Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

13 August, 1975

Smoke and ash choked the air, turning the crumbling house into a suffocating maze. Blinding flashes of curses and hexes lit the darkness in violent bursts, and Severus clung to the splintering staircase, his wand shaking in his slick, trembling hand. The shrieking cries of Aurors and Death Eaters echoed through the chaos, their flickering silhouettes twisting like ghosts against the cracked stone walls.

Severus needed to get out. He needed to find Lily and run. His heart pounded as he stumbled backward, colliding with someone. He spun around, his wand snapping up, only to meet another wand aimed straight at him.  It took a moment to register the other person on the other side of the wand was Marlene McKinnon. With her curly blonde hair was a fizzy mess, torn leather jacket,  and her beaten and bloody lip; she's been fighting. But it didn't matter if she was fighting Death Eaters or the Order, he knew her. Marlene was someone safe. 

He lowered his wand without hesitation. "We need to get out of here." 

"You don't have to tell me twice--LOOK OUT!" 

She yanked him down, and just in time.

A lethal green zipped through the air, and collided with the spot Severus's head had just been. They stared at the spot, wide-eyed, their mouths agape. That nearly hit him. He nearly died!

Out of the smoke came a sturdy witch in purple Auror robes, wand raised and the tip glowing with the next curse. "Are you death eaters?" she demanded. 

Severus couldn't find the words to answer, but Marlene did. Proving to be a true Gryffindor, she shoved Severus behind her. "You’re a clever one, aren’t you? Firing the Killing Curse first, asking questions later—stupid bint!"

A loud, sudden pop cracked through the air behind the Auror. She whirled around, wand raised, but a hand shot out of the shadows, seizing her wrist. She screamed—a raw, piercing sound—as if the touch itself burned her skin. The smoke and shadows parted, revealing a tall, cloaked figure. The plague doctor mask gave him an eerie, inhuman silhouette, but the voice that followed was unmistakable.

"You nearly," Tom Riddle—no, this wasn't Tom, this was Lord Voldemort—said, his voice low and cold, vibrating with rage, "murdered my son!"

The entire house shuddered beneath the weight of his fury. The floor itself  splinter and crumbled under his feet. The paintings rattled against the walls, falling to the ground.

Severus was too stunned to move, but Marlene wasn't. She was a chaser on the quidditch team. She was used to thinking on her feet. She grabbed his hand, and dragged him away down the narrow hallway of the house, and into the smoke. The auror's screams followed them before they're violently cut off. 

Once his feet were moving, Severus’s brain caught up just in time to see a Death Eater in a skull mask step out of the smoke, their wand already rising. Severus reacted instinctively, slashing his wand forward. “Bombarda!” A string of explosive missiles slammed into the Death Eater’s chest, sending them crashing through the wall into the next room.

Marlene didn’t stop running, and Severus stumbled after her, his lungs burning with every step. The smoke closed in again, suffocating and blinding, but his mind wasn’t in the house anymore. It was back a months, at the start of summer....

27 June, 1975

A loud crack filled the air, disturbing the peacocks and peahens of Malfoy Manor. Tom Apparated himself, Severus, and Lily onto the grounds of the manor.

The moment their feet touched the ground, Lily stumbled slightly, as though the shock of landing had jolted through her entire body. She quickly pulled off her mask, her face paling as she bent over, clutching her stomach. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stopping the vomit from spilling out of her lips. Severus was at her side again, and rubbing her back with gentle circles.

She swallowed down her sick, grimacing as she did so. "Oh, God, I hate Apparating! Does it ever get better?" she muttered, her voice tight, her brows furrowed in discomfort. 

Tom raised an eyebrow, his sharp gaze flicking to her with an unexpected trace of concern. And Severus watched Tom Riddle the Mediwizard that spent some days working twelve hour shifts at St. Mungo's. 

"You should make an appointment at St. Mungo’s, but let me run a diagnostic spell on you, " he said, his tone still cool but tinged with something that wasn’t quite indifference. He placed a hand on her shoulder briefly as he drew out his wand. It appeared with a flick of his wrist, and he muttered a diagnostic spell.

His eyes narrowed slightly as the spell seemed to confirm what he suspected. "You’re experiencing splinching without actually splinching. Both times you've side-alonged with me, you've had stomach problems, dizziness, and vomiting. I... believe you might have apparitachexia."

Lily straightened, her hand still pressed against her stomach as a wave of dizziness made her sway. "Apparitachexia?" she repeated meekly, her face contorted with frustration. "What’s that?"

Tom’s gaze softened for a brief moment. "It’s a condition, rare but not unheard of. Your magical core reacts poorly to Apparition—causing physical pain, nausea, and dizziness. It's likely something you’ve inherited… though it's not easy to cure."

Lily took a shaky breath, trying to stand straighter, but the nausea was already rising again, and she couldn’t help but wince. "Wonderful," she muttered, her eyes flicking to Severus, who remained eerily quiet beside them. "So... there's no way around it? I’m just stuck with this?" And then the word inherent sunk in. "Wait, what do you mean I inherited it? I'm a muggle-born." 

Severus spoke up, cutting Tom off before he could respond. "Muggle-borns have magical ancestors, Lily. Like a distant great-something-grandparent. So it makes you have flicker fever."

"It's apparitachexia," Tom corrected, with an edge in his voice. "Merlin's ass, I did not study medicine to hear silly nonsense like flicker fever." He sighed, rather dramatically, and turned to Lily. "But Severus is correct. I have apparitachexia as well," he said, his tone growing distantly. "Got it from my squib mother, and she gotten it from her mother's family. Her cousin Ginevra Weasley has it too, along with couple of the other men in her family." 

"So...when everyone says i look like a Weasley, its because I might have a Weasley relative?" she asked slowly. "And that's how I got...appari...appara--flicker fever?" 

An unreadable emotion flickered across his face, so quickly that it might have been missed. But Severus, who had been trained by Eileen to read faces, noticed it—just barely. Tom's expressive brown eyes betrayed him for a fleeting moment, but not enough for Severus to understand what was behind them. Tom’s gaze briefly flicked to Lily, and then he seemed to catch himself, the expression quickly falling back into impassivity.

Severus wondered if he could invade Tom’s mind the way Tom occasionally did his, but quickly dismissed the idea. It was a very bad one.

"I suppose that is possible a Weasley snuck off into the muggle world, and took one to bed, yes," Tom said, shrugging. 

"I don’t see you reacting the way I do," Lily said, nearly whining in frustration.

Tom arched an eyebrow. "Because I'm nearly fifty, exceptionally powerful, a healer, and have been apparating since I was fourteen. Trust me, when I was a boy, I did react the same way."

"fourteen?" Severus asked, surprise tinging his voice. "You've been apparating since you're fourteen?" 

Tom gave a dry laugh. "I lived in London when the Germans were dropping bombs on us. It was a matter of survival—got to learn to disappear when the world’s falling apart," he said, voice hardening. His dark brown eyes flickered to a ruby red under his mask, causing both Severus and Lily to flinch back. Then he cleared his throat, and he returned to his usual, sardonic self. "Anyway, if you two are done..." He lifted his hand again, but instead of his wand, he was holding Severus's mask. "You forgot this back at the cottage."

Severus’s face flushed slightly, and he took the raven-like mask from Tom with a quiet, "Thank you."

Once Severus had it in hand, Tom ruffled his hair. "Not like I’ve got anything better to do than play personal assistant to a forgetful teenager," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Severus shoved Tom's hand away, his lips pursed. He turned to Lily to see if she was better, but when he saw her she was staring straight ahead, slacked jawed.

Severus didn’t need to follow her gaze to understand why. Malfoy Manor loomed ahead, a monument to power and opulence. The manor resembled a Gothic castle more than a home, its dark stone walls rising into pointed arches and spires. Stained glass windows caught the light of the setting sun, scattering cascading colors across the perfectly manicured lawn. An iron gate stood between them and the manor, flanked by two snarling gargoyles. over the stone walls Rose vines twisted over the cobblestone walls surrounding the property, their blooms vivid against the cold gray stone. An albino peacock perched on the wall to their left, preening his feathers.

Severus remembered the first time he seen Malfoy Manor and he felt the same as he did now: bitter resentment. He knew early on as a child that if Mother hadn't married Tobias, Severus would've lived in the Prince Manor as he deserved. Though given his mother's first husband, and Severus actual father still being a mudblood, would have it mattered? Sure, the classification of half bloods had changed, but that didn't stop Tom being seen as one by other Prince family members. 

"Wow," Lily said, unable to find the words. "This is prettier than Hogwarts."  

He glanced over at Tom, ready to ask how they would get past the gates, but stopped mid-step. Tom was standing a few paces ahead, calmly petting an all white peahen that had wandered over, her glossy feathers catching the reflective colors of the stain glass windows. 

"Father?" Severus asked, raising a brow at the sight.

Tom glanced over his shoulder. "Vain little creatures, aren't they?"

Severus raised a brow at the sight. "I didn't know you're an animal lover." 

"I'm a vegetarian, Severus, honestly," Tom pointed out, turning away from the hen. The bird nudged at his hand for more rubs against her head, but Tom shooed her. "Did it cross your mind it was out of altruism?" 

"No," he said flatly. "How do we get through the gate, Father?"

"Oh, well, very simply--

A sharp snap interrupted him, and several figures appeared behind them, startling the peacocks into scattering once again. Their panicked shrieks filled the air as they fled the gate. 

Severus took in the new arrivals, and belatedly recognized the youngest of the group, a fellow student at Hogwarts and fellow Gryffindor of Lily's, Marlene McKinnon. And next to her was her brother, Ewan, even though it been three years since Severus last seen him. He concluded the other four people were Marlene's parents and grandparents. The six of them all wore similar outfits of red, gold, and black. Though, unlike her mother, and grandmother, Marlene wore silk slacks instead of a ball gown. 

The small party were fussing over fixing their outfits, and brushing dirt off them: they used a portkey over apparating. Which was understandable, Tom only had three people to worry about, though Severus assumed Tom could apparate more than six people at a time if he wished, despite having flicker fever. 

Severus was just relieved that Lily knew better than to speak before the adults. Eileen had raised him to never interrupt when adults were talking, and while his tongue sometimes slipped in private moments, he wouldn’t dare let that happen here—not in front of purebloods.

“Ah, isn’t it the McKinnons!” Tom called out, taking a step forward. His tone was laced with false cheer, very similar to how he had spoken to Walburga Black earlier in the week in Diagon Alley. “Punctual as ever.”

