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Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t quite remember how things ended up this way, how much it all escalated. The wheels flew off ages ago and the train has been off the tracks, perhaps ever since that blasted prophecy was announced so carelessly in a public space - yes, that was it. 

Ever since the bloody prophecy, marking him as some saviour, his life had all gone to absolute shite. Which is so very not fair, given that he was barely 1, barely able to even form coherent thoughts inside his very soft skull.

And then — a bright flash of green. 

Gone.

That’s all it was. After spending almost all his life being thrown around by his family, then by death eaters, by Dumbledore - by everyone, he was just simply gone.

Years of being groomed into a sacrificial lamb, he had little to no choice but to fulfil that role. He is but a life borrowed, cultivated to be snuff out when it was most imperative.

And now he is gone.

But death is different it seems. Because he woke up to the sight of Lily Potter cooing down at him, her eyes a brilliant jade and some of her fiery red hair stuck to her forehead along with sweat. 

She looks like she had been working tirelessly, beads of sweat glistened on her face - no makeup, but so so beautiful. Her freckles catered across her pale face. She was cooing at him, smiling so brightly.

“You did so well,” he heard a voice call out. It’s male and familiar.

Much to Harry’s surprise, James Potter’s face came into view as well. Pressing a soft and sweet kiss to the side of Lily’s head before peering down at Harry with such unfiltered joy and pride. 

“Oh, he’s beautiful, Love,” James tells her, while looking down at Harry who is starting to realize he is reliving his birth. Perhaps that saying about your whole life flashing before your eyes was true, only this isn’t a flash.

It’s very real, it feels like he’s actually in it. In the body of his baby self, watching his parents witness his birth.

“Thank you,” James speaks again and then goes to kiss Lily right on the lips. “Thank you for giving me my heir, our Harry, our own little family.”

Lily giggles through the kiss and Harry almost cried. He could feel the love pour out of the man. For him and for his mother who was still holding him in her arms, a child she had given blood, sweat and tears to bring to the world.

And Harry, the man who had died on the steps of his school, the soldier groomed for sacrifice, felt a profound, aching sorrow. He was watching the last perfect moment of the people he had spent his life mourning. He felt like a ghost, a spectator at his own beginning. The love was a physical weight, heavier and more terrifying than any war. This was his chance, the second life that had been denied to them. He had been given what was stolen.

He cried then, a sudden, wet, newborn wail that felt utterly ridiculous coming from the consciousness of a seventeen-year-old soldier.

“Oh, my sweet boy!” Lily murmured, adjusting him with soft, practiced hands.

“He’s got lungs, that one,” James laughed, squeezing Lily’s hand, his eyes shining with tears of pure joy. “A true Potter roar. That’s our heir.”

Heir. The word echoed strangely, laced with a pomp and formality that didn't fit the warm, rumpled man smiling down at him. But the sheer relief of their living presence drowned out the odd terminology.

The next few months were a blur of sensory humiliation and psychological adaptation. Harry, the exhausted soldier, was trapped in the demanding, useless body of an infant.

He hated the helplessness, the total reliance on others. Yet, his parents were an endless, living balm. Lily, radiant and tireless, would sing him ancient, lilting lullabies that seemed to hum with faint, residual magic. James would hold him up to the impossibly high windows and talk to him not like a baby, but like a serious, future colleague, speaking of his duties and the land.

It was during these moments that the first cracks in Harry’s belief that he was simply "reliving" his life began to show. The nursery wasn't a room; it was a suite of gilded, interconnected spaces. The air was always subtly scented with imported cedar and cinnamon, and the silence was so complete it was suffocating.

One afternoon, when he was perhaps six months old, James was discussing a political maneuver—securing the voting bloc of the Baroness Greengrass. James stopped suddenly, his eyes glowing with a faint, internal gold light. The heavy, silver rattle Harry had just dropped from his weak grasp floated up, spinning slowly in the air, and settled gently back into his palm. It was casual, effortless magic, performed openly, with an innate nobility Harry had never seen attached to wizardry.

“Oh, he’s already reaching for it, Lily! Look at the control!” James whispered, his voice thick with proud wonder.

Lily, watching from an armchair by the hearth, smiled. “He has your affinity for the raw power, my love. But my precision. A perfect blend for an Imperial Noble.”

Imperial Noble. Raw power. Harry’s mind finally began to piece together the frightening truth. This wasn't the Statute of Secrecy era. Magic wasn't hidden; it was the public, governing foundation of social class. He wasn’t reliving history; he was transmigrated. He was in a different world entirely. A world where his greatest war had never happened.

As he grew—crawling, then wobbling onto his feet—the sheer scale of his home became evident. He didn't live in a house; he lived in a bloody castle. It was a towering, majestic structure of grey stone and white marble, with battlements and manicured grounds that stretched further than the eye could see. The Potter Dukedom was not just a name; it was a territory, a political bloc, and a dynasty.

The staff, dozens of them, moved through the halls like silent shadows, always bowing low. They never called him by a familiar nickname. He was, invariably, “Young Master.”

Harry, the child who had grown up stealing scraps from the Dursley's table, was now the prized, worshipped Heir of a Dukedom. His parents were not simply James and Lily; they were Duke James Potter and Duchess Lily Potter, figures of immense political and magical stature in the Empire.

The original Harry, the one who died at seventeen, felt a detached, constant horror at this level of opulence. This was the life he had been meant to have, the easy, privileged existence stolen from his timeline. But the child, raised in this suffocating love, learned quickly how to behave. He was polite, poised, and utterly entitled. He adopted the smooth, charming persona of a young nobleman, a mask he wore to protect the fragile, traumatized soldier underneath.

By the age of six, sitting upright at the grand dining table while his parents discussed Imperial Council politics, Harry finally achieved full, chilling clarity.

He was a displaced veteran in the body of a spoiled noble child, backed by one of the most powerful families in the world. He was safe. His parents were safe.

The immediate, crushing weight of responsibility settled back onto his shoulders, just as it had in his first life. He had died trying to save the world, specifically from Tom Riddle.

And here, in this perfect, gilded world, he had been given a second chance to fix the one mistake that cost him everything. He just needed to make sure that the war from his own world would not happen here, that his parents are going to live full and happy lives. 

By nine, the veneer of Lord Harry Potter was flawlessly polished. He moved through the Potter Dukedom with the easy grace of his birthright, a small, elegant tyrant of propriety. His days were a ceaseless cycle of training. Heirship studies involved everything from Imperial Law and Political Economics to the dizzying intricacies of magical bloodlines and alliance forging. His magical tutelage was equally intense, focusing on control and raw power expression—the Noble Arts.

Amidst the rigor, the Duchess Lily Potter indulged her aesthetic whims. "A Duke must be as cultured as he is powerful, my heart," she’d declare, sweeping Harry toward the music rooms. And so, Harry, the seventeen-year-old soldier who once knew only the scrape of quill on parchment and the swoosh of a wand, now spent hours mastering the demanding eloquence of the piano and the melancholy, disciplined precision of the violin. He hated the sheer time consumption, but he played beautifully, his hands learning a control that even the Dark Lord had never demanded.

This period of disciplined growth was interrupted by a familiar whirlwind: Grand Duke Sirius Orion Black.

Sirius was the same magnificent, reckless spirit Harry remembered, only now tempered by the heavy mantle of Dukedom. He was still handsome, with that dangerous, lanky elegance, but his eyes, the grey of an approaching storm, were weighted with a profound, responsible weariness. The history was different here: Sirius's parents had died young in a political carriage accident, forcing the fifteen-year-old heir to assume the title and power of Grand Duke Black, specifically to shield his quiet younger brother, Regulus, from the ruthless ambition of their extended family.

The Potters, not fighting a desperate war, had instead been the steadfast pillar of support. They had championed the young, unstable Grand Duke, ensuring his survival against the Imperial Council’s sharks.

The Grand Duke swept into the home like a gale, pulling Harry into a rib-crushing hug. "My little stag! Getting taller! Soon you'll tower over me, just like your father!"

Harry smiled, genuinely, feeling a surge of affection for this version of his beloved godfather—a version who was alive, settled, and powerful.

But the real shock came when Sirius introduced his consort.

"And Harry, you know my better half, Lord Remus Lupin."

Remus. Older, yes, still bearing the faint silvering at his temples, but happy, healthy, and dressed in the fine, scholarly robes of a Noble Consort. He offered Harry a warm, kind smile—the very smile Harry had grieved for countless times.

Harry felt the world tilt. Remus. His mind flashed to Teddy Lupin, to Nymphadora, to the bleak, unfinished tragedy of his first life. Here, Remus was married to Sirius. There was no war-torn, self-sacrificing romance with Tonks. There was only this quiet, profound partnership, settled by law and deep affection. The grief for the life this man had lost in Harry's old world was immediate, but it was followed by a profound, guilty relief. They were safe. They were happy.

"Lord Lupin," Harry managed, bowing impeccably, hiding the tremor in his voice.

"Just Remus, Harry," Remus corrected gently, his eyes crinkling.

Watching them interact—the easy exchange of glances, the comfortable, centuries-old partnership between the Potter and Black houses—Harry understood that the foundation of this world was far more secure than his own had ever been. It hardened his resolve. If this world could provide this much peace and happiness for the people he loved, he would fight to keep it.

The immediate, crushing weight of responsibility settled back onto his shoulders. He had died trying to save the world, specifically from Tom Riddle. And here, in this perfect, gilded world, he had been given a second chance to fix the one mistake that cost him everything.

On the brink of his eleventh birthday, the day before he was due to begin a rigorous new course of high-level magical tutelage, the opportunity arose. The Duke and Duchess were traveling in the capital on a diplomatic mission, and Harry had insisted on joining them for the final, non-official leg of the journey—a tour of the city’s oldest, most neglected sections.

He was dressed impeccably, a miniature Noble in a navy blue velvet coat and cream breeches, sitting opposite his parents in the family’s grand, sealed Ducal Carriage. It was a moving fortress of polished black lacquer and gilt, drawn by four immense, perfectly groomed horses, and flanked by two armed, mounted guards.

Lily adjusted her pearl necklace nervously. "Must we be here, Harry? The guard captain looks furious. This is hardly a noble district."

"Nonsense, my Love," James admonished, though his hand rested reassuringly on the handle of his walking cane, which housed a powerful, magically-charged rapier. "Our heir is showing commendable civic interest. He will be a great Duke."

The carriage slowed as the cobbled streets narrowed into muddy ruts. The heavy scent of sewage and unwashed bodies—the smells of his own first life—hit Harry with a wave of familiar revulsion. He looked out the window, his heart pounding not with expectation, but with the general anxiety of encountering misery.

And then, the driver cursed. A loud crack of the whip followed by the terrifying, scraping shriek of the massive carriage wheels locking against the slick mud.

Harry's breath hitched. The carriage jerked violently, throwing him forward until James caught him with a reflex that activated a faint, golden magical field around them.

"What in the blazes was that?" James roared, throwing open the window flap.

A servant's panicked voice carried back: "My Lord! A child, barely missed! He was loitering in the street, darted right into the horses' path!"

Harry didn't wait. The thought of an innocent child crushed beneath the Potter crest was too much. He threw open the door before either parent could stop him, leaping out into the muddy, stinking alleyway.

Lying huddled in the filth near the rearing hooves of the lead horse was a small, thin silhouette. He looked about seven years old, dressed in rags the colour of dirt. His skin was unnaturally pale, his limbs like sticks. He wasn't crying, though. He was staring up at the beast that had nearly crushed him with an unnerving, calculating stillness.

Harry walked toward him, ignoring the frantic calls of his parents and the guards. He saw the face clearly now: sharp cheekbones, a severe brow, and a profound, desolate coldness that transcended his age.

Then Harry saw his eyes.

They were wide, fixed on Harry’s expensive coat, and they were the most startling, unnatural shade of ruby red.

The sight was a physical blow, a bolt of pure lightning that ripped through his carefully constructed aristocratic facade, shattering the fragile peace of his second life.

The eyes. He’s here. It’s him.

Tom Riddle, starved and alone, was lying in the muck right in front of him. All of Harry’s past trauma, all the grief, all the failures of the First War, solidified into a single, desperate, immediate mission: redemption. He would fix this broken thing before it could break the world.

Harry knelt down in the mud, ignoring the ruin of his fine trousers.

"Hello," Harry said, his voice soft and almost trembling with a mixture of terror and determination. "You're hurt. What's your name?"

The boy didn't flinch, didn't speak. He just stared up at the pristine, pampered, green-eyed child who had tumbled out of a golden carriage.

Then, the boy opened his mouth, his voice a low, hard rasp that belied his small frame.

"Tom. Just Tom."

Duke James Potter rushed up behind Harry, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Harry, get back in the carriage! He's hurt, covered in mud—we'll summon a physician and arrange compensation for him immediately. We need to be on our way." He glanced at Tom, his expression softening despite his urgency. "The child needs medical aid, not the street. We'll ensure he's looked after."

Harry turned, looking up at his father with the commanding, entitled gaze of the only son who always got what he wanted. He used the full, aristocratic weight of his voice—the voice he had been perfecting for years to impress the Imperial Council.

"No, Father. He is not. He is going with us." Harry looked back at Tom, a radiant, utterly sincere smile fixed on his face, the smile of a saviour. "I want him. He will be my playmate. I need him."

The Duke, completely undone by the sudden, firm command from his precious heir, and seeing the boy's terrible state, looked torn. "But Harry, he is so small and frail. The environment here—it's utterly unsuitable for him! He requires care, a proper orphanage, not the chaotic life of a Dukedom heir's plaything."

"Yes," Harry insisted, kneeling lower and reaching a hand out to the small, cold one. "I want to save him. He looks clever. He will be loyal. I want to give him a better life. I want to heal him."

Tom Riddle, the small, feral boy, finally took Harry's hand, his red eyes burning with a sudden, sharp, utterly unreadable interest. He was off the streets, and he was holding the hand of the Duke's son. He had won a bizarre, horrifying lottery, but his mind was already calculating the long-term debt he would extract.

The journey back to the city centre was a tense silence broken only by the Duchess’s distressed murmuring. As soon as Tom was settled on the velvet seat opposite Harry, Lily descended upon him with a fierce, motherly despair.

“Oh, you poor, poor darling,” she cooed, her fingers gently sweeping mud from his sharp cheekbones. She had forgone formality entirely, using her lace-edged handkerchief to wipe his grimy hands. “It’s simply unacceptable that a child of the Empire should be so cold and hungry. Look at him, James, he is nothing but skin and bones!”

Duke James, visibly relieved that the crisis was over and his heir was satisfied, settled back, his posture shifting from defensive Noble to pragmatic Duke. “He is in capable hands now, my love. We will have him seen by our physician, then our solicitor will—"

“No, James,” Lily interrupted, looking at her husband with wet, blazing green eyes that matched Harry’s own. “No solicitors. No orphanage. Harry was right. This child, he needs care. Harry, my clever, brave boy, you are the most kind and generous person I know. You have such a good heart to see past the grime.” She reached across to squeeze Harry’s arm, her praise rich and absolute.

Harry smiled, a benign, innocent flash of teeth directed at his mother. But as he looked back at Tom, whose unnaturally red eyes were now tracking every detail of the carriage—the gold fittings, the plush tapestry, the power dynamics—Harry’s smile became fixed and strained.

Kind and generous, he thought, his internal veteran’s voice wry and cold. They don't understand. They don't see the resemblance. Harry had seen his own desperate, hungry reflection in those feral, calculating ruby eyes—the shared potential, the shared abandonment of the Muggle world. He and Tom were two sides of the same terrible coin. The war might be postponed, but the catalyst had just entered the carriage. His act wasn't charity; it was a selfish gamble on self-preservation. He had to steer this Tom away from the abyss, had to smother the darkness with gilded opportunities. And if I can’t make him good, Harry resolved, meeting Tom’s gaze with a cold, protective resolve, I will at least make sure he is contained.

Tom, for his part, sat perfectly still, radiating the chilling stillness of a predator waiting for its prey to look away. His hand, still grasping the silk handkerchief Lily had given him, was the only thing betraying his inner tension.

They arrived at the massive, echoing gates of the Potter Dukedom, a fortress of prosperity that seemed to swallow the entire city block. Tom was handed over instantly to the most senior maids, who swept him away toward the bath suites. He was met not with pity, but with a rush of overtly enthusiastic, if slightly invasive, welcome.

"Oh, welcome, Young Master Tom!"

"You'll be our Young Master Harry's playmate! What a generous act!"

"Don't worry, darling, we'll have you looking like a Noble in no time!"

As the hot water, scented with lavender and costly soap, finally began to melt the layers of street grime from his skin, Tom leaned back, ignoring the vigorous scrubbing of the three maids. His mind was miles away, racing through the calculation that had paid off a thousand times over.

He had heard the rumours among the street kids: the Potter Duke was powerful, but the Duchess was famously soft-hearted, and their only son, the little heir, was an idealistic child prone to civic whims.

The plan had been simple: throw himself into the path of the Ducal carriage. Not to be crushed, but to force a halt. If the Potters’ reputation for being ‘unfailing kind and generous’ held true, he would have received money, medical care, and perhaps a small set of jewels for his troubles. That was the extent of his ambition—a chance to leave the city and stop scamming his way through survival.

A single jewel from these pesky nobles could give me a decent shot at life, he thought, the sheer insanity of the payoff making him clench his fists underwater. He had gotten the entire Dukedom. He had won the whole bloody lottery.

He knew he was destined for greater things. He was sharp, impossibly clever, and possessed an innate, terrifying ability to make objects obey him—a power that the other feral children at the filthy orphanage had only screamed at. He had magic, which in this world of Imperial Nobles, clearly meant everything.

And now he was within the walls. He was in the heart of the Potter power.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, the taste of blood and ambition mixing faintly. If he played his cards right, he could have all this. The wealth, the castle, the staff, the political weight. That kid, the heir—Lord Harry Potter—seemed too kind, too soft, and far too stupid. He would be easy to manipulate. He would be easy to replace.

Tom opened his eyes underwater, the water staining red around him. He had just traded his rags for a gilded cage, but this cage was the key to his true destiny. He was no longer just Tom. He was the most dangerous weapon the Potter Dukedom had ever invited inside its gates.

Chapter Text

The staff worked with astonishing speed. Within an hour, Tom Riddle had been scrubbed clean of the capital's filth, his skin pale but no longer sallow, and dressed in a set of Lord Harry Potter's own clothes—a simple, high-collared tunic of deep crimson velvet and dark wool breeches. The rich fabric of the Dukedom swallowed his small frame, but it could not mask the severity of his sharp, intelligent features.

He was escorted into the formal dining hall just as the Duke and Duchess were seating themselves for dinner. The room was immense, lit by thousands of tiny, perpetually glowing magical orbs embedded in the cathedral-high ceiling. James sat at the head of the impossibly long, polished oak table, Lily radiant on his right. Harry was across from his mother, a silent sentinel of green velvet and gold embroidery.

Harry rose and gestured to the seat beside him. “You will sit here, Tom.”

Tom glided into the seat, a movement that spoke of studied grace rather than natural comfort. The seat was deep and plush, swallowing him in opulence. He sat ramrod straight, his hands folded in his lap.

He acted accordingly.

When the Duchess offered a soft, concerned query about his comfort, Tom tilted his head slightly, offering the most perfect, practiced expression of gratitude. “Thank you for your immense generosity, Duchess Potter. I am deeply honoured to be an invitee to your table. I promise to be a worthy companion to Lord Harry.”

Lily’s face immediately softened. "Oh, you are more than adequate, darling," she cooed, casting a triumphant look at James. "Did you hear that, James? Such manners! You already possess the conduct of a noble, Tom. Already you pass for one."

Harry smiled, agreeing instantly. “Indeed. A fine compliment, Tom.” It was a lie, a practiced encouragement. Harry’s internal voice, the tired veteran, screamed a warning. He could see the effort, the sharp concentration behind the boy’s eyes. Tom was acting; every word, every subdued gesture, was calculated to earn approval and secure his position.

James, ever the buoyant aristocrat, merely chuckled, his hand resting on the hilt of his concealed magical rapier. “With those aristocratic features and that perfect posture, my boy, he might very well be one of us. No slum urchin has such a defined jawline.”

Tom’s thanks were quiet, humble, and deeply convincing. He did not flinch, but Harry saw the minute, almost invisible spark in his red eyes—the pure, triumphant greed of a boy who knew the aristocratic joke had landed on his side.

As the servants began the near-silent ritual of serving the delicate courses—richly sauced pheasant and glistening, magically preserved greens—the Potters, ever warm and kind, began to inquire about Tom’s past.

“My mother was an Imperial Commoner, I believe,” Tom stated, cutting a sliver of pheasant and observing Harry’s use of the silver cutlery. “She died giving birth to me. I have no memory of her.” He took a tentative bite, his eyes briefly widening at the quality of the flavor before snapping back to control. “I was told her name was Merope, and my name—Tom—was the only thing she gave to the old woman who took me to the orphanage.”

Lily leaned forward, her expression a mix of pity and maternal concern. "Forgive me, dear, but we never properly asked... how old are you, Tom? You seem so very small."

Tom paused his delicate work with a fork, looking up with that unnervingly polite expression. “I turned eleven this past New Year, Duchess.”

A stunned, heavy silence fell over the table, thicker than the expensive air.

James frowned, his casual aristocratic composure cracking as he looked from the small boy to his own son, who was nearly half a head taller and sturdier. “Eleven? Harry is eleven, set to begin his high arts tutelage next week. You are so terribly small for your age, child.”

Lily’s pity intensified, her hand flying to her mouth, realizing the horrific implication. "It is the slums, James. Malnutrition. Oh, my poor darling boy! You should be the same size as Harry, but you are barely the size of a seven-year-old."

Harry watched, a cold dread confirming his initial terrifying suspicion: they were perfectly matched. The saviour and the Dark Lord, two eleven-year-old boys of immense potential, one pampered and one starved, now sitting side-by-side. The shared age amplified the sense of fatalistic doom.

Mother died in childbirth, no father, abandoned, given only his name. It was too close. The foundation was the same. The same abuse, the same primal need for belonging, and the same vast, terrifying potential for destruction. The storm was not coming; the storm was now seated next to him, meticulously trying to mimic the proper technique for eating a side salad.

Lily and James, kind and generous as always, did not notice the undercurrent. They heard tragedy and resilience. They had no reason to believe the quiet, eleven-year-old orphan was a nascent sociopath. Harry, however, knew better. He had lived through the endgame.

Harry watched, his own appetite vanishing, as Tom navigated the complex landscape of Noble dining.

He saw the signs clearly:

The Smile That Never Reached His Eyes: Tom smiled often—small, appropriate, appreciative flashes of white teeth whenever Lily praised him or James asked a question. But the crimson eyes remained cold, calculating the next move. They were instruments of observation, not reflection.

The Mirroring: Tom meticulously scanned Harry's every movement, every subtle angle of his wrist as he cut meat, every sip of water. Tom wasn’t just observing manners; he was data-gathering, trying desperately to fit the puzzle piece of himself into the gilded Potter canvas.

The Flinch of Frustration: When a servant presented a dish or utensil Tom hadn’t encountered, his thin brows would furrow—a slight, almost instantaneous contraction of pure, fierce frustration that he couldn't get it perfectly right on the first try. It was the absolute, controlling perfectionism of the Dark Lord in miniature.

Harry felt a strange, cold mix of triumph and despair. He had him. Tom was inside the cage. The war was officially contained to this dining room, a silent, psychological battle fought over crystal goblets and pheasant breast.

I have you now, Harry thought, raising his own glass and subtly mirroring a movement Tom had just made, locking eyes with the boy. I'm not the hero here. I'm just the one who knows the future. And I will choke the darkness out of you with kindness, or I will bury you with my own hands before you hurt these people.

Tom’s ruby eyes flickered, recognizing the sudden, cold challenge in Harry’s gaze, and he offered the Duke's son a subtle, perfectly polite, and utterly venomous smile in return. The battle had begun.

The dinner concluded without incident, the tension in the air unnoticed by the doting Duke and Duchess. They were already discussing the arrangement of Tom’s new living quarters, which would be an opulent suite connected to Harry’s own.

After being excused, Harry led Tom through the impossibly grand, silent corridors of the Dukedom to his personal suite—a sequence of rooms that were more spacious and costly than the entire orphanage Tom had just escaped.

Tom moved slowly through the rooms, his head swivelling, not out of naive wonder, but with a palpable, hungry assessment. He wasn't looking at the tapestries or the rare, glowing magical artifacts; he was cataloguing value. He was calculating how much gold was required to maintain the sheer weight of this luxury that was simply born onto the golden child beside him.

Harry watched him, a slight, knowing smile on his face. “It must seem like too much,” Harry said, his voice soft, almost conspiratorial. He gestured toward a glass display case filled with small, magically-animated gold instruments. “A child as small as us shouldn’t be adorned in gold, right? You should be dressed practically, not like a miniature courtier.”

Tom shook his head immediately, offering an answer so smooth it was almost practiced. “It is only fitting for the Dukedom Heir, Lord Harry. Such displays reinforce the stability and power of the House to the Empire.”

Harry's smile tightened, and his brow twitched—a slight, almost imperceptible raise that confirmed his suspicion. Too perfect.

Tom studied Harry, trying to peel back the layers of this strange, beautiful child. Harry appeared to be the typical spoilt heir—rich, indulged, slightly bored, and now fascinated with a new "pet." Tom initially feared the cruelty of a pampered noble: the games might involve setting hounds on him, or worse, watching him fight a losing, humiliating battle for amusement.

But Tom failed to reconcile that image with the light in Harry’s eyes. They were the brilliant, deep green of new grass, and they were pure. There was no malice at all, no hidden sneer, no calculating hunger. They were nothing like the jealous, fearful eyes of the orphanage children when Tom displayed his power. Nothing like the cold, assessing gaze of nobles who would see a dirty orphan as a stain. Nothing like the disgusting, possessive look of certain adults who had eyed him like fruit about to ripen on the streets.

Harry was simply honest.

“You know, I think it’s too much,” Harry confessed, sinking onto a plush velvet chair and kicking his legs idly. He spoke too casually, too honestly for a boy his age, using the measured tone of an adult. “I feel like I’m drowning in silk sometimes. But Mother, she’s a force of nature. No one could go against her whims. Not even Father—he’s sadly at the mercy of her good nature, and sometimes, her excessive love.”

Tom absorbed the information, processing the cracks in the Potter foundation. The Duke and Duchess, though in high positions, were fundamentally weak—weakened by their devotion to their son, weak to their own kindness. Harry was the vulnerability, the fulcrum. All it took was his word to welcome a dangerous element from the mucky streets and into the heart of the Dukedom.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, a realization clicking into place that was more valuable than any gold artifact in the room. Harry was the true beacon of power here. Everyone would bend to his whims. Tom didn't need to replace the heir; he just needed to control the Heir.

Harry reached down to the carved, polished cedar chest beside his chair and pulled out a heavy, exquisitely folded wooden box. It unfolded into a chessboard, the pieces—made of black obsidian and white quartz—chunky and solid. Harry grinned, a wide, genuine flash of his teeth that momentarily lit up his pure green eyes.

“Wanna play?” he asked.

Tom, seeing the battlefield laid out for him, offered his own, less genuine smile. The game was containment versus conquest, and he was ready to begin.

“I would be honored, Lord Harry,” Tom agreed, pulling a second velvet chair closer to the board.

“Just Harry,” Harry corrected gently, his eyes searching Tom’s face. “You’re here now. We’re going to be living together. Drop the title.”

Tom paused, his internal calculator whirring. Dropping the title was a sign of intimacy and equality—an invitation. An Heir would not give such an invitation lightly. He nodded, accepting the new status quo. “Thank you... Harry.”

