands.

Lily Potter stared at the train with an unreadable expression. But Harry knew that look. She could talk all she wanted about gratitude, but it was just another lie. Muggle-borns were no longer allowed at Hogwarts, and it was tearing her apart.

They were now sent to the New Dawn Institute, where they were “rehabilitated” and “reintroduced to society”—or so the public was told. Civilians weren’t given more information than that.

Harry had met a few Muggle-borns in passing—mostly sweet vendors along Diagon Alley. He’d liked them. But he didn’t know any of them well. Except his mother. And his mother was the most extraordinary person he’d ever known.

“Go on,” she said. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”
She clearly wanted to say more—but couldn’t. Muggle-borns were watched closely, and even hugging her own son in public could be considered inappropriate or shameful.

“See you, Mum,” Harry said and stepped into the crowd.

He pushed his way through the swarm of students until he finally reached the train. Most compartments were already full, so he kept walking deeper into the train until he found an almost-empty one. He slid the door open and sat down with a sigh.

His friends hadn’t arrived yet.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, the door opened again. Expecting Ron, Harry looked up—and froze.

It was the last person he wanted to see.

“Gaunt.”
The Dark Lord’s son.

“Harry,” said Thomas Gaunt, deliberately using his first name. He always did. They barely spoke beyond forced greetings, yet every time he addressed Harry, he used his name like it meant something.

Harry didn’t like Thomas Gaunt.
He believed in pureblood supremacy. He bullied those he thought beneath him. Everyone either feared him or idolized him. He was arrogant, dangerous, and powerful—and destined to rule the wizarding world.

But none of those things were why Harry disliked him.

No, the real reason was the way Thomas Gaunt looked at him.

Like he owned him. Like he wanted to own him.

Possessive. Obsessive.
Hungry.

Dangerous.

And worst of all, no one else seemed to notice. Harry often felt like he was going mad.

“Can I help you?” Harry asked, trying to sound polite. He had to be polite. He didn’t have the luxury of forgetting who this boy was.

Gaunt smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.
“One day,” he said.
And then he left, just as suddenly as he’d appeared.

A chill ran down Harry’s spine.

Before he could think too much about it, the door slid open again. This time it was Ron, Luna, and Neville.

“There you are, mate. We’ve been looking everywhere.”

“It’s insanely crowded outside,” said Neville, brushing off his robes.

Harry nodded and smiled faintly. Once everyone settled in, their usual chatter began—familiar and comforting.

Before long, Harry had almost forgotten about the strange, unsettling encounter with Gaunt.

-

Chapter Text

Harry sat in the Great Hall, attempting to focus on Headmaster Snape’s opening speech, though his mind wandered. The hall, once a place of warmth and welcome, now felt cold and oppressive under the regime of the Dark Lord. The once vibrant banners of the four houses hung like faded memories, and the enchanted ceiling mirrored the stormy skies outside.

Suddenly, a piece of parchment materialized before him, fluttering down onto his plate. He frowned, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed, but the students were engrossed in their own conversations. Even Ron, Luna, and Neville were too absorbed to pay attention.

With trembling fingers, Harry unfolded the note.

“Be at the Astronomy Tower in ten minutes. Come alone. Urgent.”

His brow furrowed. This was unexpected. He hesitated, weighing his options. Curiosity won. He stood up.

“Where are you going?” Ron asked, looking up.

“The train ride was more exhausting than I anticipated. I think I’ll rest a bit.” It was a flimsy excuse, but the best he could muster.

“You haven’t even eaten,” Neville pointed out.

“Not hungry,” Harry replied, quickly walking away to avoid further questions.

Navigating the labyrinthine corridors of Hogwarts, Harry sighed. He had never liked this school. He had never told his parents, but he despised Hogwarts. His father adored the school, and his mother always spoke of it with a nostalgic smile. But the Hogwarts of their time was gone. Under the Dark Lord’s rule, it had become a place of fear and danger. Every step, every thought had to be guarded. The professors were carefully selected Death Eaters, eager to punish any misstep.

Harry would have preferred homeschooling, but attendance at Hogwarts was mandatory for all non-Muggle-borns—a decree from the Dark Lord himself.

Lost in thought, he nearly missed the entrance to the Astronomy Tower. Ascending the stairs, he was surprised to find Draco Malfoy waiting.

“Malfoy?”

The blond boy turned. His eyes were shadowed, and he looked thinner than before, as if he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in days.

“Potter, we need to talk.”

This was unexpected. Draco Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater after Bellatrix Lestrange, wanted to talk to him. That couldn’t be good.

Harry had no personal grudge against Draco. Throughout their seven years at Hogwarts, their interactions had been minimal. They weren’t enemies, nor were they friends. They spoke when necessary, exchanged greetings at events organized by the Dark Lord’s circle, but nothing more.

Harry was content with that. He had no desire to associate with someone who proudly embraced being a Death Eater. At least his father and his father’s friend Sirius did it out of necessity. Though, Harry sometimes doubted Sirius’s motivations.

So, this conversation was certainly a surprise.

“What about?” he asked. A voice inside warned him it might be a trap, but that seemed illogical. What business would someone like Draco Malfoy have with someone like Harry Potter? He was a half-blood, the son of a Muggle-born mother. His only value in this world was his father’s status as a Death Eater, which offered limited protection. At least he didn’t have to report to the Ministry weekly like other half-bloods. Small mercies.

“It’s about your father. He’s in danger,” Malfoy said, the words seeming to cause him pain.

Harry felt his heart stop for a moment. The air wasn’t cold, but he shivered. These were words he had feared hearing, yet hoped never to.

He took a deep breath. He needed to stay calm. Panicking wouldn’t help him or his father.

“What kind of danger?”

He remembered the fear he felt when he was first sorted into Gryffindor. He had been so scared that his father would be punished that he couldn’t eat for two days. Fortunately, it quickly became clear that the Dark Lord didn’t care which house the son of a Death Eater was in. But those two weeks had been a nightmare for Harry.

This felt similar.

“What kind of danger?” he repeated, seeking more information.

“I’m not sure,” Malfoy admitted. “I think he’s failed a few missions or something. There’s talk in the Inner Circle… that James Potter’s time is up.”

Stay calm, Harry told himself. Now was not the time to lose control.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Malfoy had no reason to share this information, especially considering the trouble he’d be in if this conversation were discovered. The Dark Lord was not known for his tolerance of loose lips.

“I want to help you.”

That was unexpected. “Why?”

Malfoy sighed, as if speaking was difficult. “Because I’ve spent the last five years wishing someone had helped my father when he was in the same situation.”

Harry paused. Everyone knew what had happened to Lucius Malfoy. Five years ago, he had failed a mission assigned by the Dark Lord—to capture a woman named Minerva McGonagall. He had botched it terribly, and she had escaped. As punishment, the Dark Lord had executed him at Hogwarts, in front of all the students and Death Eaters. The message was clear: failure was not tolerated.

Harry still remembered that day, and the look on Malfoy’s face. He couldn’t let the same thing happen to his father. He just couldn’t.

“What can we do?” he asked.

Malfoy looked relieved, as if he had expected Harry to refuse. How could he? Even if it were only about his father, he couldn’t say no. But it wasn’t just about his father. Without James Potter, his Muggle-born wife and half-blood son would be worthless in this world. That was equivalent to a death sentence.

“There’s someone who can help us.”

“Who?” Harry asked, though a voice inside told him he already knew the answer.

“Thomas Gaunt.”

“He won’t help us.”

“Not us. You.

And Harry knew that was true.

---

Chapter Text

Harry sat alone in one of Hogwarts' abandoned classrooms, questioning every decision that had led him to this moment. If his choices had brought him here, they couldn't have been very good.

It had been two days since his conversation with Malfoy about his father. Just a few hours ago, Malfoy had informed him that he had arranged a meeting with Gaunt. Harry wasn't thrilled about seeking help from Gaunt, but deep down, he knew he had no other option.

He had to do this for his father. James Potter had done far worse for his son's sake.

"I must admit, I was surprised to hear you wanted to talk to me, darling."

The voice startled Harry so much that he almost missed the endearment. Almost.

"Yet, here you are," he replied. He would never admit it, but he had been half-convinced that Malfoy wouldn't be able to persuade Gaunt. Apparently, he had been wrong. Whether that was a relief or not, he couldn't tell.

"I was curious," the young man said. As always, he looked annoyingly handsome—wavy black hair, sharp cheekbones, and brown eyes that made Harry feel insignificant. Gaunt smiled, as if he could read Harry's thoughts.

Harry looked away, cleared his throat, and tried to steer the conversation. "What did Malfoy tell you?" he asked, unsure how to begin.

Gaunt smirked. "He said you needed my help."

Harry blushed. "I wouldn't put it that way."

Gaunt raised an eyebrow mockingly. The bastard was clearly enjoying this. Harry needed to regain control. "Malfoy mentioned that the Dark Lord isn't pleased with my father. Is that true?"

Gaunt was silent for a moment before nodding. "My father doesn't share his plans, not even with me. But you'd have to be blind not to see that James Potter's time is running out." A cruel smile briefly crossed his face, but it vanished so quickly that Harry wondered if he had imagined it. "In fact, I should probably offer my condolences in advance."

Harry flinched. "Can you help me?"

Gaunt smiled. "Do you have anything to offer in return?" Seeing Harry's reaction, he chuckled. "What? You didn't expect me to help you for free, did you?"

Harry had, actually. How foolish. Of course, Gaunt wouldn't do anything without a price. "I have nothing to give." That was the truth. A half-blood like Harry had nothing to offer someone like Thomas Gaunt.

Gaunt leaned against the wall, his eyes filled with thoughts Harry couldn't decipher. "I want two things," he said.

Harry nodded. "Whatever they are." He wasn't in a position to be picky.

"First, I want an Unbreakable Vow. You'll promise not to betray me for a period we both agree on."

"Until my father's danger has passed," Harry said without hesitation. Making an Unbreakable Vow didn't bother him. Many wizards feared it, but Harry never made promises he couldn't keep. The broad definition of betrayal worried him a bit, but he couldn't imagine anything worse than losing his father. He was cautious, but he knew he would do anything to save his dad.

"Agreed," Gaunt said. "Second, I want a favor. I'll decide when and where, and you'll do it."

"I suppose I don't get to know what this favor is in advance?" Harry sighed. He reminded himself that this was for his father. Family came first. "Deal."

Gaunt smiled. "Excellent."

"What's your plan?" Harry asked. With anyone else, he wouldn't expect a plan so soon. But this was the Dark Lord's son. He had probably thought of ten different strategies before coming here.

Gaunt shrugged. "Simple. We're going to overthrow my father."

"What?" Harry said. This had to be a joke.

Gaunt didn't look like he was joking. "What? That old bat has been ruling the wizarding world for too long. And he's doing a terrible job. This country deserves a better leader."

"Someone like you?" This was madness. Even talking about it was considered treason, punishable by death or a lifetime in Azkaban.

But Harry couldn't help feeling a thrill. He had been keeping his head down for so long, pretending everything was fine. The idea of actually doing something real was exhilarating.

You couldn't blame him; Harry thrived on adrenaline.

"Don't get me wrong, I've been planning this for years."

Harry thought for a moment. "You just needed an excuse." And Harry had given him exactly that.

"Take my hand," Gaunt said suddenly.

"What?"

"Just do it."

Harry hesitated but took the boy's hand. Suddenly, he felt like he was being pulled through a vacuum. In the next moment, they had Apparated.

That shouldn't have been possible.