He glanced at the sky, his voice casual but edged with condescension.
“It seems portkeys aren’t as unreliable as I’d assumed.”

The oldest man turned to face Tom. He was a stout figure, dressed in expensive silk robes that dragged along the ground, the gold star embroidery at the hem making him look like a fragment of a red midnight sky. His mask, in contrast, was simple. With his long gray hair and beard, he resembled a stern-faced Santa Claus. Beside him, his wife wore a matching ensemble, hers cut into an elegant ball gown.

“And if it isn’t the mudblood upstart,” the man began, his voice sharp.

“Father,” Marlene’s father hissed, stepping forward with an audible clearing of his throat. “Do not start.”

Recovering, he approached Tom with a forced smile and extended a hand. “It’s good to see you,” he said, though his gaze flickered to Severus. “I heard you required a son.”

“Oh,” Tom replied, taking the offered hand and squeezing it just a fraction too firmly. “It seems I’ve been the subject of gossip. I have recently come into fatherhood—and no, I did not kidnap him, before you ask, Raghnall.”

Raghnall winced and withdrew his hand quickly. “I wouldn’t have assumed such a thing.”

“I would,” the grandfather cut in, his tone snappish. 

Tom clicked his tongue, and his smirk twitched downward just for a moment before his mask returned. "honesty, a rare trait these days." 

Without a glance, without a word, Tom raised his hand. Severus wondered if his father was going to retaliate, but instead Tom snapped his fingers. Metal scraped against each other making himself and Lily jump. The gates creaked open, the heavy iron doors parting for Tom without him even looking. 

"However, I prefer loyalty, McKinnon, and the Malfoys are nothing but loyal," he said, his voice icy. He turned sharply on his heel and walked through. Severus grabbed Lily's hand and dragged her inside. She waved her shoulder to Marlene just as the gates closed on Mr. McKinnon's face. 

The main doors swung open for them once more, and shuttered once they past the threshold. Lily's eyes roamed the grand entrance while she hissed in Severus's ear. They're both desperate to keep in step with Tom's long strides. 

"Why would they think he kidnapped you?" she asked. She pulled her attention away from a long landscape painting of dragons flying around mountains to glance at him. Her eyes spoke volumes of concern he didn't think was necessary. 

"He has a reputation," he said. 

Tom turned sharply, pivoting from the main hall to a side corridor. The hallway wasn't nearly as grand as the rest of the manor, but it was still the Malfoy Manor. Polished wood doors with iron handles stood under a pointed archway. Carved into the arch on either side were ornate peacocks. Their eyes glowed an ethereal silver that felt as the three were being watched. 

Severus involuntary flinched as the passed under the archway. 

He decide focused on Tom instead of the creepy portraits and statues. He never been down this part of Malfoy manor, but then again, his time here has only be a short few hours collectively in the summer between their third and fourth year.

Tom walked fast with his long legs, and Severus hadn't spared a glance at Lily before hurrying to catch up. She was too busy dragging her feet to glare at each of the paintings of  Malfoys sneering down at her.

"Where are we going, Father?" he asked. 

Tom looked down at him before they reached another door. He stopped abruptly. "This is where the underage guests are having their party."

Lily’s gaze lingered on a particularly sour-looking wizard in a powdered wig before she hurried up to them. "Surely this isn't the main entrance to the party."

"It is not," Tom confirmed. "It's safter for you two go through this entrance." he nodded at the door as a gesture. 

Lily bristled, her face flushing red under her dragonfly mask. “I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”

Tom’s gaze swept over her, cold and assessing. “Miss Evans, it isn’t you I doubt—it’s them. You do not live among Slytherins. The purebloods in Gryffindor house are not like the ones in our house." 

"I know that--they actually accept me," she said curtly, which made Severus snort and Tom's smile turn thin. 

"They do not, they just pretend too," he corrected rather quickly. His hand went to this throat, rubbing at an old injury that was now invisible. "But what I am getting at is the purebloods and half bloods in this environment follow strict rules."

Lily twisted a lock of hair with her fingers. "I attended Professor McGonagall's etiquette courses." 

"Those are not the same," Severus said, catching on why Tom took them this route. The older purebloods would eat Lily alive. "I attended one out first year, remember?" she nodded. "She taught us a simple handshake is enough. It didn't sit right with me because that's nothing how my mother acted with our muggle neighbors. I wrote Mother about what I learned, and got howl for even thinking that was accurate. Let's take a formal introduction. You don’t just go up to someone and offer your hand without waiting for a proper invitation. At one of these parties, if someone of higher rank offers their hand, you’re expected to bow—just slightly. Not too much, of course, or it looks desperate. But enough to show respect, especially for the older families. Anything less, and you're seen as rude, or worse—ignorant.”

Lily frowned, trying to digest the complexity of it all. “But... how could I even know all of that? How would I fit in?”

"You wouldn't," Tom interjected, his voice now icy. "This is what I told you yesterday—Albus Dumbledore, in an attempt to accommodate Muggle-borns, is setting you up for failure. You are not being taught the way I was when in was at Hogwarts. How do you think I went from speaking with a harsh cockney accent to this?" he gestured to his mouth. "You think I went into school knowing Pureblood society? Leanan Malfoy taught etiquette while Minnie and I were at school. How could Minnie pass off handshaking as correct?" The disgust was palpable in his voice. 

Lily's shoulders sank low, and for split second, she seemed defeated. But it lasted for only a moment. She rolled her neck side to side. "I won't let that stop me." 

"Spunky," Tom said flippantly. He pushed open the door and strode out. Severus and Lily followed quickly. 

They rounded a tall hedge bush, trimmed to act as a wall. Beyond the threshold lay a sprawling garden, bathed in the golden light of early evening, the sun dipping low on the horizon. A warm summer breeze brushed past them, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine.

Lily gasped softly, and Severus's mouth fell open. It was a vision straight out of a storybook, an enchanted woodland dressed for a midsummer ball. Goosebumps ran up his spine and down his arms. This was exactly how Eileen had painted the parties of her youth, before Tobias had stolen it all away. Severus knew being friends with Lucius would mean eventually he would be apart of this world. He just hadn't expected it so soon. And he thought it would be Eileen to lead him through a party like this as a grand return to the world of purebloods. 

They walked down the main path. Lined with shimmering strings of fairy lights, their warm glow casting dappled patterns on the cobblestone walk beneath. The lights weren’t just ordinary—they seemed to float, unanchored by wire, as though tiny fae had taken it upon themselves to light the way. Overhead, ancient oak and willow trees arched together, their leafy canopies adorned with delicate lanterns and silver ribbons that swayed gently with the breeze.

There was faint hint of classical music under the current of voices speaking all at once. 

"I will come find you two in a few hours, if not sooner if Walburga Black is close to driving me to off myself," he said cheerily. 

Tom pushed apart a cloth that divided the section of the garden from the party, and cacophony of conversations and laughter filled the air. He slipped inside, and didn't wait for Severus and Lily to follow. 

Severus looked at her as the curtain fell, deafening the noise again. "Ready?" 

She sighed, and pushed through. "As ready as I can be." and they stepped through the curtain. 

And there was crowd of around forty kids, some Severus recognized right away. He caught sight of Tom making his way through the crowd of teens, avoiding all of them. But stopped to talk to Narcissa and Sirius Black up against the wall of the manor. Severus scowled, watching his father speak casually to him of all people. 

From where Severus was, it looked like Sirius was attempting to hide he was smoking, but whatever Tom had said made the boy go right back to it. After a moment, the two cousins laughed while Tom smiled down at them before leaving on the other side. 

Severus briefly considered marching over to demand an explanation, but knew he had to find Lucius first. He took his eyes off Sirius (and Narcissa!), and examine the crowd. 

The heart of the party was set on a wide, open lawn ringed with wildflowers that glowed faintly in the twilight, enchanted to mimic starlight. A stage for music was hosted between two swooping willow trees. Right now there was enchanted musical instruments playing, and Severus wondered if they would have actual music later. 

Lily nudged him. "Is that Lucius?" she asked in a low whisper. He followed her gaze to center of the chaos. 

Tables carved from polished tree stumps were scattered around the edges, draped with flowing fabrics in deep greens, golds, and silvers. Goblets of sparkling drinks caught the light, their colors shifting like liquid rainbows. 

And holding one of the crystal goblets, was Lucius holding court with teens their age, but were not from Hogwarts, that was for sure. From where they were, Lucius wore a pale gold mask and matching outfit that shimmered in the setting sunlight. 

"We need to greet him before we even begin to talk to anyone else," Severus explained. 

"If anyone here wants to talk to me," she said grumbly. "As pretty as I feel in my dress, and lovely as this invent is, I won't delude myself into thinking I'm welcomed." 

"Marlene and Sirius are here," Severus pointed out. "And Potter will most definitely be here, so you will have some people to socialize outside of me."

"You think James will be here?" she asked a bit too quickly for Severus's liking. 

 He glanced at her, and saw her cheeks turn pink at the mention of Potter. "Really?" 

She looked away, stumbling over her words. "Oh please. You know I don't like that arrogant prat." 

Severus narrowed his eyes at her, but didn't push the subject. He knew she was lying, and she knew he knew she was lying. He'd hope she would be smart enough to not fall for the likes of Potter. He grabbed Lily's hand and the two walked into the sea of people to get to Lucius. 

As they weaved through the crowd, Severus spotted Evan Rosier, his dusty blonde hair gleaming under the soft glow of the fairy lights, engrossed in a conversation with Iolanda Zabini. Evan was wearing an impeccably tailored dark velvet jacket, the gold buttons, and his sleek appearance only made his presence more striking. Iolanda, standing opposite him, wore a rose gold gown that complemented her smooth, dark skin, with subtle black beading that shimmered as she moved.

Severus’s heart fluttered at the sight, and despite himself, his eyes lingered on Evan before he turned his head quickly. Evan and Iolanda coordinated their outfits to compliment each other. Even their half masks matched with mirrored gold glace over black satin. He needed to stop feeling jealous. He shouldn't even feel this way about another boy. 

He refocused on Lucius who was within earshot bragging. "My father and mother allowed me to choose the band, and I of course had to pick The Gilded Wands. My older cousin, Fenix Thorne," he paused to for the gasps, "is the lead guitarist." 

Lucius spun around with an effortless grace, his pale gold robes catching the soft light as though they were woven from the sun itself. The faint pastel blues and pinks in his outfit gave him an ethereal quality, though the large, ornate sun embroidered on his chest was a bit overdone in Severus's opinion. His mask was simpler than others. It was fine lace made of pale gold, and it did nothing to hide the pleased smirk tugging at his lips as he noticed Severus approaching.