Tom chose the black obsidian pieces—a predictable preference for the dark, solid stone. Harry took the pale, luminous white quartz. Harry offered the first move to his guest, but Tom politely insisted the Heir should lead.

Harry opened with a quiet, classical move, advancing the King’s pawn one space. It was a move of cautious invitation, exposing a weakness but inviting attack. Tom, in response, immediately lunged for the centre, advancing his Queen’s pawn two spaces. It was an aggressive, uncompromising challenge for control.

The game became a study in contrasts. Tom played with the visceral intelligence of a survivor who saw the board not as a puzzle, but as a territory to be seized. He was unforgiving, sacrificing pawns without hesitation to clear lines for his more powerful pieces—the obsidian Bishop and the fearsome Queen. Every move was a strike for dominance, a desperate need to overthrow the existing hierarchy. He played to win, and to win quickly.

Harry, conversely, was patient and defensive. He kept his King safe behind a wall of tightly packed quartz pawns, refusing to give Tom the open battle he craved. Harry understood that his goal wasn't victory, but survival. He had to contain the threat. He used his Knights to disrupt Tom's aggressive central control, forcing the obsidian forces to fragment and slow down. It was the game of a veteran, exhausted by war but skilled in the art of the retreat, the war of attrition.

Midway through, Tom was visibly frustrated. He had already lost three pawns to Harry's one, but his powerful Queen was poised to break through the defensive line. Harry had a closed, messy position that was suffocating Tom's natural inclination toward grand, sweeping maneuvers.

“You play defensively,” Tom observed, his voice unnervingly flat as he moved his Bishop to threaten a Knight. He wasn’t asking a question; he was stating a strategic flaw.

“I play to preserve my pieces,” Harry corrected, moving his Knight to safety but opening a momentary hole in his formation. “In war, the pieces that survive the longest are the most valuable.”

Harry studied Tom’s careful, analytical hands moving the pieces. “You play well, Tom. Where did you learn such a complicated game?”

Tom did not look up from the board, his focus absolute. “There was a caretaker at the orphanage, before she left to get married. She taught me, saying it was a game for future kings.” A slight, almost undetectable sneer crossed his mouth. “I never played with the other children. They were unable to understand the movement of the Knight, let alone the complexities of the endgame.”

Harry felt the now-familiar icy confirmation settle in his gut. Tom wasn’t just smart; he was singular. The game was a study in contrasts.

The endgame was tense. Tom’s Queen and Rook were closing in on Harry’s King, but Harry had managed to retain his own Rook and a Knight, which he expertly used to block and weave, denying Tom any clear path to Checkmate. The final sequence was a flurry of forced moves, each boy anticipating the other three steps ahead.

After nearly an hour, Harry made a move that left Tom’s King trapped by his own pieces, yet safe from Harry’s minimal attack. It was a stalemate.

Tom stared at the board, his jaw tight. His face, usually a mask of control, showed a raw, momentary flash of frustrated fury. He hated draws. He hated anything less than total conquest.

Harry simply leaned back, giving a slight, knowing nod. “A draw. Good game, Tom. Very aggressive opening.”

Tom looked up, his crimson eyes locking onto Harry's green ones. The venom was back, mixed now with a sharp, analytical curiosity. Harry hadn't just survived; he had contained him. He had fought the battle on his own terms.

“You are not what I expected, Harry,” Tom finally conceded, his voice dangerously smooth.

“And you are exactly what I expected, Tom,” Harry replied, gathering the heavy obsidian pieces and dropping them back into the cedar box. “That’s why I brought you here. Now, let’s see if we can unpack some of those aggressive tendencies before you learn to play for keeps.”

The two boys, eleven years old and carrying the weight of two timelines, sat in the opulent silence of the Dukedom, having just finished their first, and certainly not last, battle.

Harry took the lead, guiding Tom out of the personal suite and down a short, velvet-carpeted corridor that connected to Tom’s newly appointed rooms. The maids had worked tirelessly; the air was fresh, scented with lavender and new wood, and the glow-orbs in the ceiling cast a soft, warm light over everything.

Tom stepped across the threshold, and the breath caught in his throat—a small, involuntary hitch of pure, visceral greed. The room was vast, dominated by a four-poster bed draped in deep green silk that matched the rich, heavy curtains covering the tall windows. There was a dedicated writing desk made of dark, polished mahogany, a hearth of imported marble, and a small, private adjoining bath suite that gleamed with fresh porcelain.

Orphans didn't own things. They possessed nothing but the lint in their pockets and the clothes on their back. To have a space this magnificent, this expensive, and know it was undeniably, legally his, was a concept that made his mind reel with the sensation of finding something he had been designed for but never knew existed.

“It’s yours,” Harry said simply, leaning against the doorframe, his expression easy and almost proud. “All of it. Anything you need, you just ask the staff. They are all here to serve the Dukedom, and now, they will serve you.”

His. The word echoed in Tom’s mind, heavy with promise. It was not a gift; it was a reclamation. Tom felt a surge of absolute conviction: this kind of life, the silk, the silence, the sheer, crushing weight of luxury, was his birthright. The squalor of the orphanage and the freezing streets had been a mistake, a cruel detour. He would not only keep this room; he would have all the rooms, the Dukedom, and more.

Harry watched him like an open book. Tom was currently too overwhelmed, too hungry to disguise the raw avarice dancing in his red eyes. The eleven-year-old was a genius at analysis but still unpolished in deception—the mask was slipping under the pressure of too much gold. Good, Harry thought, relieved. He’s not so skilled yet at hiding his true face. I prefer him an open book; it makes the strategy easier.

Harry looked around the room, noting the quality of the mahogany and the subtle magical wards Lily had clearly insisted upon. It was not as aggressively opulent as his own chambers, but expensive nonetheless.

“Well, Tom,” Harry said, straightening up. “Get some rest. We start our studies next week, and my mother will require you to learn piano and violin with me. No one can go against Mother’s whims, remember?”

Tom nodded, forcing the wild hunger back into the cold cage of his eyes. “Goodnight, Harry. Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

Harry closed the heavy, solid oak door behind him, leaving the small, intense orphan alone in his new kingdom. The moment the latch clicked, Tom turned and walked to the bed, running his fingers over the smooth, priceless green silk—an anchor point in a storm of newfound power.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Tom and Harry met for breakfast in the same vast dining hall, now feeling emptier without the warm, talkative presence of the Duke and Duchess. They sat close together at a small, circular side table, a subtle concession to the absence of the masters of the house.

Harry spread a soft, buttered roll with berry conserve. “Father and Mother are out,” he explained, his tone completely unaffected by the regal context of their trip. “They were invited for tea and a meal at the Imperial Palace. They decided to take the entire day.”

Tom, whose hunger was still deep-seated despite the feast of the night before, chewed slowly, absorbing the information. “The Imperial Palace?” he echoed, a question of genuine calculation. “Why would the Emperor invite the Duke and Duchess of a mere Dukedom for a social call?”

Harry paused, looking at Tom with an almost childlike confusion, as if the answer were utterly obvious. “Because we’re friends,” he said simply. “Our family is influential enough, and we have been for centuries. It’s just how it is. They thought it best to leave me behind today, so I could properly orient you in the Dukedom. That way, you’re not overwhelmed by tutors and staff all at once.”

The explanation, delivered with the casualness of discussing schoolwork, settled an uncomfortable weight in Tom’s stomach. He hadn't just stumbled into wealth; he had fallen into the inner circle of Imperial power. He was now operating at a terrifyingly high altitude.

“And we’ll begin with a tour right after breakfast,” Harry announced, wiping his hands on a clean napkin.

The tour of the Dukedom’s interior was less about navigation and more about observation—for Tom, at least. As they moved through the enormous libraries, the climate-controlled magical galleries, and the endless servants' passages, Harry greeted every person they passed with equal, unforced kindness.

"Good morning, Hestia, I trust the new cleaning spells are working well on the marble?"

"Bartholomew, did you get the tea blend you requested from the capital's south quarter? Tell me if it's correct this time."

"Tom, this is Barnaby. He manages the entire archive of restricted knowledge. Barnaby, this is Tom. He'll be starting lessons with me next week, so be kind to him."

The staff—from the stern head gardener to the smallest, youngest scullery maid—all smiled at Harry. They didn't just respect the Heir; they adored him. Their reverence was built not on fear of retribution, but on genuine, reciprocated affection.

Tom found it utterly bizarre. He had seen nobles in passing, in the city or passing through the slums, and every one of them treated their staff and the commoners with a dismissive arrogance. Mistreating a carriage driver was the norm; being rude to a maid was a casual pastime. To see a Duke’s heir treat his staff like valued friends, remembering not just their names but their personal requests and interests, was unheard of. Harry performed this social grace like breathing.

This cannot be true, Tom thought, his crimson eyes narrowed in keen, furious study. He is too perfect.

Tom had been hunting for the kink, the stain on Harry’s otherwise flawless persona of the golden child. He searched for signs of hidden cruelty, a flicker of boredom, a condescending remark once they were out of earshot, or even a slip of impatience when a servant was slow.

But he found none. Harry remained utterly consistent. His kindness was not a mask; it was a fundamental, bewildering aspect of his character. He was the most protected, most powerful boy Tom had ever encountered, yet his power was entirely soft, wielded through affection and loyalty. Tom had always believed power came from fear and control, yet Harry had unlocked a different, infuriatingly effective method.

The tour finally concluded in the bustling main receiving hall, leaving Tom's mind spinning with unsolved calculations. He had found no weakness to exploit.

“So,” Tom asked, smoothing his new crimson tunic and trying to appear bored. “What now?”

Harry grinned, the sheer, pure delight in his green eyes confirming for Tom the boy's utter lack of guile. “Now we go shopping,” Harry said, waving to a footman to summon the carriage. “You need a proper, full wardrobe, and I need a new set of quills. We can’t have you wearing my hand-me-downs forever.”

They were seated in the carriage, a private, magicked conveyance that seemed to float silently above the cobblestones, shielding them from the smells and sounds of the capital. Tom looked out the window, observing the city with the sharp, proprietary gaze of a conqueror, before turning to study Harry, who was watching the passing commoners with a calm, meditative expression.

“Why me?” Tom asked, the question cutting through the silence, sudden and without preface.

Harry slowly raised a brow, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips, but he didn’t turn away from the window. “Why you what, Tom?”

“There were dozens of others,” Tom stated, his voice flat with the raw, brutal logic of the slums. “More useful ones, perhaps. Stronger (he does not believe his own words), or cleaner. Is it just because I was the one who almost got killed by your carriage?”

Harry let out a small, surprising laugh, completely without mockery. He finally turned, his emerald eyes locking onto Tom’s rare crimson ones. The honest gravity in Harry’s expression was almost disarming.

“No, Tom,” Harry admitted, his tone utterly sincere. “It’s because of your eyes.”

Tom frowned, the simple, irrational truth of the answer frustrating him. He decided against prying. He understood it as the simple truth that Harry liked his eyes. They were rare, the colour of rubies—he’d never met anyone else who had them, and perhaps this spoiled heir found them a fascinating novelty.

You have no idea why, Harry thought, his internal voice cold with fear and clarity. The name could be a terrible coincidence, but those eyes—the exact same shade of venomous, blood-red he had last seen burning with murderous contempt in his nightmares—there was no mistaking it. This was the same soul.

The carriage rolled smoothly to a stop in a busy town square, where the high-end boutiques and jewelers stood alongside government buildings. Harry thanked the coachman, an elderly man named Alastair, and asked him to wait for precisely three hours before returning. Tom absorbed the interaction: Harry did not command or demand; he requested and informed. Yet the result was the same flawless obedience.

They exited onto the wide, clean flagstones. Harry led Tom immediately into a boutique specializing in children’s noblewear. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive silk, starched linen, and faint enchantments designed to preserve the fabrics.

The proprietor, a thin woman with impeccably styled gray hair, saw Harry and her eyes immediately gleamed with the pure, naked calculation of gold.

“Lord Harry! What a pleasant surprise! We were just arranging your spring collection samples.”

Harry offered his genuine, charming smile. “Good morning, Madam Grizel. I am not here for myself, not entirely. This is Tom. He is the Dukedom’s newest addition, my adopted playmate and companion. We are here to get him outfitted properly.”

Madam Grizel’s eyes widened, darting between the familiar golden Heir and the small, intense boy in Harry’s hand-me-down crimson tunic. “Goodness. The rumors are true then!” she whispered, her voice a mix of shock and delight.

Tom frowned, the term landing like a physical blow. Rumors? The world was already dissecting his presence, analyzing his sudden insertion into the Dukedom. His arrival was not a private matter; it was a public declaration.

Harry merely nodded, oblivious or uncaring. “Indeed. We need everything, Grizel. From boots to nightwear. The best quality, and in colors that will suit his... unique complexion.”

The next hour was a whirlwind of measurements and fine materials. Madam Grizel’s tape measure, aided by faint measuring charms, flitted around Tom’s slight frame. The fabrics were unlike anything he had ever touched—wool softer than any blanket, silk that felt cool and fluid against his skin. 

While Madam Grizel murmured instructions to her assistant and Tom was preoccupied in the changing screen, Harry pretended to browse a catalogue of cufflink designs, his gaze blank. His mind was miles away, across the boundary of worlds, replaying the last, terrible years of his first life.

It doesn’t happen here, he thought, the truth a constant, heavy comfort. There would be no ruined, war-torn castle, no graves of friends, no final, agonizing sacrifice. His parents, James and Lily, were alive, full of laughter and health. Even Sirius and Remus, miraculously, were here, living happily as a ridiculously affectionate, married couple—a reality that still brought a startled, welcomed warmth to Harry's chest. So far, the only faces he recognized were the names of noble houses—the Greengrasses, the Malfoys—old pureblood lines that were now simply part of the Empire's aristocracy. He had finally found a life worth the suffering he had endured.

He had to be smart. He had the complete upper hand because Tom, for all his frightening brilliance, was only eleven years old, a starved wolf who thought he was dealing with a lamb. Harry was a man, a veteran of Tom's own war, armed with the precise knowledge of every weakness, every insecurity, and every future crime the boy was capable of. Tom might believe he was playing Harry, testing the limits of the golden child’s goodness and light, but Tom hadn't yet learned that Harry had always been grey. He was a survivor who knew how to bend rules and break laws for the greater good. His kindness was not a weakness; it was a well-placed, expensive snare.

Tom emerged from the screen, perfectly clad in a dark, fine-spun tunic that made his crimson eyes look like twin, rare jewels. When he looked in the long, enchanted mirror, the boy staring back was no longer a slum urchin. He was a noble, refined and severe. The clothes were a costume, but they made the character feel profoundly real.

After the extensive order was placed—enough suits and tunics to stock a small shop—Harry ushered Tom to the most exclusive restaurant on the square. It was a place Tom had only watched from the street, its windows thick with beveled glass that distorted the silhouettes of the laughing nobles within. He had always wondered what it felt like to go in, sit, and order. Now, he was doing it.

They were seated at a quiet, elegant table near a window. The air was fragrant with roasted spices and expensive wine, and a silent, efficient waiter immediately presented them with long, leather-bound menus.

“I’m ordering the roast quail,” Harry announced cheerfully. “You should pick whatever you like. It’s all exemplary, especially the desserts.”

Tom picked up the menu, his hands steady despite the frantic churning in his stomach. He scanned the dense, scripted text, his mind blank. The words were nothing more than meaningless swirls. The sharp, cold shame of the orphanage returned, more potent than any hunger. He had mastered manners and chess, but he was illiterate.

He slowly set the menu down, his ruby eyes fixed on the linen tablecloth. “Harry,” he admitted, the word tasting like ash. “I… I don’t know how to read the menu.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, but there was no surprise, no judgment, and certainly no disgust—only a gentle, quiet acceptance. “That’s fine, Tom. Of course you don’t. There was no need for it where you were, was there?” Harry took the menu and opened it. “Don’t worry about it. Our lessons start next week, remember? It’ll be the first thing we tackle. We’ll have you reading the whole Imperial Charter by winter.”

He began to order for Tom, describing the dishes in detail, talking about the sauces and the vegetables as if they were discussing complex magical theory.

Tom sat back, absorbing Harry’s non-reaction. Harry was not disgusted; he was simply practical. He saw a flaw, acknowledged the cause, and offered a solution. It was an infuriatingly effective way to disarm Tom.

I will not settle for anything less than this, Tom thought, his gaze sweeping over the crystal and silver. He could not wait. He would absorb everything the Potters gave him—their language, their knowledge, their wealth—and fashion himself into the man he always deserved to be, a life he would claim entirely for himself. Even if he had to keep scamming his way through, he had tasted it, and he would never go back.

Harry, choosing not to overthink the brief flash of avarice dancing in Tom’s eyes, simply pointed to the menu. “Now, they have a spiced pudding here that’s legendary. Sweets are a luxury you must learn to appreciate properly.”

Sweets. Tom had only heard of them, sugary confections reserved for nobles.

As they waited, Harry looked out the window. Outside, just past the glass, a child, dirtied and small, stood watching the diners, his expression hollow with hunger. Harry frowned, a genuine, private moment of distress crossing his face.

Tom watched Harry closely, waiting for the inevitable sign of distaste or dismissal at the sight of a street urchin. Instead, Harry quickly signalled a passing waiter and whispered a discreet order. Tom couldn’t make out the words and sat with barely concealed curiosity.

The waiter returned, nodded, and then walked out of the restaurant, passing the velvet ropes and crossing the flagstones. Tom anticipated the man would shoo the dirty child away, but was instead surprised when the waiter handed the child a small, discreetly wrapped box of food—a proper takeaway. The child’s eyes went wide before he happily clutched the box and skipped away.

Tom turned back to Harry. “You did that, didn’t you?”

Harry merely shrugged, picking up his water glass. “The kitchen always makes too much. Waste not, want not.” He offered a casual, perfect smile, clearly not wanting to take any credit for the action.

Tom composed himself, his internal frustration mounting. It was absurd. People only did nice things to take credit for them, to flaunt their goodness; that was why nobles made elaborate announcements when donating to the orphanage but never truly cared to see the children. Harry was becoming more and more of a paradox, and Tom could not understand why someone like him managed to be so fundamentally good when he had so much potential and opportunity to be self-serving and cruel.

Their luxurious meal complete, Harry and Tom departed the restaurant, the weight of their new, expensive acquisitions—Tom’s clothes, Harry’s quills—being handled by a porter. They headed toward the waiting carriage.

As they walked past an alley mouth, a child, small and quick, darted out, bumping hard into Harry. The child muttered a hurried apology and tried to melt back into the crowd.

Tom, however, saw the subtle, practiced flick of the wrist. His own hand shot out and seized the boy’s ragged tunic collar, yanking him back and throwing him onto the cobblestones. The clatter of the child's desperate landing drew immediate attention.

Harry was instantly alarmed. “Tom! Stop it!”

Tom’s ruby eyes were fixed on the struggling thief. “He took something. He snatched your brooch.”

Harry looked down, and indeed, the small, frightened child—barely older than five—was clutching a polished obsidian and silver brooch Harry had worn, a gift from his mother.

Harry knelt down slowly, keeping his body between Tom’s rigid fury and the thief’s terror. “Hello,” Harry said kindly, his voice soft, non-threatening. Tom glared over Harry’s shoulder. “That brooch is special to me. My mum gave it to me. Can I please have it back?”

The child, eyes wide with fear, looked between Harry’s gentle face and Tom’s murderous glare. He slowly held out the brooch.

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely, taking it and inspecting it for damage before slipping it back onto his tunic. He then reached into his own pocket and pulled out a small, heavy gold pouch, the type used for common expenditures. He extended it to the boy. “I would have let you keep the brooch, but I simply cannot. It’s a present. But this,” he shook the pouch lightly, “is much better for you right now. Go and guard it properly. Thieves are all over the square, you know.” Harry offered a warm, cheeky smile, giving the boy the gentlest possible warning.

The child, stunned, apologized again and scrambled away, clutching the unexpected wealth to his chest.

Tom watched the exchange, utterly bewildered. “He tried to steal from you, and instead, you gave him gold. Why?”

Harry shrugged as they resumed their walk toward the carriage. “Because he has no choice but to steal, Tom. And that coin was barely pocket money—worth absolutely nothing compared to the sizable fortune waiting for me at home. But it will be everything to that kid. It buys him time, and perhaps, a better choice.”

Tom followed Harry into the carriage. He didn't understand. He knew he never would. Harry was too good, too fundamentally generous, and people ought to take advantage of that flaw. It was an inherent weakness in the flawless golden child. Tom felt a sudden, cold sense of duty, one that went beyond his own ambition. He had resigned himself to a new, unexpected role: he would be Harry’s keeper, the shadow that made sure the Duke's heir never went beyond giving gold pouches to little thieves. He would protect Harry from his own excessive goodness, even if only to keep the golden cage functioning for his own benefit.

The outing is complete, and Tom has internalized his new purpose: to moderate Harry's baffling morality.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke not to an alarm, but to the silence of perfect climate control and the faint, sweet scent of lavender from the sleeping charms. It had taken years to acclimate to this quiet, unearned luxury. He, the man who had slept in a cupboard and on barracks floors, now slept on a mattress spun with enchanted silk, served by people who genuinely cared about his comfort.

He sat up, stretching muscles that, in this second life, had only known the rigorous training befitting a noble heir, not the desperate exhaustion of war. Two maids, named Alya and Brenna, entered quietly, already prepared with a linen towel and his clothes for the day. Harry slipped into the outfit: a perfectly tailored doublet of deep forest green, over trousers of matching fine wool. The attire was elegant, simple, and costly—the uniform of a well-bred son of a Duke.

He accepted the ritual with practiced grace, thanking the maids kindly, a habit that was now second nature and which only increased their devotion.

Making his way down the grand central staircase, Harry felt the familiar, easy flow of power in the house. This was his reality: endless wealth, unquestioning love, and a safety net woven from ancient magic and political influence.

Breakfast was served in the sunlit, smaller morning hall. Duchess Lily Potter was already seated, discussing her latest charitable endeavor with a passion that made her red hair seem to catch fire in the morning light. Duke James Potter, relaxed and beaming, sat across from her. Tom, dressed in one of his new dark blue tunics, sat beside Harry, eating quietly and observing everything.

"Harry, my boy! Morning, Tom," James greeted, his smile wide and warm.

Lily immediately engaged Harry in conversation. "Darling, your father was just telling me about the Imperial Council's new tariff proposal on imported spell components. It's ludicrous! It will only hurt the merchant class and our own local artisans."

"And Harry, you should read the latest reports from the Archduke of the Eastern Marches," James added, leaning forward conspiratorially. "He's making a play for the control of the border garrisons. The man thinks we're blind to his ambition."

They didn't just speak around them; they spoke to them, drawing the boys into a conversation of high-stakes politics and economic theory. It was the best kind of parenting—treating their children as future equals, never dumbing down the world for them. Tom listened, his eyes flashing with brilliant comprehension, absorbing the inner workings of governance like a sponge.

After breakfast, Harry retreated to his personal study, a sun-drenched room lined with ancient, leather-bound tomes and charts of the local constellations. He was eager to absorb everything there is to learn about this world. He chose a history of the Imperial houses and settled into his armchair.

Harry was no ordinary student. He would finish a massive volume in a single sitting, his mind—that of a battle-tested soldier—devouring the content with ruthless efficiency. His parents thought him a once-in-a-lifetime genius, and they weren't entirely wrong.

Magic existed in this world without wands, channeled simply by summoning the innate power of the soul. The Potters were known for being powerful fire magicians, but Harry could do far beyond the known laws of the elemental schools.

He closed the history book and idly focused his intent. In his previous life, he would have needed a wand and verbal command for complex manipulation. Here, he merely thought of the spell. The air around a small potted fern shimmered, and the plant didn't just grow; it evolved into a perfect, miniature, complex replica of a giant sequoia—a piece of sophisticated transfiguration that should have required a master’s effort and a powerful focus. The magical channels, unburdened by wood or word, simply obeyed the ingrained muscle memory of his former life. It was like performing perfect wandless and nonverbal magic constantly.

He allowed the spell to dissipate, the sequoia melting back into a small fern. The peace of studying alone was profound, but after a few days, it had become isolating. The quiet allowed too much time to dwell on his past and his unique, terrifying task.

Seeking a change of scenery, Harry made his way to the conservatory gardens where his mother often took her morning tea.

Duchess Lily was seated at a wrought-iron table, laughing gently with a striking woman with pale blonde hair and the impeccably tailored robes of a high noble: Marchioness Malfoy—Narcissa.

"And he wants to paint dragons, Lily! Dragons!" Narcissa said, rolling her eyes with affectionate exasperation.

Lily giggled. "That sounds exactly like my Harry when he was six! Ah, good morning, dear."

Narcissa turned, her elegant, cool demeanor instantly softening for the Duke's heir. "Harry. Goodness, look at you. You have the most wonderful posture now. Your manners are always impeccable; you should really meet my Draco sometime for a playdate of some sort. He needs a steady influence."

"That would be wonderful, Cissa," Lily said, smiling widely. "And Tom will be starting his lessons with Harry next week. Harry, Tom, and Draco—imagine that! A truly formidable force, if a slightly mischievous one."

The two mothers immediately devolved into a cheerful, high-society conversation about setting up a playdate between the three boys. Harry kept a pleasant smile fixed on his face, absorbing the surreal reality that in this life, Malfoys and Potters were not merely civil, but actually close enough for their children to be considered "formidable" together. He politely excused himself before the conversation could turn to tutors.

Harry next found his father in his sprawling private office, hunched over his ornate mahogany desk. James, the Duke, was focused, his brow furrowed in concentration over a mound of paperwork. The air around him was faintly charged with the magic of calculation and focus.

The moment James noticed his son, the stern expression vanished. His face brightened into a warm, welcoming smile. “Harry! Come in, my boy. Don’t hover.”

Harry crossed the rich carpet. “Good morning, Father. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

“Nonsense. A moment of conversation with my son is never a disturbance.” James pushed aside a stack of Imperial Council dispatches. “How are your studies going? Are the historical accounts of the founding of the Magocracy proving dull?”

“No, they’re fascinating, Father,” Harry said honestly. “But I admit, after a few days of solitary work, the peace has become a bit boring. It leaves too much time for thought.”

James chuckled knowingly. “Ah, the burden of a sharp mind. Well, that’s easily fixed. Why don’t you start your studies with Tom this afternoon? You’re both the same age, and I’ve seen how quickly he picks things up. Perhaps he can start a little early, and the energy of a study partner might settle your restlessness.”

Harry’s internal tension immediately relaxed, replaced by a surge of satisfaction. This was it. The perfect, natural cover. “That’s a brilliant idea, Father. Thank you.” He brightened his expression perfectly, making sure his gratitude looked genuine. The peace had been distracting; a shared academic pursuit, however, was the ideal mechanism to spend time with Tom, to mold his intellect and keep a close, constant guard on his darker impulses.

He said a final goodbye to his father, his steps lighter as he left the office.

Harry’s casual inquiries led him quickly to the grand library, a massive, silent vault of ancient knowledge. He found Tom not in the public reference wing, but tucked away in a shadowed corner of the restricted historical section, hunched over a massive, embossed tome. Tom looked utterly absorbed, his crimson eyes scanning the dense, flowing script.

“Quite a heavy read for someone who admitted he can’t read a restaurant menu,” Harry commented lightly, cutting into the silence.

“Lord Harry,” Tom murmured, rising slightly in a gesture of deference that was already flawless. “I asked the librarian to guide me to books with detailed illustrations of the Imperial history. If I can’t absorb the words just yet, I can at least absorb the pictures and the layouts. I’m trying to catch up, you see.”