Gaunt laughed. "Don't look so surprised. I'm the Dark Lord's son. I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

It made sense. When Harry looked up, he saw a grand, mansion-like building, almost twice the size of Hogwarts. "Where are we?"

Gaunt smiled. "Harry Potter, welcome to the headquarters of the Serpent's Union. Welcome to the Resistance."

---

Chapter Text

Tom drank in Harry's awe like it was fine wine. The boy's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. He looked sweet.

To be honest, Tom had expected bringing Harry here to be more difficult. He had no doubt the Malfoy brat would botch the job entirely. In fact, the only reason he gave him the task in the first place was the pleasure he got from seeing fear on the boy’s face. When he failed, Tom would punish him and take matters into his own hands. That was the original plan. Fun.

But perhaps, for the first time since birth, the Malfoy boy had decided to be useful.

Tom wouldn't complain. It had brought Harry to him sooner and with less trouble. The boy’s tendency to trust people—especially Draco—so easily was, at best, unsettling. He’d have to fix that once the boy was his. Along with many other things.

If he were to be fair, Harry’s quick trust made sense. It was about his father, after all. But Tom couldn’t relate. He was a Horcrux—he had no mother or father. Only Voldemort. At least, for now.

Until he took full control.

He’d never thought about betraying Voldemort until Lucius Malfoy’s death. But when the Dark Lord killed Draco’s father and, a few years later, forced Draco into the Death Eaters, seeing the boy break had been the inspiration Tom needed.

There were many like Draco—people shattered under Voldemort’s rule.

Tom had no sympathy for any of them. But he knew how to use them when he saw potential.

He began slowly. Whispering poisonous promises into the ears of pure-bloods who had lost loved ones in the shadows. Many were easy to sway.

Then he started abducting children from the New Dawn Institute, a school for Muggle-borns. Not all of them, of course—that would be too much trouble. Only the ones with potential. Faking their deaths was easy. The care at the Institute was so poor that a handful of deaths each year was expected. A few extra gone Muggle-borns wouldn’t concern anyone.

Tom had no fondness for Muggle-borns. But his strategy was simple—unite everyone suffering under Voldemort into his own army. And Muggle-borns were perfect for that.

He set those thoughts aside and looked back at Harry. The boy was clearly impressed. Tom smiled. His interest in Harry had begun seven years ago, when he first heard the prophecy. The one destined to defeat the Dark Lord. Intriguing, to say the least.

But after years of watching, the boy had turned out... ordinary. He could see why Voldemort hadn’t taken the prophecy seriously.

Still, Tom had grown used to watching him. The habit became obsession, though he couldn’t recall exactly when. All he knew now was that he was obsessed—with Harry’s smile, his tears, the way he walked… everything. And he wanted it all. All of it. And he would have it. He always did.

“Shall we go inside, darling? There are people I want you to meet.”

Harry blushed at the “darling,” and Tom grinned. So easy.

“Okay, sure. Wow,” Harry murmured, sounding like a baby blurting whatever came to mind. Tom found it adorable.

He led Harry into the manor. It was, as always, crowded. Tom’s army numbered over ten thousand—almost rivaling the Death Eaters.

They entered a section reserved only for the Inner Circle. Besides a few exceptions, it was made up of half-bloods and mostly pure-bloods. An echo of Voldemort, Tom thought, wrinkling his nose. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to fully trust Muggle-borns.

Most of his Inner Circle was young. Youth made better followers.

They stepped into the grand meeting hall. Around the round table sat three people, likely discussing their next mission—Pansy Parkinson, Aliara Jones, and—

“Neville?” Harry shouted. The shock in his voice was unmistakable.

Neville frowned. “Harry? What the hell are you doing here?”

Harry crossed his arms, unsure whether to be angry or confused. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Tom cleared his throat to end their irritating little exchange. “Harry will be staying with us for a while. I’ll need some privacy now.”

“Of course, my lord,” Pansy said, taking Neville’s hand. Their relationship was well known in the Serpent Alliance, even if it had been a secret back at Hogwarts.

“Bring me Hermione,” Tom ordered as they left.

“My lord?” Harry asked. Tom didn’t like the sound of that. Harry calling him ‘lord’ felt wrong. No, he had something... closer in mind. Preferably something whispered in bed.

He smiled. “Like father, like son.”

Harry muttered, “Blood will tell, no matter the soul.”

Tom smiled again. “Something like that.” He was still amused by Harry’s shock at Neville. If that surprised him, introducing him to Sirius Black would be delightful. He wondered how the boy would react to seeing his dear godfather again.

The door opened again, and a girl with bushy hair stepped in. Tom spoke, “Harry, this is Hermione Granger.”

“Granger?” Harry asked. “That sounds… Muggle-born?”

The surprise in his voice was clear. Understandable. The boy likely hadn’t known any Muggle-borns besides his mother.

If it were up to Tom, he’d lock Harry in a tower—so he’d know no one but Tom. Yes, that would be nice. But a foolish dream. Harry was far too wild for that. Of course, that was part of the fun.

“Is that a problem?” Hermione asked, defensive.

Harry paused. “I… no… yes… sorry?”

Tom chuckled. “Don’t push him, Hermione. I’m sure he hasn’t seen many Muggle-borns in his life.”

Hermione nodded. She wouldn't dare argue with Tom. No one would. “Why did you call me, my lord?” she asked.

“Harry and I are going to take an Unbreakable Vow.”

That part had been easy. Harry had insisted the vow last until his father was no longer in danger. What he didn’t know was that James Potter wasn’t actually in danger. At least not from Voldemort.

True, the man had ruined a few lives—but that wasn’t enough to warrant death. Not by Voldemort’s standards.

But Harry hadn’t specified the threat. Just that there was one. And as long as Tom had his eyes on James Potter, the danger remained.

Forever.

---

Chapter Text

"What will you do once you take over the Wizarding World?" Harry asked. They had returned to Hogwarts after taking the Unbreakable Vow. Normally, he would part ways with the boy to head back to the Gryffindor tower, but Gaunt had insisted on accompanying him. Now the two of them were walking together toward the tower.

"I’ll govern it," Gaunt said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. A mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes.

"I figured as much," Harry said. "But how will you govern? Muggle-borns and all that..."

Tom looked as though he were thinking for a moment, which was odd. A man who had planned so much surely had thought about what he would do once in power.

After a few minutes of silence, Gaunt shrugged. "How would you like me to govern?" he asked.

"What?" said Harry, in disbelief. Why would Gaunt ask him that? It didn’t make any sense.

Gaunt smiled. It was a smile that reminded Harry of a predator. "Amuse me."

Harry thought. He’d never dared speak of such a thing before—had barely even let himself think about it. These topics were taboo. If his mother had heard him talking about this, the poor woman would have had a heart attack and bought a one-way ticket to the afterlife.

He hesitated. A faint image had taken shape in his mind, but he wasn’t sure if he should say it aloud to Gaunt. The boy would, at best, laugh at him. At worst... Without giving himself more time to consider, he spoke.
"Fair. A system where everyone is equal, with equal rights."

Gaunt couldn’t help but roll his eyes. "Not very pragmatic."

Harry shrugged. That was probably the best reaction he could expect. At least Gaunt hadn’t cursed him on the spot—so that was a win.
"That’s how I’d want you to govern. If that’s what you were asking."

"Maybe I will."

"What?" said Harry. He was sure he had misheard. There was no way Gaunt—the son of the Dark Lord—had just said that. No way. Maybe he was going mad. That seemed more likely.

"You heard me. As long as I hold the power, I can't say I really care how things work."

Harry couldn’t say how, but he could feel in his bones that Gaunt was lying.
"You wouldn’t abandon your father’s teachings just like that," he said, though something inside him told him this went much deeper.

Gaunt shrugged, as if the conversation was going exactly where he wanted it to go.
"I’d do it for you."

Harry stopped in his tracks, turning to face Gaunt. What he had just heard had to be a joke. There was no way it could be real.
"Why?"

"I like you. You amuse me."

Harry narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know what the other boy’s deal was, but he certainly didn’t like where this conversation was headed.
"You don’t even know me, Gaunt."

"Call me Tom."

As Harry resumed walking, he thought about it. Doing so felt like crossing another line—but considering all the lines he’d already crossed today, maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal.
"Alright."

"Say it," Gaunt said. His voice was sharp. Sharp and... No, Harry didn’t want to think about that.

"Tom."

Gaunt smiled.
"Harry."

"Has anyone ever told you how strange you are?" Harry asked. It had only been a day since they’d started actually getting to know each other, and already he could feel a headache coming on from trying to figure this boy out.

"No one else would dare."

Harry didn’t want to respond, and fortunately, reaching the Gryffindor Tower spared him from having to.
Just in time, he thought, said goodbye to Gaunt, and entered the tower.

The Common Room was empty, as it should have been, given how late it was—except for one person.
"Neville."

"Harry, I was waiting for you." The boy looked tense—and he had every right to be. Harry had forgotten while talking with Gaunt, but he was quite angry with his friend.

He didn’t even know what he was angrier about.
"How long have you been on his side? Does Ron know?"

Neville sat down on a red armchair and motioned with his head for Harry to join him. Harry did so only because he was tired of standing.

"I’m not exactly sure. If I haven’t miscounted, about a year and a half. Maybe a bit more. And no, Ron doesn’t know. Neither does Luna. But now that you’re with us, maybe we’ll bring Ron in too. Merlin knows he’d want to join."

Harry couldn’t deny that.
"Why are you doing this? Why put yourself at risk?"
Neville, despite being a Gryffindor, wasn’t known for his courage. And his life was relatively comfortable. What could possibly drive him to risk everything like this? It couldn’t just be a love of doing the right thing. No one risked their neck in this new world just for that.

Neville sighed.
"Do you know what happened to my father?"

Harry hesitated. He hadn’t expected that question. He’d never met Neville’s father and had never heard him mentioned. His own father had brought him up a couple of times, only to quickly try to cover up his words.

Harry had always assumed Neville’s father had refused to kneel and was killed.
"Was he killed by the Dark Lord?" he asked. Maybe not the most delicate way to ask, but this was the reality they lived in. There was no point in sugarcoating it.

"I wish," Neville said. "The Dark Lord sent a four-man team to my family to extract information about something I still don’t know. My mother was pregnant with my sister at the time, so they left her alone. You know how those bastards value pureblood children."

He looked down, clearly finding this difficult to talk about.
"My father wasn’t so lucky. They tortured him to the brink of death. I was just a baby back then, but sometimes on bad nights, I feel like I can still hear his screams. He’s been in St. Mungo’s ever since."

Harry didn’t know what to say. It was horrifying.
"I’m sorry."

Neville laughed—a bitter, pained laugh.
"That’s not even the worst part. One of those men thought my mother couldn’t properly raise a pureblood child. So they married her off to the man who tortured my father into madness. You know him. Our Dark Arts professor."

Harry’s eyes widened.
"Professor Crouch?"
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How had he not known this? And how could such a monster be teaching at Hogwarts?

Then again, the answer wasn’t hard to guess: the Dark Lord had ordered it.

"I’m not allowed to go home during the holidays or even correspond with my mother and sister. My sister was given special permission from the Dark Lord to not attend Hogwarts. I don’t know what he does to my mother while I’m away, but I know it’s not good. That’s why I follow Gaunt. Because I have to save my mother. I’ve got nothing to lose—but a lot to gain."

And Harry understood. He truly did.