“Severus!” Lucius exclaimed, extending a hand, his tone dripping with an easy confidence. “I was wondering when you’d find me. I trust you weren’t too overwhelmed by the crowd. Aunt Leanan insists on these parties being grander than the last." 

Severus took Lucius's arm, and Lucius gripped his in return. It was not a formal greeting Eileen drilled into his head, but it also showed the rest of the guests where Severus stood: at Lucius's side. The Half-Blood Prince was Lucius Malfoy equal. "my father chose this route so I wouldn't be overwhelmed by the crowds." 

Lucius's smile flickered downward into a frown. "Right. I have to remember who your father is," he said slowly. He cleared his throat. "No matter." his gaze drifted lazily to Lily. His eyes widened, just a fraction, betraying his surprise. "Ah and Lily Evans. Yes, father mentioned you were invited at the last minute. How...different." 

His attention flickered back to Severus, wishing to ask why was there a muggle-born was standing in the middle of his grand party. 

“Thank you for having me,” Lily replied, her tone warm but measured. “Your home is... beautiful.” 

"Of course it is," he said haughtily. "I dare say it is more grander than Hogwarts." he turned sharply as the Black cousins approached them, as the crowd swarming Lucius a moment dispersed. "Ah, and there's my darling betrothed." 

Narcissa glided into view with effortless grace, allowing Lucius to drape an arm around her as though it were second nature. Her gown mirrored his, pale gold and pastel blue blending seamlessly into a motif of moons and stars that shimmered in the low light. Instead of a mask, a delicate tiara perched atop her head, catching the glow of the fairy lights. Tiny, glittering moon beads were woven into her curly blonde hair, adding an ethereal touch to her already regal presence.

Severus couldn’t help but find their engagement curious. To his knowledge, neither Bellatrix nor Andromeda had been promised to anyone so young, yet before their third year, Lucius and Narcissa had announced their betrothal. It was strange, even for purebloods, though Severus had never dared to question it aloud to either of them. He only asked Iolanda, who was Narcissa's dormmate and best friend about it. Apparently, it was to prevent Narcissa from running off with a muggle-born like Andromeda Black. 

She eyed Lily with curious glare. "Well, well, we just invite everyone now?" her tone was a mix of amusement and indifference at Lily's presence. 

Lily's cheeks flushed, and Severus was ready to defend her but an all too familiar voice interrupted them. 

"Now, now, Cissy, play nice," Sirius said, his voice dripping with mockery. Much like Severus, he wore a detailed animal half mask, though his was shaped into the sharp, angular face of a fox. The mask’s fiery hues of red and orange caught the light, accented with gold edges that shimmered as he tilted his head. A playful smirk tugged at his lips, his grey eyes glinting mischievously from behind the mask, as if he relished the opportunity to stir trouble. 

His clothes were simpler compared to his mask. His tunic was made out of rustic red silk under a velvet black vest and black trousers that were well fitted for the quidditch player. 

Sirius looked Lily up and down, with mild concern. "Is there a reason you're here, Evans?" he tried to play it off as he was teasing her, but his face screamed he was worried about her safety. Honestly, Severus couldn't blame him. 

"Mr. Malfoy invited me when I was over at Severus's home earlier today," Lily explained with a forced unpleasant smile. 

Narcissa's blue eyes dashed to Severus. "Is it true your father is actually Mr. Riddle." 

Severus clicked his tongue. "Unless my mother is lying about that too, but yes, he is my father."

"Wow," she glanced at her cousin. "You were telling the truth, Siri. Imagine that." 

Sirius put his hand over his chest, sighing dramatically. "Always assume I'm lying. I saw them together with Reggie and Mother at Diagon Alley." Humor didn't reach his eyes. Being Tom's son changed their dynamic, Severus realized. 

"I saw my father spoke to you two a moment ago, what was that about?" Severus kept his tone light, but he was far too curious. It seemed Tom was close to the Black family too, as much as he could be given his blood status. 

"He wanted to know where Sirius's mother was at in the party to avoid her," Narcissa answered. "For the best really, their arguments are quite legendary. Mr. Riddle knows how to get even the most educated of us to break decorum." she didn't say this with a sneer or disgust, just a fact. 

Severus frowned, glancing between her and Lucius, wondering—not for the first time—if the Black cousins knew the truth about Tom. Did they realize he was Lord Voldemort, or did they simply suspect? Narcissa was impossible to read, her calm, poised exterior revealing nothing.

Lucius waved a hand dismissively. “Enough of this talk about the adult guests, Narcissa. You’re in charge of Lilith tonight.”

“It’s just Lily,” Lily corrected quickly, her tone sharp but edged with unease. “And... what do you mean, ‘in charge of’?”

Narcissa’s pale blue eyes gleamed, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile but held a hint of mischief. She took Lily’s hand without asking, her grip surprisingly firm. “It means you’re coming with me,” she said airily, pulling Lily forward with a flourish.

“Narcissa—what are you doing?” Severus demanded, his arm half-raised as though to stop her, but the girls were already disappearing into the shifting crowd.

Narcissa didn’t even glance back. “Don’t worry, Severus,” she called over her shoulder, her voice light and teasing. “Iolanda and Dorcas will take good care of her."

Severus froze, torn between frustration and confusion. He could hear Lily’s faint protests—“Wait, where are we going?”—as Narcissa whisked her away, weaving deftly through the sea of swirling masks and silk.

An arm rested on his shoulder, and Severus turned to see Sirius, grinning at him under his fox mask. "We're never going to see Evans again."

Severus pulled away from him. "Don't touch me--Lucius, if Lily gets hurt here, I'm hexing everyone in sight. And if anyone retaliates, I think my newly found father will join in." 

"Oh, Severus, Narcissa is a class act, she will not let anyone harm Lilian," Lucius said. He grabbed Severus's arm and dragged him away too, with Sirius trailing behind them.

Looking back, Severus could tell the Black heir was only following to get a laugh out of the situation. 

He pulled his arm free. "Lucius, Lily's name isn't Lilian," he corrected, but assumed Lucius didn't care too much to remember. 

"Yes, yes," Lucius said. He put down his half finished drink on a table, and picked up a different goblet, this one silver and had an ornate peacock covered into it was filled with liquid black gold. A loud pop and rather sad looking house elf took the discarded goblet away. "Thank you, Dobby," he said airily. The elf grunted and disappeared again. 

Lucius gasped. "How rude of that bugger. I think he hates me, can you believe that? Someone hating me?" 

"Yes," both Severus and Sirius said at the same time. The two glanced at each other before snapping their attention forward. 

"Oh, hush, honestly," Lucius said, taking a sip before making a face. "Oh, that's vile," he handed it over to Sirius.

"I don't want your nasty spit," Sirius said, holding his hands up.

"Oh, please, we're cousins," Lucius argued. "Fifteenth cousins, twice removed, but we are kin."

"If that's the metric we're going by, then you're related to the Weasleys," Sirius fired back.

Lucius let out an offended screech. "How dare you! I am not related to any Weasley. Now that is repugnant!"

Severus had turned his attention to the frilly cakes on the serving tray. He picked one up, and before plopping it into his mouth, he said, "You're both inbred. Does it matter?"

That earned him glares from both boys. "Your mother is a Prince, Severus. You're not above it all," Lucius said sharply. He took another sip of the drink, deciding to keep it.

"And my mother's family didn't integrate into British society; they married into other Middle Eastern, North African, Greek, and Romani wizarding families instead," Severus said smugly. Of course, he wasn't sure about the Gaunts. But Lucius and Sirius didn't need to know about Tom's family. As far as most people were concerned, his mother was a no-name Squib, and his father was a Muggle. "What I'm saying is, my mother's pureblood family found ways to not sleep with their first cousins and remain pure--until Tom Riddle came along." 

"You know, I think I understand why my mother hates when half-bloods are invited to these kinds of parties," Sirius said sarcastically.

He wondered if he would see the eldest son of the most Ancient and Noble House of Black instead of the golden sheep Sirius played at Hogwarts.

He had a feeling he was seeing a glimpse of the real Sirius Black. 

Several others approached them, their masks obscuring their faces just enough to make Severus hesitate on who was who. Though he already seen Evan, and his grin was hard to miss. His twin, Pandora was at his side, replacing Iolanda. The pureblood Hufflepuff stood out among the well dressed magicians around her in a short orange and yellow dress. The fabric was a soft, flowing yellow that gleamed like sunlight, with subtle floral embroidery along the hem and bodice. The skirt was layered with sheer, airy fabric that moved like petals in the breeze, giving her the appearance of a walking sunflower. And her mask was actually a pair of very thick rimmed glasses with swirls painted on the frame. 

Flanking Evan was Seth Mulciber, towering over the others with a quiet, brooding intensity that drew attention without him even trying. The soft glow of the fairy lights highlighted the warm tone of his brown skin, and his closely trimmed hair framed sharp, angular features that easily made him one of the more handsome boys in Slytherin.

Severus’s eyes lingered for a moment longer than they should have, darting between Seth and Evan. There was something about the way Seth stood, unbothered and assured, or how Evan’s easy charm seemed to command the room without effort. Severus swallowed. He averted his gaze, and hoped no one noticed his...weirdness. 

 Garrett Avery was right behind them, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief as he pulled off his mask entirely, his tan skin flushed slightly from the heat of the crowded room.

His face lit up the second he spotted Severus, and with a a sudden lunge, he bumped Severus hard enough to send him stumbling into the nearby table of cakes. He nearly knocked Lucius to the ground. 

"You imbecilic prat," Lucius said, and Severus realized his drink splashed onto him. 

Severus straightened himself with a sigh, brushing crumbs off his sleeve as Garrett burst into laughter. He pulled out his second wand and muttered a cleaning spell. 

This sobered Garrett up. He reached for the wand, but Severus slipped back into his cloak. "Wow, Snape got a new father and new wand," Garrett teased, throwing an arm around Severus’s shoulders as though nothing had happened.

"Does everyone know about my predicament?" Severus asked, sighing. "And it's not a new wand, it's just a untraceable wand I can use outside of school." 

"So it is true your real father is Tom Riddle?" Seth asked, his tone sounded like he didn't want to be true. 

Severus glanced at Lucius, who was still annoyed about getting dirty, even though he had been cleaned in seconds. "Why does it feel like everyone knew who Tom was all along, but no one ever mentioned it until I found out?"