The quick, self-serving explanation was delivered with impeccable logic and a veneer of humility. Harry found it charming in a horrifying way.

“That’s an admirable dedication,” Harry said, walking closer and pulling up a plush armchair. “But looking at pictures won’t unlock the secrets. I’m starting my own studies early, and Father suggested I needed a study partner to curb my boredom. He said you were a quick learner.”

Harry leaned forward, his green eyes bright. “Let’s start now. I offered to teach you to read, and I meant it.”

Tom’s mask slipped again, this time into naked, genuine shock before it morphed into a look of sharp, hungry excitement. He managed a curt nod. “Yes, Lord Harry. I would be grateful.”

Harry’s smile became gently firm. “Just Harry, Tom. Please. We’re going to be study partners, not masters and servants.”

Tom quickly dipped his head again, his cheeks coloring slightly at the correction. “Yes, Harry. I understand.”

Harry was ever so patient. He always did have the makings of a teacher, even in his past life when he’d drilled the D.A. He began with the basics: the twenty-six letters of the Imperial Alphabet, how they were pronounced, and the sound each shape represented. Tom, holding a piece of parchment and a charcoal stick Harry provided, practiced writing them. His hand, clumsy at first, became steady and precise.

Tom was terrifyingly fast. He mastered the shapes and sounds in under an hour, his mind snapping the concepts into place like the tumbler pins of a vault. The next trick was actually reading—blending the sounds into coherent words. Harry was ever so patient.

The first struggle, the first hesitation, lasted only minutes before Tom surged ahead. Five hours later, fueled by drinks and elaborate sandwiches quietly delivered by the maids, Tom was reading simple sentences, not perfectly, but with incredible, rapid progress.

The silent library was punctuated only by Harry’s soft explanations and Tom’s intense, focused voice. Outside their corner, the bustle of the Dukedom continued. The kitchen was already buzzing with talk about how cute their young masters were together, studying so diligently, and already becoming amazing friends. Tom, absorbing the world, was oblivious to the fact that his academic leap was not a private triumph, but a public demonstration of Harry’s benign influence. He was already deeply enmeshed in the golden cage.

The following morning, over breakfast, Duchess Lily delivered the news. “Darling boys, the Malfoys are arriving this afternoon. Narcissa and Lucius are coming for tea and to discuss the autumn trade compacts with your father. You boys are going to have a proper playdate.”

Harry felt a surge of genuine excitement that had nothing to do with political manoeuvring. This was the first time he would meet Draco Malfoy outside the context of the war. He had been too influenced by Ron’s musings and his own bitter history to ever give the boy a real chance in his first life. Draco wasn’t evil, just a kid marinated in prejudice. Now, Harry had the opportunity to leave a first, good impression.

Tom’s eyes, however, flashed with an unpleasant emotion Harry recognized as proprietary jealousy. Tom immediately lowered his gaze, masking the feeling, but the stiffness in his shoulders gave him away. Why was Harry so excited to meet some other noble kid? The Malfoys were a Marquisate, a step below the Duke’s status—an unnecessary distraction.

“You’ll be good, Tom,” Lily said gently. “Draco can be a handful, but he’s a good boy. Harry will keep you both focused on your studies.”

The Malfoys arrived promptly at lunchtime. The entire Potter family, including Tom, stood in the marble entrance hall to greet them. The Malfoy carriage was sizable and grand, its polished surface so reflective it shone like liquid mercury, immediately establishing their wealth. Lucius Malfoy, pale and severe, stepped out first, followed by Narcissa, elegant and radiating a cool, silver glamour. Draco, the heir, was a spitting image of his father, with only the sharp, calculating intelligence of his mother's eyes softening his features.

Harry leaned into Tom, whispering conspiratorially, “They are the richest people in the capital. Even more than us.”

Tom felt a wave of cold resentment. Richer. He hated the confirmation that someone held a higher rung of power.

Narcissa was the first to approach Tom, her expression warm. “And you must be Tom. Welcome to the Dukedom, dear. Lily has told me all about you.” She leaned in and gave him a soft, maternal kiss on the cheek. “I must say, a commoner orphan with such impeccable manners is quite the find. You must have been raised by a saint.”

Tom straightened, the backhanded compliment—unintentional as it was—stinging him, but he kept his face serene. “Thank you, Marchioness. I try to learn quickly.”

Lucius, meanwhile, surveyed Tom with an unblinking, analytical gaze, as if determining the orphan’s value in the Potter hierarchy.

Harry stepped in smoothly, linking his arm with Tom’s and offering a blinding smile to the Malfoys. “Tom is a genius, Father,” Harry asserted, effectively diffusing the tension and redirecting the conversation. “He’s already reading advanced texts. I’m quite certain he’ll be more formidable than either Draco or me by the time the next season begins.”

He then turned to Draco, extending his hand properly. “Hello, Draco. I’m Harry. I’ve heard we’re going to be great friends.”

Draco, only slightly unnerved by Harry’s bold, friendly assertion, accepted the handshake. Despite the air of self-importance already clinging to him, Draco was friendly, if reserved. “I suppose so, Potter. My mother says you’re the only one in the city who can keep me out of trouble.”

With the formalities complete, the adults retreated to the drawing room. Harry smiled at the two boys, both dressed in fine noble clothes—one molded by privilege, the other by ambition.

“Well,” Harry announced cheerfully. “Father said we’re to focus on our shared studies. But I think we’re going to have much more fun than that. We are going to test your strategic mettle with a game of Elemental Chess.”

Harry led them to a small, secluded sitting room off the library where a low table held the Elemental Chess board. It was a marvel: a slab of obsidian carved with a silver grid, and pieces made of clear crystal. As the game began, the pieces, once moved, would shimmer and channel raw elemental magic.

“I’ll let you two play,” Harry said, settling into a side chair with an air of relaxed authority. “Draco, you go first, as the visitor. Tom, this game is simple: pieces move like standard chess, but when you threaten an opponent, you must infuse your piece with elemental magic—Fire, Water, Earth, or Air. The element must be stronger than the element protecting the threatened square to capture.”

Draco nodded, his pale eyes gleaming with competitive pleasure. He easily extended his hand, and a King's Guard piece instantly glowed with a fierce, natural Fire aura. “Fire to C4,” he commanded, his voice already carrying the aristocratic cadence of a general. The piece moved, leaving a faint scorch mark on the obsidian.

Tom, who had been observing the board and the magical display intently, took his time. He didn't have the natural flow of power Draco possessed. Instead, he simply tapped his counter piece, choosing Water—a commoner’s element—and sent it to challenge Draco’s advanced position, not with power, but with cold, calculated efficiency.

The game quickly became a proxy war between Draco’s dazzling displays of raw magical strength and Tom’s ruthless strategic foresight.

“Idiot! You’ve left your flank open!” Draco yelled an hour in, infusing his Bishop with a furious Air spell that whipped the entire room's drapery.

“Have I?” Tom replied calmly, his eyes narrowing as he used an Earth-infused pawn to capture Draco’s most dominant position on the board. The Earth magic, though weak, perfectly blocked the Air spell's force, shattering the Bishop piece with a dull, grinding sound.

Draco’s face flushed a furious pink. “You play like a pauper, moving the unimportant pieces first!”

Tom straightened, his expression freezing over. This was it—the subtle jab at his status.

Harry, seeing the red gleam in Tom’s eyes, intervened immediately, his tone playfully serious. “Draco, that’s quite enough. Tom’s strategy is based on classic military attrition. It’s effective, if unrefined. And Tom, Draco is simply frustrated because he is used to winning through sheer power, which you are forcing him to rethink.”

Harry’s mediation worked perfectly. Draco settled back, grudgingly accepting Harry’s chastisement. Tom, however, internalized the exchange completely.

Harry is too good, Tom thought, observing the Duke’s son. Harry was a perfect source of unconditional love and protection, but his relentless kindness was an unknown variable—it lacked the predictable structure of the aristocracy.

Draco, Tom realized, watching the blonde heir pout but then immediately begin analyzing the broken board, is the opposite. Draco was proud, arrogant, and easily baited, yet he was a master of the precise social rules Tom needed to learn. He had an innate, refined confidence, and he understood the brutal elegance of power.

Draco wasn't good, but he wasn't yet purely evil, either. He was the perfect, necessary counterpoint to Harry’s unwavering kindness. Tom needed Draco’s perspective on nobility and study, just as he needed Harry’s protection and resources.

“You’re right, Potter,” Draco grumbled finally, pushing his remaining pieces. “Your little friend is annoyingly methodical. We should play doubles against him, Harry. He needs to learn flair.”

Harry smiled, knowing he had just successfully solidified the trio. “A fine idea, Draco. But first, Tom, why don’t you show Draco the Imperial history book you were looking at yesterday? He might be able to explain the older notation better than I can.”

The suggestion appealed immediately to Draco’s sense of intellectual superiority and gave Tom a way to prove his newly acquired literacy. The rivalry had smoothly transitioned into a working dynamic. Harry watched them argue over the correct dating of the Magocracy’s founding, feeling a deep, satisfied chill.

The first thread had been woven. Tom was now bound not just by the Golden Cage, but by the complex, sticky web of friendship, rivalry, and mutual ambition.

Chapter Text

 The weeks following the Malfoy visit settled into a rigorous, gilded routine. Harry, the Duke’s heir, found himself under the instruction of stern, old tutors, focusing on subjects essential to running a political and military bloc. His studies were primarily strategic: Imperial Council laws, advanced tactical deployment of magical forces, financial logistics, and the intricate politics of the neighboring Great Houses. He absorbed the information with the weary efficiency of a retired general, his memory for historical precedents and diplomatic maneuvers being unnervingly perfect.

Tom, meanwhile, devoured his lessons with a hunger Harry had once known only in battle. Tutors found themselves consistently impressed—and occasionally unnerved—by the speed of his assimilation. He wasn't just learning; he was mastering. Where Harry was learning the application of power, Tom was focused on the acquisition of knowledge itself, treating every textbook as a map to a hidden treasure. Within a month, he had surpassed the expected pace for a boy of his age, having devoured the entire introductory library Harry had initially planned for a year. He received near-constant, effusive praise, a currency he valued almost as much as power.

The only time their studies overlapped was during their music lessons with Duchess Lily. The Duchess, a gifted musician herself, found pure joy in teaching her two young masters.

Harry played the violin. His fingers, already strong and calloused from years of fighting and now from hours spent gripping theoretical siege maps, were precise. His music was sharp, controlled, and technically faultless—the notes rising and falling with disciplined power.

Tom had been instantly taken by the piano. His longer, fluid fingers moved across the ivory keys with a terrifying natural grace. He didn't just read the sheet music; he felt it, interpreting the compositions with a deep, brooding intensity that was far too sophisticated for a boy his age. Lily would sit beside them, her hand resting warmly on the back of Tom’s neck as he played a somber Nocturne, her eyes shining with pride at the depth of his expression.

During these moments, Harry would observe Tom. The orphan, who had arrived pale and slight, was growing rapidly. A proper diet and exercise—something Harry remembered wishing for constantly during his Dursley years—were sculpting Tom’s angular frame. He was taller, his skin held a healthier flush, and his innate magnetism intensified with every passing day. Harry watched this metamorphosis, both pleased that he was providing the foundation for a healthy life, and chilled by the realization that he was also feeding the power of his greatest enemy.

One afternoon, as they finished their music lesson, Lily turned from the piano, her expression bright.

“Harry, darling, your twelfth birthday is just weeks away. It is going to be the biggest celebration this Dukedom has seen in years.” She paused, her smile widening. “It is the year you are officially recognized before the entire Empire as Lord Harry Potter.”

Tom went utterly still at the mention of the title.

Lily continued, oblivious to the ripple of cold ambition that had just crossed Tom’s face. “Twelve is a significant age for the high nobility. Your authority will change. While your father is Head of House, being a recognized Lord means that should he ever be away from the Dukedom—on Imperial duties or military inspections—and a crisis arises, you will be empowered to act on the family’s behalf. Your word, in that moment, will carry even higher authority than mine.”

She smoothed Harry’s hair. “A lion’s share of responsibility, my sweet boy. It means you are truly ready to take your place in the world.”

Tom watched Harry’s reaction closely. Harry didn’t look excited by the power; he looked faintly grim, accepting the responsibility with a soldier's resignation. This made Tom’s internal calculations spin faster. Authority higher than the Duchess. The concept was mesmerizing.

The preparations for the banquet began immediately. The great halls were draped in the Potter colors of red and gold (the banner featuring their rampant lion crest), invitations were dispatched by enchanted owls, and tailors arrived daily to fit Harry for his formal Lord’s robes.

The three boys—Harry, Tom, and Draco—continued their playdates. Much to Lily and Narcissa’s delight, they had truly become a formidable trio. They had moved beyond Elemental Chess to practical spell theory and complex, strategy-based card games. Draco provided the necessary aristocratic sparring partner, demanding perfection in decorum and study. Harry provided the steady, moral anchor, ensuring their discussions remained on the civil side of sharp intellectual banter. Tom, the knowledge sponge, was improving drastically in every sphere, quietly absorbing the best traits from both his mentors. He was becoming refined, lethal, and perfectly prepared for the stage Harry was about to ascend.

A week before Harry’s twelfth birthday, the Malfoys paid another visit. The adults were sequestered in the Duke’s private study, leaving the three boys to the immense, sun-drenched second-floor library, supposedly to focus on their "shared studies."

They sat hunched over a heavy marble table, not with a game, but with a challenge Harry had set: a complex runic cipher detailing the property rights dispute of a long-dead Marchioness. The objective was to deduce the correct magical interpretation of the boundaries based only on archaic legal language and incomplete, conflicting magical signatures.

“It’s elementary, really,” Draco stated, leaning back with a smug, familiar air of superiority. He tapped the parchment with a silver-tipped quill. “The ancient rule is explicit: Ubi vis elementalis manet, jus hereditarium sequitur—where the elemental force remains, the hereditary right follows. The Malfoys have always followed the simplest interpretation. The fire signature is clearly stronger on the east plot, which belongs to House Thornhill.”

Tom, who had been meticulously copying the runes onto a separate sheet, looked up, his crimson eyes narrowed. “You are assuming the rule is a statement of simple inheritance, not a mechanism of power transfer. Why would the law follow the weaker party? The strongest elemental signature here—the non-elemental shimmer—is on the west plot. That signature belongs to the King’s Ward in the original dispute. Thornhill lost.”

“Nonsense,” Draco scoffed, his face tightening. “You don’t challenge ancient law for convenience, Tom. It’s what has always been understood. Consistency dictates the outcome.”

“Consistency is often the refuge of the weak-minded,” Tom countered coolly, his lips barely moving. “The entire document centres on the use of a ritual spell—the Animus Regii—to determine the rightful holder. The strongest magic prevails, always. You rely on tradition; I rely on logic.”

“And I rely on avoiding a blood feud,” Harry cut in smoothly, leaning forward and tapping a finger between their arguments. He was the perfect neutral anchor, observing both the aristocratic mind and the genius mind at work. “Tom is correct that the Animus Regii is the central focus, Draco. But Draco is correct that the Imperial Council often defaults to the simplest interpretation to prevent destabilization. The true answer is what the Council ruled, not what is magically correct.”

Harry flipped the page to reveal the answer written in his father’s precise hand: a compromise that split the land based on the weakest, most politically palatable magic.

Draco threw his hands up in frustration. “See? The weak always dictate policy! It’s insulting. Why do we even study the magic if the political outcome is always watered down?”

Tom didn't react with outward frustration, but his jaw was tight. He carefully copied the compromise ruling, his mind cataloguing Draco's predictable reliance on established, if inefficient, noble tradition.

Harry is the heart, the moral compass, and the power, Tom calculated, watching Harry grin easily at Draco's pique. But Draco is the mould. He is the template for the entire noble class—arrogant, rigid, and concerned only with reputation and historical precedent. If I can understand Draco, I can predict the entire Imperial Council.

He realized then that Draco, the spoiled Malfoy heir, was a necessary educational tool—a living, breathing textbook on the weaknesses of the class Tom intended to rule through Harry.

“It is a disappointing outcome,” Tom conceded to Draco, offering a calculated nod of respect. “But predictable. Thank you for showing me how the average noble mind processes conflict, Draco. It will prevent costly errors in the future.”

Draco preened, completely missing the insult wrapped in the compliment. “Of course, Tom. I’ll teach you all about noble tradition. You need it, being a commoner.”

Harry merely smiled, playing referee. He watched the subtle shift in Tom’s eyes—the realization that Draco was more valuable as an instrument than as a friend. The game was escalating, just as Harry had hoped.

For three solid days, the Potter Dukedom became a dazzling nexus of Imperial power. The manor house, draped in the rampant lion banners of red and gold, glistened under the constant charm work required to host hundreds of the Empire’s most influential figures. Harry’s twelfth birthday was not merely a celebration; it was a political manoeuvre, a statement of the Potter House’s immense wealth and influence.

On the main evening, the Great Hall was a sea of jewels, fine silks, and old power. Harry, dressed in formal Lord’s robes—a deep crimson velvet with gold embroidery mirroring the Lion Crest—stood next to his father on a dais. The moment the Imperial decree was read, officially recognizing him as Lord Harry Potter, the entire hall erupted in a wave of polite but powerful applause.

In that moment, Tom saw a new Harry.

The boy who had patiently taught him the Imperial Alphabet, who listened to his music with quiet approval, and who playfully mediated his spats with Draco, was gone. Standing on the dais, Harry was not the gentle, unassuming boy Tom had successfully cultivated as a playmate. He was a noble: poised, immense, and carrying an aura of inherited authority that resonated with the ancient magic in the room. The grim resignation that Harry always felt regarding his duties translated into a dignified, formidable presence. He was not merely spoiled; he was the Heir—the future Duke, the leader of a Grand House.

Tom realized, with a sickening jolt of proprietary fear, that Harry was not to be replaced. Harry was too perfect, too integrated, too vital to the fabric of this world to be discarded.

He must be groomed, Tom thought, his crimson eyes locking onto Harry’s figure on the dais. I cannot allow him to be a puppet of others. He has all the makings of a great noble, but he is too soft, too distracted by kindness.

Tom’s mind snapped into a new framework. He would attach invisible strings to Harry, ensuring every political move, every charitable decision, every action Harry took was channelled through Tom’s calculating intellect. Harry would be the power, the symbol, the title, but Tom would be the brain—the unseen ruler.

“Quite the heir, isn’t he?”

Tom turned. Draco Malfoy, immaculate in silver and green, had appeared at his side. Draco’s expression was one of genuine, albeit competitive, admiration.

“He is,” Tom confirmed, his voice neutral.

“The aura around him is different tonight,” Draco murmured, lifting his chin slightly as he surveyed the hall. “It’s that magic of his. The non-elemental kind. My father says it’s extremely rare—a lost art of the Imperial family, actually. They’ve lost their touch, only able to wield two elements now, their strength dying out with every generation.” Draco leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hush. “Once the Emperor finds out, they’ll do everything in their power to have him join the Imperial family.”

Tom’s composure wavered for a fraction of a second. Join the Imperial family.

“They have a Princess,” Tom stated, keeping his gaze fixed on Harry.

Draco gave a sharp, dry laugh. “A girl of four, with no magical talent to speak of. I wouldn't put it past the Emperor to arrange an engagement as a desperate attempt to revitalize the bloodline. Imagine the raw power of the Potter line combined with that lost magic! It would secure the throne for a thousand years.”

The words hit Tom with the force of an elemental blast. Harry, under Imperial control? Tied down to a weak, politically motivated marriage? Harry’s power, Harry’s authority, and Harry’s protection—all taken away and used to fuel a rival dynasty?

Unacceptable. Harry had to hide that magic. He had to be protected from this fate. If Harry was weakened, Tom’s own path to power was cut off. The strings Tom was planning to attach would become worthless rope.

The general noise of the banquet abruptly dropped to a respectful hush. The crowd parted, and an Imperial Herald strode down the central aisle, his voice echoing in the sudden silence.

“His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor, First of His Line, Sovereign of the Realm, and High Lord of the Magocracy!”

The music swelled, and the Imperial Family—the Emperor, his wife, and a retinue of armored guards—made their grand entrance. Duke James and Duchess Lily, already off the dais, bowed low, the entire hall following suit.

Harry, still standing above them, focused on performing his impeccable noble bow. He lifted his head, ready to offer the perfectly crafted greeting James had drilled into him.

His words died in his throat.

His vision tunneled. The Emperor—tall, impossibly handsome, with dark, curling hair, an imposing figure, and a cold, commanding presence—was the spitting image of the Diary Tom Riddle. Harry processed the fact with the cold efficiency of a war machine. Tom is the Emperor’s illegitimate son. The knowledge was a deadly weapon he needed to pocket, not brandish.

Harry forced a breath, smoothed his expression into one of polite deference, and executed his bow, acting the part of the newly recognized Lord, oblivious to the seismic political shift he had just registered.

After the Emperor passed, Harry spent the next half hour receiving greetings, his new Lordship a heavy, protective mantle. He spotted Draco and Tom on the periphery, looking increasingly bored by the adult formalities.

Harry walked over, offering a casual smile that hid the adrenaline pumping through him. “Having fun, gentlemen? Or is the political maneuvering too slow for your tastes?”

Draco groaned, an uncharacteristic, unnoble gesture, and rolled his eyes toward the far corner of the hall. “Mother. She just sent me the look again.”

“The look?” Tom inquired, crimson eyes curious.

“The look that says, ‘You are a Malfoy, and you are not fulfilling your duty to uphold the family line by socializing with single girls your age,’” Draco explained, sighing dramatically. “I’m supposed to dance with at least one Lady tonight. I fancy none of them, of course, but I must satisfy the matriarch.”

Harry laughed, genuinely relieved by the mundane aristocratic problem. “Go on, Draco. Don’t make your mother use her disciplinary wand on you.”

With a final, suffering glance at his friend, Draco gave a swift, formal nod and strode off to fulfill his social obligation.

Harry turned to Tom, keeping his voice light and convivial. “What about you, Tom? Are you avoiding your civic duties? Plenty of young Ladies here who would be honoured to dance with the Potter ward.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing the true meaning behind Harry’s suggestion. He quickly dismissed it as simple courtesy. “No, thank you, Harry. I haven’t been taught how to dance in the traditional noble sense. I would only make an error.”

Harry chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “Fair enough. You’re excused then. More refreshments for us.”

Harry, however, didn't move toward the buffet. His gaze had drifted back to Draco, who was now enduring a slow waltz near the perimeter of the dance floor. His partner was a girl with spectacularly bright blonde hair, the shade of pale straw, which fanned out around her head as she spun. She looked whimsical, utterly unconcerned with the precision Draco clearly demanded. Luna Lovegood. Harry recalled the name, a ghost from his past life—the brilliant, strange girl who always saw what others missed. Draco, the tightly coiled spring of pure noble orthodoxy, would do good with a challenge to his reality. Luna could be exactly that.

Tom followed the direction of Harry's gaze, his eyes narrowing on the pair. “Do you know her, Harry? That girl. She is dressed... unusually.”

Harry offered a small, mysterious smile, the kind that spoke of secrets he didn't intend to share. “She’s brilliant, Tom. That’s all you need to know.” He then turned, his expression suddenly mischievous, and extended a hand toward Tom. “Since you decline the ladies, why not dance with me?”

Tom blinked, genuinely taken aback. His meticulously crafted composure fractured. “Dance? Harry, I just said I am unfamiliar with the movements. And besides, I am merely your ward. The nobles...”

Harry laughed softly, a low, easy sound. He took Tom’s wrist and tugged gently, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Tom, my godfathers are both men, and they are married. Believe me, the Potters are beyond the bigotry of the common folk when it comes to who dances with whom. Besides, you’re my ward, my brother in all but name. They will see two young noblemen sharing a friendly waltz.” He held Tom’s gaze. “It’s about showing confidence, not perfection.”

Tom felt an unexpected heat rise in his cheeks, and a strange, unfamiliar tightness in his chest at the word brother. He did not want Harry as a brother or a friend. He wanted Harry as a vessel, a foundation, a tool of power—a relationship that was entirely his and entirely exclusive. But he didn't refuse again, allowing Harry to pull him onto the edge of the floor, where they joined the moving crowd.

Harry turned back to the crowd, pretending to scan for another guest, but his mind was running through layers of defences and lies. He had to treat Tom exactly as he always had—as his friend, his protégé, the orphan with a sharp mind. He could not, must not, reveal that he knew Tom was the Emperor’s son, or that he knew the truth of his own future.

Tom, dancing now with the Lord of the Dukedom, watched Harry. He saw a boy basking in the glory of his new title, a perfect, powerful noble. He truly has no idea, Tom thought, his smile thin and calculating. Harry was powerful, yes, but predictable and good. The perfect figurehead. Tom already had the entire night mapped out, plotting the specific conversational threads he would introduce tomorrow to subtly attach the first, invisible string to Lord Harry Potter.

The night went on, Harry pretending ignorance and control, Tom planning his takeover, entirely unaware of the shared, lethal secret now binding them.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up not to the usual soft call of "Young Master," but to a gentle, formal rap on his door, followed by the quiet entrance of his senior housemaid.

"Good morning, Lord Harry Potter," she murmured, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains and allowing the weak morning light to spill across the chamber.

The title—the true, official recognition of his status—sounded different than it had on the Imperial decree. It was no longer a promise; it was a fact. It carried a strange, heavy weight, a sense of finality Harry hadn't felt since the moment he was handed his last field commission papers in his former life. Lord. It meant responsibility, duty, and now, it meant danger.

He dressed quickly, eschewing the staff’s help with the complex clasps of his formal robes. He had been a man for too long to surrender basic functions to others, no matter how noble his station. The red and gold livery of his new Lordship felt like a uniform, practical and symbolic, and he wore it with the practiced ease of a soldier.

The morning room was subdued, smelling faintly of roasted coffee beans and a lingering trace of last night’s powerful floral charms. Only the Duchess Lily and Tom were present at the long, polished mahogany table. Duke James’s chair sat empty, his place setting removed.

"Good morning, darling," Lily greeted, her eyes alight with exhaustion and triumph. She poured him a cup of spiced tea. "Your father sends his greetings. He was called away before dawn to the Imperial Council. Something about a trade negotiation with the Eastern Houses. Duty calls, even after a success like last night."

Harry nodded, accepting the steaming cup. "Of course. Thank you, Mother."

Tom, seated opposite Harry, offered a neat, concise greeting. "Lord Harry. My congratulations on a truly memorable ascent. It was a flawless demonstration of the Potter House’s standing."

The shift in Tom’s demeanour was subtle but absolute. The easy familiarity they had shared had been replaced by a thin veneer of respect, a recognition of Harry’s new authority that was purely tactical. Harry realized Tom was already using the new title as a boundary, marking the change in their dynamic.

Lily beamed, settling back with a proud sigh. "Flawless indeed. The political capital we accrued is immense, Harry. Do you understand the true significance of last night?"

Harry feigned an air of youthful, eager curiosity. "The guests were certainly magnificent, Mother. I suppose the Emperor's attendance was the greatest honour?"

"The greatest honour, and the greatest statement," Lily confirmed, tapping the edge of her teacup. "The Imperial Family does not attend the birthday celebrations of just any noble House. They were here, physically present, for you. It is an unmistakable, loud show of support for the Potter Dukedom and a warning to any rivals that our family's influence is secured for the next generation. It solidifies us."

Harry smiled brightly, his expression mirroring the boy James and Lily expected: excited, grateful, and blissfully unaware of the true power dynamics at play.