Chapter Text

Harry was gathering his belongings with his classmates. The lesson had been interesting, but he just couldn’t focus. Neville’s words kept swirling in his mind; he hadn’t been able to concentrate on the class at all. He wondered how he hadn’t known this all these years. He felt guilty for never asking Neville about his family before. Of course, there was nothing he could do now, but at the very least, he could be there for his friend. But no—Harry had been so buried in his own troubles that he hadn’t even asked how his friend was doing. That would change from now on. Who knew how many stories like Neville’s had passed under Harry’s radar? From now on, he would pay more attention and help where he could. If his last conversation with Gaunt had shown him anything, it was that Harry might soon have the power to help.

He was lost in thought, walking behind Ron, when he heard someone call his name.

"One moment, Mr. Potter."

Professor Crouch. Damn it.

He motioned to his friends not to wait and approached the professor. The man said nothing until the classroom emptied.
"You were distracted in class today."

Harry looked down. He was never good at lying. And Barty Crouch Jr. knew him well, thanks to his father. Harry’s childhood had been spent around this man. He had been one of the few Death Eaters Harry had actually liked.
Until he heard Neville’s story. Now, all he felt was fear and disgust crawling over his skin. He couldn't tell which was stronger.

"I wasn't feeling well," he mumbled.

Professor Crouch looked thoughtful.
"I see," he said softly. "I’ve seen you with Longbottom lately. I hope that has nothing to do with it?"

Harry’s heart skipped a few beats.
"Neville and I have always been close, professor," he said, fully aware that the professor had meant something else. What else could he say? Getting Neville in trouble would be the last thing he’d want.

"Must have slipped my notice. Well, then. Longbottom is a good kid. Perhaps too good for this world. Be careful he doesn’t rub off on you. You know what they say—"
"The world is hell for the kind-hearted," said Harry.

Back when he was a child, Barty used to say that often, warning him not to be weak and soft like other half-bloods. The words were etched into Harry’s mind.
"Exactly," said the man, smiling.
Harry knew a threat when he heard one.

"If you’ll excuse me, professor," he said.
The man waved him off absentmindedly, and Harry walked out slowly. A quick tempus charm told him the next class had already started. He must have spent more time in the classroom than he’d realized. He didn’t feel like going to class—Ron would make up an excuse for him. Slughorn liked Harry, so he probably wouldn’t mind.

As he wandered the corridors aimlessly, he thought about the conversation with Barty Crouch Jr. Apparently, he’d been too obvious with his emotions in class. That couldn’t happen again. This was not the time to take risks—especially considering his father's situation. He had to pull himself together. He had grown up in this world. He knew how to play the game. He just needed to be careful.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the hand grabbing his wrist and pulling him into an empty classroom until it was too late.

"What the—Hannah?"

Standing in front of him was none other than Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff.
"Hi, Harry. I wanted to talk to you."

Harry raised an eyebrow. They were friends, sure, but not particularly close. He couldn’t think of any reason why Hannah would drag him into an unused classroom—
Unless it was about Gaunt.
For Merlin’s sake, what had his life become?
"Don’t you have class?" he asked, but when she raised her brows, he remembered he should also be in class. He sighed.

"Why are we meeting in secret instead of talking like civilized people?" he asked. Lately, this was becoming a regular occurrence. If he wasn’t living it, he might have thought it was funny.

"If you’d stop putting yourself in danger like a maniac, maybe we could talk like civilized people. Gaunt, Harry? Seriously? Do you have a death wish?"

"How do you know about that?" he asked, unsure of what else to say.
"We all have our sources," said Hannah. "Drop this, Harry. Thomas Gaunt is not who you think he is. Being around him will only get you in trouble. You’re better than this."
"Why are you telling me this?" asked Harry. It didn’t make sense. Sure, they had a better relationship than most with pure-bloods at the school, but it wasn’t like they were best friends. In this world, everyone was on their own. And by warning him, Hannah was taking a risk. There was no guarantee Harry wouldn’t tell Gaunt about this conversation. That wouldn’t end well for her.

Harry would never do such a thing—but Hannah didn’t know that.

"Believe me, I wouldn’t have said anything if it were up to me. Every sheep hangs by its own leg, no offense. But someone higher up wants to protect you. I was just the poor soul chosen to deliver the message."

"What?" said Harry. He hadn’t expected that. He had no idea who Hannah could be referring to.

"Who?" he asked, though he didn’t expect an answer.

"A friend," said Hannah. "Take care of yourself, Harry. I’ve said what I needed to say. The rest is up to you."
And with that, she left the classroom.

Harry called after her, but she didn’t stop.

Two threatening conversations in one day, Harry thought. What had his life turned into?

D

Harry was playing chess with Ron in the Gryffindor dormitory when Neville burst in, panting.
"Professor Crouch is calling for you," he told Harry.

Not again, Harry thought. What had he done now? He hadn’t seen the man since their last conversation, so it was hard to imagine what he could have done to upset him.

"Did he say what it was about?" Ron asked.

Ron still didn’t know anything. Harry hated keeping secrets from his best friend, but he didn’t really have a choice. He hadn’t even figured things out himself yet.
And if what Neville had said was true, Gaunt might soon invite Ron too.

Harry might not have known what happened to Neville’s family before, but he definitely knew Ron’s story. The Weasley family had been one of the worst hit during the war. Arthur and Molly Weasley had bowed to the Dark Lord and had their lives spared. Unfortunately, their children weren’t so “reasonable.”
Their two oldest sons, Bill and Charlie, had been killed by Death Eaters. The twins, Fred and George, were fugitives—arrested in their fifth year for inciting rebellion, they had escaped while being transported to the Ministry. No one had seen them since. Percy Weasley had probably been the luckiest of them all. He barely communicated with the family except during holidays, spending most of his time at his fancy job in the Ministry.

Ron’s sister had been adopted by the Zabini family. It was believed Molly Weasley couldn’t properly raise a pure-blood daughter. She was now in Ravenclaw. Though she and Ron occasionally spoke, Harry didn’t think they were very close.

Of the Weasleys’ seven children, only Ron had stayed with his parents.

So yes—Ron had every reason to join Gaunt too.

Neville shook his head in response to Ron’s question.

Harry sighed and stood up. "We’ll finish the game later, mate," he said, and left the dormitory.

As he walked with Neville through the corridors, he noticed they were going in the opposite direction of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
"Where are we going?" he asked, puzzled.

Neville sighed. "Gaunt asked me to bring you. It’s time for a meeting of the Serpent Society members at Hogwarts."

Harry was surprised, but relieved he wouldn’t have to talk to Barty. He needed a few days to compose himself around that man.
"How many Hogwarts students are on Gaunt’s side?" he asked, genuinely curious. How long had this boy been planning things? And how had no one—not even the Dark Lord—noticed?

Neville thought for a moment. "Around a hundred and twenty, I think. But today only the students in the Little Circle are coming—about fifteen of us."

"Little Circle?"

"It’s the part of the Inner Circle made up of students and younger members," Neville explained.

So there were adults involved too. Harry felt a wave of relief. He trusted Gaunt, but it was good to know this wasn’t just a revolution run by a bunch of teenagers.

"And where is this meeting happening?" he asked. He couldn’t imagine where in Hogwarts so many people could gather without the professors finding out.

"The Room of Requirement," said Neville.

"The what?" Harry asked. He’d never heard of such a place.

Neville grinned. "You’ll see."

Chapter Text

To say that Harry was surprised when he entered what was known as the Room of Requirement would be a serious understatement. Neville had a hard time explaining how the room worked, because Harry simply couldn’t believe it. He had been at Hogwarts all this time and had no idea there was a room that could take any shape a person desired. He didn’t know whether to be mad at himself for not being more curious, or glad he found out before graduating. Then again, it wasn’t as if he’d had the chance to be curious. Hogwarts’ new teachers were far too strict for anyone even slightly adventurous. Breaking any rule came with a heavy price, so no one dared—except, apparently, Tom Gaunt.

When they entered, they were met with a small but cozy atmosphere. A fire was crackling in the fireplace, and the chairs were arranged in a crescent shape. Gaunt stood in the middle of it all. When the boy saw him, he smiled, and Harry, for reasons he didn’t understand, felt himself blush. Neville went to sit in the chair beside the Parkinson girl, leaving Harry no choice but to sit next to Gaunt. Taking a deep breath as if to prepare himself, he moved toward the boy. Without warning, Gaunt grabbed Harry’s hand and smiled.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet our new member: Harry Potter.”

All eyes were on him. A few people nodded in greeting. Harry recognized most of them. Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis—all Slytherins he knew. But there were also people from other houses. Susan Bones and Megan Jones from Hufflepuff. Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein, and Lisa Turpin from Ravenclaw. And, of course, Neville Longbottom from Gryffindor. And then there was Hermione Granger—someone Harry absolutely didn’t expect to see.

What on earth was she doing in the middle of Hogwarts? If she got caught, her fate would be worse than death. How had she even gotten in? For a Muggle-born, entering Hogwarts should have been impossible. As if she’d read his mind, the girl turned to him and whispered:

“In time, you’ll see that nothing is impossible for our Lord.”

With Granger, they were twelve in total, but there were some empty chairs, so Harry assumed not everyone was present.

“Megan, begin,” Gaunt said.

Harry couldn’t help but notice how Gaunt addressed his followers by their first names. Perhaps that was one of the things that made him different from his father, the Dark Lord. Harry couldn’t imagine the ruler of wizarding Britain casually addressing Death Eaters by name. He pictured the man calling his father James and almost laughed.

Megan Jones nodded and began speaking.

“Our spies within your father’s ranks are continuing their work without being caught, my Lord. Unfortunately, there’s not much groundbreaking information this week. The Dark Lord seems to be keeping a low profile. The only piece of news I have is that Rita Skeeter is going to be arrested on Wednesday.”

Gaunt raised an eyebrow but didn’t seem too impressed. “On what charge?”

“She published a few articles without Ministry approval. The crime isn’t serious enough for Azkaban, so according to our informants, she’ll be sent to Lope.”

Lope was one of the many prisons built under the Dark Lord’s regime. Unlike Azkaban, Lope didn’t use Dementors. If you were lucky, you could be released after a few years. But most people who entered were marked for life. Getting a job, renting a place, or starting a family became almost impossible. Many didn’t even want to leave.

Remus Lupin, an old friend of Harry’s father, was one of those imprisoned there. Harry had no idea what his crime had been; his father never talked about it. He only knew the man’s name from old photos and the stories Sirius shared when no one else was listening.

“Do you want us to do anything, my Lord?” Nott asked.

Gaunt shook his head quickly. “As much as I enjoy watching my father get riled up by Skeeter’s scandalous articles, she’s not worth the resources to save.”

He turned to Parkinson. “And what is our dear comrade Minerva McGonagall up to?” he asked mockingly.

“She’s still tracking Albus Dumbledore,” Parkinson said quickly. “According to her latest letter, she’s close to finding him.”

Albus Dumbledore... Harry had only heard that name once in his life. Honestly, he wouldn’t have remembered it if Parkinson hadn’t mentioned it. Once, Sirius and his father had been talking about the man, and Harry’s mother Lily had become furious—angrier than Harry had ever seen her. She’d scolded them like they were children. Harry had never heard the name again and now found himself wondering who the man really was.

“Good,” Gaunt said, nodding. He turned to the dark-haired girl. “Lisa?”

The girl suddenly looked frightened.

“My Lord, I’m afraid the Muggle-born boy we sent to steal the Area D records from the Lestrange estate was caught.”

A dangerous glint appeared in Gaunt’s eyes. “By whom?”

Lisa Turpin lowered her gaze. “Cedric Diggory, my Lord.”