"It isn't that he just knows a lot of our parents, Severus," Pandora explained dreamingly. "Evan and I only know Mr. Riddle from when we visit our cousins at Grimmauld's." 

"Who also happen to be my cousins," Sirius added. He leaned forward, reaching around Severus to grab a frilly cake himself. "I'll be honest, I wouldn't have guessed he had a kid, let alone it be you, Sniv."

"Watch it, Sirius," Lucius snapped. 

Sirius chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, I'll play nice with your lap dog, Malfoy. I'm going to find more interesting people to talk to who aren't Slytherins. I know James or Marlene are around somewhere." he shoved the cake in his mouth and walked off. 

"I'm not a Gryffindor," Pandora said with whimsy in her voice, her fingers tracing the edge of a glass on nearby table as though it held some hidden secret. "I wonder if anyone else has ever noticed how the light dances in the glass like it's trying to tell us something. Maybe we should listen." She patted her brother's shoulder before skipping after Sirius, her blond curls bouncing behind her. 

Seth glared after Sirius before stepping to Severus’s other side. He slung an arm over Severus’s shoulder, shoving Garrett off in the process.

Severus’s pulse quickened, his chest tightening in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling. The warmth of Seth’s arm sent a spark racing through his nerves, settling uncomfortably in his stomach. His cheeks turned pink, and he quickly looked away, feigning interest in the far end of the garden.

How did he get so unlucky to share a dorm with both Evan Rosier and Seth Mulciber? Unlucky, or maybe too lucky for his own good.

"Glad you can finally join us outside of school, Sev," Seth said, but not before shooting a glare Sirius's direction. "It’s about time you stopped hiding among the muggles. Our parents came up together at school, and then raised the four of us together, you should've been apart of it instead of being stuck in Cokeworth with muggles." 

Severus squirmed under the attention. "I didn't exactly have a choice," he said, looking away. He wasn't entirely sure which he meant either. 

"But that has changed," Lucius said with some force, sensing Severus's soured mood. "You should've been with us the entire time, but with your newfound parentage you are where you belong finally." 

Lucius grabbed Severus’s hand and tugged him away from the food tables. “Speaking of,” he began smoothly, “it’s time you networked, Severus. Enough skulking about.”

“Do I have to?” Severus muttered, dragging his feet in resistance. “I barely tolerate talking to any of you as it is.”

Seth Mulciber fell into step beside him, putting Severus in the middle. Behind them, Garrett and Evan trailed along, Garrett humming tunelessly as he went. He thought the arrangement was odd. Usually, in school, Lucius was always leading, and Severus was in the back of their group. Here, it felt like all four were guiding him to lead. 

“Oh, don’t be cruel, Sevvy,” Garrett crooned as he suddenly swung his arms around both Severus and Seth, pulling them into his space. Now they left the tables serving food, Severus cologne was too strong, suffocating. “We adore you, really.”

Before Severus could shove him off, Garrett planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on his cheek, the smacking noise lingering far too long.

“Merlin’s ass, Garrett, will you quit it?” Seth hissed, shoving him off with enough force to make Garrett stumble a step back. Seth barely glanced at Garrett as he muttered under his breath, “Can’t take you anywhere.”

Severus aggressively wiped his cheek. "What the fuck, Avery," while Garrett laughed. 

Seth nudged his arm to get his attention. "Ignore him. Look, Sev, there's something I have to know." 

He leaned in impossibly close, his breath warm against Severus’s ear. Severus’s pulse quickened, his chest tight with a mix of unease and something else he didn’t want to name. Why did Seth have to hang off of him so much? 

“You know who your dad is?” Seth whispered, his breath brushing Severus’s ear in a way that sent an uninvited shiver down his spine. However the topic killed any mood Severus was feeling. “Really know who he is?”

Severus stiffened. He was under the impression Lord Voldemort's identity was a secret. 

Garrett’s obnoxious laughter broke through the moment. “Oh, come on, Seth, don’t scare him.”

Seth rolled his eyes. "I'm not trying to scare him, I'm trying to gauge what he knows."

Flustered, Severus stammered out, "yes, I do. He told me earlier this week." 

Lucius leaned over. "I told him before Mr. Riddle did!" He said it as if it was a great accomplishment. "Admittedly, Mr. Riddle didn't exactly hide who he was when he returned to the cottage covered in the Prewett brothers’ blood." 

"Should you really be talking about that openly?" Severus hissed. 

“Oh, please,” Garrett said, “no one can hear us.” He grabbed one of the dragon Tongue Canapés

“We’re all the sons of his inner circle—well, not Rosier, but that’s because Mr. Rosier angered Mr. Riddle,” Lucius explained flippantly, his tone almost drowned out by the steady hum of music and conversation around them. "I will be right back, do not leave this spot. I need to make an introduction to someone. "

He strode ahead, and the crowd parted for him. He left the four of them behind to talk to a mix group of boys and girls their age. 

The four stopped at different table, this one had goblets of a bubbling off white drink.  “What happened?” he grabbed a class and took a sip. He rolled his tongue tasting hints of honeyed pear, it was light and airy. Fizzy elderflower? 

Evan, lagging slightly behind, sighed as he dodged a waiter carrying a tray of roasted tomatoes on white cheese and toasted bread. He slid next to Severus's right, sitting down instead of hovering like he and Seth were doing. Garrett left to follow the food. 

 "Grab me one!" Evan called out before looking up at Severus. “My father wore the wrong shade of green to a formal gathering," he explained in a low hum. 

 “What?” he asked, his tone a bit more biting that it should have been. 

He looked around, noticing people were staring at the them. He scowled at two girls passing them by until their hurried away. He hunched over and hissed through his teeth. “I refuse to believe my father would kick someone out of his inner circle, someone he already trusted enough to be in his inner circle in the first place over a color choice."

Evan held his hands up defensively, his expression half-exasperated, half-amused. “I’m just telling you what I was told.” He stepped aside to avoid another guest, offering an apologetic nod before turning back to Severus. "Ask Riddle yourself. If he was honest enough to tell you who he is after barely knowing him, then he should be honest here." 

Severus rolled his eyes and continued walking, trailing after Lucius, who was already greeting a group of well-dressed wizards near the far side of the ballroom. “There’s no way a grown man would act that way over the wrong color,” Severus muttered to himself.

“Don’t be so sure,” Seth said, his tone dry as he stepped closer to Severus, brushing against his shoulder. “He doesn’t take insults lightly. Even imaginary ones.”

 “Do keep up, Severus," Lucius said, having returned. He had taken an entire plate full of moonlit macarons, tiny pastries filled with iridescent starfruit cream with crushed moonstone. "Macarons?" 

Seth, reluctantly, took one despite disliking edible moonstone. Which Lucius knew and his subtle way to mess with Seth because they all knew you couldn't refuse the host when they were offering food.  

"So you all knew?" Severus asked in a low voice, glaring at the three of them, which made Lucius smirk drop. 

"You knew I did a few days ago," Lucius countered, setting the tray down once he and Evan took a macaron as well. "I was the one who told you."

"But that was different," he hissed. 

"What's different?" Garrett came back with small plate full of appetizers. 

Severus glanced at him before his attention to rest of his friends, his voice low and sharp. “You knew who he was." 

“We didn’t know he was your father, Sev,” Seth said slowly, looking confused, but Severus was already shaking his head.

“No, I mean, you knew he was the Dark Lord,” he said, so quietly that Evan strained his neck to hear. “You all knew about it, and you kept it from me.” He said it almost childishly, his voice tinged with hurt. “You would talk about it for two years, and left me out.”

He crossed his arms, his black eyes narrowing into slits. If he glared, maybe he wouldn’t cry. And he did want to cry. He buried the negative emotions deep, deep down. Each time he entered the dorm they shared, they would change the topic. His mother had warned him that the pureblood students would do this simply because of his name and she was a known blood traitor, that he shouldn’t get too comfortable…

He had spent the last few years assuming he had no one but Lily, even with Lucius’s constant declarations that they were best friends. But now... maybe that wasn’t true. Was the hurt and paranoia all in his head?

The four exchanged glances, the guilt was evident on their faces. Seth stepped forward, gripping Severus’s shoulder. 

“Sev, it wasn’t like that. It’s just,” he took a moment to look around to see if anyone was listening in. His voice dropped an octave. "We didn't mean to make you feel that way, but you can understand why we couldn't talk about the Dark Lord's identity with you?"

Severus rolled his shoulders, rolling out the tension knots. "I get it now, but still. It just stunned. None of you get it since you all grew up with this." he waved his arm. "I didn't. I grew up with a blood traitor and mudblood, and I didn't ask for that." 

Lucius cleared his throat and slid back to Severus's side. "technically, Mr. Riddle being your father doesn't change the fact your parents are a blood traitor and mudblood--

"Lucius!" Seth snapped and kicked Lucius's shin. The blonde swore and hissed bent over to rub his shin. With Seth being Slytherin's new captain of the quidditch team and keeper, he must've kicked hard. 

"He's legally a half-blood," Severus corrected, glaring down at the pompous fool. 

"It does change everything," Garrett said, a bit more serious than he usually was. "You're his son. You're the Dark Lord's heir. All this that he's building with the war, and what he has plans for the future is now yours." 

"Wait, what?" Severus asked in disbelief. "I didn't ask for that. It doesn't have change anything because I'm his son." 

Lucius stood up, and punched Seth in the arm for the kick. Seth in turn, looked ready to shove him but held back. It wouldn't do well to start a fight this early in the party. Lucius pushed back his hair, and sighed rather dramatically. “Doesn’t it? You’re his heir, Severus. That’s not something anyone else at this party can claim.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It means everything,” Lucius interrupted, his voice sharp and cutting. “He has a vision for our kind, and now you’re part of that vision. You have a place in it you didn’t before. That’s not insignificant.”

Evan and Garrett exchanged glances, while Seth, silent until now, gave Severus a sharp look. “Whether you like it or not,” Seth murmured, his tone much softer than Lucius’s but no less pointed, “this changes how people will see you. Most of everyone hear doesn't know who Tom Riddle is, not like the four of us, but they do know he's powerful, well connected. Most suspect he's part of the inner circle, and they suspect our parents--even Evan's father--are part of that same inner circle." 

Severus’s hands clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. He hadn't wanted this. He wanted to be accepted. He agreed with things he didn't normally with his slytherin friends because he craved acceptance. But this? This isn't what he wanted.