It solidifies us, Harry thought, tasting the bitter fear beneath the sweet tea. Or it marks us for surveillance.

His mind flashed back to the Emperor, Tom Sr.—the man who was the carbon copy of the monster Harry had spent his life fighting. Harry swallowed down the wave of cold panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

He was grateful, truly grateful, that in the chaos of the evening, no one—not Lily, not James, and certainly not Draco—had seen the chilling, irrefutable resemblance between the Emperor and the orphaned ward sitting across the table. For now, the secret of Tom's birth, a fact that could destabilize the entire Empire, remained Harry’s burden alone.

But the reprieve was temporary. Tom would grow. Within a few years, the startling similarities would become obvious to the political class, a resemblance too close to be coincidence. He had to play his cards perfectly, navigating a political minefield to keep Tom insulated and his own knowledge hidden.

He needed to steer Tom's ambition away from this catastrophic truth, but first, he needed to gauge just how deeply Tom was already planning his campaign.

Tom leaned forward, his crimson eyes intent, pulling Harry out of his dangerous internal monologue. He picked up a perfectly folded linen napkin and placed it neatly back on the table.

"It was a brilliant affair, truly," Tom said smoothly, offering a concise, genuinely impressed smile. "A resounding success for the Dukedom. I would be honoured, Lord Harry, if you would permit me to assist you in seeing your gifts this morning."

He glanced at Lily, a deferential, respectful nod. "Since the Duke is away, a newly recognized Lord should not face the daunting task of cataloguing hundreds of noble presentations alone."

Lily smiled warmly at Tom's propriety. "What a wonderful idea, Tom! Harry, why don't you take him? A perfect task for a couple of clever boys."

Harry saw the gleam in Tom's eye immediately. For Tom, the gifts were not tokens of affection but vital intelligence. He wasn't interested in a mere collection; he intended to dissect every present—from the Nott dagger to the Malfoy vault key—to map the political landscape, gauging each House's wealth, true allegiance, and potential debt to the Potters. It was a rapid, ruthless assessment, a masterclass in reading power dynamics. A harmless way to evaluate the opposition, Harry thought. And a damn good practical lesson for me.

Harry gave a casual shrug, playing the bored young Lord. "Lead the way then, Tom. If you insist on doing all the tedious analysis, I suppose I shouldn't stop you." He rose, giving Tom the tacit approval to begin his first strategic manoeuvre.

Harry led the way into the smaller, high-security receiving room, which was crammed with artifacts, jewels, and armaments. He moved among the gifts with a detached familiarity, while Tom followed, his crimson eyes intense, trying to catalogue the sheer volume of wealth. Harry felt the weariness of the political game settle back onto his shoulders, but this was a necessary lesson.

"The gifts aren't about appreciation, Tom, they're coded messages," Harry explained, picking up a silver locket engraved with a small, stylized basilisk. "The Greengrasses. Look."

Tom leaned in, his gaze surgical, absorbing the context.

"Neutral," Harry pronounced. "This locket is beautiful, highly expensive, but politically ambiguous. It is a sign of respect, but not of commitment. It says, 'We acknowledge the rising Lord, but we are not allied.' Our response is a generic, handwritten card of thanks from my mother—polite, but nothing more."

Harry then moved on to a set of seven ancient, magically-stabilized quartz crystals from a Marquis Harry had never heard of. Tom watched his hands, absorbing the casual authority.

"Now, this is different," Harry continued, holding up the crystals. "This isn't a gift; it's a desperate plea for alliance. These crystals are valuable for long-distance communication in times of war. Their House is weak and fears a border dispute. The intent is obvious. A polite, formal letter is required, stating appreciation for the gift and only a vague promise of future consideration in trade. We give them hope, but nothing concrete."

Tom nodded once, his eyes burning with the realization that Harry wasn't just observing politics; he was a master of it. "I understand. I will draft the letters, ensuring the formality matches the commitment required."

Then Harry stopped at a small, velvet-lined box containing a heavy, ornate brooch—the Imperial gift. The pin was crafted from white gold, set with a single, massive sapphire. It was undeniably valuable.

Harry pursed his lips and pushed away from the doorway, walking over and taking the box. He didn't put the brooch on, merely turned it over in his hand and set it back down.

"Put this one aside," Harry instructed, his voice flat. "It's just a brooch. I'm not that fond of sapphires."

Tom's ruby eyes flickered from the valuable gem to Harry's profile. Tom had noticed the stark difference in Harry’s reaction—he had been giddier over the bejewelled journal from Draco than this Imperial treasure. Tom sensed Harry was guarding something crucial about this specific gift, but he chose not to comment, merely nodding and adding the brooch to the "set aside" pile.

The receiving room was still packed with objects demanding attention. Harry, surprisingly efficient, moved next to a long, slender box containing an ancestral dagger from the Nott House. It was old, dark steel, with faint enchantments swirling around the hilt.

"Nott," Harry murmured, his expression grim. "The Notts are always difficult. A gift of weaponry isn't a show of loyalty; it's a reminder that their House is armed and independent. They sent a blade that’s more symbolic than useful, claiming a long, shared history of military service with us."

Tom stepped forward, his eyes narrowed as he examined the inscription. "The blade is a token of debt, My Lord. Duke Nott’s grandfather was granted reprieve during the Succession Crisis by a Potter. They offer a historical reminder of obligation, but nothing current. The risk is too high for them to commit. They merely wish to avoid being marked as hostile."

Harry nodded slowly, impressed despite himself. "Precisely. The response is a formal letter, thanking them for honouring the past service of the Dukedom. No mention of the future, no invitation to call. We accept their history, but demand no repayment. Let them believe they are safe, but keep them at arm’s length. Their line of allegiance is too mutable."

Tom’s mind was working at lightning speed, integrating this unspoken political lexicon into his nascent understanding of the Empire. 

"And the Malfoy telescope, My Lord?" Tom asked, gesturing towards the enormous, gleaming bronze instrument. It was stabilized by complex gravity charms, allowing it to remain fixed on any chosen celestial body regardless of movement or time.

"The Malfoys," Harry sighed, shaking his head. "They are family, but Lucius is still an absolute menace. Tom, this telescope isn't a strategy; it's a joke. It means, 'I saw your success, I wanted to buy the biggest thing I could find, and I knew you could afford the necessary charms for the upkeep.' It's magnificent, astronomically advanced, and utterly unnecessary. It says, 'We are wealthy, we are refined, and we treat your new Lordship with the easy familiarity of a successful alliance.'"

"The Malfoys desire the continuation of their trade pact with the Dukedom," Tom stated, his tone flat. "This gift costs them nothing but coin, yet buys them continued privilege. The response should be brief, accepting the item and pretending to not know how trivial it truly is."

"The response will be a personal note from me, drafted on the Duchess’s stationery," Harry countered, lifting his chin slightly. "A friendly, handwritten thank you, with a specific, casual mention of the beautiful constellation of the Dragon. That is all."

Harry paused, running a hand over the Malfoy telescope's smooth casing. Tom is focused entirely on the political implications: allegiance, debt, threat. He’s not looking at the magic itself. Harry felt a wave of relief. Tom's ambition, for now, was purely terrestrial. He was a political schemer, not a soul-hunter. Let him count the coins. Let him measure the land. He won't find the source of my power in any of these material things.

Before Tom could move on to cataloguing the immense, enchanted telescope from the Malfoys, the door to the receiving room opened.

"Lord Harry," announced a maid, slightly out of breath. "Your godfather, Grand Duke Black, has arrived and is waiting for you in the drawing room."

Harry froze, his expression transforming instantly. The bored Lord and the calculating veteran dissolved into a twelve-year-old boy. "Sirius? But he didn't say he was visiting!"

Harry quickly straightened his robes, a genuine, delighted flush colouring his cheeks. He gave Tom a quick, distracted nod. "I'll be back, Tom. Don't touch the Malfoy telescope yet. It bites."

Harry practically sprinted out of the room. He found Sirius Black in the drawing room, looking magnificent and only slightly disheveled from his travels, his dark hair pulled back neatly, dressed in the formal, deep black and emerald livery of the Grand Duke.

Sirius immediately swept Harry into a massive, bone-crushing hug, lifting him clean off the floor. "Harry! My pup! I'm so sorry! I should have been here last night, but the border issue with the Northern Clan escalated, and I couldn't get back in time. I have been kicking myself all morning."

Harry clung to his godfather, feeling a familiar, comforting rush of uncomplicated love and safety. "Sirius, it's fine! Stop apologizing. I know you had duty. Father told me."

"Nonsense, it's not fine! The first time my godson becomes a Lord, and I miss it!" Sirius set him down, his hands resting on Harry’s shoulders. "But I came as soon as I could. I hope this makes up for it—I brought you a gift that is utterly inappropriate for a new Lord, but perfect for my reckless, adorable godson."

Harry was giddy. The sophisticated, measured adult he had to be for his parents and for Tom completely vanished. All the fun, vital memories they had created—sword-fighting lessons, tea-time gossips, exhilarating boating trips—rushed back. He was not a transmigrated man; he was just a child in the presence of his favourite person. He felt light, unburdened, and utterly safe.

"Show me! Show me!" Harry demanded, laughing.

Back in the receiving room, Tom stood motionless among the piles of gold and velvet. He listened to the faint, high-pitched laughter echoing down the hallway—Harry's laughter, the genuine, unreserved sound he had only ever heard when Harry was playing a particularly good move in chess or listening to an exquisite piece of music.

He watched the empty doorway, pondering the unguarded look on Harry’s face just moments before. Harry's entire demeanour changed around the Grand Duke Black. It was a raw, powerful, and utterly irrational affection.

Tom's mind began to analyse their relationship, searching for the weakness, the angle. Grand Duke Black was an important ally to the Potters, a man of wealth and immense political standing. But his greatest value, Tom realized, was not his title or his wealth. It was his capacity to elicit that pure, blinding joy from Harry.

Tom walked over to the stack of letters he was meant to write. He picked up his quill, but instead of starting on the polite dismissal of the border Marquis, he began to write the Black family’s card first. He would thank the Grand Duke for his familial kindness, not his political weight.

Tom had resigned himself to being Harry's keeper, ensuring the Lord remained a pliable, influential figure. Now, a new element was added to his calculations: he had to analyse, understand, and perhaps replicate that affection. He did not yet want Harry as a lover, or even as a soulmate. He wanted Harry's perfect, uncomplicated devotion, and the Grand Duke Black was the current, inconvenient metric of that devotion. He had to absorb their relationship, understand its mechanics, and determine how to insert himself as the sole source of that specific, profound happiness.

Drawn by an instinct he couldn't name, Tom quietly crossed the receiving room and settled into the deep shadow of the narrow, leaded-glass window that overlooked the long, gravel drive. He positioned himself perfectly: he could observe without being seen.

Moments later, Harry and Sirius emerged from the manor, Sirius leading Harry toward the manor's gravel drive, a broad, triumphant grin splitting his face. Standing beside him was a sight that stole the breath even from Tom—a magnificent, deep black horse , its coat shimmering like polished obsidian, its mane and tail impossibly rich and dark. It stood tall, exuding the latent power of a war charger, yet handled with the gentleness of a prized pet.

"Meet Shadowcaster," Sirius announced, placing a hand affectionately on the horse's neck. "He's a purebred Nightwind, known for speed, loyalty, and a wicked temperament that only a true Lord can manage."

Tom watched Harry walk toward the horse slowly, his hands outstretched. It wasn't just a horse; it was a memory. The gift felt like receiving his Firebolt from Sirius all over again, the same wild, reckless joy only his godfather could conjure. In that moment, watching Sirius’s face, Harry realized that despite transmigrating across universes, the core, unconditional love of his parents and godfather had remained. It was a staggering, beautiful truth.

From his distant vantage point, Tom saw Harry's eyes glisten with overwhelming emotion, followed by a near-imperceptible twitch of Harry's fingers—a quick, non-elemental spell to dry the nascent moisture before Sirius could notice. Harry immediately masked it, turning the giddy boy back in place.

"He's incredible, Sirius. Thank you. This is the best gift, absolutely."

Sirius chuckled. "Go on, then. Don't let him stand there looking magnificent. Show him who his Lord is!"

Harry laughed, easily mounting the powerful animal. Tom watched as Harry urged Shadowcaster into a quick, exhilarating tour of the wide, manicured grounds. Harry returned moments later, hopping off the horse and throwing himself into another joyful hug with Sirius, completely lost in the moment.

Tom didn't move from the window's dark recess. He absorbed the full, unfiltered display of attachment. 

Harry finally pulled away from Sirius, still buzzing with energy. "You have to come in, Sirius. Mother is embroidering in her leisure room, and I want to show you the study. Wait!"

Harry glanced back at the manor house. He spotted the flicker of the curtain near the receiving room window, confirming what he already suspected: Tom was lurking.

"Tom!" Harry called, stepping back toward the house. "Tom, come join us! Sirius, this is Tom, my... playmate — well, he's staying with us, helping me organize the mess of gifts. Tom, this is my godfather, Grand Duke Black."

Tom stepped out of the shadow instantly, composing his features into the practiced, humble neutrality of an ambitious student. He approached with measured respect, offering a slight, formal nod. "Grand Duke Black. It is an honour to meet you."

Sirius, however, did not return the formality. He looked Tom up and down once, a slow, comprehensive sweep that travelled from Tom's perfectly pressed, but undeniably plain, robes to the fierce intelligence barely masked by his crimson eyes. The smile that had been on Sirius's face moments before vanished, replaced by the cool, hard gaze of a pureblood noble measuring a threat.

"Tell me, boy," Sirius said, his voice dropping to a low, chilling register. "What exactly do you see in the Lord Potter that others might miss? Wealth, protection, patronage? We all know what happens when common ambition latches onto noble generosity. Don't mistake my godson's kindness for weakness, Tom, or you'll find yourself severely disappointed."

The insult was calculated, delivered with the casual, crushing weight of generational entitlement, suggesting clear ulterior motives. Harry felt a sudden, familiar coldness radiating off Tom, a subtle, primal tightening of the air that was barely discernible.

He's a noble, Harry, remember that, Harry thought, watching the scene unfold with dread. His love for Sirius was uncomplicated, but Sirius’s politics and morals were rooted in the rigid hierarchy Harry had rejected. Sirius sees a threat to the Dukedom’s purity and influence, a leech attempting to use Harry's goodwill.

Tom’s eyes, fixed on a point just past Sirius's shoulder, glowed with a dangerous, controlled fury. The insult barely registered outwardly, but inside, a torrent of icy rage was brewing.

How dare this decorated dog, this loud, simple fool, judge him? Tom seethed. This man claimed a monopoly on Harry’s affection, yet failed to grasp the magnitude of what had transpired. Harry, the rising Lord of one of the Empire's most powerful Houses, had chosen Tom. Out of all the grovelling, mucky peasants in the capital, Harry had selected him. Tom was not a stain or a charity; he was Harry's personal, strategic investment—a choice that made him the only person truly deserving of Harry's favour.

"I assure the Grand Duke, my intentions are only to assist Lord Harry in managing the overwhelming influx of political documentation following his ascent," Tom replied smoothly, his tone perfectly neutral, a triumph of control. "I understand my place completely."

Harry quickly stepped into the breach, placing a hand on Tom's shoulder. He laughed lightly, a strained, noble sound. "Oh, Sirius, please. You think Tom has some grand plan? If he does," Harry winked conspiratorially at his godfather, "he’ll have to be a much better strategist than I was at his age, won't he? Tom's indispensable for the tedious work, that's all."

But in his mind, the calculation was cold and certain: he had faced an Archdemon of ambition before. Tom, with all his brilliance, was only a boy. If he truly planned betrayal, Harry would crush him beneath the heel of the Dukedom before he even realized he’d been found.

Meaningless posturing, Tom thought, his contempt absolute. A hollow reassurance for a simple dog who mistakes emotional bond for true influence. Let the Lord Harry believe he holds the leash. It will only make his eventual capture more satisfying. He will not slip, Lord Potter. You are a fly already caught in the silk I weave, and you just assured your captor of your boundless confidence.

Harry marched the two opposing forces back into the morning room, where the elaborate tea service had been left. Sirius settled into a large armchair, dragging Harry down onto the padded arm beside him, immediately launching into the details of his border patrol.

"The Northern Clan is becoming too bold," Sirius stated, taking a long sip of his own tea. He was speaking exclusively to Harry, detailing troop movements, pointedly ignoring Tom, who stood quietly near the entrance. "Their shamans are using archaic battle magic—all flourish and noise, no precision—but the volume is up. We had to reinforce the Silver Line with the old Black wards."

Harry listened intently, absorbing the high-level military report, occasionally interjecting with a question about supply lines, proving his capacity for strategic thought.

Just as Sirius was detailing a complex counter-charm, the doors burst open. Duchess Lily entered, not with her usual serene grace, but with a dramatic and palpable glare fixed entirely on Sirius.

"You absolute menace!" Lily declared, her voice ringing with mock fury. "You arrive unannounced, bypass the staff, scare the housemaids, and then gift my twelve-year-old son a war charger! I am the Duchess of this house, Sirius Black, and you are supposed to ask my permission!"

Sirius merely threw his head back and laughed—a loud, unabashed sound of pure joy. "Ah, Lily-flower, still haven't mastered the grand entrance, have you? And I only bypassed the staff to ensure you didn't have time to veto the gift. A Potter Lord needs a worthy steed. You'll thank me when he's leading the Imperial Guard." He winked, completely unbothered by her theatrical rage, clearly operating in a long-established pattern of affection that transcended formality. "Besides, you've never been truly cross with me about anything, so save the fury for James."

Harry watched them hungrily. . Years of emotional deprivation as an abused orphan meant he would never have enough of this: the fierce, uncomplicated love, the domestic chaos, the easy forgiveness, and the absolute, unwavering connection of family. He absorbed the sight of his mother's glowing pride and his godfather's reckless love, a feast for the soul that had been starved for seventeen years. It was real, messy, and perfect.

Tom observed the exchange with surgical precision. He noted that while Grand Duke Black was indisputably closer to Duke James—an alliance built on political and military alignment—the bond with Duchess Lily was just as close, if not more casual and familial. He registered the sheer political security of a boy who could survive such displays of boundary-breaking affection from such powerful figures.

Lily, recovering her composure, moved to the table and settled gracefully into the chair nearest Tom, effectively drawing him into the orbit of her attention while Sirius was still wrapped up with Harry.

"Please, do sit, Tom," she said softly, pouring him a fresh cup of tea. She then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "Don't take offence at Sirius, dear. He has suffered greatly, and his years in the Empire's orbit taught him the worst lessons about trust."

She gave him a gentle, empathetic smile. "When he took on his Lordship, he and his brother were besieged by relatives—distant, grasping cousins who saw his rise as a chance to claw their way up. He sees every new face with Harry as a potential leech or a threat to the Dukedom's security. It's overbearing, yes, but just take it as him caring too much for Harry. That isn't necessarily a bad quality in a Grand Duke, is it?"

Tom returned the smile, flawlessly replicating a look of humble understanding. "I grasp the Grand Duke's position completely, Duchess. Protecting Lord Harry is the first duty of every person in this house, myself included. I am not offended; I am merely instructed."

Instructed to remain humble. Instructed to be wary. Tom inwardly sneered at the Duchess's attempt to smooth over the insult with a flimsy truth. Yes, Grand Duke Black, I am a leech, but I am a highly motivated, organized, and strategically superior leech. The only difference is that you wish to consume what Harry has, and I intend to become the only thing he wishes to possess.

After Sirius and Lily departed—Sirius heading back to his estates and Lily to review the trade negotiation reports—the two boys returned to the receiving room. Tom had brought the necessary instruments: heavy vellum, pots of quick-drying black and red ink, and a stack of dictation quills.

"The letters, Tom," Harry announced, settling onto a high, padded stool next to a long writing table. "We begin with the rivals, move to the neutrals, and conclude with the allies. This is about establishing tone."

Tom took the cue instantly, picking up a quill. "The Baronet Selwyn, My Lord. A notoriously unstable House. They sent a small, perfect golden hunting falcon. Expensive, but without true magical warding."

"A token of submission, but one offered without sincerity," Harry replied, leaning back. "Their loyalty will shift with the Imperial wind. Draft a letter expressing gratitude, but ensure the language is purely passive. We mention that the falcon will be placed in the Potter family archives, effectively burying their gift and their claim to our attention. That’s the subtlety—a polite refusal of current engagement."

Tom began to write, his hand moving with elegant, relentless speed. "The Marquis Lovegood sent a rare, first edition treatise on the 'Aesthetic Application of Lunar Runes.' Politically irrelevant, but highly prized by scholars."

"The Lovegoods are philosophers, not politicians," Harry said, a faint smile touching his lips. "They desire only peace and access to knowledge. We respond with a letter expressing profound, personal interest in the subject matter. Mention a specific, obscure chapter and offer a vague, future promise to arrange an academic exchange. We make them feel valued, not coerced. They will become quiet, reliable allies because they believe we respect their minds."

Tom paused, glancing up from the vellum. His crimson eyes showed pure admiration, a reaction Harry secretly relished. "Your grasp of the Imperial House histories is extensive, My Lord. You know the exact motivations and historical debts of these minor Houses."

"I am the Duke’s son, Tom," Harry replied, the lie slipping out easily. "I have read these House documents since I could walk. My education is my armament."

Harry’s education is indeed his armament, Tom thought, returning to his task. He is better read, more politically astute, and more ruthless than I anticipated. He is not a chess piece; he is the Master. I must adapt my strategy to that reality.

Tom decided to execute his test. He chose a letter for the Duke of Yaxley, a known rival who had sent a magnificent, but deeply poisoned, bottle of Imperial whiskey.

"The Yaxleys," Tom began, his voice taking on a dangerously persuasive edge. "They sent a clear message of contempt beneath the disguise of generosity. Since we are now consolidated, My Lord, I propose a response that establishes our new dominance: a letter stating that while the Duke Potter has appreciated the gift, we are returning it as we only accept vintages of flawless quality. An explicit, cutting reminder of the Yaxleys' failed land reform initiative last year."

The suggestion was brilliant, cutting, and utterly reckless. It would instantly escalate a rivalry into an active, public feud, forcing James Potter to deploy resources and confirming to the entire Empire that the young Lord Harry was aggressive and unstable.

Harry dropped his quill with a quiet, sharp clatter. The sound echoed in the quiet room.

"Absolutely not," Harry commanded, his voice suddenly hard and low, entirely devoid of the boyish façade. His eyes were flinty, the familiar, ancient gaze of a man who knew the cost of war. "We do not engage in petty shows of dominance that invite costly, unnecessary conflict. You provoke a war you don't need, Tom. A Duke, especially a new Lord, does not react to such things with anger. We respond with total, absolute indifference."

He leaned forward, his gaze locking with Tom's. "You draft a letter of two sentences. 'The Duke thanks you for the gift. It has been archived with the others.' No flourish. No mention of the contents. No specific thanks. We bury their act of hostility under the sheer volume of our status. The Duke Yaxley will read the cold, total lack of reaction as far more terrifying than any insult you could craft. You save the cutting words for a time when we are ready to follow them with an army."

Tom felt a chill run down his spine. Harry had not just countered his strategy; he had dissected its motivation and exposed its youthful recklessness. Tom had been tested and had failed.

"Understood, My Lord," Tom conceded, his face a mask of respect. He picked up his quill, his hand now steady as he drafted the minimal, utterly chilling letter of indifference.

He is not a fly, not yet, Tom thought, a sliver of genuine respect joining his ambition. He is a hawk, and he flies higher than I gave him credit for. But hawks tire. And I am learning exactly how to clip those wings.

They continued for another two hours, sorting through the remaining seventy-odd gifts, a precise, silent partnership between the master strategist and the brilliant apprentice. Harry continued to dictate the complex nuances of diplomacy, while Tom translated them into perfect, formally correct prose. By the time the final seal was pressed, the sun was sinking, and Harry was genuinely exhausted.

"Excellent work, Tom," Harry said, stretching his arms high above his head with a yawn. "You’ll be an invaluable secretary when we join the Academy next term. For now, the day is done."

Tom gathered the papers into neat stacks. "My Lord, I shall organize these by diplomatic weight and prepare them for your father’s final review. With your permission."

Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Permission granted. Just make sure the Malfoy letter goes out promptly. And the Imperial brooch stays exactly where it is."

Tom bowed low, a look of dutiful obedience plastered over his handsome features. "As you command, Lord Harry."

Harry soured at that, “Please, when there’s no one around. Just call me Harry.”

Just Harry, oh how underwhelming. Such a simple, simple name for someone with so much intrigue and power.

Hours later, the manor was utterly silent. No torchlight broke the perfect darkness of the vast estate grounds, save for the single, focused beam cast by a magically sustained desk lamp in Tom’s keeper’s suite.

Tom was not asleep. He sat at a small, elegant writing desk, the air around him cold and heavy with thought. He had spent the last three hours meticulously transcribing the day's events into his personal journal—a beautiful, leather-bound artifact Harry had once given him for his studies.

The pages were filled with elegant, coded script detailing the Potter political machine. Today’s entry was particularly dense, dominated by two names: Sirius Black and Harry Potter.

Tom reviewed the Grand Duke’s performance. Sirius Black: Political Value - Immeasurable. Personal Value to Harry - Absolute. The emotional bond was the key. Lily had revealed the history—the constant political siege against the Black line, the protective instinct born of betrayal. Tom understood the instinct, but he despised the execution.

"Caring too much," Tom murmured to the silent room, sipping cold water. "It is sentimental weakness, disguised as strength. He attempts to protect Harry from the very ambition he needs to survive in this world, and he insults the strategic partner Harry has chosen."

Tom tapped his quill against the page where he had recorded Lily's whispered apology. The Duchess believes she is protecting me from Sirius's paranoia. In reality, she has given me the precise instruction manual for neutralizing the threat. Sirius Black sees me as a leech because he himself fought off leeches.

Harry’s family defines me by their past threats. They cannot see the singularity of my ambition.

Tom closed his eyes, visualizing the sequence of the day: Harry's genuine, unrestrained joy at Shadowcaster; Harry's proud defence of Tom against Sirius; Harry's immediate, cold rejection of Tom's reckless suggestion for the Yaxley response.

The constraints are clear:

1. Affection: Must be earned, not demanded. Sirius Black is the current metric of affection. Tom must either destroy that bond or, more efficiently, replicate and replace it, establishing himself as the primary source of uncomplicated happiness.
2. Control: Harry believes he is in total control. His "joke" to Sirius—that he would crush Tom beneath the heel of the Dukedom—was the most revealing statement of the day. Harry's confidence is his greatest vulnerability. The Lord’s self-assurance is the illusion I must maintain until the trap is sprung.
3. Strategy: Harry's political mind is sharp, conservative, and focused on long-term stability rather than short-term conquest. Tom must learn to mimic this cautious, impenetrable demeanour before he can subvert it.

Tom stood, crossing the small room to gaze out the window at the distant, dark outline of the manor's sprawling, ancient oak forest.

The fly, Lord Harry, is currently buzzing with false security.

Tom had total confidence in his own superiority. He had mastered far more complex systems than the emotional wiring of a twelve-year-old boy. The affection Harry felt for his parents and godfather was based on history, blood, and shared laughter. Tom would build his affection on something far more foundational: necessity. He would make himself indispensable, not just to the Lord, but to the powerful, calculating man hidden beneath the robes.

The moment you need my intellect more than your godfather’s sentiment, Lord Potter, the web will tighten.

Chapter Text

The two years between Harry’s Lordship ascension and his Academy enrollment passed with the usual speed of time well-spent. The initial excitement of Harry's twelfth birthday settled into a predictable routine of rigorous study and structured political education, all conducted within the opulent, although often isolating, walls of the Potter estate.