Everyone’s expressions darkened. Blaise Zabini cursed. Daphne Greengrass looked disgusted.

“That damn traitor,” muttered Goldstein.

Hermione leaned in to whisper to Harry. “Cedric Diggory was one of us before he defected to the Dark Lord. Fortunately, he never rose high enough to learn that our leader is Tom Gaunt, but the information he took with him cost us a lot.”

Harry knew Cedric Diggory. He liked him. The older boy had always been kind to him.

“Find someone to kill the Muggle-born before he can tell my father’s followers what he knows,” Gaunt said coldly. “Lisa, this task is yours. Don’t mess it up. Everyone may leave.”

People began to leave one by one. Harry hesitated, wondering if Gaunt would call him back, but the boy didn’t even look at him. He didn’t know why he felt disappointed.

He and Neville were walking down the corridor when footsteps echoed behind them. A few seconds later, Colin Creevey appeared.

“Harry, Headmaster Snape wants to see you.”

Neville turned to Harry quickly. “What did you do this time?”

Harry raised his hands in defense. “I didn’t do anything!”

Neville sighed. “Well, you’d better go... Just... be careful.”

Harry nodded, understanding exactly what Neville meant. He left them behind and headed to Snape’s office. He expected to see the Headmaster—but instead, someone completely unexpected was waiting.

“Dad?”

James Potter rushed to his son and grabbed him by the shoulders. The man looked ten years older than the last time Harry had seen him—and deeply worried.

“Harry, what have you done?” he asked.

Okay... Harry was really getting tired of that question.

“Dad? Why are you here?”

James Potter stepped back and looked his son in the eyes, then said the words that might change Harry’s life forever:

“The Dark Lord wants to meet you.”

Chapter Text

It was evening when Harry entered the Dark Lord’s manor with his father. His heart was pounding furiously. Why would someone like the Dark Lord want to see him? It didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t be for anything good. Harry was absolutely, horribly screwed.

He glanced at his father, but that only made him more anxious. James Potter, though trying not to show it, was clearly worried. He was clenching his teeth and tapping his fingers rhythmically against his robes.

“You’re sure you didn’t do anything?” he repeated the question he had already asked at least a hundred times on their way there.

“Yes,” Harry lied quickly. He had done enough in the past week to earn himself a one-way ticket to Azkaban—and the worst part was, he had done it all for his father. This was bad. Very bad. It would be ironic if trying to save his dad ended up getting him killed. He was fairly certain neither of his parents would find it particularly funny.

They had only walked a few more steps when a man emerged from the darkness and approached them. Harry couldn't help the small smile that formed on his lips when he saw who it was.

“Potter, Harry,” greeted Cedric Diggory.

“Diggory,” James replied curtly.

Harry gave a shy, uncertain smile. He wasn’t quite sure what to think of Cedric. Back at school, the older boy had always been kind to him—one of the few students Harry had genuinely liked. But Cedric had betrayed Gaunt, the group Harry was now a part of. That technically made him an enemy.

His feelings were... conflicted.

“From here on, he’s mine,” Cedric said confidently.

James didn’t look pleased. Naturally.

“I’d prefer to be the one escorting my son to the Dark Lord, thank you.”

Cedric shrugged. “I understand, but an emergency call came in from Lestrange Manor. I don’t know what it’s about, but the Dark Lord wants you there.”

Harry remembered Gaunt’s meeting with the Inner Circle. Apparently, Lisa Turpin had acted quickly.

James looked hesitant, but they both knew there was no disobeying the Dark Lord’s orders.

He turned to Harry. “You’re going to be okay?”

“As okay as I can be,” Harry replied, though he wanted to beg his father to stay. “Cedric will take care of me.”

James gave Cedric one last warning glance before disappearing the way they’d come.

Now alone, Harry looked up at Cedric, feeling slightly embarrassed. The older boy had grown since they’d last seen each other—taller, his hair longer, and he had lost the boyish charm he once had.

“Do you know why the Dark Lord wants to see me?” Harry asked, genuinely curious.

Cedric hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to answer, then shrugged. “You probably don’t want me to tell you, honestly. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

He winked as he said it, and though Harry shrugged, he couldn’t help but smile.

Finally, they arrived at an enormous, imposing door. Cedric sighed.

“From here on, you’re on your own.” He paused. “And Harry? Whatever you do—don’t look into the Dark Lord’s eyes.”

Harry nodded and stepped inside.

The room was vast—so large it made the Great Hall at Hogwarts look like a cupboard. Five grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling at even intervals. Aside from the massive throne at the far end, the room was completely empty.

No one was there.

For a moment, Harry feared he had come to the wrong place. If he was somewhere he shouldn’t be—and if he had kept the Dark Lord waiting—things would not end well. For him.

Then, suddenly, he felt the breath of a stranger on his neck.

He turned quickly, heart racing with fear.

Red eyes met green, and Harry dropped to his knees at once. He bowed so low that his forehead nearly touched the floor.

It was well-known that the Dark Lord imprisoned people just for the way they walked, finding it disrespectful. So Harry didn’t feel ashamed of groveling.

As Barty always said: if your head’s still on your shoulders, it doesn’t matter where your spine is.

The Dark Lord let out a soft, chilling laugh, and Harry shivered.

“You may rise, my son,” the man said.

Harry stood slowly, fixing his gaze firmly on the floor. He had to force himself not to flinch at the word son.

To the Dark Lord, Death Eaters were property. They held no value beyond their utility. And whatever belonged to them—families included—belonged to him.

Even though his eyes were lowered, Harry could sense the man circling him like a predator.

“I must say, Tom has always had dreadful taste. I don’t know where he got that from,” the Dark Lord mused. “But it seems he made a rather surprising—and satisfying—exception in choosing you.”

“We’re just friends, my lord,” Harry murmured.

Voldemort stepped directly in front of him.

“My son’s friend. My Death Eater’s child. Do you know what that makes you, Harry Potter? It makes you mine. Twice.”

Harry nodded, barely breathing. He couldn’t remember ever being this terrified in his life.

This was the man. The one he had grown up hearing horror stories about. The man who had taken so many of his friends away—friends he had, and friends he could have had.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, my lord,” he said quietly.

“Look at me,” Voldemort commanded.

Harry lifted his head, trying to focus on anything but the man’s eyes. Then, he felt it—the cold, pale hand cupping his cheek, turning his face until their eyes aligned.

That cursed hand. His hand. And then it started stroking his cheek.

Harry was sure he was going to die right then and there of a heart attack.

“I have a proposal for you,” the Dark Lord said, still caressing his face.

“My lord?” Harry replied cautiously.

“I’ve long considered taking on an apprentice. Perhaps… that apprentice could be you.”

Harry hadn’t been expecting that.

To be the Dark Lord’s apprentice… That was perhaps the highest position a person could ever hope to reach. It meant power. It meant respect. But above all, it meant protection.

With that kind of influence, he could protect everyone he cared about. He could have everything.

But such offers never came without a price.

The Dark Lord continued, “In return, I want you to infiltrate the rebel group known as the Serpent’s Union… and act as my spy.”

Chapter Text

"My Lord," said Harry, not knowing what to say. The Dark Lord stroked the boy's hair once before pulling his hand back.

"I know they contacted you, my child..." He laughed when he saw Harry’s expression. "Don’t worry, I’m not angry with you. You’re young; mistakes are bound to happen. I’m offering you a chance to make up for it."

Harry lowered his gaze. The Dark Lord he grew up hearing stories about was never this forgiving.
"My Lord, if you don’t mind me asking... why are you being so merciful?" he asked boldly, ignoring the voice inside telling him to shut up. He needed to know—otherwise, he'd spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

The Dark Lord laughed again. "I’ve killed people for far less, true... But you and I, our past goes way back. I feel... eh, tolerant toward you."

Harry was confused. He had never interacted with the man before—what past could he possibly be talking about? He truly didn’t understand, and that scared him. Deeply.

The Dark Lord offered him a gentle smile. "In time, you'll learn more. For now, all you need to do is accept my offer."

"Of course, my Lord," Harry said, fully aware he had no other choice. Who in their right mind would say no to the Dark Lord? He might be a Gryffindor, but he liked being alive. Well, he thought. At least for now.

The Dark Lord smiled. "Excellent. From this day forward, you are both my apprentice and my spy. And I want you to understand—my expectations for you are high in both roles. Failure is absolutely not an option."

Harry nodded. No one—not even Tom Gaunt, the man’s own son—would dare fail the Dark Lord. This was, after all, the most powerful wizard to ever live. Some even said he was stronger than Merlin himself. Harry hadn’t believed that—until now. The man's aura was so dark and powerful it almost called to him. And his looks didn’t help either.

He’d heard from his father that the Dark Lord once had a serpentine, hideous face—but it seemed like he only used that face when he wanted to scare people. Right now, he looked like Thomas Gaunt, and Harry didn’t know why that unsettled him so much.

"My Lord," he said cautiously. Asking this might earn him a very bad outcome, but he had to.
"As your apprentice… when the time comes… will I have to… torture people? Or kill them?"

The Dark Lord paused. "I can wait until you grow more accustomed to the idea... But remember, I’m not known for my patience. So yes. One day, I may expect that from you."

Harry nodded again. He wanted to scream, cry, or run—but even in panic, he knew he had no choice. If the Dark Lord wanted something, he would take it. And right now—for some unknown reason—he wanted Harry.

The Dark Lord reached out once more and stroked Harry's hair.
"Good boy," he murmured. "In a few days, I’ll have the official papers for your apprenticeship prepared and sent to you. I expect you to sign them without delay."

Harry nodded. He was smart enough to know this was more like a contract than a request. He bowed one last time and started to leave. But then, the Dark Lord spoke again.

"And Harry, you may speak about the apprenticeship to anyone you like. But the other part of our agreement must remain secret."

"Of course, my Lord," Harry said quickly and left the room. He felt that if he stayed a second longer, he’d vomit—or worse, cry in front of the Dark Lord. That would definitely not end well. The man would probably get so disgusted and angry that he’d kill Harry on the spot.

Harry didn’t know why he found that funny, but a smile crept onto his face.

"From your expression, I take it you said yes to the Dark Lord's offer?" asked Cedric, appearing suddenly.

"You knew?" Harry asked, surprised.

Cedric chuckled, his smile warm—like sunlight falling over the lake in summer.
"Everyone did, I think. Except your poor father. So, did you accept?"

Harry knew Cedric was talking about the apprenticeship. The Dark Lord wasn’t the type to casually share plans, so he doubted anyone knew about the spy part.

"Did I really have a choice?" he asked, genuinely curious. He’d never met anyone who said no to the Dark Lord and lived to tell the tale.

"There’s always a choice," Cedric said mysteriously.

"I said yes."

Cedric grinned and affectionately ruffled Harry’s hair. Harry had just spent the last few minutes trying to forget who else had done that.

"I’m glad. It means we’ll be seeing more of each other." The older boy pulled out an old ink bottle from his pocket. "Your Portkey back to Hogwarts."

As soon as Harry touched the key, the world around him blurred—and then he was back at Hogwarts.

Now he had only one question to think about:
Would he choose Thomas Gaunt, who offered him a better world—or the Dark Lord, who promised him power?

---

Voldemort watched the boy flee with a smirk on his face.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the fear he instilled in the child. But Voldemort never lied. His hocrux made a truly delightful choice in setting his sights on Harry Potter.

It was unfortunate that he would be stealing the boy from his precious protégé.

He had always been interested in Harry Potter—both because of the boy’s powerful parents and the prophecy he had long decided to ignore.