Lucius cleared his throat, and stepped back. “Severus, this changes so much. Not just for you. But for us.” He gestured between the four of them. "Our fathers have been loyal to Tom Riddle since they're our age. And now we're your inner circle."

Severus's mouth was dry at the implications of what was being said. They're making him into something he wasn't. "I don't know why you think I'm the next him."

Garrett looked around and grabbed an empty silver plate. He held it up for Severus to look at himself. "He put you in a stylized version of his Voldemort outfit, Severus."

Severus grabbed the plate and brought it close. Voldemort's appearance was everywhere in the newspapers after he crashed Augusta Longbottom's summer solstice celebration two years ago. Voldemort wore a plague doctor mask--and knowing Tom was a mediwizard made much more sense why Voldemort wore a plague doctor mask. His cloak had layered cloth over his shoulders, cut and stylized like feathers

And while Severus's outfit was more regal and refined than the plague doctor persona Tom crafted, the visual cues were all still there. The long coat, the feathers on his shoulders, the flowing hem that trailed behind him like living shadows. The mask, sleek and predatory. It wasn’t just a costume. It was Severus's future, and Tom already decided for him in an afternoon's time. 

He looked up, his stomach twisting. "Well, shit," he swore under his breath. 

"Yeah...I won't even begin to understand why Mr. Riddle did this," Seth said, gesturing to the git up. 

"It's not our place to understand," Lucius said sharply, his devotion to the idea of Lord Voldemort was clear even if he disliked the man that was Tom Riddle. "Anyway, now we got that out of the way," he turned to Severus, smirking. "I arranged for you to meet someone." 

"Who?" Severus asked. Honestly, he didn't want to meet anyone. He liked five people at this party, and Lily was somewhere being dragged around by Narcissa Black. 

He should really go looking for her. He was about to tell Lucius to shove it and search for Lily. 

"Prince Alexei Rurik Zmeyevich," Lucius answered, stopping him in his tracks. 

"You want me to meet a prince?" he asked, baffled. He motioned down his body. "What exactly do you want me to talk about with a prince? Potions recipes?" 

"But aren’t you a Prince yourself?" Garrett said lightly, earning him an immediate glare.

"Well, well," a voice called out. An all too familiar voice reached Severus's ears, and scratched at his brain. "It's the baby death eater gang." 

He turned, and felt Evan and Garrett stand up, and Seth moved closer to his side. James Potter in a ridiculous stag mask approached. Sirius was obediently at his side, hands shoved in his pockets. The familiar nightmare made Severus want to run, but what kept him planted in the grass was that for once, the two were out numbered. 

Because Pandora and Marlene, who trailed behind them, wouldn't help them terrorize him like Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. 

And Severus had his four friends, they're at the Malfoy Manor. Even if James wanted to, Sirius wouldn't when it was well known that the Black family publicly supported Voldemort more often than the Malfoys and Averys. 

"None of our parents are death eaters," Seth said smoothly, though that was an obvious lie to everyone present. 

James let out a hum. “Uh-huh,” he said, his tone light and deliberately dismissive. “Honestly, I’m surprised my family’s still invited to these things. We’re not exactly Sacred Twenty-Eight approved, and my father’s not exactly popular among this crowd.” He said it like it was a badge of honor.

“Maybe because your father is heading up the Parselmouth Oversight Committee,” Severus snapped, the words coming out with far more bite than he’d intended.

James shrugged, unbothered. “That’s more of a rumor than Norman Avery being Lord Voldemort’s third in command.”

Garrett leaned over to whisper in Severus’s ear. “He’s actually fifth now because he gave Mr. Riddle the wrong pack of cigarettes.”

Severus elbowed him sharply in the stomach, earning a startled grunt. “Will you stop messing around?” he hissed, his tone low and irritable. Now they were just messing with him on the things that Tom Riddle won't tolerate. 

“Enough,” Lucius interrupted, his voice cutting cleanly through the exchange. He gave James a cold, pointed look before turning back to Severus. “We’ve wasted enough time here. The prince is waiting.”

Severus didn’t protest as Lucius grabbed his arm and steered him away, but he cast Garrett a glare over his shoulder, which Garrett returned with an exaggerated wink.

When they reached Prince Alexei, Severus realized he and Lucius weren’t alone. Not only had his dormmates followed—which was expected—but they were also joined by James, Sirius, Pandora, and Marlene. Pandora made sense; after all, Evan was her twin. But then, emerging from the crowd, came Narcissa, Lily, Iolanda, and two other girls Severus had never seen before. At least he knew Lily had survived whatever Narcissa had forced her to do.

The two childhood friends locked eyes, and Lily mouthed, Where are you going?

“I’m being forced to mingle,” he hissed.

Lily pulled away from the four pureblood witches and walked right up to Lucius as he dragged Severus along. “Mingle with who?”

“A prince, Delilah,” Lucius said cheerfully.

“Oh, come on, Malfoy, that’s not even the right flower!” Lily hissed, then perked up. “A prince? Is he cute?” She winked at Severus, and he quickly looked anywhere but at her.

“He’s Russian, Lily. Honestly,” Lucius said with disgust. “Have some standards, woman. I know it’s impossible for mudbloods but please.”

“Lucius!” Severus hissed at his friend.

"At this point, I'm just happy he knows my name," she said, seemingly unbothered by the insult. 

They approached the table Severus assumed the Russian prince was sitting at. Lucius not so casually bumped Lily back with an elbow. He could not be seen with a muggle born. 

The table that was laid out for the international guests were grander than the rest of the party. Two swan ice sculptures were placed on both ends of the table. Sitting in the middle of the table, sat what was unmistakably the prince. Not because Severus ever seen the Russian Prince before, not in person or in newspapers, but because he had an aura of importance and arrogance only royalty can buy. He was also surrounded by bodyguards, the only people over the age of twenty in this section of the party. 

Prince Alexei Rurik Zmeyevich was rather unremarkable in Severus's opinion. He had mossy brown hair, and faint beard coming in, a square jaw.  He was leaning back in his chair, with his polished black boots on the table, as if it were his party. Prince Alexei’s military-style tunic was a deep, dark blue, contrasting with the summery soft colors the Malfoys used for decorations. It was accented with silver embroidery in the shape of curling dragons, fit him like armor, with a silver sash slashing diagonally across his chest and a velvet cape flowing off his chair that glittered under the setting sun and fae lights. His mask—a sharp, angular design crafted from dark steel—covered the upper half of his face. 

Alexei was speaking loudly in French, and laughing with  another foreign guest—a girl a year older than the rest of them with an elegant pale green mask shaped like a lunar moth. She sat at his right, her accent thick and distinctly French, the words flowing like water as she gestured animatedly with a gloved hand. She had to be half veela, if Severus could guess. 

They're surrounded by boys and girls speaking Russian, most definitely part of the Prince's entourage.

Severus glanced at Lucius, and noticed his friend's pursed lips and brows were furrowed, glaring at the both of them. Severus didn't understand a thing of French, but Lucius's mother being French meant he understood every word they were saying, and it must've been egregious if Lucius skipped smug irritation to outright anger.  

Prince Alexei caught sight of Lucius and Severus approaching himself. "Ah!" he switched to English. "And Malfoy returned to us," he said in a heavy accent. "I've met such lovely people while you have been searching for your Potions expert." 

Ah, so that's what Lucius wanted Severus to dragged him over here. Lucius was always trying to utilize his talents in potions for whatever scheme cooking in his platinum blonde head of his. 

"I am glad you're enjoying yourself," Lucius said through his teeth, barely keeping on a mask of civility. The French girl laughed, which sent the blonde over the edge. He said something sharp and cutting, which humbled the girl quickly. 

This is made Prince Alexei cackle. "Oh, my, Lucius. Yes, yes, your party is quite enjoyable for a small village in my country. But you must understand, people like Miss Vivienne Châteauneuf and myself are used to more grander parties. But it is no insult to you or your family. It must be what your family could do when it is run by, how you call them in English? A mudblood." he said this with a grin as if it was a joke.

In just few words, Severus was seething. Tom Riddle had a muggle parentage, but he and his father were the remaining descendants of Salazar Slytherin. The only two heirs of Slytherin in fact. 

And Severus wished he could flaunt this to the party, to shut this prince up but he can't share his heritage because that would out him as parselmouth. 

There was also the fact, somewhere behind him, Lily could over here this. It was one thing to have your fellow British wizards say something like this, but entirely different from someone from a different country. And it was an insult to Lucius too, in an odd way. 

Severus bit his tongue, but he didn't know how long he could. 

Lucius cleared his throat and kept poised. "I am terribly sorry my party is not up to your expectations, your Highness. But I do hope now that found your potioneer that you will have a better time at the party." 

"Ah yes! Good, good," he looked around, passed Severus. "Where is she. Is she one of the lovely women who followed you?" 

Severus shot Lucius look and the blonde was just as perplexed as he was. He looked over his shoulder. The group that decided to follow him and Lucius across the party to Prince Alexei's table scattered themselves around, pretending to not listen in. But now everyone was looking between Lily and Pandora, the two students who were just behind Severus in their year. Even the two were confused as he felt. 

"No," Lucius said slowly. He motioned to his right. "My dear friend here is the expert in potions I was telling you about. His name is Severus." 

The prince's eyes widened, and dropped his feet to the ground, sitting forward now. "A boy? A potions prodigy? But that is a woman's magic." 

The French witch, Vivienne's smile fell slightly and the humor in her eyes died as she turned to Alexei. The other boys at the table, and the stern guards behind the prince nodded along. 

"But I suppose he dresses delicately like a girl, so who knows," Alexei said with a shrug. He turned to Severus and stood, brushing down the front of his jacket. "Severus, that is is an older name, no?"

"Yes," Severus said, keeping his expression neutral and his tone even. "It is a common name on my mother's side of the family, she's a Prince." He said her surname knowing exactly where it would go. 

And as he predicted, Alexei's demeanor changed. Living with Tom in a week had him learn more about his mother's family than he ever knew while living with her. He now knew his family mingled with vampirism as a survival tool thanks to Tom. He now knew Princes were regarded highly in Britain's elite purebloods, but still othered for their Persian origins. 

But what Eileen had told him about her family was the Princes were regarded in parts of Eastern Europe because of their mixed Roma heritage. 

"A gypsy?" Prince Alexei said that word harsher than he had mudblood. "Lucius Malfoy, is this a joke?" 