Harry and Tom became an inseparable pair, their relationship evolving into a strange, highly refined partnership built on mutual intellectual respect. They were frequently joined by Draco, transforming the duo into the Formidable Trio—a term coined by the social press and whispered with a mix of awe and envy in noble circles.

Harry, with his natural political flair and surprisingly deep historical knowledge; Tom, with his flawless execution and strategic foresight; and Draco, with his inherited authority and meticulous adherence to pureblood standards, formed a formidable front in the subtle warfare of high society.

Their days were a relentless cycle of lessons. Harry dictated the pace and the subject, his brilliant, veteran mind absorbing new knowledge with ease while simultaneously teaching Tom the unspoken lexicon of Imperial politics. Tom, in turn, learned not just the material, but the subtle, almost chemical reaction of power.

One afternoon, in the Duke’s private library, sunlight catching the dust motes above centuries-old tomes, they were studying the complex Magical Treaties of the Six Dynasties. Harry was slumped lazily in a leather armchair, seemingly half-asleep, while Tom sat ramrod straight at a large oak desk, annotating the vellum with a meticulous quill.

"The Treaty of the Serpent's Coil, signed by the third Emperor Gaunt," Harry murmured, his eyes closed. "The common belief is that the Gaunts gave up the Southern Marches for peace. What is the tactical truth, Tom?"

Tom didn't hesitate, something he finds himself doing often in Harry's presence. Always puncing, like a true apex predator. "The tactical truth, My Lord, is that they didn't give up the Southern Marches; they traded a liability for a binding asset." He flipped the scroll. "The treaty granted the Emperor sole magical jurisdiction over the Marches' primary elemental focus—the underground geothermal currents. The territory was worthless, but its subterranean power was essential for the Emperor’s subsequent fortification of the Iron Peaks. The Gaunts leveraged a loss into a net power gain of thirty percent in less than a decade."

Harry opened one eye, a genuine smile, one Tom valued, because it was for his intellect alone touching his lips. "Precisely. The trick isn't what you own; it's what you control. Well done."

Tom’s heart gave a single, controlled pump of satisfaction. He wasn't just performing; he was assimilating Harry’s thought process. Harry, the true political genius, saw the future in the past. Tom's goal wasn't just to be correct; it was to articulate Harry’s latent thoughts before Harry voiced them, achieving the highest form of intellectual indispensability.

Tom was steadily and quietly advancing his campaign of ensnaring Harry. He focused on complete excellence in all his studies—from political theory to history and languages—and rigorous adherence to the Dukedom’s social code. He treated Harry and the Potters with the perfect mixture of profound gratitude, respectful distance, and flawless competence. His goal was not to capture Harry's admiration, but to achieve indispensability and emotional proximity.

Occasionally, the rigorous routine would be broken by the arrival of Luna Lovegood, Draco’s betrothed. Luna was an ethereal counterpoint to their grounded ambition, wandering the Potter manor with her peculiar elegance, musing aloud on the nature of magic, the inherent sadness of star-metal, or the subtle power of forgotten runes.

One afternoon, the four of them were taking a formal promenade through the Duke’s rose gardens. Draco was attempting to discuss the merits of a new trade tariff with Harry, but his gaze kept drifting ahead to Luna, who floated slightly in front, gazing at a patch of weeds. He sighed softly, an expression of profound, helpless besottedness washing over his features.

"It’s quite curious," Luna began, turning to the boys, her voice dreamy, yet utterly clear. "The Wrackspurts have decided that they prefer the scent of the new fertilizer. It's making them terribly efficient at collecting the emotional residue, but they're leaving a thick, sticky layer of calculated intent on the rose petals. It’s like a patina of transactional affection."

Draco immediately abandoned the tariff discussion. He stepped quickly to Luna’s side, smoothing an imaginary crease from her pale cloak. "Luna, darling," he murmured, his voice gentle and indulgent, though laced with clear confusion. "Perhaps we can save the Wrackspurts until after Lord Potter finishes his thoughts? But yes, the roses do seem terribly ambitious today." He was completely indulgent, allowing her musings to interrupt high-level political talk, simply because he was besotted and preferred her company to any negotiation. The precise meaning of her words flew entirely over his head.

Harry, who had been listening to Draco with polite, detached focus, stopped. He gave Draco a gentle, subtle nudge to silence him and turned to Luna. Harry remained absolutely fond of her.

"A patina of calculated intent," Harry repeated, a low chuckle beginning in his throat. He walked over to a deep red rose and sniffed it, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. "I suspect that's a very accurate assessment of this entire House, Luna. Tell me, if the intent is calculated, what is the emotional residue the Wrackspurts are collecting? Is it gratitude, or is it merely ambition?"

Luna tilted her head, her dreamy, wide eyes fixing not on Harry, but on Tom.

"The residue is a bright, brittle gold, Lord Harry," she said softly, not as a threat, but as a simple statement of fact. "It is the residue of overwhelming guilt being mistaken for unconditional love. It’s very distracting, which is why the rose doesn't smell quite right, Tom."

Tom’s internal processes ground to a jarring halt. The sudden, casual exposure of his entire long-term plan—Harry’s guilt as the perfect leverage point—was delivered with the same weight as commenting on the weather. He understood her perfectly: she was simply stating the mechanism of the current world.

Harry threw his head back and laughed, it was a genuine burst of amusement that he hadn't allowed himself in months. "Oh, Luna," he managed, wiping an eye. "Always the most astute observer."

Tom, watching Harry’s raw, unguarded delight at being called out, felt a cold knot settle in his stomach. He wasn't afraid of Luna; she held no power and asked for nothing. But she saw. Tom quickly masked his expression, offering a perfect, deferential smile to the lady. Internally, he immediately flagged Luna as an unpredictable variable whose presence required an automatic, heightened guard on his performance. He would learn to anticipate her truth, but he would never engage with it.

Tom realized the source of Harry's affection for Luna: she asked nothing of him, and she spoke the emotional truth he was desperate to avoid facing.

Physically, the change was dramatic. Tom had grown into a fine, formidable young man. He now stood a full foot taller than Harry, a slender giant whose broad shoulders and newly muscled frame gave him an air of quiet dominance. The orphaned skinniness had long been replaced by the taut, hard build of an athlete. Harry, though well-loved and certainly not malnourished, remained lacking in height, a more compact figure next to Tom’s towering presence.

Their physical disparity was addressed through a daily commitment to swordsmanship. The Duke reasoned that while magic was the paramount power in the Empire and proved more effective than a blade in combat, a healthy and athletic body improved magical stamina and provided a crucial physical foundation. Should the time ever come when a magical bind or nullification charm failed, the body would be ready to pick up the slack.

In the cavernous, stone-walled training annex, they dueled every evening. The crash of steel against steel was a familiar punctuation mark to their intense days.

Tom approached the training with the same relentless focus he applied to his studies, quickly mastering the aggressive, precise style of the Potter House. Harry, who had trained since his childhood in the former life, was often superior in technical skill, using his smaller frame for lightning-fast dodges and counter-attacks. But Tom had the advantage of reach, raw power, and an inhuman capacity for physical endurance.

One evening, Tom pressed Harry hard, his long, heavy dueling blade driving Harry backward against the stone wall. Harry ducked beneath a brutal, controlled thrust and spun out, his own lighter blade snapping up to find a weakness in Tom's defence—a barely perceptible flinch in his right shoulder. Tom, however, recovered instantly, his eyes which happened to be a deeper, richer crimson from the exertion, flashing with warning.

"You're faster, My Lord," Tom gasped, stepping back to lower his guard. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his temples. "But my reach is superior. If you were truly committed to the kill, you would sacrifice the grace of the dodge for the brutality of the exchange."

"And if you were truly committed to the kill," Harry retorted, his chest heaving, "you wouldn't let me spin out. You would pin me and end it. You pull your strikes, Tom."

Tom offered a slow, cold smile. "I prefer to observe the potential, Lord Harry. I learn more from your defence than I do from your defeat. I absorb the lessons, using the training not only for fitness but as another form of structured time spent with my Lord."

Tom had absorbed the lessons: the training wasn't for victory. It was a controlled environment to gauge Harry’s reactions under pressure, his preferred angles of attack, and the precise moment his stamina began to fail. Every parry, every thrust, was a new entry in Tom’s meticulous mental database on the inner mechanics of Harry Potter.

The relentless work paid off in the ultimate currency: familial acceptance. Tom’s perfect image had neutralized the last vestiges of suspicion from James and Lily.

The efforts had paid off. Duchess Lily now frequently found herself extending a truly motherly affection toward Tom. Harry often found them in the sun-drenched conservatory, Lily patiently teaching Tom the delicate magic of ornamental flower arrangement; a crucial skill for social strategy.

"You have such a gentle touch, dear boy," Lily murmured one afternoon, adjusting a rare, shimmering silver orchid Tom had coaxed into bloom. "And your focus is extraordinary. I never had to instruct you twice."

"It is my highest honour to please the Duchess," Tom replied, his tone exquisitely respectful, yet tinged with a warmth that sounded genuinely grateful.

Lily, however, saw only a handsome, tragically orphaned young man desperately in need of familial connection. She would often comment on his discipline and kindness to the house staff, unaware that Tom treated the staff well precisely because they were minor pieces of the Potter machine and excellent sources of localized intelligence.

Duke James was not as openly effusive, but Tom could tell he was fond of him as well. James showed his fondness in subtle ways, granting Tom access to his personal library and discussing high-level trade strategies with him during dinner—a privilege rarely afforded to young nobles, even Draco.

"The key to the Black-Potter pact lies not in the signatures, Tom," James had told him one night over port, pushing a heavy, leather-bound volume across the table. "But in the unspoken loyalty that predates the paper. You study the paper for strategy, but you study the loyalty for survival. That is the lesson the Black family taught us."

Tom, with a calm he didn't feel, absorbed the lesson, understanding that James was providing him with a framework for absolute trust, a trust Tom had no intention of honouring once Harry was secured. Tom was, for all intents and purposes, part of the family circle, an accepted, essential appendage of the Dukedom.

The entire household revolved around Harry, who was more brilliant and shining than ever. He remained the strategic centre of their world, a mastermind operating behind the façade of a young Lord coming into his own. He was actively hiding his true elemental powers, focusing instead on political manoeuvring and scholarly excellence. His power was a political bomb Harry intended to explode on his own terms. He allowed only small, controlled bursts of magic to escape, just enough to satisfy his parents and the official Imperial scryers that he was 'magically maturing.'

His plan was to unleash the full force of his unique magic upon entering the Academy, a perfect time to surprise the Imperial family who might be monitoring his growth.

The day finally arrived for their departure to Hogwarts Academy.

Hogwarts was the most prestigious educational institute in the Empire, a four-year school reserved only for the sons and daughters of the high nobility and the most gifted commoners. It was the place where one proved themselves worthy of their name and their title.

Duchess Lily Evans Potter was an iconic figure in the Academy’s history, having graduated top of her entire year with not a single grade straying from perfect. Tom had researched her records extensively. He found it immensely admirable—a gifted mind who had outshone every one of her peers. Yet, a deep-seated contempt also simmered within him: that the world was still so patriarchal it had rendered such a brilliant, gifted mind nothing more than a well-adorned matriarch, focused on balls and social strategy. A political genius wasted on being a bejewelled housewife.

Harry, despite the gravity of the occasion, was subdued. In his original life, Hogwarts had been the absolute highlight, his true home. Here, it was merely four years of formality as a noble, a necessary step before he took on the full responsibilities of the Dukedom. His excitement was manufactured, rooted more in the relief of moving on to the next political phase than genuine school enthusiasm.

He would be attending with Tom, and thanks to a sizeable donation Harry had orchestrated to the Academy’s historical preservation fund, the two of them were assigned an exclusive, shared suite. The suite was located in the prestigious North Tower, far from the communal dormitories, complete with a private parlour, two study alcoves, and, critically, two private sleeping chambers connected by a shared, soundproofed dressing room. Harry had insisted on the arrangement, reasoning that Tom's need for silence and discipline was paramount to his studies, and Harry's own need for privacy after a day of forced socialization was equally pressing.

This was the true prize: it would just be Harry and Tom sharing space all alone, with no outside forces to interrupt them.

This is it. Tom realized the staggering, unintentional gift Harry had given him. Four years of controlled, isolated intimacy. Four years to execute his ultimate mission.

Tom straightened, his eyes fixed on the empty space where he imagine their beds would soon sit side by side in the Hogwarts suite. The structured isolation Harry had unknowingly arranged for them was the ultimate window he had been waiting for, the moment to execute his final, irreversible strategy. He had cultivated the perfect image, neutralized the major obstacles (Sirius remained suspicious but had no evidence, the parents were affectionate and trusting), and made himself utterly essential. He was ready to stop being the apprentice.

He imagined the suite, the quiet hours after midnight when Harry would be exhausted from his academic duties and susceptible to a private, personal conversation. He saw the opportunity to drop the façade of the grateful ward and replace it with the intense, singular focus of a true confidant. No more need for the 'patina of calculated intent' that Luna had sensed. In that suite, Tom could finally begin to weave the final, silken thread of emotional dependency around his Lord. Harry needed Tom's loyalty, Tom's intellect, and Tom's physical protection. Tom intended to make him need Tom's presence above all else.

Harry Potter would soon be all his. Mine. Mine.

The morning of their departure for Hogwarts Academy felt like a pivotal state transition. The immense stone manor of the Dukedom of Potter was a flurry of restrained, organised activity.

Waiting outside the grand marble portico was the Duke’s private, black-lacquered travel carriage, a vessel of such refined luxury it was barely recognisable as transport. It was drawn by four massive black horses, their coats so perfectly groomed they shone like wet lacquer, lending the vessel an air of immense, grounded power.

As the countryside blurred into a canvas of green fields and ancient forests, the conversation was centred on the past, providing Harry with crucial insights into the man who was now his father.

“I still can’t believe we’re letting you two go,” Lily sighed dramatically, though a radiant smile betrayed her theatrical worry.

“Oh, they’ll be fine, my Love,” James chuckled. “Hogwarts is the safest place in the Empire with Headmaster Dumbledore overseeing it. Besides, Tom’s there. Tom, are you going to let him get away with half the nonsense I did with Sirius and Remus?”

Tom offered a polite, knowing smile. “I am quite certain Lord Harry’s mischief will be far more strategic, Duke James. I shall do my best to manage the externalities.”

James launched into a vivid anecdote about the Marauders' days, describing a complex, half-completed sound charm and a rather furious Headmaster Dumbledore.

Lily listened with an air of feigned disappointment that was utterly transparent. “Honestly, James, the Academy had never seen such a lack of discipline. I only agreed to go on your first date because I felt pity for the mess you’d made of the charms work.”

Harry seized the opening, a genuine smile on his face. “Honestly, Mother, he’s just admitted to four years of constant, humiliating harassment. How did you actually end up with him?”

James beamed, puffing out his chest with mock pride, and began to tell the story—the real story, the epic of his unyielding pursuit that had, in this timeline, ended in marriage and a Dukedom.

“Your mother,” James began, his voice softening, his gaze fixed solely on Lily, “is the most brilliant, most politically astute Lady of her generation... By fourth year, I realised that every strategic, brilliant move I made—in class, in politics, in magic—she was watching. I didn’t stop chasing and I started earning her attention. I pursued her for the entire four years we stayed at Hogwarts. I wanted her at first glance and didn't stop until he had her. When she finally said yes, it wasn’t because I was persistent; it was because I had achieved the necessary altitude for her to take me seriously.”

Lily reached out and squeezed James's hand, her smile now utterly genuine. “And he never stopped climbing. He became the Duke I needed, the partner I deserved, and the father I love.”

Tom, meanwhile, was in the midst of a silent, internal strategic audit. James’s story of relentless, four-year courtship was a critical piece of data.

Acquisition. That was James Potter’s success. He had wanted Lily, and he had treated the process like a campaign, investing time, resources, and personal growth until the target which happens to be Lily’s heart and respect—was secured. It was the principle of unyielding will applied to a relationship, cloaked in the acceptable finery of romantic love.

Tom found it incredibly intriguing how James pursued Lily with such single-minded focus. It was a template for unwavering resolve.

But when he applied that template to his own objective—Harry Potter—a cold wall of impossibility rose up.

The irony was not lost on him. James’s story was seen as entirely romantic and beautiful between someone like James and Lily. Tom knew, with absolute certainty, that he could never recreate it as perfectly between himself and Harry. His performance was calculated, not genuine.

He thought, I’ll have to improvise. His path could not be one of honest, romantic conquest. It must be through indispensability. He wouldn't earn Harry's heart with grand gestures; he would earn his dependence through perfect, flawless execution, anticipating every need, managing every political friction, and becoming the essential intellectual and emotional spine that Harry desperately needed. He would use the guilt Harry carried and the power Harry possessed to bind them together, not by love, but by necessity.

Lily interrupted Tom’s grim internal monologue with a sharp, practical voice. She looked at Harry, her eyes suddenly devoid of sentimentality and filled with the calculating sharpness of a Duchess.

“Harry, listen to me,” she commanded. “Academic life is war by proxy. It is essential you perform, not for vanity, but for future leverage. You are the future of the Dukedom; act like it.”

She then turned her sharp, focused gaze entirely on Tom, the look of fierce maternal protection in her eyes. “Tom. I am entrusting my son to you. He is powerful, but he is reckless in his kindness. I need you to be his anchor. Keep him grounded, keep him focused, and above all, keep him out of trouble. Do you promise me this?”

Tom met her eye with unflinching sincerity. “I promise, Duchess. Lord Harry's well-being is my paramount concern. I shall not let him stray.”

Harry couldn't help himself. He gave a loud snort of laughter. “You’ve set him an impossible task, Mum.”

James threw his head back and laughed. “If Tom manages to keep you out of trouble, Son, then he is no mere playmate, but a bloody saint! If he's truly a Potter then Tom will find that an impossible task!”

With that, the tone shifted back to excitement. They had reached the northern plains. The carriage journey, precisely scheduled and magically assisted, concluded just as the high midday sun began to beat down.

The carriage pulled onto a wide, newly paved approach, and Harry pressed his face against the window, his breath catching in surprise.

What greeted him was an imposing, magnificent modern citadel. Hogwarts still boasted towering, ancient spires and the sweeping grandeur of a castle, but it was not old and crumbling; it was restored, improved, and a triumph of magical engineering. The light within its windows glowed from complex perpetual rune-work. Instead of an older castle, what greeted him was a modern and newer looking one.

The atmosphere outside the main gates was a bustling, high-security drop-off zone. A continuous line of sleek, private carriages fed students into the wide, arching gates. The outside was bustling with student being dropped off as well, Harry almost missed the train ride to Hogwarts, the experience such an iconic one for everyone's first journey to the magical school.

Duke James clapped his hands together, his own excitement palpable. “Well, here we are, Son! Your years at the academy is guaranteed to be the best of your teenage life. You’ll meet your brothers here, and perhaps love.”

The carriage finally came to a smooth halt beneath a soaring gothic archway marked with the crest of the Academy. The final goodbyes were swift. James gave Harry a final, bracing hug. Lily stepped back, her voice more practical in her musings, advising him how to navigate the academic life.

They nodded quickly to Tom, and then, with a final wave, Duke James and Duchess Lily Potter were gone, the black carriage already moving, carrying their influence and protection away with them.

Once the parents leave, two figures detached themselves from the flow of students and approached Harry and Tom.

“Harry! There you are, finally! Father was convinced you’d tried to pull a dramatic late arrival,” a smooth, slightly drawling voice announced.

It was Draco, taller and already bearing the chiselled arrogance that was his birthright. Next to him was Luna, who moved with a dreamy, almost ethereal grace, her wide, intelligent eyes fixed not on Harry, but on Tom.

Both were already dressed in the Academy’s uniform—a modern version of the Hogwarts uniform without the coloured robes. It was a sophisticated design, tailored to perfection.

The colour theme was strictly black and grey: a tailored charcoal grey blazer, cut sharp across the shoulders, worn over a crisp white shirt. The trousers were a matching dark grey, almost black, perfectly pressed. The only splash of vibrant colour came from their ties, which marked their year level: green for first years, yellow for second, red for third and blue for the fourth years.

Harry felt an odd wave of relief; he was oddly happy there will be no house rivalry. Yet, he looked at the sheer volume of wealth and lineage and knew the ugly truth: the absence of House rivalry only meant that the prejudice and bigotry of class and lineage were now the sole defining metrics.

Commoners are known to get bullied. It was an unspoken norm. Despite fighting for their spot through skill and power, they were still at the bottom of the food chain.

And how lucky for Tom that he happened to be surrounded by the apex predators of the cohort:

1. Draco Malfoy: Heir of the richest family in the Empire, holder of immense financial and political power.
2. Harry Potter: The most powerful ducal family’s heir, protected by the name and magic of the Dukedom.
3. Luna Lovegood: The marquis’ priced daughter, already Draco’s betrothed (with the Lovegoods having their own decent set of influence), adding her own influence to the union.

Draco’s attention instantly hardened into one of cold, aristocratic evaluation as he took in Tom's presence at Harry's side, a familiarity born of two years of constant interaction. “Well, Tom. Took you long enough to finish the inventory. You remember where the suite is, or do I need to direct Harry’s favourite acquisition?”

Tom felt the weight of the Malfoy Heir’s stare, and the silent assessment of every noble student passing by. He could already guess his status will be questioned, his worth evaluated.

But the fact remains that Harry had chosen him. Harry had bound him to the Dukedom. He would not fail that choice, and he will not fall behind. Tom straightened his back, a silent vow passing through him.

The quartet followed Draco into the bustling, modernised archway, ready to face the glittering, ruthless, and terrifying life of Hogwarts Academy.

Chapter Text

The very air of the Academy courtyard seemed to thicken as if the very Academy itself had been anticipating their timely arrival. Hogwarts Academy, in this second life, is an imposing citadel of ancient magic, its towers soaring with a polished, almost brutalist medieval elegance. The flagstones beneath their feet seemed newer, despite being just as old as the Hogwarts he knew, or even more so.

Harry stepped through the threshold behind Luna, Tom on his immediate right, and Draco flanking Luna. They moved with the effortless, synchronized grace of people who knew their own value, a quartet so physically and magically resonant that they owned the space as they walked into it.

Harry is poised so casually, with a flair of importance. Draco had his nose held high as if he knew he could buy everyone here. Luna is merely standing there, happy to be in the space but the air of nobility around here didn’t wane. And then there is Tom, although a commoner had chiselled aristocratic features and his posture is one that demanded attention.

The courtyard, already buzzing with the anxious chatter of new and returning students from varying backgrounds, all fell into a collective, staggered silence. As if someone had cut through the noise with a very sharp blade.

The students looked like they were staring at a painting that had suddenly stepped into three dimensions: unrealistically perfect, impossibly composed, and shimmering with an aura of untouchable prestige. 

They were perfect, and the perfection was an affront to the average, stumbling teenager.

The whispers began instantly, a low, nervous tide rising to meet them.

"The Lord Potter and his Consort."

"The Malfoy Heir and his Betrothed. Look at the cloth, the cut—they spared no expense."

"The Formidable Trio... no, the Quartet now. That's the new order."

Some of the onlookers looked like they physically itched to approach, to press their houses’ advantage, to make a connection, or simply bask in the reflected light of power. Their eyes, wide and hungry, tracked every measured step Harry took. But others were downright terrified, their gazes skittering away the moment they sensed the slightest possibility of their eyes locking with Tom’s or Draco’s. The sheer magnetic weight of the group, their demanding presence, required attention without any of them having to try. It was the natural gravitational pull of influence and power.

Harry compared it to a car on fire. It is terrifying, but you cannot look away in anticipation of what would happen next.

Harry absorbed it all. He didn't need to look at the students to feel the heat of their envy and the cold steel of their ambition. He'd lived this life before, may it be in this life or the last — he had attention despite not wanting it. Only it’s different now, he’s an heir, a symbol of power and prestige. Not a heroic orphan.

Yet, standing right here, right now—stepping into the courtyard of this Hogwarts next to Tom and Luna, he felt oddly like home. It was the strange, profound comfort of knowing he was exactly where he was supposed to be, surrounded by the only people who truly understood the rules of the complex game he was playing.

Tom having been his personal aide for the last couple of years, Draco being the only other heir who could equal his status and Luna, seemingly the only one with the knowledge of hi reality misplacement.

He ignored the looks and the whispers, and let the familiar, overwhelming wave of the Academy’s magic wash over him. He turned his head slightly, a genuine, private smile blooming on his face, eyes locking first with Luna's placid, knowing blue, then with Tom’s deep, absorbing crimson. (Couldn’t look at Draco when he’s by Luna’s other side, blocked from view.)

“An amazing year ahead,” Harry promised, his voice low enough only for the four of them to hear, a vow delivered with the easy confidence he didn’tt really know he had. “I guarantee it.”

The moment of shared serenity was instantly shattered by the crisp, dry sound of Draco’s snicker.

“Oh, I have no doubt, Harry,” Draco drawled, adjusting the cuff of his blazer with an almost bored precision. His gaze flicked from Luna, whose hand he was now gripping with unconscious possessiveness, to the pairing of Harry and Tom. “Especially since you two managed to secure a private suite together. Luna and I are forced to share a space because of the Betrothal Contract’s stipulations, but you and Tom managed the same intimacy with absolutely no legal paperwork.”

Draco, in his pureblood arrogance, probably only meant it as a plain and simple observation of House privileges, a subtle brag about their status. He was likely completely oblivious to the unmentioned indication and hint of romantic or physical proximity the arrangement implied to anyone else.

Harry, however, was not oblivious. His cheeks instantly flared with a heat that had nothing to do with the midday sun. He suddenly found the ancient gargoyles flanking the Academy entrance fascinating, his gaze darting away from Tom’s analytical stare. The embarrassment of the implication—a suite for four years, two beds, a private sitting room—struck him with the force of a well-aimed punch to the mug. A suite. Tom had managed to arrange that, claiming it was necessary for their continuous academic and political consultation.

Harry had agreed without a second thought, his veteran mind focused only on the mission. Now, with Draco’s words highlighting the potential domesticity of the situation, the reality hit him.

Tom, witnessing the swift, fascinating transition of Harry's expression from relaxed assurance to a sudden, vibrant pink embarrassment, was deeply amused. It was an expression he rarely saw on Harry’s face, and it confirmed a nascent, precious vulnerability that Tom was cataloguing for future use. The suite had indeed been a calculated strategic coup, designed precisely for the level of isolated intimacy Draco had casually pointed out. Tom’s intellect had dictated the action; Harry’s emotional reaction, however, was a completely unexpected and delightful bonus.

“Indeed, Lord Malfoy, your ability to state the obvious is as impeccable as your tailoring,” Tom replied smoothly, his crimson gaze never leaving Harry’s flustered profile. He leaned in just slightly, a subtle movement that intensified the intimacy of their group, making it even harder for the onlookers to hear. “Rest assured, Draco, Harry and I value uninterrupted work and strategic planning far too much to be bothered by the whims of common room chatter. The suite is a matter of efficiency.”

Tom spoke the words with all the convincing sincerity of a lie carefully crafted, but Harry knew, deep down, that while the stated goal was efficiency, the actual goal was absolute, uninterrupted access. Tom was already plotting his final, irrevocable moves. The thought sent a nervous thrill down Harry’s spine, eclipsing the embarrassment, turning it into a complex, expectant tension.

Then Luna, who had been quietly observing the subtle shift in power dynamics and the almost invisible, sizzling tension between Harry and Tom, chimed in with her usual gentle, catastrophic certainty. She lifted Draco's hand, placing a brief, soft kiss on his knuckles, her smile widening into something genuinely enigmatic.