His plan had always been to bring the boy to his side—but now, he thought he could do more than that. The boy was too pure, too innocent. Voldemort craved to stain that purity, to make him his. And he would.

After all, he was the Dark Lord. Getting what he wanted was his greatest right.

Poor Harry. If he knew what he was getting himself into, he would’ve run for his life.

Mine, Voldemort thought.

Chapter Text

Tom was angry—no, saying he was angry wouldn’t be enough. He was absolutely seething with rage. He had been having a pleasant day when Sirius Black showed up and told him that Voldemort wanted to talk to Harry. Needless to say, that news alone had been enough to ruin everything.

What did that old snake want from Harry?

Tom had been so careful. For years, he had successfully hidden his desire for Harry. He had even allowed everyone to believe that he didn’t know who the boy was until he joined one of the small rebel groups. That could only mean one thing: there was a traitor in their midst.

Tom had thought he’d cleansed his ranks when he finally got rid of that clown Cedric Diggory. Clearly, that had been a foolish assumption. When the time came, whoever dared to betray him would regret it—but that wasn’t the priority right now. The priority was finding his Harry.

Who knew what sweet lies Voldemort had whispered to the boy?

No, he thought angrily. He wouldn’t allow Harry to be tricked by Voldemort. Over my dead body, he swore. If anyone was going to manipulate Harry, it was going to be Tom. No one else.

Maybe it was time to speed up his plans for the revolution. Voldemort had never shown the slightest interest in Harry Potter over the years, which probably meant the only reason he had now set his eyes on the boy was because of Tom’s own interest. That old snake was so jealous he couldn’t even allow one of his own Horcruxes to have something for himself.

Sometimes, Tom thought he hated Voldemort even more than Albus Dumbledore—which was quite an achievement, considering who the Dark Lord was.
The only reason Tom had gained consciousness was because Voldemort needed someone to poison the minds of young children—and that narcissist, of course, trusted no one but himself with such a task. And so, Tom, a Horcrux, had come to life. Oh, how he was going to make Voldemort regret that decision. He would lock the man up in a cell so deep, so forgotten, that even his existence would be erased. He would never look back. Maybe he’d even build his future palace right on top of that cell. The idea alone made him smile. While Voldemort rotted beneath meters of stone, he and his beloved Harry would sit on thrones built from the bones of Tom’s enemies.

But first, Tom had to find Harry Potter.

With a swift flick of his wand, he muttered a spell that would reveal Harry’s location and set off at once. He had to reach Harry as soon as possible. The Dark Lord could be quite persuasive when he wanted to be, and Tom would not allow him to fill the boy’s head with dark promises. No. That privilege belonged to Tom alone.

Once the spell was complete, it didn’t take long to find Harry. The boy flinched the moment he saw him. Even if Tom weren’t such a skilled Legilimens, he would have felt the storm of hesitation and helplessness pouring off Harry.

“What did he say to you?” Tom asked, diving straight into the heart of the matter. He didn’t have the patience for anything else.

“What? Who?” Harry replied, as if he could actually fool Tom. How adorable.

“My father,” Tom said, slipping into his role effortlessly. “The Dark Lord. What did he tell you?”

Harry hesitated. As if he hadn’t expected Tom to know. Truly, when Tom claimed his place as the ruler of the wizarding world, there would be so much he’d need to teach Harry. Yes, the boy’s innocence was amusing, but in the long run, it would only cause Tom headaches.

“How do you know?” Harry asked, as if he were in any position to demand answers.

“I have my sources.” Tom briefly considered mentioning Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, but quickly changed his mind. That was still a card he wanted to keep close to his chest.

Watching Harry hesitate to speak, Tom had to restrain himself from sighing. Fine, he thought. It seemed he would have to resort to more persuasive methods. That was just as well—Tom didn’t mind.

“Harry, darling,” he said, coating his voice in honey. He hid his grin as Harry flushed at the word darling. Oh, how he looked forward to drawing every reaction out of the boy.

“Do you know what they do to children at the New Dawn Institute for Muggle-borns? No?”
Harry looked confused, as if he couldn’t quite follow how the conversation had taken such a turn.

“They experiment on them—tortures that even I find chilling. Every year, about fifty students are sent to the Institute. Only around ten survive the full seven years. They do these things to small children—cut open their organs, invade their minds, force them to relive their worst nightmares again and again. They’re made to kill their own families. Very few make it through those years without going completely mad.”

Harry had gone pale, looking like he might be sick at any moment.

And Tom hadn’t even delivered the fatal blow yet.

“Do you know what happened to your father’s friend, Remus Lupin, in Lope Prison?” he continued. “One day, during a transformation, he accidentally scratched a guard’s arm. Just a scratch. In return, they tortured him for days. They cut his body into twenty-four pieces and handed his head to your father. A souvenir.”

Harry looked like he might faint.
Tom reached out and gently stroked his cheek.

“I don’t know what Voldemort told you,” he said, his voice now soft and serious, “but believe me, what I’ve told you is just the tip of the iceberg. Do you really want to work for a man like that? I can protect you—but only if you’re honest with me. You have to tell me everything. Otherwise, not even I will be able to help you.”

The best part was, Tom hadn’t told a single lie. Everything he had said was true. In fact, for Harry’s sake, he had left out some of the truly horrifying details.

He knew it would be enough.
And it was.

A moment later, Harry began to tell him everything.

Chapter Text

Harry told Tom everything—his conversation with the Dark Lord, the offer the man had made, everything. Tom had stayed silent the entire time, patiently waiting for Harry to finish. He hadn’t made a single comment, and his face was as hard as stone, which made Harry a little worried.

“Are you angry?” he asked hesitantly. The boy had every right to be. The truth was, Harry had considered accepting the Dark Lord’s offer. Power was something he had never truly had. Neither was respect, or rank. He could have had enough power to help the people he cared about, to save his father, to give his mother a better life.

So yes, Harry had thought about saying yes.

The funny thing was, what stopped him was Hermione Granger—a girl he had only seen twice. They weren’t even friends, but her image had made him hesitate. He’d found himself wondering, unintentionally, what would’ve happened if she had studied at Hogwarts with him. Would they have become friends? Or not been able to stand each other? What kind of relationship would she have had with Ron? And if they hadn’t met as rebels, what would Neville have been like? Who would he be if he hadn’t had to attend the lessons of the man who’d ruined his life every single day? If he’d had the chance to live a normal life with his mother and brother? And Ron—would he have been happier growing up with all his siblings in peace?

Then, one by one, Harry thought of every person he had met who had suffered under the Dark Lord’s regime. Nearly everyone he knew carried a scar. They had lived unbearable lives—and the worst part was, they had come to accept it as normal.

How could he possibly stand on the Dark Lord’s side, knowing all of this?

It was impossible. Power was tempting, yes—but the promise of a world where people wouldn’t suffer was even more so. And without realizing it, Harry had wanted that his entire life. A world where people like his mother—Muggle-borns—could live free. And apparently, he was now ready to do things he’d never have had the courage to do before to make that world real.

So Harry had decided to tell Tom everything.

“I’m not angry with you,” Tom said.

Harry felt a rush of relief. He didn’t know why the idea of the boy being angry with him bothered him so much. For some reason, he didn’t want to disappoint him.

“I’m angry at my father.”

Harry frowned. “At the Dark Lord?” That was strange. Tom had lived with the man for years. Surely, he had seen him do far worse—horrifying things, even. If he hadn’t been angry then, why now?

“For putting you in danger,” Tom explained when he saw Harry’s confusion.

Oh.

Harry didn’t know why his cheeks burned, or why a smile tugged at his lips. Judging by Tom’s smirk, the boy was quite pleased with his own words.

Harry quickly opened his mouth to change the subject. “How do you think he knows I joined the rebellion?”

Tom paused. “Apparently, just like I have spies on his side, he has spies on mine.”

Harry frowned. That wasn’t good news. “Do you have any idea who it might be?” he asked worriedly.

Tom looked uncomfortable. “Not yet, but believe me—I’ll find out eventually. And when I do, they’ll be looking for a place to hide.”

Harry nodded. Strangely enough, he trusted Tom. Something deep inside told him that if anyone could lead this rebellion to success, it was Tom. Harry trusted him in that way. Maybe in other ways too…

Then suddenly, he remembered—he had to find his father. The man was waiting for him in Snape’s office. As much as he wanted to stay and talk with Tom, he could imagine how worried his father must be, and he didn’t want to cause him any more trouble.

“My father’s waiting for me,” he said.

“I’ll walk with you,” Tom offered.

Harry didn’t know why, but that made him feel better.

“Of course,” he said, and began to walk.

“Harry, I hope you understand… I won’t be able to share much with you while you’re spending time with my father.”

Harry had expected that, but the disappointment still crept in. It made sense, sure—but he hadn’t expected to be shut out just when he was finally getting involved.

Still, he said none of that.

“I understand,” he replied simply—and he truly did.

At last, they arrived at the headmaster’s office.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” Tom asked.

Harry shook his head. He actually did want him to stay, but couldn’t shake the feeling that Tom had more important things to do. The boy had already gone out of his way for him many times—who was Harry to ask for more?

Once Tom walked away, Harry entered Snape’s office. He was both anxious and eager to see his father—but that eagerness was met with disappointment, because it wasn’t James Potter who stood before him. No—it was Cedric Diggory.

“You’re making me feel like you’re following me,” Harry said with a smile. He looked pleased.

“Sorry,” Cedric muttered. “I know you were expecting your father, but the Dark Lord had a task for him. I figured I’d bring you your apprenticeship contract instead.”

Harry couldn’t shake the sense of déjà vu. This was the second time the Dark Lord had taken his father away when Harry needed him most. It was almost like… he was doing it on purpose. Like he was trying to stop Harry from spending time with him.

But why? That didn’t make sense. Still, the suspicion lingered.

Trying not to let it show, Harry smiled.

When Cedric handed him a knife, he frowned instinctively. “What’s this for?”

“Blood oath,” Cedric explained, offering a parchment. “Nothing too serious, just a few drops. I can help, if you’d like.”

Harry shook his head. He had never cut himself before, so he wasn’t sure he could do it. As he took the parchment, he handed the knife back to Cedric.

Cedric took the knife and moved behind him. Harry could feel the older boy’s warm breath on his neck. Cedric gently grasped his arm—his touch as soft as a mother holding her child for the first time. His lips brushed Harry’s ear.

Harry was so focused on the boy, he barely felt the blade as it sliced into his skin. A few drops of blood splattered onto the parchment.

By the time Harry realized he hadn’t read what the contract said, it was already too late.

Chapter Text

"You pathetic, useless half-blood," said Bellatrix Lestrange, while Harry writhed on the floor from the curse she had just thrown at him.

The Dark Lord had assigned Harry several private tutors. Every Friday evening, Harry would leave Hogwarts and go to the Manor—the Dark Lord’s Manor—where he stayed until Sunday evening, then returned. At least, that had been the routine for a week now.

The Dark Lord had given him a large, luxurious room to stay in, and when Harry wasn’t attending lessons or forced to dine with the Dark Lord, he spent most of his time in that new room. He hadn’t expected this when he agreed to become the Dark Lord’s apprentice. Apparently, neither had Tom, because when the young man heard of the new arrangement, he had a full-blown meltdown. Harry had seen Tom angry many times before, but this was the first time he had been genuinely afraid of the boy.