Lucius's brows shot up in shock, not expecting this reaction at all, while Severus did. He tilted his head to the side, eying the prince with a blank stare. "Does the name Tom Riddle mean anything to you outside of him being the 'mudblood who runs the Malfoys'?"

Alexei's face twitched, and for a brief moment, his eyes narrowed as a flicker of fear crossed his features—quick enough to be masked by a forced sneer. "Yes, of course," he said, voice tight.

"Interesting," he said, and smile spread across his face. "he's my father. I believe he would like to know a guest here called his son that." he said, keeping his voice cold and distant, mimicking how Tom talked to the wannabe death eaters from the other day. 

The prince swallowed before letting out a force laugh, his entourage followed. The noise was a bit awkward and stiff. Vivienne quietly excused herself and left the table. 

"Oh, oh, very clever," Alexei tsked at Severus. "Yes, very clever. A delicate boy dressed in women's clothes who relies an expert in women's magic needs daddy to fight his battles for him. A true man would defend himself. A coward if there ever was one." 

A burning rage clouded Severus’s mind, pounding against his skull. His throat tightened, and his heartbeat sped up. A coward? This measly, fucking prick called him a coward? He needed to break something. He needed to break someone!

Lucius was quick to grab Severus's arm, acting as an anchor to prevent him from leaping across the table and strangling the pompous jackass. 

Severus barely heard the swishing of fabric over the laughter from Alexei and the ringing in his ears. Lily was behind him, gently pulling him back. "Severus, don't do anything rash."

"Now you have a girl defending you because your father isn't here to do it?" Alexei asked. 

Severus yanked free and slammed his hands against the table. "If you're such a man, how about we duel?" he snapped.

"Oh, Severus no," Lucius said, panic creeping in his voice. 

"Merlin's ass, this party's finally exciting," Sirius Black called out with unbridled joy. 

But none of that mattered. There was only Prince Alexei.

"Oh, I would love to see what you could do in a duel, stir counter-clockwise?" Alexei said, chuckling at his own joke. 

Another pare of hands, stronger hands, pulled Severus away from the table. It was Seth. "Excuse us your Highness." 

Severus was dragged away, forced to by brute strength. The laughter from the Russian guests followed them paces away. "Severus, are you mad?" Seth demanded as they're crowded by their fellow classmates. 

"Obviously, he's mad," James said, motioning to Severus. "Shit, not even we," he waved his hand between himself and Sirius, "call him a coward. We learned that lesson." 

"Deservedly so!" Lily hissed. She pushed herself in between Lucius and Severus. "Sev, you can't duel him, you'll be expelled and your wand will be taken away." 

"I say we let Snape for that very reason," Sirius said cheekily. James shrugged and nodded along, the only person in their little circle who agreed with him. 

Narcissa wacked her cousin with a quick slap to the back of his head, making him wince and move away from her. "Forget about expulsion, you could be arrested. He's a prince, Severus!"

"Well so am I," Severus snapped and pulled away from Seth and turned around. He undid the buttons of his sleeveless coat. "Are you going to duel me or not?" he called out to Prince Alexei. He dropped it in a heap on the ground, revealing his even more feminine blouse and vest underneath. 

The older teen chuckled and undid his cape. "Oh, this will be entertaining. Lucius, I must thank you for this exciting masquerade. And here I though it was dull." He drew his wand and walked around the long table. 

The enchanted instruments stopped playing, and Alexei's table emptied. The rest of the guests gave a wide birth for the two, once most people realized what was happening. Lucius was swearing at everything and everyone, but most importantly at Severus. Loud pops filled the garden, overtaking the chattering whispers from the party. House elves wove protection spells as so no stray hex or curse could hit anyone, and Lucius gave Dobby clear instructions on something, but Severus's only concerned was the Russian bastard. Alexei's bodyguards stayed in their spot, their expressions stoic. 

Severus's wand flew from his inside pocket to his hand.

"Now, I assume you know proper dueling etiquette?" Alexei said, approaching Severus. "I am skeptical that you do given your...background."

Severus tore off his mask and raised his wand. "I do, but as a half-blood the rules don't apply to me." 

He fired a silent Bombarda. Alexei's eyes widened in panic, and he muttered a hasty incantation in Russian, summoning a protective shield.

Severus was already moving, his feet a blur. He fired a stunner, but Alexei deflected it with a sharp wave of his wand, sending it crashing into a nearby chair.

The crowd gasped , eyes darting back and forth between the duelists. Severus didn’t pause to see if the spell hit. He was already twisting to his left, moving too quickly for Alexei to track.

The prince swore, enraged, and hurled the chair at Severus with a flick of his wand.

Severus dodged, his body flickering with a nonverbal Fugio as he sidestepped the incoming projectile. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, then back in a flash. He shouted, "Nebulus!" and a thick mist poured from his wand, cloaking the duelists in swirling fog. 

Severus’s eyes locked onto Alexei’s blurred form. He flicked his wrist, casting Ruptura. The floor beneath the prince's feet cracked open with a violent sound, jagged stones flying toward him.

The prince stumbled backward with a shout, barely avoiding the sharp rocks. He stumbled out of the fog and fell to the ground. The crowd let out shock cheer. 

Severus didn't let up. He fired fireball, but Alexei shielded himself once again. He slashed the air with his wand, creating a wall of ice. 

Now the crowd was cheering, and Severus wasn't sure if it were for him or the prince but he didn't care. He cast Fugio again, and got around the wall, moving right behind Alexei. Alexei turned but not fast enough. He caught Severus's fist to his eye, sending the Russian prince staggering and swearing. 

"Yeah!" Sirius's voice rang over the crowd. "use your bony arms to beat him up." 

Severus snapped his attention to his left, glaring at Black. "Shut up, or you're next!" 

Sirius was going to retort but his expression turned to worry. Lily, who stood between Sirius and Marlene. "Watch out!" she shouted in a panic. 

The temporary distraction nearly cost Severus as Alexei fired a deadly hex. a streak of black lightning shot through the air, Severus dodged it, but barely. He spun out of the way, and fired the spell he only created a few days ago. "Tenebris Vinctum!" 

His shadow stretched across the ground, and tendrils sprung forth and latched onto Alexei. They wrapped around the other boy, tethering him in place. "What is this!" he shouted, trying to break free. 

Severus approached him, his grin all teeth and predatory. "A spell I crafted, one not even my father could break out of." 

That was a lie, but no one had to know that. Those who knew who Tom Riddle was, or suspected him to be should be very afraid of Severus right now and learn he was not to be trifled with. 

Alexei thrashed against the shadowy bindings, his expression twisting with anger and humiliation as they held him fast. He shouted a spell in Russian, his voice cracking, but the shadows only tightened their grip. The crowd gasped and murmured, some cheering Severus while others exchanged nervous glances. Severus didn't care about anyone watching, what they thought of him. He didn't care about the humiliation Alexei felt either. He'd been humiliated one way or another his entire life. It was time someone felt the way he did, 

“Release me!” Alexei bellowed, his face flushed with fury. His wand hand trembled as he tried to aim at Severus, but the tendrils jerked his arm down. He struggled to get free, but the shadow acted on its own accord. It forced the prince to his knees. He struggled to get up, but the more he struggled the more the binding forced him in his place. 

Severus felt a sick pleasure as he stood over the disgraced prince. And a righteous fury built up in him. The comments about how he dressed, how his skills in potions was dismissed, that he wasn't man enough--

You're a weak boy, and you're going to grow up weak. Stop you're crying, Rus. Pathetic. You disgust me. Tobias's words and voice echoed in his head. And it was Tobias who he saw, not Prince Alexei. 

“Severus!” Lily’s voice cut through the haze like a knife. “He’s had enough!”

He blinked, his head snapping toward her. She stood near the edge of the dueling circle, her red hair catching the fading light, her expression etched with alarm. Her green eyes bore into him, wide with something he hated to recognize: fear.

And next to her, Lucius was pale, his lips thin and tight with panic. He stepped forward, his voice urgent but low enough not to attract attention from the crowd. “Let him go,” he hissed. “This is a political nightmare!”

But Severus didn’t lower his wand. His breathing was shallow, his heart racing.

He deserves this. The thought shot through him like a spark. He deserved to lose, to kneel, to feel what it’s like to be weak.

“It’s a political nightmare,” Sirius Black's voice cut through the tension, sharp and biting. “Because Prince Alexei couldn’t back up his bullshit.” His cold, grey eyes locked onto the Russian entourage, radiating defiance. The smug sense of superiority among the group of loyal subjects was palpable, and Sirius wasn’t about to let it go unchecked.

His words were followed by a shift in the air as more figures stepped into the fray. His Slytherin friends—others from Hogwarts—moved in closer, their postures challenging, the tension thickening. They were squared off now, facing the Russians, and possibly a few Durmstrang students who had quietly aligned themselves with Alexei’s side.

“Honestly,” Sirius continued, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Snape did him a favor. Imagine if this had been a real duel.”

But the laughter died in the air as Severus’s attention snapped back to the scene. Gasps erupted from the gathered crowd, and he turned just in time to see two of Alexei’s guards step forward, their wands drawn with lethal intent.  Then another stepped in, and a fourth quickly followed until Severus was staring down a familiar scene: him vs four. But unlike the marauders, these were grown men much older than him. More skilled, more experienced. The guards’ faces were set, tight with a mixture of concern and fury.

“Release the prince,” one of them barked, his tone sharp and authoritative. 

Severus ended the spell without hesitation. Alexei fell forward, but caught himself. But that didn't seem enough for the four guards. 

Snap! 

 Tom appeared right in front of him. His own wand was drawn. "I think that's enough," he said coldly. 

The guards stopped short, but the one who ordered Severus to release Alexei, hurried forward and grabbed the prince, and dragging him back. 

 Severus’s mind raced—something was wrong, but he couldn’t place it. His father’s coat was gone, his stance sharp and commanding as he faced the guards with that inscrutable look of a man who knew he had control. But something was different about Tom.

Murmurs broke around the crowd. Severus looked to his right and saw Abraxas and Odette Malfoy break through the crowd, followed by Abraxas's great aunt, Leanan glide through.

"Oh, thank Merlin," Lucius exclaimed.  

Leanan took over, and gently pushed Tom's hand down. She gave him a pointed, stern look a mother would give a child throwing a tantrum. The fact he obeyed her silent command shocked Severus.

Though the party was meant to celebrate summer's warmth, there was nothing warm about the air around her. In fact, she radiated an icy authority, like a snow queen stepping out of a fairytale. Her pale blue dress that glittered like a snow flurry didn't help that image either. 