“It is also entirely possible,” Luna’s voice drifted, utterly devoid of judgment or malice, “that the universe has already decided that all four of us will eventually be caught in a rather delightful, though terribly complex, polyamorous affair. Given the celestial alignments and the sheer volume of complementary life forces involved, the probability is rather high.”

The effect was instantaneous and hilarious.

Harry burst out laughing, a loud, explosive sound that was so utterly unexpected in the stifled, formal silence of the Academy courtyard that several nearby first-years actually jumped. His hand flew to his mouth, trying to stifle the genuine, helpless fit of mirth that shook his shoulders. Luna’s timing, her delivery, and the sheer audacity of the idea made him forget the pressure of the crowd, the political gravity of the moment, and the heat of his blush. He laughed until his eyes watered, utterly released from the tension.

Tom, for perhaps the first time in Harry’s recollection, looked genuinely baffled. His carefully constructed mask of detached amusement cracked wide open, revealing a fleeting look of total incomprehension. Polyamorous? The concept was messy, inefficient, and strategically unsound. 

He was still trying to mentally categorize and process this new information—the idea of sharing Harry, of having to account for Draco and Luna in his ultimate equation of possession—when his thoughts were interrupted by Draco.

Draco, the proud, traditional pureblood heir, was in utter shock. His jaw had literally dropped open, and the possessive grip on Luna’s hand had gone slack.

“Luna, darling,” Draco choked out, his voice a horrified whisper. “You cannot simply suggest such a thing in public! It’s… it’s frivolous! And Malfoys do not participate in ‘affairs,’ complicated or otherwise! We secure bloodlines!”

Luna merely tilted her head, her blue eyes as vast and innocent as a summer sky. “But my betrothed, that is precisely the point of a complex life. To secure the bloodline, yes, but also to secure the souls that align with your own. The soul does not always adhere to a single contract.”

Draco could only sputter, utterly defeated by the combination of Luna’s unassailable logic and her gentle demeanour.

Harry finally managed to rein in his laughter, wiping a tear from his eye. He caught Tom’s eye, which was now a swirl of calculation mixed with residual annoyance, and gave him an exaggerated wink.

“Well,” Harry managed, straightening his robes and regaining his composure. The tension was successfully broken, replaced by a lingering, complicated warmth. “Consider the possibility duly noted for future strategic discussion. But for now, my dear associates, I believe we have a Headmaster to attend to.”

With the mood lightened and the power dynamic reset (at least temporarily) the quartet rolled into the Great Hall, moving as one, their steps echoing the newfound confidence of their shared jest.

Even for Harry, who had seen the Great Hall countless times under different circumstances, this iteration was breathtaking. It didn’t have the same old aesthetic of dark stone walls lit by mere torches. They had pristine smooth marbled walls, the hall illuminated by what appears to be bright crystal lights. 

Harry learned through his years in this life that magic is this world’s very own version of electricity. They have no need for muggle technologies — they had carriages because there is an abundance of horses bred, they don’t use torches because light crystals are farmed and harvested yearly, and they don’t use telephones when writing a letter to be delivered by owl is efficient on its own right.

They use quite the modern lingo, not too much proper and medieval despite the attire of the people here appearing quite old and proper. And magic, non-elemental ones can be learned but to an extent. You can only do basic things with it like float an object, or change its colour — nothing like the complicated Transfiguration Harry knew.

He also learned that they didn’t know how to Apparate. They have designated portals on certain parts of the Empire and it cost a fortune to even use them once. Although the Malfoys could use them 10 times a day and never dent their sizeable fortune.

There’s so much more, Harry had all but written it down on his secured and charmed journal to keep track of the things he can and cannot do with the limitation he has put on himself and his powers.

The ceiling, which famously mirrored the outside sky, was currently a flawless, deep sapphire blue dotted with impossibly bright, slowly turning constellations. The whole space glowed and gleamed, humming with a low, potent magical resonance that spoke of centuries of power, scholarship, and ritual. It felt more like a cathedral dedicated to Magic itself than a school dining hall.

“Absolutely magnificent,” Harry murmured, unable to suppress a small, reverent smile.

Luna’s hand, which Draco was now securely holding again, fluttered lightly, and her gaze, fixed on the shimmering constellations above, seemed to look right through the magic and the ceiling itself, piercing the veil of time.

She smiled sweetly at Harry, her head tilting, and said something so vaguely odd and pointed that only Harry would catch the full, chilling implication.

“It is always so much more magical the first time you truly see it, Harry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the renewed, though still subdued, chatter of the settling students. “Though I suppose, for you, ‘first’ is relative to one’s perspective on the fabric of reality, isn’t it?”

It was a casual, devastating reference to his world-travel, a moment of startling clarity confirming that Luna, in her detached, loony-genius way, not only knew his secret but had known it all along.

Harry’s breath hitched for only a fraction of a second. But he was not afraid. He knew Luna said things like that a lot, in passing, weaving fundamental truths into ordinary conversation with the ease of breathing. 

He met her eyes, gave her a slight, controlled nod of acceptance, and maintained his easy smile. Draco, oblivious to the deeper meaning, merely tightened his hold on Luna’s hand, as if grounding her to the present reality, and pulled her gently toward the Slytherin table.

They settled in, an island of potent formality in the sea of expectant students. All eyes, which had initially been fixed on the quartet, now turned in unison toward the imposing high table, signalling the arrival of the school’s most crucial figure.

The collective intake of breath from the student body was audible. The Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, rose slowly from his central seat at the staff table, not requiring a physical or verbal introduction. His presence was his introduction.

Harry was all but speechless.

This Dumbledore was nothing like the wizened, slightly twinkle-eyed old man he remembered. This Dumbledore was in all his glory, yet a glory that shone from a younger man—certainly appearing like a man in his early forties, perhaps a few years older, but vibrant, not diminished.

He was strikingly handsome. His auburn hair was neatly styled, with just the first, distinguished streaks of silver beginning to thread through his beard, which was meticulously groomed and shaped. His robes, a deep, rich indigo rather than a flamboyant violet wizarding robes, were tailored to perfection, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the confident posture of a man who was acutely aware of his power. He radiated an intellectual charm, a potent charisma that seemed to warm the entire hall.

Dumbledore raised his hands, a powerful, benevolent gesture that instantly silenced the great hall completely. His blue eyes, clear and sharp, swept over the students, fixing momentarily on Harry’s group with a look of penetrating, interested intelligence.

“Welcome!” Dumbledore’s voice boomed, deep and resonant, perfectly pitched to carry to every corner of the vast space. It was a voice that commanded attention through its sheer, melodious authority. “Welcome to Hogwarts Academy, the oldest and greatest institution of magical learning in our realm.”

He went over the usual proceedings, introducing the new term and boasting about the school’s academic rigour and history. But every word was delivered with a compelling, rhetorical flair. He was performing a masterful act of engagement, weaving the students into the tapestry of the Academy's legacy.

“You, my young scholars, are not merely students,” Dumbledore continued, his voice rising with theatrical passion, his handsome face alight with a warm, inspirational smile. “You are the next chapter. You are the future of our political, magical, and economic destiny. And so, the standards required of you are impossibly high, yet I have every confidence you will meet them. You are already part of this history, moving forward.”

He then launched into a detailed explanation of the year's heightened expectations, touching on everything from new advanced spell-crafting courses to the increased political theory modules. He concluded with a brief but elegant toast, and the staff tables finally began to receive their food.

Harry was still utterly speechless.

This Dumbledore was charismatic, intensely so, possessing a raw, unadulterated magnetism that the older, more secretive version had long since polished away or hidden. This man was a political powerhouse in his own right, a figure of undeniable authority and intellectual brilliance. He was a force of nature, and every student in the room was being pulled into his gravitational field.

And then the realization struck Harry with a shocking, humiliating clarity: Oh my God, I find Dumbledore hot.

The thought was so entirely out of left field, so unexpected, that it caused a violent, internal short circuit. The old Dumbledore had been a grandfatherly mentor, a complex, frustrating, but ultimately respected father figure. This Dumbledore was a contemporary, a rival power, and, quite simply, an incredibly attractive, commanding man.

Harry’s skin immediately turned a scorching, mortified pink. His eyes widened, and he physically jerked his head down, staring intently at the antique, silver fork on his plate as if it held the secrets of the universe. He was instantly, furiously embarrassed, not just at the inappropriate nature of the thought, but at the sheer, stunning fact that he, Harry Potter—the seasoned world-traveler, the Lord, the veteran soldier—could be reduced to blushing at a Headmaster’s welcoming speech.

He focused on a speck of dust on the table, willing the heat to subside, desperate to appear nonchalant.

But Tom, sitting barely a foot away, was a master observer. He had been tracking Harry’s micro-expressions throughout Dumbledore’s entire speech, assessing Harry’s reaction to the man who was, in this reality as in the last, Tom’s most dangerous intellectual and political equal.

Tom watched as Harry’s easy confidence dissolved into that beautiful, tell-tale flush. He noted the sudden, almost violent downward dart of Harry’s eyes, the slight stiffening of his posture, and the way his hands curled almost imperceptibly at his sides—a physical reaction of profound self-consciousness.

Tom didn't need a single spoken word to decipher the truth. He hungrily absorbed the sudden, acute vulnerability of Harry’s expression and instantly understood: Harry was physically attracted to their headmaster.

The thought did not just sit unwell in his stomach; it was a cold, sharp plunge of livid possessiveness that settled instantly into the core of his ambition. It was a profound, acidic shock of unwelcome realization, an unexpected rival appearing in the form of the man he was already planning to usurp.

Tom had spent two years perfecting his position: the indispensable apprentice, the flawless shadow, the essential partner. He had calculated every move, from the political alignments to the domestic arrangement of their suite. He had believed his rival was a political concept—a Lord Black, a hypothetical challenger, a dark wizard. He had not accounted for the simple, devastating threat of physical desire directed at another man. Especially not Dumbledore.

The Headmaster was everything Tom had planned to offer Harry—brilliance, power, magnetic authority, and a devastatingly attractive presentation. The difference was that Dumbledore had achieved it already and quite benevolently, and with decades of ingrained political respect. Tom, the perfect shadow, was suddenly reminded that his essential flaw was his relative obscurity and youth.

A dangerous, icy calm descended over Tom. He shifted slightly in his seat, his elbow brushing Harry’s, a gesture of quiet, proprietary claim that was entirely missed by the casual observer. Harry, still staring at his plate, only felt a small anchor of familiar presence.

Unacceptable, Tom’s internal monologue began, cold and precise. This man, this charming, charismatic fool, cannot become a complication. Harry’s focus must remain singular. Harry’s desire must be directed only toward power, and if it must be directed toward a person, that person must be Me. I am the only one who truly understands the complexity of his soul, the sheer, ruthless violence of his strategic mind.

Tom watched Dumbledore through narrowed, predatory eyes. The older man was smiling now, a gesture of warm camaraderie towards a colleague. Tom saw a challenge. He saw an obstacle to be systematically dismantled.

Very well, Tom thought, the crimson in his eyes deepening slightly, a faint, almost invisible coldness touching his perfect smile. The competition begins sooner than anticipated. The rules of engagement are now clear: eliminate the attraction, isolate the source of the desire, and reinforce the dependency. Harry will not be permitted to develop an infatuation with his Headmaster. That attention belongs to me.

He leaned closer to Harry, his voice a low, honeyed vibration meant only for Harry's ear.

“You seem unduly fascinated with your fork, Harry,” Tom murmured, the slight possessive rasp in his voice completely intentional. “Is it possible, perhaps, that you require my assistance in navigating the complex etiquette of the starter course?”

Harry immediately flinched, the sound of Tom’s voice jolting him out of his mortified contemplation. He finally looked up, his pink cheeks still warm, to find Tom’s gaze fixed entirely on him, almost intense with how those crimson hues bore into his own. The spell of Dumbledore’s charm was instantly broken by the immediate, demanding presence of Tom.

“No,” Harry managed, clearing his throat, his inner soldier reasserting control. “Just… admiring the quality of the silver. It’s certainly old-world.”

“Indeed,” Tom agreed, his smile widening—a calculated, reassuring curve of the lips that did not reach the cold calculation in his eyes. “But remember, Harry, the silver is merely a tool. The only thing of true value in this room is the mind that uses it. And I require your mind’s full attention, not its distraction.”

The subtlety was magnificent. Tom had just asserted his dominance and Harry’s duty in a single, quiet sentence, all while sounding like a concerned study partner. Harry, now preoccupied with the intellectual challenge Tom had just presented, completely missed the underlying possessiveness. He only registered the demand for focus, and the sudden, familiar feeling of partnership re-entered him.

He nodded, the last vestige of his blush fading. “Right. Strategy first. What do you think of Dumbledore’s opening gambit?”

Tom turned his attention back to the high table, but his mind was now split. One half analysed Dumbledore’s political manoeuvring in the speech; the other half began constructing a four-year plan to ensure that Harry Potter would never again look at another man—especially a rival—with such a captivating, embarrassed flush.

The Academy year had officially begun, and the stakes, Tom realized with a thrill of cold fury, had just become dangerously personal.

They began eating then, Tom stealing subtle glances towards Harry to make sure he isn’t sneaking the Headmaster any more glances and being a flustered mess unbecoming of his status. He watched the curve of Harry’s face with the side view offered to him, the slope and dip where his nose met his mouth — and those brilliant green eyes.

Those certainly have made appearances in his dreams. Once where they shone like jewels, focused solely on him and it was as if nothing else mattered. And Tom did find it curious how even actual emeralds, bright green as they were, could never compare to Harry’s green eyes.

The air inside the private dormitory building seemed designed to hush every sound. Each step fell soft against polished slate, must be the magic wafting through the air. Hogwarts had a philosophy, it seemed: the mind of an Imperial Lord required quiet, space, and the constant reminder of its own importance.

At the foot of the staircase, the quartet finally drifted apart.

Luna stood closest to the exit, pale and ethereal, her expression touched by an inward kind of delight. She brushed her fingers over the sleeve of Draco’s new Academy robes as if feeling the hum of old magic through the cloth.

“Draco,” she said, her voice a soft chime. “The wards around the grounds are singing today. I think the enchantments near the Ancient Oak should be catalogued—they’re older than the castle itself. It’s a good place to begin.”

Draco’s brow lifted, sharp and sceptical in the polished light. The gesture carried the ghost of amusement, though he didn’t object. Luna’s peculiar fascinations often served as convenient cover for his own careful reconnaissance. He offered a curt nod toward Harry and Tom. “Harry, Tom. Try not to set the suite on fire before dinner.”

Harry smiled, open and easy. “Go on, Draco. Don’t let her lure you into a patch of Wrackspurts.”

The separation came without ceremony. Luna had already turned toward the door, half-listening to something beyond human hearing. Draco followed, resigned to her drifting pace. Harry and Tom saved the roaming for another time, they aim to settle first and foremost.

When the door closed behind them, the silence thickened again. Tom had already begun to climb the staircase, his posture wound tight with purpose. Harry lingered for a breath, watching him. The air between them seemed charged, a kind of wordless static—two predators recognizing their reflection in one another.

Harry exhaled softly and followed. “Let’s get settled then,” he said.

Their suite occupied a corner of the fifth floor—an elegant sprawl of rooms overlooking the north gardens. A shared living area branched into a short, arched hallway that split into two identical bedrooms, each with its own study alcove and private bath.

The space was warm and shadowed, lined with dark wood and high windows latticed with thin, protective charms. When the oak door shut, the world outside disappeared into stillness.

It was exactly as Harry had requested: a sealed environment for focused study, uninterrupted and absolute. A perfect, deliberate isolation.

They unpacked in silence, moving with the practiced ease of long familiarity. Tom directed trunks with smooth, wandless gestures, his movements clipped and efficient. Harry, across the room, organized his space with brisk precision—books stacked, quills aligned, notes sorted into neat piles. It was a quiet choreography, two minds attuned but unspeaking.

The silence held until Harry broke it.

He straightened from his desk, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, and felt the weight of Tom’s attention—quiet but unrelenting, pressing like heat. “So,” he said, voice light, “what do you think of the Academy so far? First impressions?”

Tom paused mid-motion, a scroll of Arithmancy notes hovering at his side. Inside, his mind was anything but calm. The details of curriculum or architecture were irrelevant compared to the single truth of this room: four years of shared solitude. Harry had given him everything he’d ever wanted without realizing it.

He steadied himself, smoothing the thrill from his features into a scholar’s composure.
“It exceeds expectations,” Tom said evenly. “The architecture, certainly—but the curriculum most of all. The Political Theory seminars will be invaluable. And the connections—those will be the real measure of our success.”

A flicker of that restrained ambition crossed his expression.v“This is where the next generation of power will be forged. The heirs, the minor Lords—they’re all here, waiting to be aligned.”

Harry leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, watching. He could see the pivot as clearly as a stage cue: Tom skipping over wonder and comfort straight into calculation. It was almost endearing in its predictability. He let it pass.

“I’m actually looking forward to the practical work,” Harry said after a moment, a small grin slipping through. “I wanna see how they teach nobles in the Academy how to wield the forces of nature.”

The honesty in his voice softened the air. It was the same spark Tom always found disarming—the raw, untarnished joy of discovery that made Harry Potter unlike anyone else in their world.

“Indeed,” Tom murmured, his gaze unreadable. He picked up one of Harry’s notebooks, the one lined with political shorthand, and turned the conversation back toward the pragmatic. “Before we dive into research, we should outline our first-term strategy. The right alliances will determine everything. We’ll need to be precise.”

He began pacing slowly, hands clasped behind his back—a teacher mid-lecture, a tactician in thought. Harry resumed arranging his shelves, half-listening, the faintest smile ghosting his lips.

Tom’s voice broke the silence, low and measured. “Let’s review the crucial third-years,” he said. “Parkinson first—Cassius. His family manages half the Commoner’s Market of Trade’s investments. You’ll want his allegiance. He’s pliable, clever enough to know where real power sits. Appeal to his intellect, not his ego.”

Harry slid a volume of Military Strategy in Magical History onto the shelf. “Parkinson,” he echoed. “Tall, over-dressed, always in silver. Met him at the Yule Ball last year. He’s obsessed with Roman magical legions and their decline.” A faint grin touched his lips. “That I can work with.”

Tom inclined his head slightly. “Good. Next—Theodore Nott. His father’s a conservative force in the Imperial Council, cautious of the Potter-Black alliance. The son, though—brilliant, skeptical, impossible to flatter. He’ll respond only to genuine challenge. Earn his respect, and the father will follow.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Quiet one, isn’t he? Watched more than he spoke at Malfoy’s winter gathering. Cold eyes, but sharp. He seems the type to value honesty—if it’s earned.”

“Honesty,” Tom corrected gently, “is just another tool, Harry. You use it when it serves you.”

He turned again, the rhythm of his pacing deliberate. “And Goyle—Gregory. His family has their claws in the Empire’s Security. Crude, but loyal to a fault. Favour from you will buy his devotion for life. Best delegated to Draco, perhaps, but your approval will cement it.”

He spoke like a professor before an unseen board—mapping every alliance, every potential string to pull. The air hummed with his quiet authority, the living room could almost transformed into a war room. He laid out which social events Harry should attend, which academic societies to infiltrate, which promising scholarship students might be moulded into future assets.

It was logical. It was necessary. And yet with every name he spoke, something unspoken in Tom seemed to recoil.

Parkinson. Nott. Goyle. All of them were strategic necessities—and all of them were thieves, in their way. They would steal time, attention, fragments of Harry’s focus that Tom wanted reserved for him alone. His mind knew the calculus was sound, but beneath the polished calm coiled something raw and possessive: a hunger to close the door, to keep Harry here where the rest of the world could not intrude.

He forced the thought down, gripping it into obedience. To build an empire, one had to share its foundations—at least for a while. Harry’s power had to grow, even if that meant letting others orbit too close. Tom would simply ensure they never touched the core.

Harry saw it—every flicker of tension behind Tom’s eyes, the pulse of jealousy in his restraint. He had learned to read Tom the way others read prophecy: carefully, between the lines.

Every careful plan, every political map, every act of mentorship was another loop in the invisible snare Tom wove around him. A silken leash disguised as strategy. And Harry, who had spent too many years inside other people’s cages, had no intention of being caught again.

He watched Tom finish his litany of names, his tone steady as ever. The strategist was satisfied; the man was burning. The conflict was almost beautiful in its precision.

Harry leaned back, his expression unreadable. Let him, he thought. Let him believe he’s winning.

Tom had always needed control—it was his nature. Every alliance he suggested, every schedule he mapped, every study session arranged was a thread in his careful web. He believed himself subtle. But Harry had been the subject of manipulation before—first under Dumbledore’s kindly tyranny, then under Voldemort’s brutal desire for power. He knew the shape of control in every form it took, whether gilded or chained.

This time, he would play along.

He would let Tom build his perfect prison: brick by brick, charm by charm, until the illusion was whole. Because only then would the fall matter. Observation required patience, and Harry had mastered that long ago.

He smiled—just enough to look trusting. “Perfect,” he said. “Nott first, then Parkinson.”
He picked up the ceremonial dagger resting on his desk, its handle carved with the Black crest, and set it carefully into its velvet-lined case. “You keep tracking the contacts. I’ll handle the dinners.”

The tone was pleasant, even domestic. It might have fooled anyone else. But beneath that mildness, Harry’s mind moved with soldier’s precision. He had walked through fire twice—through love turned weapon, through trust turned ruin—and come out colder, sharper, deliberate.

Tom thought he was claiming a partner in conquest. Harry knew better. Tom was forging a blade, and Harry had no intention of being its hilt.

He turned toward the window, where dusk pressed faintly against the glass. The castle below was quiet, the world outside reduced to amber light and shadow. The game had begun, and Tom Riddle (maybe not a Riddle in this life), although brilliant, obsessive, devastatingly patient—did not yet realize he was already on the losing side.

Chapter Text

Sleeping in a dorm after years being under his parents care didn’t prove to be as difficult as Harry originally thought it would be. As well as sleeping so close to your fated enemy. Harry supposed that even though he had spent 14 years as the heir Harry. He still had 17 years of that kid who lived in the cupboard, slept in a dorm of rowdy Gryffindors and even the cot of a temporary tent somewhere in the plains of England.

Harry woke just before dawn, startling awake despite not having any disturbances. It was a skill honed over months of survival, a biological reflex that had learned to assess a campsite or a safe house by the subtle shifts in the surrounding atmosphere.

He lay for a moment, letting his eyes track the movement of the nascent morning light filtering past the heavy velvet curtains. The first thing he did was confirm the status of the room. Everything was as it had been. Tom’s side of the suite remained hushed; his trunk sat neatly against the wall, its charms holding it shut against all but Tom’s own will. The leather-bound political texts they had been reviewing were stacked with Tom’s unsettling precision on the small mahogany table. The quiet order was almost oppressive, a visual representation of Tom’s control.

It was an old habit, this initial assessment, dating back to the years he’d spent on the run hunting horcruxes—a time when waking up meant immediately checking the perimeter, the position of the others, and the presence of any lingering magic. Though he was now Lord Potter and sheltered within the most fiercely warded Academy in the world, the veteran’s need for situational awareness never truly receded.

Harry rose softly, pulling a silk dressing gown around him. He moved through the arched doorway and into his private bath, where steam was already curling lazily from the tap of the large, stone soaking tub. He dismissed the warming charms and let the water run cool, an old preference for a clear mind.

Sinking into the bath, Harry rested his head against the rim, allowing the cool water to ease the phantom tension from his shoulders. His mind turned immediately to the day ahead—his first day of formal, Imperial schooling. It felt surreal, this pivot from the gritty reality of war to the polished elegance of political theatre. He knew he had the intellect and the strategic capacity to thrive here, but his soul felt utterly alien to the environment.

A flicker of nostalgic longing crossed his thoughts. He wondered if they were here, somewhere in this strange new world. Ron and Hermione.

He hadn't searched for them, hadn't dared to. Their importance to him, however, remained an absolute pillar. They had been his greatest friends, clinging to him through life, death, and everything that came in between. He knew, with the retrospective clarity of a thirty-year-old soldier, that he and Tom were engaged in a struggle of wills rooted in ambition and power, but the battles he’d fought with Ron and Hermione had always been rooted in simple, messy human failure.

Ron had his faults—his insecurities, his temper, the sometimes staggering lack of foresight—but he was only a child, thrust into a war he never asked for. Hermione, brilliant as she was, still fell victim to the simplest of emotional tricks or the crippling pressure of expectation. They were all just children, now that Harry looked back. They made colossal errors, but they had always shown up when it mattered. He held no grudges toward their retrospectively obvious errors; how could he? He had been the one making the errors with the largest, most dangerous consequences.

He sighed, the sound barely audible over the rush of the bath tap. He needed a clear head for the morning's lectures and the evening's dinner strategy. He pushed the memories away, letting the cool water wash over him, focusing on the simple physical reality of his breath and the day ahead.

Refreshed, Harry stepped out, toweling off before pulling on a soft cotton robe. He turned toward the dressing room, a spacious, mirrored alcove built into the suite, and stopped.

Tom was already there.

Tom was standing with an air of perfect, focused stillness. The formal Academy uniform—dark, impeccably tailored robes with silver fastenings—was draped precisely over his arm. He held Harry's dress shirt, the complex, traditional clasps already undone and ready, and he looked up with a small, proprietary smile.

“Good morning, Harry,” Tom murmured, his voice soft, pitched only for the small room. “I assumed you would be up early. I’ve taken the liberty of warming your formal suit and ensuring the folds are precisely correct. We must set the right tone for the first day’s lecture.”

Harry’s initial, purely instinctive reaction was rejection. “Tom, I appreciate the thought, truly, but I can manage my own dressing. Thank you.” He began to reach for the robes draped over the nearby valet stand, but Tom didn’t budge.

Tom stepped forward, his expression shifting from helpful to intensely earnest. “With respect, Harry, today is about projection. We are presenting the young Lord of Potters to the Academy for the first time. Every crease, every alignment of the House colours, is a statement of intent. The formality of the Lordship robes requires attention to detail. Please, allow me. It ensures that your focus remains purely on the strategy of the day.”

There was no room for argument in the statement—it was not a request on Tom’s part, that much waas obvious. It was about Harry’s image, Harry’s authority, Harry’s needs. It was about control.

Harry gave in with a quiet, fond sigh. It was exasperating, but utterly Tom. He knew, intimately, the obsessive need for perfection, and he knew that denying Tom this small, simple act of service would only lead to a more intense, more distracting negotiation. He spread his arms slightly, conceding the point.

“Alright, Tom. Lead the way. But I draw the line at polishing my shoes with a toothbrush.”

Tom’s smile tightened into something sharp, triumphant, and perfectly concealed. He moved with swift, reverent hands, sliding the fine shirt onto Harry, securing the delicate clasps at the wrist and collar. He adjusted the line of the inner tunic, making sure the dark fabric rested precisely against the curve of Harry’s neck. His fingers were cool, efficient, and fleetingly intimate.

As Tom meticulously laid the formal Academy robe over Harry’s shoulders, making sure the heavy, tailored lines were flawless, Tom’s mind was roaring. For now, he thought, securing the final, heavy clasp of silver. For now, I am simply helping you look presentable. I am securing your image. I am your most valued asset.

But the truth was a colder, far more beautiful calculation. Soon, my Lord, Tom resolved, his gaze fixed on the powerful architecture of Harry’s shoulders beneath the robes, soon, you won’t be able to do anything, not even breathe the air of this Academy, without my influence, without my consent, and without my say so. 