Dodging another curse flying toward him, Harry couldn’t help but wish Tom could somehow help him. His other teachers weren’t so bad. Evan Rosier was teaching him Potions, Antonin Dolohov taught Charms, and he learned Transfiguration from Corban Yaxley. As a welcome change, Defense Against the Dark Arts was taught by Cedric. Harry hadn’t expected to take that class—it wasn’t part of the Hogwarts curriculum. When he asked, he was told that even if it wasn’t to be used, the Dark Lord’s apprentice had to master all branches of magic. Even Light magic.

The Dark Arts, however, were being taught by none other than perhaps the Dark Lord’s most passionate follower, Bellatrix Lestrange. Harry wasn’t even sure you could call what they did a "lesson." It felt more like torture. Speaking of torture…

He cursed under his breath while dodging yet another curse. Was that a Cruciatus? Things seemed to be getting worse for him.
“Stop,” he said, breathless. “Please.”
Bellatrix looked at him and sneered. “Pathetic.”

Harry didn’t have many prior memories of Bellatrix. He knew her husband, Rodolphus, and his brother, Rabastan. In fact, when he was younger, Rabastan used to play with him despite his father’s protests—so despite being a Death Eater, Harry had always liked him. But Bellatrix had always been a bit of a mystery. Now, he had to spend most of his time with her. Maybe he could ask Sirius a few things about her. After all, as much as Sirius hated her, they were still from the same family.

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath and brace for another hit. Considering how badly his legs were trembling, the fact that he didn’t collapse when he stood was a miracle.

“I don’t see how I’m supposed to learn anything like this,” he finally blurted out.
He had already had two sessions with the woman, and both had ended with him writhing under torture spells and bleeding. Cedric had warned him a thousand times not to go up against Bellatrix, but Harry had had enough.
“Are you questioning my methods, dear Harry?”
Harry lowered his gaze. “I wouldn’t dare, ma’am.”
“Good,” she said, adjusting her curly hair. Or trying to. She only managed to mess it up further, but if she noticed, she didn’t care.
“The Dark Lord entrusted you to me, and I do not go against my master’s wishes. He wants you to become a great Dark wizard—and you will, whether you like my methods or not.”
The way she emphasized Dark didn’t go unnoticed by Harry. It wasn’t just a statement—it was a warning. A threat, even. A silent way of saying don’t even think about becoming like your parents.
“When I return you to the Dark Lord, you’ll be nothing less than perfect.”

And there was that. Apparently, Harry in his current state wasn’t good enough to be trained by the Dark Lord himself. That’s why he had to take lessons from Death Eaters personally selected by the man, and only when they approved would Harry begin his training with him. Harry was praying that day would never come. Still, knowing how eager Death Eaters were to impress their Lord, he didn’t think he stood much chance of delaying it.

Cedric had warned him not to sabotage himself too obviously—they’d notice. And Harry didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if he got caught, so he had decided to follow Cedric’s advice.

Thankfully, Harry didn’t have to try very hard to be mediocre. He was a fairly average student in every subject except the Dark Arts—and he was especially bad at Potions. So much so that he feared Rosier would one day kill him out of frustration. Thankfully, that hadn’t happened—yet.

This led to the question: Why would someone like the Dark Lord take him as an apprentice in the first place? It made no sense. If he wanted him as a spy, he could’ve just ordered it. But this… apprenticeship… was something else entirely.

The contract Harry had signed without reading still weighed heavily on his mind. After signing it, he had asked Cedric to give him a copy, but the boy mumbled something about being late and hurried off. Suspicious. The end result was that Harry had never read what he signed. Not good. Not good at all.

When he saw Bellatrix still staring at him, he realized she was waiting for a response. He lowered his head and swallowed hard.
“As you wish.”
“Good. At least that filthy Mudblood of a mother taught you some manners.”
Harry clenched his jaw to avoid saying anything.

The woman suddenly looked at his arm—at the spot where the Dark Mark should be.
“The Dark Lord is summoning you. He’s in the dining room. Don’t keep our master waiting.”
Harry nodded and quickly left the room where they had been practicing. Just being away from Bellatrix made him feel better. He had lessons with her three days a week, and he’d rather not spend a second more with her than necessary. Then again, now he was going to see the Dark Lord, which was arguably worse.

Harry really couldn’t breathe easy for even a second in this cursed Manor. As he hurried through the halls, people paused when they saw him. Some ignored him; others bowed respectfully. Harry had no idea how to react to either.

Two days after he had signed the contract the Dark Lord gave him—that is, the Friday he arrived at the Manor—all the newspapers had published headlines about Harry’s new rank. His name was all over the front pages.
There was nothing Harry could do about it. Being at the Manor, he hadn’t been able to talk to anyone. He assumed Tom had already told Neville, but he still had to face a long conversation with Ron and Neville once he returned to Hogwarts. A conversation that frankly terrified him.

Even more than that, he was afraid of how his family would react. He had no idea what either his mother or father thought about all this, and that scared him even more than talking to Ron.

When he reached the door to the dining room, he thought, Here we go.
Before he could even knock, the door opened on its own, and Harry stepped inside without delay. Without even looking at the Dark Lord, he bowed so low that his forehead touched the floor. The dust tickled his nose, and he could feel his spine ache from the posture. He thougth it was too much—he had seen other Death Eaters do the same, and the Dark Lord always seemed pleased by it—so Harry had decided to follow suit.

“Harry, my dear apprentice, please join me.”

Harry straightened and took the seat across from the Dark Lord.
“My Lord.”

Since it was still early in the day, the table wasn’t set for a meal. Just two teacups and perhaps a hundred different cookies.

Harry had done this before, so he didn’t hesitate. He reached out, took one of the cups, and took a sip. Then he set it back down and waited for the Dark Lord to speak. It had become a bit of a ritual.

“How are your lessons?” the Dark Lord asked, not making Harry wait long. Normally, he preferred to let Harry stew in silence, but apparently today he didn’t have the patience for mind games. Harry was grateful for that.

“Quite well, my Lord. I hope I’ll be good enough to train under you soon.”

“Good,” the man said, leaning back and studying Harry with his ever-watchful eyes.
“I have business at the Ministry today, so as much as I enjoy our little chats, I’ll have to keep this one brief. I have another offer for you.”

Oh no. Nothing good ever came from the Dark Lord’s offers.
“Yes, my Lord?” Harry asked, mostly because he had no other choice.
“I want you to leave Hogwarts and come live with me full-time.”

Harry looked up, hoping he was joking. But the Dark Lord looked completely serious.

Chapter Text

This was not good. Not good at all. In fact, it was possibly the worst thing that could have happened. It was so bad that Harry was actually glad there was no window nearby to throw himself out of. This wouldn’t end well. He couldn’t live with the Dark Lord—he simply couldn’t. This would surely give his mother a heart attack.

Harry had never, at any point in his life, thought of leaving home. He had no intention of getting married, no plans of starting a family and bringing a child into this twisted world. He had always imagined himself working an average job while taking care of his mother. That was the plan. His mother, once aligned with Dumbledore, had no right to work in any official position. She was under strict surveillance. When Harry was little, Death Eaters used to visit their home every week, tearing everything apart under the guise of “routine checks,” and leaving his mother anxious and shaken. Lily Potter was only alive thanks to James Potter’s decision to join the Death Eaters.

Harry had to step in and look after her once his father grew too old and useless for the Dark Lord. And for that, he had to stay in the same house with her. Ron used to tease him for being a “mama’s boy,” but Harry had never cared. In another universe, one where things had gone the way they were supposed to, Lily Potter would be the one looking after her son, protecting him. But this wasn’t that universe. No, in this universe, it was Harry’s job to protect his mother.

Of course, his mother knew nothing about any of this. If she did, she would be consumed by guilt. That’s why Harry had sworn she would never find out.

He had to come up with an excuse. After all, he couldn’t tell the Dark Lord that he didn’t want to move out because of his Muggle-born mother. That would end in disaster. But he couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse either—what reasonable excuse could there possibly be? He couldn’t just say, “I don’t want to,” to the man’s face. In any scenario where he did, his odds of leaving this room alive would be slim—and he wasn’t keen on risking his life like that.

“You hesitate,” the Dark Lord noted, pointing out the obvious.

Harry averted his gaze to the floor. Never look him in the eye, he reminded himself desperately.

“My Lord, I… I’m honored by your offer,” he said, though he knew flattery wouldn’t save him.

“And yet, you hesitate.”

Harry took a deep breath. No matter what he said, it would count against him. Being cautious wouldn’t do him much good now. Whatever came out of his mouth, at the end of the day, he would still be rejecting the Dark Lord’s “humble” offer.

His only hope was that the Dark Lord would hesitate to kill both his chosen apprentice and the so-called spy embedded within the Resistance. Well… one could hope.

“As honored as I am, I don’t believe it would be right. Even if I were your apprentice, being seen as favored so blatantly in the media wouldn’t reflect well on me. Also… there are some things in life I want to achieve on my own.”

He was rambling. Nonsensically. But now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“Besides, Hogwarts has been perfected with your guidance—it would be a shame not to study there.”

The Dark Lord paused. A few seconds passed. Harry’s heart had never beaten so fast.

And then the man laughed.

The Dark Lord’s laugh was a twisted echo of everything one thought human. It lacked joy—there was only scorn, cruelty, and a venomous kind of satisfaction. The sound that escaped his thin lips resembled the hiss of a snake—soft but threatening, like a shadow whispering from the darkness. When he laughed, the air in the room seemed to thicken, time slowed, and the hairs on one’s neck stood up.

This was no victorious chuckle. It was the kind of laughter that fed on fear, that slowly eroded the soul.

In short, it wasn’t pleasant.

He shook his head and smiled indulgently. “My sweet child… do you truly think you can deceive me with flattery, especially when you’re so terrible at lying?”

Harry took another deep breath. There was no salvaging this. Trying any further would be useless.

“I’m sorry, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord tilted his head, shaking it from side to side. “I must admit, it was quite entertaining. You still have much to learn, of course. But I appreciate the effort. And so, as the merciful lord that I am, I shall allow you to finish this year at Hogwarts. But when school ends, you and I will have this conversation again—and next time, I won’t be so tolerant.”

Harry nodded. For now, he was off the hook—at least, he hoped so. There were still more than five months left until the end of the school year, which gave him plenty of time to come up with a better excuse next time.
"Of course, my Lord."

The Dark Lord stood up.
"After you finish your drink, find Rabastan. He’ll take you back to Hogwarts."

And just like that, without saying goodbye, he left the room.

Harry didn’t linger long after him. He shoved two biscuits into his mouth—he was starving. The training session with Bellatrix had completely exhausted him—then left the room.

Despite the size of the manor, finding Rabastan turned out to be quite easy. The man was most likely waiting for him.

In Harry’s opinion, Rabastan was quite handsome. His grey eyes resembled the sky on a stormy day, and his hair was darker than the blackest night. The scars on his face from the last war didn’t make him look ugly; on the contrary, they gave him a more charismatic edge. As if his face had been kissed by starlight. He was built like a mountain—tall and muscular. When Harry was younger, he used to dream of growing up to be like Rabastan. Before he had heard of all the terrible things the man had done.

Rabastan smiled when he saw Harry, pulling the boy into a rough hug and ruffling his already messy hair even further.
"The Dark Lord’s apprentice, huh? I always knew you were better than that useless family of yours."

Rabastan had meant it as a compliment, which meant he had no idea how much it unsettled Harry.

Harry gently pulled away.
"Good to see you too, Rab."

Rabastan smiled—not in a warm way, but in that threatening kind of way almost all Death Eaters did. Or maybe it just seemed that way to Harry. When you knew how awful someone’s past was, their smiles rarely felt genuine.