With a flick of her finger, Leanan dismissed them as if they were no more than bothersome insects. "Remove yourselves from my party," she said, her tone light but laced with a quiet venom--fitting for a former Slytherin. "And take with you anyone foolish enough to follow you."

"My father will not let this transgression slide." Prince Alexei bit out, his accent thicker now that he was angrier. 

Leanan didn’t even look up from her nails as she continued, “Emperor Fyodor and I are quite familiar with each other. If you wish to turn this into an even bigger scandal, I’m sure he would be thrilled to learn how easily his son was outmatched by a fifteen-year-old boy.” her voice smooth as honey, but the threat in her words was venomous.

Alexei’s face turned a deep red, fury rolling off him in waves, but he said nothing. Instead, he glared at Severus, who stood stock-still, his expression unreadable, though the knuckles of his wand hand were white.

"No." Alexei spat, yanking his cape over his shoulder with a dramatic flourish. He barked a sharp string of commands in Russian to his entourage, who immediately fell into step behind him, their expressions tense and wary. Alexei turned back to Severus one last time, his voice low and venomous. “You will regret this.”

"I said that was enough."

Tom’s words cut through the tense air, sharp and commanding. He moved forward, his steps measured, his presence impossible to ignore. The prince hesitated, but only for a moment, his entourage shifting uneasily as Tom circled around them like a predator stalking its prey. The five men stood their ground, but their confidence wavered as Tom stopped directly in front of Alexei, his dark gaze unwavering.

"You have all embarrassed yourselves,” Tom said, his voice calm but laden with an undercurrent of menace. “Leanan ordered you to leave, and you will leave.” His tone was quiet, yet it carried an authority that left no room for argument.

Everyone watched with bated breath how this would end. Most watched with fear or trepidation, Severus was watching in awe and pride. Tom dominated the situation, and the Malfoys let him. They truly didn't care if they were talked about as if Tom ruled the family or they're blood traitors. His raw power was what they respected.  It was no wonder Lucius was so eager to make Severus their leader, under the false belief Severus could ever dominate a crowd like this. Though... perhaps after tonight, Lucius might think twice. Severus messed up rather big, didn't he?

A prickling sensation at the back of his neck told Severus he was being watched, which was odd because how could anyone not be watching Tom. He scanned the crowd, and sticking out in his garnish, flamboyant robes was Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. 

Across the sea of kids and party decorations and fancy foods, Severus could just feel the twinkling blue eyes on him despite the great distance between them. 

With a small movement, he lightly tapped Leanan Malfoy’s arm to get her attention. She turned toward him, raising a sharp, questioning brow. Severus tilted his head toward Dumbledore’s direction, muttering, “Over there.”

Her gaze followed his, and when it landed on the headmaster, she let out a disgusted, irritated noise. Her lips pressed into a tight line as Dumbledore, in full display of audacity, smiled and waved at them.

With a flourish, Prince Alexei turned sharply to the entrance. Out of the crowd a hulking man with a beard and dirty blonde hair appeared out of nowhere. At his side, a heavily pregnant Chinese woman helped him direct prince and his guards and entourage out of the party.

"Children," Odette Malfoy’s voice rang out suddenly, clear and cheerful as if nothing had happened. She stood on the stage now, her arm looped through Abraxas’s as she gestured to the band behind them—the Gilded Wands, poised to play. Her smile was warm and practiced, a reminder that the Malfoys knew how to maintain appearances no matter the chaos.

"Let’s return our focus to the party," she called, clapping her hands lightly. "It’s time to enjoy ourselves. We wouldn’t want all this good food and music to go to waste, would we?"

The tension eased as the crowd shifted back into motion, though the conversations remained quieter, more subdued. The band began to tune their instruments, and a soft, expectant murmur filled the garden once more. But for Severus, the weight of the moment still lingered.

As the crowd thinned slightly, the familiar faces of his dormmates came into view: Evan Rosier, Garrett Avery, Lucius Malfoy, and Seth Mulciber. They were gathered together, standing just a few centimeters away, their gazes flicking toward him with something between curiosity and hesitation. But Leanan shooed them with a wave, placing a tight grip on his shoulder. 

Across the crowd, Severus caught sight of Lily. She was trying to get closer, her face bright with concern, but before she could reach him, James Potter and Marlene McKinnon appeared at her side. James yanked her back into the crowd with a firm grip on her wrist, his voice low and insistent. Marlene joined in, gesturing animatedly as the two argued with Lily. Severus couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he didn’t need to. He could guess well enough—probably warnings that he was dangerous, that she shouldn’t be anywhere near him.

Tom moved through the crowd, many of the teens parted for him.

And Severus realized what was different about his father. Tom altered his outfit, lost his coat at some point, and wasn't wearing his mask. 

As Tom approached him and Leanan, he asked, "why is your trousers red?" 

Tom stopped, and looked down his altered outfit. "You just got out of a duel and you're asking about my trousers?" he questioned, though his tone was not harsh. It was rather light hearted considering Severus had done. 

"Is now truly the time for such levity?" Leanan asked, her voice cool and composed. "While you may not find the matter of consequence, Tom, I must take responsibility for the situation."

Tom pointedly rolled his eyes at her, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he let out an inaudible sigh. His relaxed demeanor quickly shifted, the air around him becoming taut as he straightened, his gaze hardening in anticipation. As Albus Dumbledore approached them, Tom's posture stiffened, his expression now a mask of cool calculation.

Leanan’s mood soured considerably at the sight of the headmaster, her lips pressing into a thin line. Severus shifted closer to his father, as if to hide from the headmaster. 

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. 

Ablus's smile didn't falter. "Why, Tom, it has been a whole week and you cannot even muster a proper greeting. Are you planning to fire the Killing Curse at me this time?"

Severus looked between Tom and Albus frantically. "You tried killing the headmaster?" 

Tom didn't even glance Severus's way, just continued glaring at Albus. The older wizard hadn't lost the twinkle in his eye, amused his presence upsetted Tom as much as it did. "At least a dozen times, but he's still alive, unfortunately." 

"How quaint, Albus," Leanan said, her voice like silk over steel. "Your penchant for arriving uninvited remains unchanged, I see." 

Albus's eyes soften when he looked at her, with a twinge of regret. "I was invited as a plus one by  Perseus Black." 

Leanan leaned into Tom's space and harshly whispered. "I shall be sure to have words with Perseus. Family loyalty should extend to preserving one’s dignity." Severus made the educated guess that she didn't mean his Sirius Black but the one he was named after. 

"Good luck, that's his favorite cousin," Tom drawled. He shot Albus a lazy look. "Do you mind, I want to congratulate my son for his excellent dueling  ." 

"Provoking a fight," Albus countered smoothly, "and, from what I’ve heard on my way over, disregarding proper dueling etiquette… that deserves praise?" His words carried a hint of disapproval, sharp but not overtly harsh.

Severus’s cheeks flushed with anger. Of course Dumbledore would side against him. He always had at Hogwarts—why would this be any different? The frustration boiled under his skin, threatening to spill over just like he had with Prince Alexei but Severus wouldn't be able to duel the headmaster. 

But unlike all those times when Eileen or Tobias had been summoned to school over his behavior, only to quietly accept every insult Dumbledore threw his way, Tom did not.

Just as Severus opened his mouth to defend himself, Tom shifted in front of Severus, his movements calm but deliberate, placing himself between his son and the headmaster. His hands rested on his sides, acting as a shield. 

"You don't have to justify yourself to him," he said glance back at Severus before looking forward. "You have no idea if he had been the one to provoke the fight. Prince Alexei is notorious for instigating duels at t parties cross multiple countries since he was fourteen. This is just the first time he went against someone who didn't let him win." his attention was on Leanan, "which is also why this hardly an international incident. Now if his guards decided to provoke me, well, that is a different story."

Leanan rubbed her temples, letting out the most dignified groan of agitation. "I am going back to where the adults are. I despise children." 

"Weren't you teacher, Madame Leanan?" Severus asked before he could stop himself. 

Leanan let out a wistful sigh. "Once, long ago. And I assure you, that chapter of my life closed the moment your esteemed headmaster set foot in my classroom."

"That was eighty years ago, Leanan," the headmaster said coolly. 

"Precisely, Albus, and the scars remain," she said with  

Tom leaned down a little and whispered rather loudly to Severus. "I was her favorite student." he said with smug grin on his face. 

"That is debatable," she said. She summoned a sparkling glass of the rainbow champagne, took a sip. "Now the excitement is done and over with, Tom, you should go back to you rounds."

"After I speak with Severus," Tom said. 

She waved him off before vanishing with a pop.

Tom and Severus's attention turned to the headmaster who stood by, smiling at them expectedly. "Do not mind me, I just wish to observe your skills as a father."

"Considering I just became one seven days ago, I think I'm doing well enough," he bristled. 

“I find that hard to believe,” Dumbledore replied without missing a beat, turning his attention to Severus. His expression softened, an almost paternal warmth that Severus had never seen before. “And how are you doing, Mr. Snape? Is Tom treating you well enough?”

Severus’s blood boiled. Now Dumbledore wanted to ask? Where had this concern been when Tobias used him as a punching bag at Spinner’s End? Or when Eileen's sharp tongue lashed him daily, her words biting deeper than any hex? Where was Dumbledore when James and Sirius—and their two sycophantic hyenas—hounded him through the halls of Hogwarts, turning every corner into hell? where was Albus freaking Dumbledore all the times he needed someone to come save him in the last fifteen years of his life? 

And now, of all times, when Severus finally had a parent who cared—when Tom, cold and calculating to the world, had shown Severus more kindness in seven days than any adult had in a lifetime—Dumbledore wanted to step in? To pretend Tom was the problem?

Severus clenched his fists, his anger so hot it felt like it might spill over. But he said nothing, biting his tongue until he tasted copper. Beside him, Tom’s calm voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Interesting timing, Albus,” Tom said, his voice dangerously even. He placed a deliberate hand on Severus's shoulder, soothing him. "But you had four years to show concern over Severus's wellbeing. You do not get to pick and choose just because he lives with me now. You don’t care about him. You care about what he means to me. Just as you never cared about my well-being when I was his age—until I became a threat to you." 

Albus’s expression shifted, his face falling into what might have been remorse—or a carefully crafted imitation of it. Severus doubted there was a sincere bone in the headmaster's body.