After what felt like an eternity of Tom fussing over Harry’s uniform, he finally felt satisfied enough to let go and prepare himself ass well. While waiting for Tom, Harry had ample time to prepare his bag in accordance to the schedule he was given.

He originally thought of casting an extension charm over his bag, but he would not be able to epxlain to Tom how his very normal school satchel turned into an enchanted one. He learned that this world doesn’t have that branch of magic taught in the curriculum — or at all. 

Enchanted objects such as bags with extension charms exist but are rare. Made only by the finest magical craftsmen and they cost a fortune. Which Harry now realizes is absurd as he can wave his hand and have it be done.

He figured if he weren’t born a noble heir, he could’ve made a fortune from all the amazing things he could wield his magic to do that does not bend to the rules of this world. They are so… stifled. They have magic but are so limited.

Even something as simple as a cleaning charm and a drying charm is not heard of, hence they have maids that do the work by hands. It’s why they have drying magical stones they pour magic into to dry themselves.

Harry is still yet to get used to being so handicapped in this context.

They exited the suite and moved down the wide, marble-floored corridor. The Academy was already humming with activity; the soft click of fine leather shoes on stone, the rustle of tailored robes, and the low, aristocratic drone of conversation echoed from the high, vaulted ceilings. The air, crisp from the early morning, carried the faint, mingled scent of old parchment, polished wood, and expensive magical incense.

Tom and Harry made their way to a table near the front, already occupied by two familiar figures.

A cheerful, sing-song voice cut through the background noise. “Harry! Tom! Good morning!”

Luna looked perfectly ethereal, her hair, the colour of spun moonlight, tied back with a ribbon that seemed to be gently levitating. She was sipping from a goblet of what Harry immediately suspected was strawberry milk, her Academy robes adorned with a series of tiny, shimmering silver fish pins. She beamed at them, her wide, slightly unfocused blue eyes utterly devoid of morning grumpiness.

Harry always found it fitting how unnatural Luna’ss blue eyes were. They were so clear, almost translucent in their display. Like light being shone on a diamond, and with those same eyes she seems past the many layers of veils people throw over themselves.

Across the polished mahogany, Draco sat next to Luna. He was impeccably dressed, but his posture was rigid, his face set in an expression of profound, aristocratic suffering. He was, definitively, not a morning person.

“Must you be quite so vibrant, Lovegood?” Draco muttered, a mild inflection of complaint rather than malice. Despite the choice of words, he sounded rather fond. He didn't look up, but his hand moved instinctively to steady the base of her milk goblet. “Some of us are attempting to survive this enforced wakefulness.”

Harry slid onto the bench across from Luna, while Tom, with his habitual formality, settled across from Draco. This put Harry across from Luna, and Tom across from Draco.

“Draco, good morning,” Harry said, a familiar, affectionate roll of his eyes toward him. “I was afraid you’d have melted from sheer discomfort after your first night of suite living. Not quite used to the bedding offered at Malfoy Manor?”

Draco glared at the untouched French toast. “I didn’t melt. I endured. Unlike some people, I don't snore like a war horse with a chest cold. The Potter suite must be an experience in volume control.”

Tom gave a small, utterly serene smile—a smile that did not touch his eyes. “There was no need for concern, Draco. Harry sleeps like the dead, I assure you. Utterly without disturbance.”

It was a cold, precise piece of information. The phrase, “sleeps like the dead,” landed in the morning air with a slight chill that only Harry seemed to truly feel. Tom's casual knowledge of his sleeping habits was another subtle layer of control, a reminder of their shared intimacy in the suite.

Luna, however, was immediately perceptive. She tilted her head, taking another quiet sip of her pink milk. “Oh, of course, Harry would know what death feels like,” she murmured, her voice entirely matter-of-fact, directed at the bowl of glistening berries. “One can’t truly understand a thing until one has experienced it, not merely as a concept, but as a total physical cessation. It’s like testing the water with your foot and then jumping in all at once.”

Harry felt a sudden, involuntary shudder—the phantom tension in his shoulders tightening once more. He quickly reached for a serving dish of scrambled eggs to mask the momentary lapse. Luna's casual mention of his greatest, darkest secret was deeply, intimately accurate, and highly unsettling. He shot a small, wary glance at Tom, but Tom was already stacking toast onto his plate with cool efficiency, his face a mask of studious focus.

I guess it’s helpful how everyone dismisses her words as mindless, whimsical musings. Not even Tom thought to look into her words and decipher them like they are uttered prophecies. Luna, lovely as she was, would send Harry to a shock one day with her casual proclamations.

“Luna, darling, perhaps we should focus on the virtues of the Academy’s breakfast instead of existential dread,” Harry said lightly. They began to serve themselves from the array of silver platters: sausages, blood puddings, various pastries, and delicate French toast—far more opulent than the Hogwarts fare.

The conversation drifted to the mundane yet essential topic of their accommodations. Draco complained bitterly about the weak privacy charms on his suite’s bath, and Luna described the “nervous-looking Niffler-Doves” preening outside her window, which she claimed were drawn to the ambient melancholic energy of the school. Tom, the pragmatic scholar, offered a clinical, analytical counterpoint to Luna’s elemental attraction hypothesis.

Before Tom could offer a cool, analytical rebuttal, their conversation was abruptly interrupted. A large, heavily muscled boy with a perpetually bewildered scowl—a face Harry vaguely recognized from various pure-blood social events—loomed over the end of the table.

“Draco! Malfoy, right?” The boy’s voice was loud and booming.

He thrust a large hand toward Draco, the gesture overly familiar and clumsy. “Gregory Goyle. My father and yours are on the Imperial Council together. Great to see a familiar face.”

Draco looked at the extended hand as if it were an actively decomposing piece of spoiled fish. His eyes, now wide and cold, lifted slowly to Goyle’s face, an expression of pure, unadulterated offence settling on his features. Draco didn't move an inch.

Most likely offended to have some irrelevant noble kid offer their disgusting hand towards him as if he’d bother flexing a muscle to accept it. He is the Malfoy heir, the richest and noblest of his kind — he doesn’t accept handshakes from nobodies.

Harry saw the imminent, crushing social disaster unfolding. Draco’s icy rejection would be a calculated insult. Harry moved instantly, smoothly, without a moment's thought.

He reached out past Draco, grasping Goyle's hand firmly and shaking it with the practiced warmth of a career politician.

“Goyle, a pleasure,” Harry said, his voice bright and easy, pulling Goyle’s attention away from the still-frozen Draco. “Harry Potter. My apologies on my friend’s behalf. He doesn't like being touched by other people much before lunch, you see. It's a Malfoy eccentricity we must all learn to manage.”

Draco only offered a low, dismissive hum, slicing into his French toast without bothering to offer Harry a rebuttal, and utterly ignoring Goyle as if he were a particularly large, noisy insect. Harry’s quick lie was simple, easy to understand, and deflected the direct insult away from the House of Malfoy and onto a mere noble peculiarity. It was brilliant, swift social management.

Not that Draco would even need saving. He could very well take off all his clothes and start throwing his own shit around and the Malfoys can just pay off every single person here to pretend it was some rabid ape instead of their heir and their fortune would not even be affected.

It’s ridiculous how much gold one single family could have and never run out of for a thousand generations more.

Goyle, already out of his depth with the Malfoy severity, latched onto Harry's welcoming hand like a lifeline. He barely acknowledged Draco's dismissive hum.

“Potter! Lord Potter! Oh, wow, it’s truly an honour, sir!” Goyle’s enthusiasm was overwhelming. He introduced himself again, more formally this time. “Gregory Goyle, heir to the Goyle properties, pleased to make your acquaintance!”

He was already moving into the conversational point he wanted to make, his eyes wide and admiring. “I was at your Lordship birthday banquet two years ago, the one after you secured the seat! Your presentation of the Ancient Wards was simply revolutionary! The entire evening—it’s still the talk of the Ton! I mean, two years later! People still bring it up constantly!”

Harry kept the smile plastered on his face, but inwardly, a wave of profound, weary amusement washed over him. Two years later? He thought, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. The sheer, bone-deep boredom of the nobility that they still have to relive a banquet from two years ago to feel something. It spoke volumes of the stagnant social life of the Imperial Court that a long-past party was a source of continued fascination. Harry simply nodded, allowing Goyle’s adoration to wash over him, a sign that he was listening.

Goyle then turned his attention to Luna, his enthusiasm only slightly diminished by her quiet intensity.

“And, uh, you’re Lady Lovegood, right? From the Lovegood Marquisate?”

“Oh, yes, hello,” Luna replied, cheerfully. She blinked slowly, her focus on Goyle. “Are you here to learn about the Blibbering Humdingers? They’re quite drawn to your aura; I suspect they think you have a particularly good supply of earwax to feast on, or perhaps they merely admire the lack of Wrackspurts in your current vicinity.”

Goyle simply stared. His jaw hung slightly ajar, his brain clearly struggling to process the cheerful non-sequitur. He is unsure if that was poetry recited to him or a carefully crafted insult. Harry fought the urge to laugh at hiss complete shock and lack of words to say to her. That’s Luna for you.

Draco, who had been pointedly ignoring the entire exchange, finally broke his silence. He gave a low, sharp, guttural sound—a cross between a scoff and a low snarl—a sound directed solely at Goyle, daring him to look away from Luna. Goyle, recognizing the sheer, cold contempt in the Malfoy heir’s glare, instantly snapped his head away from Luna, his face paling slightly.

Draco’s attention shifted immediately back to Luna, his features softening almost imperceptibly. He reached out a hand to the centre of the table, (Hogwart magic allows student to summon any food or drink of their choice should they only think it) a delicate, silver pitcher filled with pale pink liquid summoned itself from a nearby serving station. He smoothly poured a refill of strawberry milk into Luna’s goblet, the action so sweet, so habitual, and so natural to him. It was a clear signal to Goyle: She is mine to guard; look away. The casual, intimate kindness was the true measure of Malfoy's regard.

He knows about their bethrotal, everyone does. It was quite the gossip when the whimsical Lady of the Marquisate Lovegood managed to secure a bethrotal contract with the richest heir in the Empire. Many thought it to be a joke.

But it seems that there is more to it than contractual obligations, if Draco’s actions were anything to go by.

Finally, Goyle turned to Tom. The enthusiasm that Harry had generated, and the confusion Luna had caused, evaporated entirely. Goyle’s face crumpled into a mask of pure, instant recoil. He looked at Tom as if he had just discovered a piece of discarded gum under his shoe—the sheer, automatic disdain of a minor noble for a complete, unrecognized nobody who dared to sit at a table with an Ancient Lord, a Malfoy heir, and the eccentric Lovegood Lady.

“And you are…?” Goyle asked, the question laced with a thick, patronizing scepticism. His entire posture stiffened, his head tilted back slightly in a silent challenge. The noble contempt was a palpable thing in the air.

Harry saw Tom’s jaw tighten, just a fraction. He saw the flicker in Tom’s eyes—a brief, molten flash of pure, controlled fury that, if unleashed, could have probably turned the entire long table over. It was the same deadly, cold intensity Harry had seen in the former Dark Lord, locked away for the sake of the Potter Ward persona. Tom visibly schooled his features, pushing the rage down into the deepest recesses of his being until his expression was nothing but cool, serene neutrality.

Tom set his fork down and turned to Goyle, his posture impeccable, his voice deep and resonantly calm. “I am Tom,” he stated, letting the name hang in the air—a name Goyle would not recognize. “I am the Potter Ward, and I have the immense privilege of being an esteemed scholar sponsored entirely by the House of Potter.”

He paused, a tiny, theatrical beat. “Lord Potter has seen fit to offer me the patronage and resources required to pursue the most rigorous courses here at the Imperial Academy. My purpose is to ensure his Lordship’s studies are matched by the highest possible academic support.”

Goyle was visibly taken aback. He was not used to such eloquence and manners from a person he assumed was a mere servant or body-guard. Tom’s perfect robes, his cool, aristocratic bearing, and his precise vocabulary chipped away at Goyle's initial contempt. The word ‘scholar’ also held a specific, revered weight in the Academy.

Goyle hesitated, then gave in, the social training finally overriding his prejudice. “Gregory Goyle,” he mumbled, introducing himself again.

Harry was genuinely impressed. Tom had navigated the most treacherous waters of noble snobbery with surgical precision, turning his low birth status into a sign of high merit and Harry’s immense power. It was a masterclass in social jujitsu.

Not that Harry would actually know what jujitsu is. He’s never tried, not in this life or the last.

Harry leaned forward, cutting the exchange short before Goyle could start probing Tom with questions.

“Gregory, thank you for the introduction,” Harry said, his tone firm but friendly. He picked up his knife and fork pointedly. “It was good to meet you. We need to finish our meal and go over our timetables before morning classes begin. We’ll see you in the lecture halls.”

It was a perfectly polite dismissal, spoken with the unassailable authority of the Lord Potter. Goyle, recognizing the cue, mumbled his farewells and lumbered away, his mission to greet the Malfoy heir ultimately derailed by the very same heir's petulant refusal and Harry’s smooth interception.

The quartet continued eating, the brief, tense interruption receding. The atmosphere at the table shifted back to its strange normalcy: comfortable, yet layered with complex, unspoken histories.

Draco, now much improved by the removal of the offensive visitor, returned his attention to Luna. He used a corner of his napkin to delicately wipe a spot of strawberry milk from the corner of her mouth, the gesture performed with the fastidious tenderness of a fussy guardian. He then used a small charm to magically warm her serving of fruit tart before pushing it closer to her plate. Luna, lost in the soft buzz of the morning chatter around them, accepted the attention without comment, simply eating what Draco provided.

Tom, for his part, made sure Harry ate enough. He wordlessly selected the plumpest sausage, cut it neatly, and placed it onto Harry’s plate. He ensured Harry’s tea was topped up to the correct temperature. 

“Right then, now that the proletariat has been dealt with,” Draco drawled, finally relaxed, “we should confirm our classes. We need to maintain a constant presence in the key subjects.”

Harry pulled his schedule from his robe’s inner pocket. “My schedule is focused on the Imperial track, obviously, but I added a few practicals. I have Potions, Arithmancy, Charms, Astrology, and a specialty course called Practical Elemental Magic.” He paused, reading the rest. “Then the required core: Political Theory, Social Sciences, and Ethics, plus the other Imperial noble subjects like Magical Law and History of Governance.”

Tom smiled coolly. “Lord Potter and I are taking all the same classes. I will, of course, be auditing and assisting in the more complex studies, ensuring his Lordship’s concentration remains unbroken by academic administration.”

Luna cheerfully chimed in, “Oh, mine is lovely and airy. I have Herbology, Potions, Zoology, Astrology, Charms, and yes, the Practical Elemental Magic. I also have Divination and the Academy Choir!”

Draco sighed, but it was a satisfied sigh. “Mine is a sensible blend, as expected. I have Potions, Arithmancy, Charms, Astrology, Practical Elemental Magic—a clear necessity—Political Theory, Social Sciences, and I added Ancient Runes. It covers the essential magic while guaranteeing the necessary academic rigor and political visibility.”

Harry looked at their collective schedules. They shared Potions, Charms, Astrology, and the new Practical Elemental Magic. He and Tom were a united front on the political and academic track, while Draco and Luna maintained a perfect mix between the practical magical arts and the esoteric, reflecting their individual, complicated loyalties and interests. It was a strategic alliance, even in the arrangement of their timetables.

As Tom refilled Harry’s goblet with cool, lemon-infused water, Harry realized the day had truly begun.

The quartet—Tom, Harry, Luna, and Draco—rose from the breakfast table as a single, deliberate unit, a gravitational core around which the lesser social particles of the hall seemed to rotate. Their passage from the Great Hall to the lecture theatre for Practical Elemental Magic was less a walk and more a procession. Even in a school populated by the heirs of Ancient Houses and the children of Imperial Ministers, their group dynamic created an immediate, palpable vortex of power.

As they walked, heads turned with a universal, sharp flick, a visible garrnering of attention that grated on Harry's nerves. They were aiming only to attend a lecture, but every move they made was scrutinized, analysed, and filed away for future social and political use. This Academy was serving as the training ground for the next Imperial Court, and the alliances formed here were as binding as any magical contract.

The classroom itself was vast, a circular theatre designed for both theoretical lectures and practical spellwork. It was lined with tiers of dark, polished oak benches and dominated by a huge, sand-filled demonstration pit in the center, currently humming with a low-level containment charm. The room smelled faintly of ozone and heated metal, the distinctive scent of raw magical power about to be constrained by human will.

They chose a bench on the second tier, far enough from the front to maintain their distance, but central enough to be perfectly seen. Harry felt Tom’s subtle guidance as they settled, establishing the order of their arrangement: Tom, Harry, Luna, and Draco.

Tom at the far end, acting as the flank, the protector, the silent judge of the room. Harry next, the centerpiece, shielded and supported. Luna provided a neutral buffer, her presence a soft, undefinable distraction. Draco anchored the other end, his Malfoy hauteur a second, impenetrable shield.

They were talking in low tones about their expectations for the subject.

“It is clearly a concession to the public,” Draco muttered, leaning in, his elbow near Luna’s. “Elemental Magic. Too messy. Too much focus on raw power. I anticipate a week of overly dramatic sparks and simple flame-conjuring, Harry. Try not to embarrass your lineage with poor control.”

“I’m hoping they demonstrate the connection between water pressure and emotional stability,” Luna offered dreamily, adjusting a shimmering fish pin. “It’s often overlooked how much water retention influences the migratory paths of the Hinkypunks.”

“The political advantage,” Tom corrected, his voice a low, precise murmur intended only for Harry’s ear. “Elemental control is visible power. It will provide the perfect opportunity for you, Lord Potter, to visually assert dominance. Watch the others carefully. Any hesitation with basic Earth magic demonstrates weak familial foundations.”

Harry was just about to offer a sarcastic comment on the sheer absurdity of judging a noble family by their child’s ability to summon a controlled gust of wind when his entire world stilled.

A small, firm hand was offered to him across the bench.

Harry slowly traced his eyes up the arm, past the neat, unadorned sleeve of a standard Academy robe, and met the direct, earnest gaze of a girl standing before him.

She was young, perhaps fourteen years old, her robes slightly too new, her dark brown hair a chaotic cloud of curls that refused to be disciplined, and her face was alight with nervous, intelligent determination.

It was Hermione Granger.

His chest gave a violent, silent lurch. It warmed and it blossomed, exploding with a fierce, painful, undeniable feeling of relief and profound, immediate trust. The physical reaction was so intense it felt like a silent, contained spell being cast across the room.

She is here.

Here, in this cold, elitist arena, was the person who was once his co-pilot, the brilliant mind he had relied on for everything—a mind that had never once failed him, the person who had understood the dark, impossible secret of the Horcruxes before anyone else. Harry’s memory—that cold, painful reservoir of his past life—flashed with images of her: sacrificing her parents' memories, her face bruised in the Malfoy Manor cellar, the precise, invaluable knowledge she carried.

But the Hermione standing here, offering her hand, had none of that history.

This girl had never fought a war. She had never searched for a horcrux. She had never had her name on a wanted poster. She was not his best friend.

Here, she's nobody. A scholarship student, a commoner elevated by sheer, raw intellect, trying to navigate the treacherous first day of noble society. Their rich, shared history was all of a past life that he no longer lived, a reality that had shattered and reformed around him. He had to be a stranger.

Tom, beside him, stiffened to the rigidity of cold steel. Harry didn't need to look to feel the sheer, concentrated venom emanating from his ward. Tom’s internal analysis was instantaneous and brutal: A commoner. Unrecognized. Tom’s lips parted, and a deep, guttural sound—almost a growl—was suppressed behind his teeth. He hated the intrusion. He hated the lack of respect. He hated the proximity to Harry.

But even Tom, for all his aristocratic ambition, couldn’t unleash an insult. He was only Potter Ward, a commoner himself, here only by the kind grace of the Potters. To attack a recognized scholar for her blood status would be to open the door to attacks on his own fragile position. His expression steeled into a mask of pure, glacial neutrality, his eyes burning into the girl’s outstretched hand.

Harry pushed down the dizzying, painful nostalgia and focused on the girl’s face. He let his own expression relax into the genuine, open welcome that only the true Lord Potter could afford to give.

He accepted her hand, his grasp warm and firm.

“A pleasure,” Harry said, his voice carrying the perfect weight of authority and approachability. “Harry Potter. And you are?”

“Hermione,” she said, her voice clear despite a slight tremor in her hand. “Lord Potter, it’s an honour. I—I’m a first-year, one of the new academic scholars.”

“Hermione,” Harry repeated, nodding slowly. Right, no last names for commoners, Harry reminded himself. It’s why Tom is only Tom without the Riddle attached to it. Guess there goes the knowledge that he won’t be having his silly anagram for Lord Voldemort. He leaned back slightly, offering her a generous, brilliant smile that was completely genuine. “Then you must be commended. It’s an immense feat to make it into the Academy on merit alone. Welcome to the Practical Elemental Magic course.”

Hermione’s shock was immediate and plain. Her eyes widened, and a faint, delightful blush crept up her cheeks. She had expected tolerance, perhaps a neutral nod, or at most, a cool, swift shake of the hand to elevate her status by association—the standard noble interaction.

She had not expected this level of friendly welcome from the Lord Potter on her very first day. It was, as Harry knew, precisely because of how influential they are that a simple, successful greeting from him would put her on a pedestal above almost every other common-born student in the room. His acceptance meant she was worthy of attention.

Luna, next to Harry, blinked slowly, her face alight with sudden interest.

“Oh, hello! I love your hair. It looks like a friendly, organized cloud.” She extended her own slender hand, her touch feathery. “I’m Luna Lovegood.”

Hermione, momentarily stunned into silence by Harry’s kindness, collected herself instantly at the sight of Luna. Her composure returned, fueled by academic respect.

“Lady Lovegood, it’s a pleasure,” Hermione replied, taking her hand. “I must admit, I read your published musings in The Quibbler—the ones on the properties of Lunar Auras and magical infrastructure. I found them interesting to read and highly provocative, although I confess I’m not well-versed in the subjects of theoretical magical biology.”

This was all Draco needed to deem her worthy. His entire body language shifted. Hermione’s compliment was specific, intelligent, and most importantly, it was directed at Luna, making the often-isolated girl glow with genuine, quiet happiness. Draco valued Luna's happiness above all aristocratic prejudices.

Draco set his jaw and smoothly extended his hand across Luna’s lap, forcing Hermione to lean forward slightly to reach him.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, his voice polite, formal, and utterly devoid of his characteristic morning venom. “A pleasure to welcome a scholar of evident merit to the Academy.”

Harry watched the exchange, a familiar, heavy sense of melancholy settling in his gut. This was how it should have been. This was the brilliant, beautiful beginning they should have had. The thought was a sharp pang of loss.

Tom hated this. He hated it with a searing, controlled heat that was rapidly approaching a boil. Another lowly commoner inserting herself into their ranks, taking up valuable space, breathing the same air as Harry, and, worst of all, making him less special. Tom’s entire identity here was built on his unique position as Harry’s intellectual equal, his only true confidant and ward. Every moment Harry spent smiling at this girl was a direct, existential threat to the delicate, fragile reality Tom had constructed.

Hermione, now emboldened by the triple success of her greeting, turned her full attention to the last, and most intimidating, member of the group. Her eyes, filled with academic respect, met Tom’s cold, dark gaze.

“And you must be the Potter Ward,” Hermione stated, her voice regaining its full, confident timber. “Whispers among the Ton travel fast, even to the newly arrived commoners. They say you are a genius, sir. That you’ve only been studying for two years but have already surpassed the theoretical achievements of most noble children and are challenging some of the senior Academy professors in their own fields.”

It was not a cheap compliment; it was a statement of observable fact, a sign that Hermione had already done her research on the group’s key players.

Tom steeled himself. The praise was intoxicating—proof that his intellect was a power no amount of snobbery could ignore—but he refused to be swayed by a commoner’s boastings. He is better. This girl was a nobody who came out of nowhere, attempting to use flattery to buy her way into proximity with Lord Potter.

He returned her greeting neutrally, offering a stiff, single nod and a minimal handshake.

“Tom,” he acknowledged, his voice flat. “I simply apply myself to the available resources. Now, if you’ll excuse us, class is about to begin.”

The dismissal was perfectly executed: polite, final, and cold. Hermione, recognizing the abrupt, definite end to the conversation, withdrew gracefully, offering a final, shy smile to Harry before moving to find a seat in the lower tiers of the theatre.

Harry watched her go. He turned his head and met Tom’s gaze, noting the neutrality that hadn't quite masked the twitching muscle in Tom’s jaw. He realized exactly what Tom was thinking: Competition. An outsider who threatens the perfect equilibrium.

As the Academy’s professor—mid 30s, blonde hair and brown eyes—in shimmering emerald robes stepped onto the platform, commanding instant silence, Harry leaned in. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper meant for Tom’s ear only.

“She was quite enthusiastic and nice, wasn’t she?” Harry murmured, picking up his quill.

Tom did not unbend his stiff posture. He merely shifted his eyes towards Harry, the dark depths filled with a sharp, controlled warning. “Lord Potter,” Tom whispered back, the words laced with a dangerous intimacy. “One does not survive in this arena by trusting nice words. Her intentions are likely transactional. All commoners who manage to breach this circle have an agenda.”

Harry suppressed a genuine urge to laugh at the irony of the warning. The transactional commoner warning the Lord about the intentions of a transactional commoner. It was a perfect, ridiculous encapsulation of their entire relationship. But he composed himself instantly, knowing this was a serious crisis for Tom’s fragile sense of belonging.

He did not laugh. Instead, Harry gently leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing against Tom’s. The intimacy of the proximity was immediate and profound; Harry felt Tom hitch his breath, his entire body going rigid with an immediate, deep-seated anticipation.

Harry kept his voice low, a playful rasp against Tom’s ear. “Don’t worry, Tom. She may be brilliant, but you are still my favourite.”

It was said as a joke, a piece of light, affectionate teasing designed to pierce through Tom’s defenses. But the effect was instantaneous and absolute.

Tom’s entire body seemed to deflate by an inch. The tension in his shoulders melted away. The cold, analytical fear in his eyes was replaced by a slow, intense burn of relief and a profound, silent relaxation. The word settled over him, warm and intoxicating. Favourite. Not just ward, not just scholar, not just asset, but favourite.

He shifted his posture, imperceptibly closer to Harry, his eyes now fixed on the professor but his mind entirely calm. Yes. Favourite. He is Harry’s favourite.

The professor began her introduction to the core principles of Elemental Control, and the first academic day had officially begun, the dynamics of Harry’s quartet already irrevocably altered by the entrance of a forgotten friend and the jealous heart of a former Dark Lord.

The lecture on Practical Elemental Magic was not, as Draco had feared, a simple demonstration of sparks. Professor Cygnus—the severe witch in the emerald robes—was a master of transmutation theory. She started immediately by diving into the principle of Aetheric Resonance, the concept that all four classical elements (Earth, Air, Fire, and Water) were merely temporary manifestations of a single, omnipresent fifth element: Aether, or pure magical energy. Her voice, though sharp, was compelling, weaving together concepts of magical theory with political and social implications.

Tom, now entirely at ease thanks to Harry’s casual whisper, was in his element. He sat upright, his back perfectly straight against the hard oak, his quill already flying across the parchment. He was organizing the concepts, drawing diagrams of the resonant pathways, and translating the esoteric theory into hard, usable, practical applications. For Tom, knowledge was power, and he absorbed the lecture like a sponge drinking rainwater after a drought, his focused intensity a shield against the rest of the world.

Harry, sitting beside him, appreciated the subject's practical applications but struggled with the academic rigour of the noble curriculum. The sheer volume of theoretical knowledge—the historical precedents, the political treaties signed over the control of elemental sources, the precise Latin terminology for every subtle variation of atmospheric pressure—was overwhelming. 