"I’m proud of you, kiddo."

That was the kind of thing Harry had never heard from his father, which only made it sadder.
"Thanks."

"I’ll take Harry from here, Rabastan."

A voice came from behind. Harry felt his face ache as he tried to suppress a smile. Say what you will about the boy, but Tom Riddle had a knack for showing up at just the right moment.

"Shouldn’t you be at school, brat?" Rabastan asked.

Tom grinned.
"I’m wherever I want to be. You, of all people, should know that."

Rabastan rolled his eyes. After the Dark Lord overthrew the old regime and took control, the Death Eaters who joined later worshipped Tom with a frightening amount of respect. But the old Death Eaters... they were different. More independent. There was respect, sure—he was their master’s son—but it was measured.

"I take my orders from your father, Tom," Rabastan said firmly.

"For now," Tom said with a smile.

Harry quickly stepped in, hoping to prevent a fight before it started.
"Rabastan, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go with Tom. We have some things to talk about—schoolwork and such."

Rabastan laughed. "Such betrayal." Then he turned to Tom. "Don’t try anything foolish."

With that, he left them alone.

Before Harry could say anything, Tom took his hand, and they Disapparated.

Harry felt a slight dizziness as he opened his eyes, expecting to find himself at Hogwarts. But they weren’t at Hogwarts. No, this place was far more familiar.

They were in Godric’s Hollow.

They were at Harry’s home.

Chapter Text

Harry blinked a few times to make sure they were really in Godric's Hollow, but nothing changed. These were the streets he had grown up on, the hills he'd tumbled down, the skies he'd flown across on his broom. Harry was home. He turned to Tom.

“Why are we here?”

Tom grinned. “There’s something I need to talk to your mother about. And I figured you’d be happy to see your father. Unless I’m mistaken, your godfather Sirius Black is here too. But if you don’t want to be here, say the word, and I’ll take you back to Hogwarts and return myself.”

“No, no,” Harry said quickly. He couldn't miss the chance to see his family—not ever. Who knew how worried they must have been after the news of his apprenticeship? It was best he reassured them, even if that reassurance wouldn’t last long given the circumstances. And, truthfully, he missed his mother.

He hesitated. “Why do you need to talk to my mother?” he asked. It didn’t make sense. As far as he knew, Tom and his mother had never even met.

Tom sighed. “Unfortunately, sweetheart, I can't share that with you just yet. But trust me—your mother is not in any danger.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. “So I’m just supposed to trust you?” he asked.

Tom’s face darkened. Clearly, Harry had struck a nerve. Still, despite the annoyance in his eyes, the boy’s voice stayed calm. “Considering the risk I took to save your father, yes, I believe you should trust me, darling. Don’t you agree?”

Harry flushed. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Tom had changed and rushed his plans just to save James Potter. Harry owed him at least some trust. But this was about his mother—possibly the person he loved most in the world.

Refusing to back down, Harry shot Tom a cold look. “If anything happens to my mum, I swear I’ll kill you.”
Or maybe he’d just run to the Dark Lord and tell him everything—but somehow “I’ll tell on you to your dad” didn’t feel very threatening.

Tom smirked. “Careful, love. I’ll take that as a promise.” Then, without waiting for Harry, he started walking.

Harry stood there for a second, stunned, before following him. “You’re not angry?” he asked, confused. Asking that probably undermined the threat, but he couldn’t help himself. He had just threatened to kill the boy, and Tom had only smiled.

“No,” Tom said. “In fact, I’m rather pleased. It’s good that you’re willing to stand your ground. I just hope you’ll do the same with others too.”

“Really?” Harry asked, still unsure.

Tom nodded.
“There’s something you should know,” said Harry. “Your father… he wants me to live with him.”

Tom’s good mood vanished instantly. His eyes darkened and sharpened. He looked like he might kill someone at any second. “And?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

“I said some things to get out of it,” Harry said quickly. “I rambled, really, but your dad found it funny. Turns out making the Dark Lord laugh isn’t as fun as it sounds.”

“Harry,” Tom cut in. “Get to the point.”

“Right,” Harry said hastily. The last thing he wanted was to anger Tom more. “He agreed to let me stay at Hogwarts until the end of the year. But after that, he expects me to live with him.”

Tom looked thoughtful. “Alright. Leave the rest to me.”

Harry was going to say something else, but when they arrived at his house, he forgot what it was.
He was home. In the middle of this terrifying world, this was the one place he felt safe.

He thought of his mother, involuntarily. This home—his home—was her hell.

“You don’t look excited,” Tom remarked.

Harry was excited. But there was a stronger emotion beneath the excitement: Fear. He feared how his family would react to the person he’d become. The Dark Lord’s apprentice. The embodiment of everything they hated.
Even if they spat in his face and disowned him, he wouldn’t blame them. He had let them down. Especially his mother.

“I’m afraid of what they’ll think,” he admitted in response to Tom’s comment. Tom looked confused, so Harry explained, “About me being the Dark Lord’s apprentice. They’ll be disappointed.”

“Harry, darling, I love you, but that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“No—” Harry began to protest, not fully processing Tom’s words.
Wait. What had he just said?

“What do you mean, you love me?”

Tom grinned, but didn’t answer. He simply crossed the garden and walked up to the front door.

The Potter house was modest compared to most pure-blood homes—a three-story house with a spacious garden.
Without hesitation, Tom knocked. Harry had no choice but to follow him, mind spinning with the boy’s earlier words.

He stepped across the garden—where every corner held a memory—and reached the door just as it opened.

His mother, Lily Potter, stood in the doorway.
To Harry, she was the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. Maybe everyone thought that about their own mother, but Harry was certain.

Still, the Dark Lord’s regime had not been kind to her.
Her face was lined with wrinkles, streaks of silver ran through her once fiery red hair, and her green eyes had dimmed under the weight of the darkness surrounding them. Even her proud posture had started to bend.

Before Harry could say a word, she embraced him.
As he felt her frail arms wrap around him, his eyes welled up. The fear he’d carried like a suitcase for years slipped off his shoulders, at least for now. He was home. And that was all that mattered.

“Harry, you scared me so much,” Lily Potter said. Every note in her voice dripped with worry.
She pulled him inside quickly.

Harry vaguely heard Tom follow them in, but he was too overwhelmed to care.

“Harry!” his father shouted as he rushed forward.
Before he knew it, Harry had pulled away from his mother and thrown himself into his father’s arms—which was strange. He couldn’t remember a single time his father had hugged him.

James Potter had always been distant. Cold. Harry didn’t blame him.
James carried a burden like no one else. He’d become a Death Eater to protect his family, fought against everything he once believed in. He’d tortured, killed.

Harry didn’t judge him. There was no such thing as clean hands on the Dark Lord’s side.

All of it had shattered James Potter. He’d become withdrawn, cold.

Harry knew his father loved him—but he had never felt it.

And now, after all those lonely, frozen years, he was in his father’s arms.
Apparently, the whole apprenticeship news had shaken his family more than Harry had imagined.

But Harry was happy. If they welcomed him with this much warmth, then maybe they didn’t blame him.
And that alone was enough.

-----

Tom couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips as he watched Harry barely escape James Potter’s arms only to be promptly taken hostage by Sirius Black. It was a strange concept—feeling happy over someone else's joy when it brought him no benefit whatsoever. He was certain he had never experienced anything like it before. He didn't get happy for people. People threw themselves at his feet and did everything in their power to make him happy. And yet here he was, watching Harry roam through his family's arms with tears of joy in his eyes, and the feeling he experienced could only be described as happiness.

Strange. Even slightly irritating. A weakness, he thought.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to be quite as annoyed as he should have been. How could he, when Harry smiled like that?

Only Harry, he thought. Only Harry could make him feel such things.

He had confessed a small piece of that affection to the boy out in the garden. It hadn’t been planned—it had just slipped out. Which meant Tom had lost control, and Tom never lost control.

Harry Potter had completely unraveled him.

Of course, this wouldn’t remain a secret forever. Once Tom conquered the wizarding world, Harry would rule beside him. But for it to come out this early—and this… easily—was frustrating.

No, Tom had far grander ideas. Perhaps a marriage proposal after bathing in the blood of their enemies, sealed with a ring carved from bone. A voice inside told him Harry wouldn’t appreciate that, but—

Sirius Black finally stopped hovering around Harry and lifted his head, catching Tom’s gaze. The man immediately lowered his eyes, bowing his head in respect, as if terrified of making a wrong move.

And well, he should be.

Black, one of Tom’s most trusted spies, had failed him time and again lately. Tom would have loved nothing more than to end him right there. But he couldn’t. Harry wouldn’t like it.

How utterly annoying.

“My Lord,” James Potter said hesitantly.

Of course, the man wasn’t thrilled about hosting the boy he thought to be Voldemort’s son in his home. He likely wanted Tom as far from his family as possible. If only he knew how much time Tom had spent with his son...

“What are you doing here?” James asked.

Tom loved unsettling people, but today he didn’t have the energy for mind games. Not when he was this close to his goal. So he decided to get straight to the point.

“I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Potter.”

All eyes turned to Lily, still staring tearfully at her son. For a moment she looked concerned, but she quickly hid it behind a neutral mask.

“It would be my honor, my Lord,” she said.

Everyone in the room knew that was a lie.

Tom followed Lily Potter. He could feel Harry’s gaze burning into his back but didn’t look back. He couldn’t afford any distractions right now—not with the exhausting conversation he was about to have.

The two of them entered the kitchen together.

The kitchen was small. The paint on the walls had faded to a dull shade of yellow. The curtains swayed gently in the breeze. The air was thick with the scent of stale tea and dust. The table was covered in scratches, its cloth frayed at the edges, and none of the mugs matched—nothing quite belonged. Plates that hadn’t been touched in years lined the shelves. Everything felt a little too worn, a little too crowded, like it had been touched too much.

To him, this kitchen spoke more of the past than of peace. And too much past was always suffocating.

Others might find this place cozy, warm—even charming. But Tom had always favored luxury. Places with this much life made his skin itch.

Still, he could picture Harry in this kitchen.

“What did you want to speak about, my Lord?” Lily asked.

When Tom looked at Lily Potter, he saw someone who had once been beautiful, now broken by war. He could only imagine how hard it must have been to survive in a world so clouded—if he ever bothered to imagine at all. Usually, he didn’t.

Tom didn’t think much of Muggle-borns. They existed. That was all. Like everyone else, they were beneath him—but not in any particularly unique way.

He only cared because oppressed people had nothing. And if you gave them even the tiniest bit of hope, they’d turn into the most loyal dogs imaginable. He had learned that from the children he’d taken from the New Dawn Institutes.

Those children…

Even someone as emotionally detached as Tom had been disturbed.

Fifteen to a room, only allowed to use the toilet at designated times, and lucky if they got a cold shower once a month. Their “rehabilitation officers” were sadists who took joy in inflicting pain. Many of the children eventually killed themselves. Their bodies would be left in the dormitories for weeks until someone finally got tired and burned them.

Tom had raided the Institutes many times, abducting the ones he saw potential in. It could even be said that the place had become his personal reservoir.

When he looked at Lily Potter, he saw someone who would have survived the Institute.

“Where is Albus Dumbledore?”

The woman’s reaction was immediate. Her pale face went chalk-white as she took a few steps back, eyes darting around like she was searching for an escape. But it only lasted a moment before she gathered herself again, composing her features into calm.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

Tom laughed.

“There’s no need to lie now, Lily. I know you’ve been working with him. Honestly, I should say—it’s quite impressive. All these years with Death Eaters breathing down your neck, keeping it hidden even from your husband and son. But the show is over.”