Draco, on the other side of Luna, was taking elegant, concise notes, occasionally lifting his chin to cast a dismissive glance at the lower tiers. His mind was clearly focused on the social utility of the knowledge. He whispered once to Luna, low enough not to disturb the lecture: “If she thinks controlling a thermal column will impress the Malfoy board, she has another thing coming. It’s all about the political leverage of the water treaties, darling.”

Luna, however, was in a world entirely her own. She was not taking notes, but drawing, her quill lightly sketching miniature, elaborate images in the margins of her parchment. One drawing depicted a small cloud shaped like a hippocampus, its tail trailing sparks of pink light. Another was a complex diagram of what looked like a weeping willow tree whose roots were drinking from a well of pure moonlight, labeled simply: “Aetheric Emotional Sink.” She would occasionally hum a low, strange note, her unfocused gaze fixed on the demonstration pit, seemingly watching the flow of energy beneath it.

Harry managed to keep pace, his mind constantly darting between the professor's words and his own social awareness. He saw Hermione sitting three rows down, her head bowed in concentration, her quill scratching furiously across the page. Her concentration was absolute, a visible, tangible force. She was doing exactly what Tom was doing, only with the added pressure of having to prove herself worthy of her seat every single second.

Tom sensed Harry’s distraction. Without looking away from the front of the class, he dipped his own quill in his inkpot, and then, with an economy of movement that spoke of years of practice, he extended his arm slightly, tapping Harry's notes with the tip of the quill. The subtle signal was clear: Focus, Lord Potter.

Harry glanced at the section Tom had tapped. It was a dense paragraph detailing the Seven Transmutation Axioms—a section Harry had completely missed while watching Hermione. Tom's intervention was a reminder, intimate and controlling, that he was responsible for Harry's academic success. Harry bit back a sigh and forced his attention back to the professor’s complex diagram of controlled atmospheric pressure.

During a brief pause in the lecture, the Professor asked a highly technical question regarding the historical applications of the Tenth Imperial Decree on Water Rights. The question was aimed squarely at the upper noble tiers.

A heavy silence descended. Most noble children knew the Decree existed, but few remembered the specific, dusty history required for the answer.

Before any of the young heirs could struggle out a half-formed answer, a clear, authoritative voice cut through the silence.

“Professor, the Tenth Decree was established in 1709 following the Treaty of Silver Lake, but its application to Elemental Magic came later. Historically, the main applications were punitive: the revocation of water flow rights from subordinate vassalages as a consequence of tax evasion. The key magical application, the ability to selectively destabilize elemental water constructs, was only formally recognized in the Decree’s Third Addendum, Section B, in 1745, which Lord Malfoy’s ancestor, Abraxas, championed.”

It was Tom. His tone was calm, flawless, and authoritative. He cited dates and legal sections with the ease of a veteran historian, simultaneously impressing the Professor, showcasing his brilliance, and subtly praising Draco's ancestry (a necessary political nod).

Draco's thin lips curved into a small, pleased smile. He gave Tom a slow, appreciative nod. “Correct, Tom. The key is in the Addendum’s definition of construct versus natural flow.”

Harry felt a surge of pride mixed with a faint, unsettling anxiety. Tom was dazzling, undeniably, terrifyingly brilliant. But every display of Tom’s talent was both a boon and a subtle form of control, demonstrating Harry's absolute reliance on him.

Just as the Professor nodded in satisfaction and was about to continue, a softer, slightly hesitant voice piped up from the lower benches.

“If I may, Professor, I believe the reason Abraxas Malfoy championed that addendum in 1745 wasn’t solely political. The records from that year indicate a severe blight on the Malfoy’s South-Western vineyards, which were only salvaged by the development of that specific destabilization counter-charm. It was an act of economic self-preservation that set the legal precedent, not merely political maneuvering.”

It was Hermione. She hadn’t challenged Tom’s facts, but had added a layer of nuance and practical, human motivation that elevated the information far beyond the dry legal text.

The entire room turned to look at her, the silence now charged with curiosity. The audacity of the new scholar to not only speak but to correct the implied context of the Potter Ward’s historical point was breathtaking.

Tom’s composure shattered, just for a moment. He gripped his quill so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his eyes, fixed on Hermione, were suddenly devoid of all warmth—a clear, cold danger. His mouth thinned into a razor-sharp line. She dares challenge my narrative? She dares to show off in my presence?

Harry felt the tension in Tom’s arm, stiff and rigid next to his own. The commoner was competing academically for the Professor’s, and more importantly, Harry’s attention.

Professor Cygnus, however, was delighted. “An excellent, and accurate, point, Miss Hermione. Context, gentlemen, is everything. Twenty points to both Miss Hermione and Mister Tom for their excellent participation in our discussion.”

Tom’s face was a mask of furious, controlled composure. He had won the point in his own way, but he had been shown up on nuance by the commoner scholar.

Harry leaned into Tom, keeping his voice quiet so the words were absorbed only by Tom's shoulder.

“Careful, Tom. You’ll snap your quill. She just filled in the gaps. You answer was most brilliant and well-informed.”

Tom didn’t respond with words, but the rigid posture eased slightly again. The lesson continued, but the true lessons of the day—the politics of attention, the hierarchy of friendship, and the immense, terrifying power of familiar faces in a new life—had already been learned. Tom, though still Harry's favourite, now had a new, irritating, and brilliant obstacle to monitor, one that Harry seemed all too willing to allow into their exclusive orbit.

Chapter Text

Despite the ultimate shock of seeing Hermione again, Harry had adjusted well. There was a feeling akin to a void that settled on the pit of hiss stomach when the realization that this isn’t his Hermione set in.

He has seven years worth of beautiful memories with her but all she is now is a familiar face and name, with none of the rich history that bound Harry to her. She was like a sister he never got to have. Harry often did wonder that if he were to have a sister, she would be like Hermione.

But there was no time to get lost and wallow in the sentiments of a life no longer his own. For Harry Potter, the Lord of an Ancient House and the weary veteran of a war that had not yet begun, the day was less about learning and more about observation—a careful compilation of data points regarding the personalities forming his new court.

Following the Practical Elemental Magic lecture—where Hermione Granger had made her brief, unsettling appearance—Harry and Tom proceeded to their next subject: Arithmancy. It was held high in a lonely tower chamber. The air was dry and cool, lined with complex, spinning calculation runes that projected glowing mathematical figures onto the dark slate walls, and smelling faintly of chalk dust.

Harry found the class almost offensively easy. Having spent his previous life manipulating ancient and volatile magical constructs—often without a textbook or safety net, fueled only by desperation and instinct—the highly theoretical, measured calculations of magical energy flow felt like solving a basic algebraic equation after years of complex differential calculus. The professor, a severe man named Phineus who wore a perpetual look of intellectual dissatisfaction, seemed to expect struggle and intellectual humility; Harry offered polite competence instead.

He participated only enough to satisfy the minimum requirements of Lord Potter’s profile: intelligent, capable, but politically focused rather than academically obsessive. He allowed his gaze to drift, cataloging the restless energy and thinly veiled competitiveness of his classmates, storing their reactions to Professor Phineus’s challenging problems.

Tom, however, was in his element. He approached Arithmancy as a discipline of absolute, ruthless control over the chaotic world of magic. He wasn’t merely calculating the theoretical efficiency of a magical circuit; he was predicting its political utility, mapping the economic cost-benefit of every formula, discerning how a specific equation could be leveraged to increase efficiency or cripple an opponent's magical infrastructure.

His quill was a precise instrument in his hand, moving with a chilling, fluid grace, inscribing numbers and runes that seemed to hold their own perfect, crystalline logic. When he was called upon to answer, his voice was measured and final, as if the very laws of mathematics were aligning themselves to his dictation, leaving no room for argument or doubt. 

Harry watched in concealed awe, one wouldn’t be able to truly fathom that Tom only learned reading and writing merely two years ago. And now he is stepping above all of them with his tactical academic brilliance.

Like he was born into prestige, like he was raised by right of a scholar.

Draco, seated two benches away with Luna, watched Tom with a potent mixture of reluctant awe and deep, personal irritation. Draco was, by any measure, excellent—trained since birth in the rigorous mathematical traditions of the Malfoy mercantile empire, a dynasty built on numerical supremacy.

But Tom’s commoner-born intellect consistently outpaced him in pure, raw processing speed and the breathtaking elegance of his theoretical solutions.

Draco’s immense pride demanded perfection and the top position, yet Tom delivered effortless, infuriating superiority. It was maddening.

The sheer arrogance of it, Draco thought, watching the impeccable sweep of Tom’s hair as he leaned over his parchment, undisturbed by the complexity. The absolute gall of a boy with no lineage, no history, no inherited wisdom, to treat the ancient mathematics of magic as his personal ledger. He is an insult to the hierarchy, the very definition of a low-born upstart, and yet... he is necessary. He elevates Harry by proxy, proving that Lord Potter’s eye for talent is the only true marker of quality now.

Luna, meanwhile, was sketching tiny, ethereal Niffler-Doves on her parchment, their silver eyes seeming to follow the floating runes. She occasionally whispered abstract truths about the harmony of numbers—how two and three are the perfect division for emotional stability, or how seven, being indivisible, represents fate—which invariably earned her a startled look from a neighbouring student who was still wrestling with the problem set.

She seemed entirely disconnected from the rigour of the class, yet she finished her assignments with quiet, uncanny accuracy that often matched Tom's scores. Her detachment only enhanced her mystique, making her the perfect counterpoint to Draco’s high-strung intensity.

The brief break was filled by the swift, strategic movement of the House entourage toward the Charms classroom. Tom, having reasserted his dominance in the intellectual sphere, now took point, clearing a path through the crowds with a presence that brooked no challenge, allowing Harry to follow in his calm, unhurried wake.

The Charms class was the opposite of Arithmancy—loud, bustling, and filled with the bright, flashing energy of minor spell-work. They were working on basic summoning charms—a triviality for Harry, who had the ability to transfigure a single goblet to a very animated mouse without breaking a sweat.

He feels oddly powerful, unbelievably so. This world does not teach the fluidity of magic, it’s rigid and has confined magic into oppressing compartments. Harry always thought magic is much like water, able to take any shape.

But here, it’s more like fire that is treated carefully and with minimized utilization. They are yet to unlock their full potential, constricting themselves to mere levitations, warming and wards — when Harry knew he could very well send himself to the next continent right this moment without even a wand to help him.

Harry felt the very strong urge to help this world’s magic society progress. Without the looming danger of Muggles discovering them, they could so much more with their gifts. Even if the fact that only Nobles and select commoners can do magic is a problematic world setting.

But those thoughts were quick to leave him. He easily summoned the goblet Tom held from the other side of the classroom with ease, not even bothering to pretend to struggle. He knew Tom would not appreciate such a dramatic downplay of his abilities.

The Charms professor was midway helping a random student particularly struggling to even get the goblet to levitate from her partner’s hand when the door burst open. A heavy, second-hand leather satchel hit the stone floor with a dull thud, announcing the arrival of its owner.

A boy stumbled in, already late, his face flushed a deep, self-conscious red. His tie was askew, having clearly been tied in a rush, and his robes looked conspicuously older, patched in one or two places, and less fine than every other garment in the room, a silent testament to his family's decline.

If anyone could guess, the uniform happens to be a hand-me-down from an older brother that had been through tis fair share of holes and tears. His hair was a startling, fiery red, the colour of a dying ember. He was handsome, in a rugged, almost dishevelled way, but his expression was one of such desperate, brittle pride that it ruined his features. The name that followed him was a whispered contradiction.

“Mister Weasley,” the professor sighed, his voice dripping with an all-too-familiar disappointment. The name itself carried the weight of a monumental fall from grace. “Mister Weasley, late for your very first Charms class.”

Ron scanned the crowded classroom with an air of frantic calculation. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on the open spot next to Lord Potter with a look of desperate yearning, but a lifetime of ridicule imposed on him a momentary caution. He instead took the last remaining empty seat, an inconspicuous one near the back door, and sat down with a jarring scrape of wood against stone.

Harry felt a rush of emotions that were painfully familiar: pity, understanding, and a deep-seated ache of recognition. This Ron, so desperately clawing for status, was merely a harsher reflection of the friend he had known. The veteran saw the need, the vulnerability, and the sheer, exhausting hunger for something to cling to.

Luna, noticing the flicker of profound recognition and pity in Harry's usually guarded eyes—a look that betrayed a depth of connection the others missed—leaned in quickly, her voice a hushed, silvery whisper meant only for Harry.

“Ah, the Weasleys,” she said softly, her ethereal gaze fixed on the boy. “They are, Lord Potter, a rather sad piece of history. A noble name with zero riches and zero power. They are the remnants of a once-great house, stripped of their power generations ago. The title is all they have left. They are frantic to succeed. That boy is clinging to the last shred of his family’s identity. It is a name that guarantees ridicule, not respect.”

This immediate context helped Harry process the familiar face with the new world's reality. Draco and Tom, seated nearby, had offered only low sounds of revulsion and contempt, but the class resumed, and the Weasley boy faded into the background.

The Charms class ended, the students gathering their focus crystals and notes in a general clamour. Harry and his entourage were among the first to exit. They gathered briefly in the corridor, reviewing Tom’s flawless notes on ambient energy distribution before heading to History of Governance. It was in this moment of political downtime that Ron made his calculated move.

He came up to Harry, weaving through the exiting crowd, his face flushed and his posture overly stiff. He bypassed Tom and Draco, aiming his desperate appeal straight at the Lord Potter.

“Lord Potter,” Ron began, his voice ringing with forced confidence, though his hands nervously gripped his worn portfolio. “Weasley, Ron Weasley. I was just—well, I was admiring your focus in the Academy. I know our houses share a focus on martial history, and speaking of martial excellence—I have diligently studied the classical forms taught by the Master Swordsman, Grand Duke Sirius Black, whom I know you value highly. I’m eager to demonstrate some of those forms. Perhaps a moment of your time to review them would be truly a godsend for my House, if you could spare it, given your... intimate connection to him?”

It was not a subtle request; it was an open declaration of his intention to cling to Harry for power, using the last vestiges of his noble title and a distant, powerful connection as a flimsy excuse for familiarity. Ron was transparently hoping to leech off of Harry's bond with his own godfather.

The reaction from Harry’s allies was immediate. Draco sneered, a theatrical motion of his lip that signaled profound disgust. Tom’s eyes, burning with contained, murderous lividity, promised instant, violent regret should Ron move an inch closer.

But before Harry could manage the polite, strategic deflection this blatant play required, Hermione stepped in. She approached them from the side, a bundle of pristine notes tucked under her arm, her expression all business.

“Mister Weasley,” Hermione said, her voice sharp and perfectly modulated. “You shouldn't impose on Lord Potter’s political schedule. He has very pressing matters to attend to that supersede schoolwork. However,” she fixed Ron with a severe, academic look that was utterly devoid of pity, “I am Hermione. I am an academic scholar, and I find the preliminary energy concepts and historical martial practices quite straightforward. I would be happy to act as your study partner. We can go over the kinetic fundamentals and the historical sword forms during the next free period.”

It was a surgical intervention. Hermione had inserted herself into the narrative, acting as a neutral bridge and, more importantly, running immediate interference for Harry. She instantly recognized Ron's desperation as a liability and was determined to contain the threat.

Harry gave her a discreet, grateful nod. “That’s exceptionally kind of you, Hermione,” Harry said, officially granting his approval. “Ron, I highly recommend Hermione. She is the finest mind in this Academy, noble or commoner. You would be fortunate to gain her time.”

Ron, utterly defeated that the immense prize of Lord Potter’s favour had been snatched away by a commoner girl, sputtered a protest, but was trapped. To refuse Hermione’s public offer—made under Lord Potter’s direct recommendation—would be political suicide.

“Oh, well… thank you, Hermione,” Ron mumbled, defeated but still grasping the lifeboat. “That would be great. I look forward to it.”

Hermione offered a small, triumphant, but polite smile and gently steered Ron away from the Potter group, immediately quizzing him on energy dissipation.

Harry appreciated it and let her handle Ron. Maybe, he thought, a distant, weary hope blooming, that can also spiral into some love affair between the two, just like the original life I lost.

The subsequent class, History of Governance, passed in a blur of intellectual sparring, with Tom correcting two other students on historical mandates while maintaining his protective perimeter.

It was during the chaotic rush of students moving between the History lecture hall and the Potions dungeons for their final class of the day that the tension finally reached a flashpoint.

Tom got cornered.

Near a narrow, ornamental archway, three hulking figures—heirs to ancient, influential, but ultimately second-tier noble houses—stood waiting: Yaxley, Parkinson, and Carrow. All three were older, taller, and possessed the lazy, entitled bulk of young men who had only ever relied on status.

“Look who it is,” drawled Yaxley. “The House of Potter’s little pet commoner.”

Parkinson snickered. “Shame about the name, Tom — how plain. The name always gives it away, doesn’t it? The stain of the unknown.”

Carrow simply took a single, aggressive step toward Tom, closing the space.

Tom’s mind became a tempest of icy, lethal fury. Every instinct screamed for him to retaliate with unadulterated elemental force. He could generate a pulse of disruptive energy that would leave all three writhing in pain.

But he had to restrain himself.

If he fought back, he risked bringing forth problems to the Potter name as its ward and they were three nobles, he was a single commoner. The political arithmetic was simple and binding: he could not afford to misuse the patronage Harry had granted him.

He forced his expression into a mask of strained neutrality. “You are blocking the corridor,” Tom said, his voice dangerously low. “I suggest you move.”

“Oh, is the Potter Ward giving orders now?” Parkinson mocked. “It seems your patron’s power doesn’t rub off on your manners.”

And then, unexpectedly, a cold, silken voice cut through the air.

“Step aside, Yaxley. You smell like an inferior blend of cologne.”

It was Draco Malfoy. He looked at the three heirs, his posture radiating a contempt so pure it was almost beautiful.

“It concerns me deeply,” Draco sneered. “You three. Your houses are barely relevant. You are peacocking, acting superior to Tom, simply because of his status, when you know you could never hold a candle to his superior intellect.”

Draco took a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper of insult. “I have allied myself with Tom, a commoner far above your station. It would be an insult to me, heir of the Malfoy Marquisate, for such worthless heirs to pick on the people I have selected for my own circle. I pick my people well. Now, move aside. You are boring me.”

The words, cutting, vicious, and rooted purely in aristocratic calculation, hit the three bullies with undeniable force. Offending the Malfoy heir was a mistake none could afford. With visible, frustrated humiliation, they scattered.

Tom stood, utterly still, his internal storm stilled by the shock of the intervention.

Draco finally turned, meeting Tom’s gaze. “Don’t thank me, Commoner,” Draco commanded, his voice sharp. “I didn’t do it because of pity or sentiments. I did it because your superior brain is an asset. I trust Harry, and Harry trusts you. You will not be belittled.”

Tom felt a strange, internal jarring recognition—a profound acknowledgement of shared purpose and cold-blooded honesty. Draco hadn't defended his person; he had defended Tom’s merit and utility.

In that moment, Tom saw Draco as almost an equal, not quite, but certainly deserving of standing next to him.

Harry who was actually watching the entire thing under a concealment charm had to stifle his chuckle.

Harry had been observing the scene from a shadowed corner, monitoring both players. The veteran trusts no one, not even himself, and he trusts them only on the basis that he can predict them and read them. Their motives were raw, ambitious, and therefore, beautifully clear.

It is no offence to them (leaning more on Draco than Tom) that Harry trusts none of them. It iss simply because he learned that although he is a rich heir, trust is a currency he does not have an abundance of. 

The closest he can have for the two would be security. Security in knowing he can read both of the like an open book. With all the knowledge of the past life, and this one — Harry can contain them before they become a problem.

That gives him all the contentment he needs to sit back and allow them to posture themselves.

Satisfied, Harry let the concealment charm fall.

He rounded the corner, acting like he had just arrived, his expression one of genial, slightly hurried concern.

“Tom! Draco! There you are,” Harry greeted them, his tone casual. He clapped a hand briefly on Tom’s shoulder. “Never mind. Are you also headed to the Potions classroom?”

The three of them make their way to their next shared class. Luna was already there when they arrive, settled at one of the circular worktables, her focus crystal resting beside a handful of dried belladonna petals. Draco immediately settled right next to her. The scene was set for the final lesson of the day.

The worktables were large, circular granite surfaces, each designed to comfortably accommodate five cauldrons and their associated cutting boards and mixing bowl. When Harry, Tom, and Draco arrived, they naturally gravitated toward the table Luna occupied.

Draco right by Luna’s side like it was the unspoken rule to always be grouped with her. Luna greeted them all with her easy, airy smile that met her twinkling eyes. It seems that between lessons, she ended up with daisies in her hair, as they not littered a single braid trail framing her face.

Harry and Tom slid onto the bench, but before Draco could fully settle, the fifth spot—the seat directly across from Tom, and perfectly adjacent to Harry—was claimed by one Hermione.

Tom’s eyes, a rare and dangerous shade of molten red in the dim, subterranean light, seized on her immediately. His posture went from relaxed confidence to a tense, coiled threat.

Irritating. Tom’s mind spat the word like venom. He hated her intrusion. Hermione was a fungus, a commoner mushroom appearing out of nowhere, daring to insert herself into the meticulously curated order of Harry’s inner circle. She was a dirty mutt—a commoner without even the saving grace of an interesting, useful pedigree—and yet, she clung, a desperate leech who had somehow convinced Harry of her worth.

Tom’s fury was a cold, pure elemental rage, easily capable of causing her cauldron to violently combust, scattering deadly elemental toxins throughout the room. He felt the impulse to execute this political problem instantly.

He was only restrained by one, unbearable fact: Harry appeared fond of her.

Harry's quiet approval during the Charms incident was a leash. Tom couldn't name the reason for Harry’s fondness—it was a sentimental, unpredictable deviation—but he respected Harry’s judgment. He could not risk the slightest flicker of disapproval from his patron. So, Tom internalized the hostility, letting it crystallize into a deep, icy contempt that only fueled his desire to outperform her.

Hermione, meanwhile, was not stupid. She was clever—deadly so. She could almost feel Tom's lethal, barely contained hostility radiating off the granite table, a palpable wave of pure, concentrated resentment. But she had anticipated this. She focused on her cauldron, its polished brass a defensive shield.

He cannot touch me.

Tom was a commoner orphan, after all, regardless of the Potter name he wore like armour. His power was derivative; hers was innate and proven. She understood the unspoken rules of this new court: Tom could not truly touch her without challenging Harry’s explicit approval. So, she would stay just right next to the line, never crossing, but close enough to reap all the benefits. She focused entirely on the intricate work of the potion, determined to let her competence speak the only language the nobility truly respected: excellence.

She was staking her future on this proximity—for herself, for her parents, for the stable, comfortable life she deserved. After all, just like Tom, she was only striving for a life she had earned with her own staggering intellect.

The lesson began: the difficult task of brewing the Aqueous Calm Potion, a tricky elemental elixir requiring the precise application of warming Earth-Fire energy to dissolve exotic mosses without causing the volatile water element to boil too rapidly. It was a perfect test of minute control.

The five cauldrons simmered. Luna, eyes distant, let her inherent intuition guide her, stirring with a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. Draco, relying on decades of Malfoy-mandated rote memory and textbook precision, executed every chop and stir with aristocratic confidence. Harry, employing effortless, nearly invisible elemental pressure to regulate his heat, remained aloof, his potion a perfect, slow-churning sapphire blue.

Tom, however, was a sight of intense, terrifying beauty. Every calculated action was flawless, driven by a deep, hungry need to dominate the space. The commoner-orphan was determined to prove his superiority over every aristocratic legacy at the table.

Hermione was relentless, reviewing the provided text and cross-referencing her notes on molecular thermal conductivity. Her meticulous, academic rigour allowed her to compensate for a slightly weaker innate control, applying the heat with rigorous, small bursts of precision.

When the professor called time, the results were laid out. The table's results were breathtakingly close—far exceeding the rest of the class.

The professor, after a detailed inspection, announced the winners:

Tom Riddle took the top spot. His potion was a flawless, mirror-like concentration of Aqueous Calm, its elemental signature vibrating with peak stability.

Hermione and Draco tied for second. Draco's potion suffered a fractional instability due to a hurried last stir; Hermione's lacked Tom’s pure potency but was technically perfect in composition.

Harry and Luna tied for third. Harry's was excellent but slightly over-boiled (he simply hadn't cared enough for perfection). Luna’s was potent but slightly unorthodox in its moss suspension, guided more by feeling than formula.

Without meaning to, their table had suddenly become some exclusive potioneers' protégé club, unofficially marked by a single session of shared excellence. Hermione felt a profound, exhilarating surge of validation. She could almost see the bright future she had carved for herself simply by sharing this one, crucial table with the notable heirs.

Tom broke the silence, his action a deliberate performance meant for an audience of one.

“The commoner, Hermione, proved surprisingly meticulous,” Tom stated, his voice cool but carrying enough resonance to be heard by the professor and by Harry. “Her discipline is commendable. For a student without inherent pedigree, her ranking is a testament to her diligence.”

It was the highest praise Tom Riddle was capable of giving a perceived rival. He looked up, eager to see Harry pleased with him.

He succeeded. Harry's face softened, a genuine, warm smile curving his lips at the subtle compliment to his new academic ally. “That’s very generous of you, Tom. You both did excellently.”

Hermione accepted Tom's measured commendation rather giddily, her cheeks flushing with the heat of achievement and the unexpected acknowledgement from the infamous, handsome Tom. The flush of colour made her look startlingly young and vulnerable.

Harry, watching this exchange, felt a sudden, sharp, and intensely unpleasant jolt in his chest.

He looked at Tom. The lighting in the classrom was terrible, yet Tom’s sharp cheekbones and perfectly sculpted features only looked more dramatic. Tom was, Harry realized, just as unsettlingly handsome as the charming, intellectual Diary Tom Riddle he had encountered during his first life’s second year. He possessed a magnetic field—a rare charisma that combined intellect, ambition, and physical perfection.

Oh. Hermione was blushing. Tom was oozing power and intellect, and he had just offered her a validation she desperately craved. Tom could very well be Hermione’s type, in this world or the last—the brilliant, dangerous male challenge she couldn't resist.

And Harry, staring at the sight of them, oddly didn’t like the idea of Hermione and Tom together. The thought of his loyal, brilliant friend falling for his fated, dangerous enemy felt like a betrayal he hadn't earned the right to resent.

He barely controlled the sudden, irrational surge of possessiveness. He knew he had to break the attention, had to reorient Tom's focus back where it belonged.

“Tom, your potion was flawless,” Harry cut in, his voice slightly louder, reclaiming the center of attention. “You maintained perfect Earth-Fire regulation while ensuring maximum dissolution. That level of micro-control is extraordinary. You have secured our table's victory.”

Tom turned from Hermione immediately, his handsome face transforming. The cold, calculated mask slipped, replaced by an expression of unguarded, smug preening. His eyes brightened, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. 

Watching the smugness of him—this blatant, vulnerable vanity evoked by Harry’s specific praise—Harry felt a wave of heat wash over him, a physical, electric tension that tightened his throat. The veteran felt the dizzying, terrifying thrill of evoking such raw emotion from the most dangerous man in the room.

The realization hit him with the force of a thunderclap, shattering his carefully constructed composure and the veteran's detachment.

Oh my God. Am I also attracted to Tom Riddle?

The war veteran, who trusted no one, not even himself, was undeniably, terrifyingly, and physically drawn to the enemy he was sworn to manage. His strategic game had just become catastrophically complicated.