He allowed himself a few seconds to savor the fear on her face.

“I’ll ask one last time. Where is Albus Dumbledore?”

Chapter Text

Harry walked alongside Tom through the corridors of Hogwarts—hallways that had, over time, lost much of their former grandeur—trying to shake off the hollow sense of regret he felt about returning. After all, returning or not returning had never been his choice to begin with. Merlin knew that if it had been up to him, he would’ve gladly spent the rest of his life in Godric’s Hollow, growing old with his mother. But sadly, that was never an option given to him. Perhaps nothing in his life from this point on would be within his control.

If Tom’s plan failed, Harry would remain the apprentice of the Dark Lord—assuming the man never discovered his betrayal. The thought alone terrified him: the idea of his life being forever controlled by a power-hungry tyrant addicted to domination. No, that wasn’t what he wanted.

"What did you talk about with my mother?" he asked Tom, trying to free himself from the dark spiral of his thoughts. Though, admittedly, this question was hardly less disturbing. The son of the Dark Lord, Tom Gaunt, really shouldn’t have anything to talk about with Harry’s Muggle-born mother. And yet, the two had stayed in the kitchen for quite some time after going in together. Alone.

Harry had been too caught up spending time with his father and Sirius to notice how much time had passed. But when Tom had emerged and said it was time to leave, Harry had glanced at the clock—and realized they’d been in there for over half an hour. That was not the kind of time strangers usually spent alone together. Not at all.

He hadn’t gotten to spend much time with his mother because of that conversation. And while he knew it was silly to be upset about it—after all, in a regular school year, he wouldn’t get to see them at all—it still didn’t feel fair. He’d spent time with his father, yes, but barely seen his mother. If he had been given a choice, he would’ve picked her.

The guilt followed that thought almost immediately. He shouldn’t think that—especially not when his father had sacrificed everything for him. But he couldn’t help it. Most of his life had been spent with his mother, while his father was off fulfilling the Dark Lord’s missions. His mother had been everything to him. If he ever had to choose between them, his answer would always be his mother. Lily Potter knew that. And Harry was certain James Potter did, too.

Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he still didn’t know.

"She had a few questions I wanted to ask," Tom said simply.

"And did she give you the answers you were hoping for?" Harry asked. He couldn’t imagine what kind of answers Tom would want from his mother. It made no sense. Then again, what part of his life lately had made sense?

"We’ll see."

"What do you mean, we’ll see?" Harry started, but the look on Tom’s face—a warning not to press further—was enough to silence him.

His first thought was that someone ought to give Tom a calming draught. His second was wondering when he’d reached the point of being able to read that expression on Tom’s face so clearly.

"Do you believe in Hell?" he asked suddenly. It was a question he’d been meaning to ask for a long time, but never had the courage to. Now seemed as good a time as any.

When he saw Tom’s surprise, Harry felt the need to explain. "Or Heaven, I guess? Or… you know, a god in general. Maybe Jesus?"

Tom looked like he was stuck between being amused and baffled. "Why are you asking me that?" he said, his voice edged with quiet amusement.

"Curiosity," Harry replied, though he wasn’t entirely sure himself why he’d asked. Still, he needed to know. As much as he needed air, water, food—he needed to know. Maybe he was trying to prove something to himself. Who knew?

"I don’t believe in anything greater than myself," Tom said simply.

Harry laughed. He couldn’t help it. It just burst out of him. The answer was just... so Tom. When he glanced over, he saw that Tom was laughing too. Not one of those cold, mocking laughs he used around others, or the fake, charming smiles he gave to teachers. It was real. Honest.

And Harry had no idea why that made him feel proud.

"When I was little," Harry began once their laughter faded, "I used to lie awake at night and stare at the ceiling, imagining a hell I might burn in. Sometimes I could hear the crackling of fire. Sometimes I heard the screams of souls who’d fallen there. I don’t know if it was just my imagination, or something else. But there were nights I didn’t sleep at all—just thinking about it."

Tom furrowed his brow, listening carefully.

"Why would you go to Hell?" he asked.

"For living in the world your father created—and doing nothing to stop it," Harry said quietly. "I know it’s stupid, I mean, what could a kid even do? But I used to look at my mother and see how miserable she was. How lonely. How tired. So incredibly sad. And I blamed myself. I thought, maybe… maybe a god would punish me for that. And maybe, in some twisted way, I wanted to be punished. Maybe I thought it would make my mother happy if I suffered too."

Tom was silent for a moment. He looked thoughtful. If this had been a lighter conversation, Harry might’ve laughed and said Tom looked like a spoiled prince plotting how to tax the neighboring kingdoms.

"You have a chance now," Tom said at last, his voice unsure if this was the right thing to say. "To do something. To change the world you were born into. I’m giving you that chance."

"Thanks? I guess," Harry said, surprised at how even something so sensitive could be turned into a monologue by Tom. But he wasn’t wrong. Thanks to him, Harry actually had a shot at changing something. What he’d do with that chance… that was up to him.

He would’ve kept talking, maybe asked more strange, metaphorical questions, but then he saw Neville rushing toward them.

The boy looked visibly relieved when he spotted Harry and immediately began speaking in rushed, stumbling words. "Harry, thank Merlin you're here—you won’t believe what happened—"

But then he saw Tom. He immediately stopped, lowered his head, and stared at his robes.

"My Lord."

"What won’t Harry believe?" Tom asked, his voice calm.

Neville seemed torn. His loyalty to Tom as their leader was warring with the affection he held for Harry as a friend.

Harry gave him a slight nod—silent reassurance that it was okay. There was nothing he wanted to hide from Tom. Some might find it strange, but Harry didn’t believe in keeping secrets from the people he loved. Not even the bad ones.

And then it hit him—he had just placed Tom in that category. Someone he loved. He faltered at the thought.

Thankfully, Neville spoke before he could think too much about it.

"When the truth came out… you know, the whole ‘Dark Lord’s apprentice’ thing, and it hit the papers—people at Hogwarts had some… varied reactions. The Slytherins were torn between jealousy and admiration. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of them trying to cozy up to you soon. Ravenclaws were curious—wondering what exactly made you, well, worthy of such a position. Not as intense as the Slytherins, but you’ll probably get a few visits from them too.

"Hufflepuffs thought what you did was a betrayal of your friends and didn’t hesitate to say so. Though, I don’t think they care all that much, really. And…"

When he hesitated, Harry asked in a low voice, "Gryffindors?"

Even Tom looked interested now, watching Neville closely.

"Gryffindors… split down the middle," Neville said, his voice uncertain. "Some saw it as a massive betrayal."

He paused for a breath.

"A few even suggested you be thrown out of the House, which I really hope was a joke. The rest think this might be our chance to clear our name—that professors, maybe even the Dark Lord himself, will stop seeing Gryffindor in such a bad light. They say they’re proud of you. Or something like that."

Harry felt his heart skip a beat. He knew what Neville was avoiding.

"And Ron?" he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Neville sighed. "I think… with the right motivation, Ron might be willing to hear your side of the story."

Not exactly a hopeful answer.

Chapter Text

Harry stepped into the common room, and the moment the other students saw him, they left in uneasy silence, almost as if they were doing him a kindness. Within minutes, the once-crowded space was deserted, leaving only Neville, Ron, and Harry behind. The crackling of the fire in the hearth filled the vast emptiness, and aside from that sound, the room was drowned in a suffocating stillness. None of them wanted to be the first to break it. Understandably so—whatever was said would change everything.

Still, someone had to speak eventually.

It turned out Ron was more eager than the others to be that someone.
“What the bloody hell?” he blurted.

Neville glanced at Harry, and Harry glanced back. Finding the right words felt like trying to reach for the moon with bare hands. What was he supposed to say? I joined the man who ruined your life and your family’s future, but trust me, I had a good reason, even though I can’t tell you what it is—hope you understand. That was ridiculous. That was like expecting sweets to rain from the sky.

But one thing struck Harry in that moment: he couldn’t lie to Ron. He simply couldn’t. Through all the years under the Dark Lord’s merciless reign, all the pain, all the blood, the only thing they had truly clung to was each other. How could he shatter that? If anyone deserved to know the whole truth, it was Ron.

Neville had carried this burden with Harry for years, and it wasn’t fair to him either. But to keep it from Ron—that would be cruelty. And Harry had never been much good at cruelty… nor at lying, if he was honest with himself.

“Tom Gaunt’s father is gathering a rebellion against the Dark Lord,” Harry said at last, without giving himself time to hesitate. “And I’m part of it.”

“Harry—” Neville’s voice cut through the air, warning and heavy with dread. But whatever he saw in Harry’s eyes stopped him from finishing. Harry had no intention of backing down.

So he told him everything. Absolutely everything. He spoke of the schemes Tom’s father was weaving behind Voldemort’s back, of how James Potter was in danger, of the so-called “offer” Voldemort had made and how Harry had had no choice but to accept. He explained the contract Cedric had forced him to sign, with words he hadn’t even understood. He revealed the Muggle-borns working alongside Tom, the secrets of the Hidden Institutes, and every single piece of truth he had carried like a burning coal in his chest.

By the time he finished, it felt like hours had passed. He knew logically it couldn’t have been more than half an hour, maybe forty minutes at most. And yet, it felt like he had emptied years of secrets into that dimly lit room.

Now there was nothing left but silence. Harry’s gaze flicked to Ron, both desperate and terrified to know what his friend would say. He was usually terrible at hiding emotions, but Ron had always been even worse. This time, though, Harry couldn’t read a single thing on his face.

Beside him, Neville looked just as tense. He too had reasons to fear—after all, his own loyalties to Tom Gaunt were not something easily explained. And Harry knew deep down that sooner or later, he would have to answer to Tom as well. He had exposed far too much. Every secret he’d been entrusted with, everything he had learned. Tom Gaunt was a man made of secrets; of course Harry hadn’t known them all. But he had shared enough to risk everything.

And yet Harry couldn’t help but think, with a dangerous kind of pride, that Tom wouldn’t be angry with him. Too optimistic? Perhaps. But in Harry’s mind, Tom would sooner set the whole world on fire than waste his rage on him.

“Mate,” Ron finally said, his voice breaking the storm of Harry’s thoughts.

Harry’s head snapped up.

Ron was grinning. “Well, I suppose if there’s trouble to be found, you’ll always be the one diving headfirst into it. Classic Harry Potter.”

Harry blinked, stunned. “You’re not… angry?” he asked, his voice sharper than he meant. He had been bracing himself for fury, betrayal, maybe even disgust.

Ron shrugged casually. “If that Gaunt git refuses to let me join the rebellion, then I’ll be pissed. But for now… we’re good.”

“Don’t call him a git,” Neville said sternly. Then, after a beat, he smiled despite himself, as if he couldn’t help it. In that smile, Harry suddenly saw just how much it had cost Neville to keep this truth hidden all these years. But at least now, he was free.

Ron frowned, though his grin quickly returned. “When did you become such a bloody fanatic, then?” he asked Neville.

Neville only shrugged. “I’m not a fanatic. I just have.... manners”

Harry pursed his lips, smirking. “Trust me, he’s a fanatic. You should see him at the meetings—‘Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord.’ He doesn’t say anything else.”

“Bugger off, Harry,” Neville shot back, laughing.

And then, just like that, the tension cracked. The three of them were laughing too, like boys again, like friends who had fought too many battles and still managed to find warmth in one another. For a moment, the weight of rebellion, betrayal, and looming war didn’t matter.

They were still together. And that was everything.