“You are wrong, Tom,” Dumbledore said softly. “The problem was never that I hadn't cared for you. It is that I feared of growing attached to the little boy I met at Wool's, and so I kept him at arms length. Now I must bare witness to the man he's become, and accept my failure and rectify it." 

Tom’s eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Dumbledore looked over his shoulder, looking at something beyond the large drapery containing the underage guests. His tone became grim as he looked back at Tom. “Hepzibah Smith has arrived. Be careful, both of you.” He paused, casting a final stern glance at Severus, as if to deliver a silent warning.

Without another word He did not look back as he exited the cloth. 

Tom ran his trammeling hand over his mouth and rubbed his chin, his jaw clenched tight. His eyes burned with anger, but he was silent for a long moment, visibly containing himself. 

Severus hesitated, not sure if he should even say anything after that. What was there to say? He felt as if he shouldn't have heard that argument at all. 

But his curiosity about the waring outweighed his survival instinct on being silent. "Father, who's Hepzibah Smith?" 

Tom took a moment to answer, the silence between them was filled by the cheers of Severus's peers cheering for The Gilded Wands finally taking stage. 

When he spoke, he answered in Parseltongue, speaking in a low hiss. "She's part of the Parselmouth Oversight Committee, one of the founding members actually. " 

Tom paused. As the shaking in his hand grew worse, he slipped it into his pants pocket to retrieve a loose cigarette. He lit it with magic, taking a long drag and exhaling slowly, the smoke curling into the air. 

His hand was still. 

 "She's a dangerous woman, Severus. Stay here unless I tell you otherwise." He ordered, his voice left no room for argument. 

Severus understood why Tom chose Parseltongue in that moment. The music was loud, nearly deafening, but to Severus, the hiss of the words was sharp and distinct, clear as ever. To anyone else, it would sound like nothing more than the background noise of the party. Only Severus knew that the words being spoken were far more than just whispers in the air.

"Yes, Father," Severus obeyed. "And I am sorry for the duel." 

Tom smirked around his cigarette. "Don't be," he said, reaching over to ruffle Severus's hair. "You kicked that prince's ass. I will see you later."

Severus gave a small, reluctant nod, still trying to shake off the remnants of tension that lingered in the air. He wanted to say something—anything—more, but the words didn't come. His father was already turning away, his eyes scanning the room as if the moment had already passed.

Tom glanced at the stage, his eyes lingering on the teens dancing, their bodies swaying in rhythm to the pounding beat of The Gilded Wands. With a lazy wave of his hand, he tossed over his shoulder, “Enjoy what you kids call music.”

Severus watched him for a beat longer, feeling the weight of his absence settle like a heavy stone. Tom moved through the crowd with the ease of someone who didn’t need to worry about being noticed. The scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the air long after Tom was gone, leaving Severus to stand alone, the buzz of the music filling the gap left in his wake.

For a moment, Severus let the noise drown him out, his thoughts swirling as he processed everything—the argument, the warning, the way Tom always seemed to leave him hanging just when things felt a little too close to something real.

Severus didn't join the others. He wandered over a stone archway that led into the Malfoy Manor, a different entrance he and Lily used to get to the party. He leaned against the brick, contemplating if he would be safer inside the Manor. But no...Tom meant it when he said to stay here, and he was sure his father meant in the same location he knew Severus to be at. Not roaming the grand halls of an ancient Gothic castle. 

His eyes flickered back to the stage. He couldn't see any of his friends in the thick of the crowd. So he focused on the music. 

He didn't listen to much wizarding music outside of school. Most of the music his dormmates listened to was classical. And that was on the whims of Lucius Malfoy. He bet if Lucius's cousin wasn't the lead guitarist, the blonde aristocrat wouldn't even bothered show casing rock music at his party.

The Gilded Wands weren't terrible either, even good at some parts. The female vocalist had a rich, husky voice, perfect for the style of jazzy rock the band was famous for. But he wasn't feeling the music like he did with his own records. He enjoyed something a bit more moodier. 

Severus was content to stay in one spot, away from everyone.

Just as the final chords of one song slipped into silence, another began...and there was shift. 

From the first guitar riff, Severus could tell this song was different. It was darker, heavier, and something about it made the air feel charged.

It was raw, slow, and aggressive. Powerful. The sound swelled as the bass came in with a harsh edge, while the violin added a romantic touch to the song that hadn’t been there before. Magic enchanted the strings, making the instruments come alive. Then the music dropped into a haunting pause, leaving only the violinist in the spotlight. Her bow trembled as she dragged out a long, drawn-out note.

The drums came crashing through, and all three string performers matched the drummer’s energy, their instruments thrumming in perfect sync with the beat.

The singer approached the microphone, grabbed it with both hands, and let out a deafening scream that earned her cheers.

Severus had expected the aggressive, heavy metal roar of Black Sabbath or the explosive energy of Led Zeppelin. But when she began to sing, her voice was far softer, sultrier than the instrumentals suggested. 

     In the flicker of the candle's glow,
    I saw you there, with eyes like smoke.

"What are you doing by yourself?"

Severus didn’t even flinch as Sirius stepped up behind him. He turned slowly, his eyes locking with the boy who wore a fox mask, his gray eyes gleaming almost silver in the flickering fae lights.

"What do you want, Black?"

The music continued to thrum in the background, the violin melding with the pulse of the drums as the vocalist’s voice continued to cut through the air.

         Rivals, yes, but something more,
        A hunger I can’t ignore.

"I'm wondering why you're just standing here," Sirius said, leaning into Severus’s space, as if daring him to move.

       Tension burns like stolen wine,
        Magic drips, we cross the line.
        Enemies by daylight’s grace,
        But in the shadows, we make our place.
        Where whispers bite and bodies scream,
        We are the devil’s sweetest dream.

The chorus played between them as they stood at a standstill.  Severus hated Black—he was annoying, cruel, and unbearable. And he liked Evan and Seth. But Evan had a girlfriend, and Seth only liked girls. Lily was on the dance floor with either Marlene or a French boy or even worse, James Potter. And Severus was alone, except he wasn’t anymore. It was the boy he hated, the one who always made Severus into a joke, offering to dance with him. It was Sirius who came to check on him and Pull him out his isolation. 

In the lull of another instrumental rift, Severus let out a shuddering breath. "Sure," he said softly, not believing he was doing this, because everything told him this was a prank. 

Sirius grinned and grabbed Severus's hand. He pulled him right into the thick of the crowd just as the vocals kicked back in. They're belted out with passion in each line. Sirius guided Severus into a swaying motion that matched the pace of the song. Severus was hesitant and stiff in his movements, feeling eyes on them. He wanted to avoid searching out the masked faces, but that meant he could only focus on the one in front of him. 

Sirius leaned in close in Severus’s personal space, and Severus fought the urge to recoil from him. Years of experience taught him  do so for his own safety, but he ignored his instincts. 

“Where is the energy you had when you fought that Prince Prat?” He asked against Severus’s ear. 

Electricity shot through Severus’s entire being. The feeling was far more intense than when Seth was hanging off of him earlier. “Do you want me to fight you, Sirius?” 

Sirius’s eyes sparkled at the sound of his first name on Severus’s lips. “If that gets you to loosen up. Right now you’re stiff, and dancing like a coward.” 

Severus’s nostrils flared at the insult. He shoved Sirius back, but not hard enough to kill the moment. “You ass!” 

Sirius laughed and grabbed Severus’s hands and spun him close. He took it as a challenge. If he didn't match Sirius's energy, he'd lose. So he let the music take over, and treated their dance as duel with their bodies instead of wands. 

         We play this game, no rules, no shame,
         In the dark, we leave our names.

When Sirius pulled him in close, Severus asked over the music, practically shouting in Sirius's ear. "Do you even know how to dance?" 

"Do you?" Sirius countered, spinning Severus around so he was pressed against Severus's back. 

"No." 

Sirius spun him back around, and then dipped him. "Then does it matter?" 

Severus couldn't fight back the smile even though he wished he could. "This is not a song for dipping, Black!" 

His laugh was overtaken by the rise of the instrumentals as the song was climaxing to its final chorus. He pulled Severus back up, so their faces were breaths away. "Sure it is!"  he flashed a grin of his perfectly straight and white teeth. 

Severus smirked, and took control their dance. He spun Sirius, and dipped him. His hair fell around their faces, creating a curtain. He was utterly delighted to see the shock on Sirius's face. "I guess you're right." 

The song came to a close, and the two stood up right, eyes only for each other. If anyone was watching them now, Severus found he didn't care. 

But...

Just as the next song began, Severus grabbed Sirius's hands. "If this is another one of your pranks, you'll regret it, Black. "

"Snape, you think I'd mess with you after what you did to Prince what's his name?" he countered, sway to the new song and getting closer. The next song the Gilded Wands performed as a bit slower, and softer, but still had the rock edge Severus preferred. The Gilded Wands weren't half bad compared to the muggle music he was used too. They're actually enjoyable. Black Sabbath was better though. 

"Past history says yes," Severus directed their duel now. 

"Ha!" Sirius barked out a harsh laugh. "Why do you think I only instigate fight with you when I have back up, mate?" 

"Fighting someone with three other people makes you a bad person," Severus countered, but there wasn't much heat in his words...he almost felt like he was flirting with Sirius. 

Sirius took back control and yanked Severus even closer so there was only a gap between them. He pulled Severus's arms so they naturally rested on Sirius's shoulders. His hands found Severus's narrow waist. "Who said I was good?" 

Severus's heart was beating louder than the music ever could be. No one has ever held him intimately like this before. He never danced with someone before. He turned his head to the side, finding anything other than Sirius to look at. 

His eyes landed on Garrett who was nearby, dancing with Florence Yaxley, a slytherin girl their year. They both were shooting shocked glances their way, hardly paying attention to their own footwork. 

Severus turned to his right, and passed Sirius he could see Narcissa and Lucius had stopped dancing all together, and just stood and watched. It wasn't just them. Any nearby Hogwarts student who knew of their rivalry either slowing their dancing or just stopped completely to watch them dance together. 

Sirius cupped Severus's cheek and turned his head this way. "ignore them." 

"They are watching us," Severus hissed. Of course, Black didn't care what people thought. 

But Sirius's smile was forced, and he wasn't truly looking at Severus, but passed him too. "Forget about them," he said flatly, "they don't matter." 

Severus was trapped. He couldn't breathe, not with these many eyes on him. They're laughing, snickering, He could hear it. He heard it all four years at Hogwarts. And Sirius Black caused it. A duel was natural, honorable, manly.  Dancing with another boy was a humiliation, a joke. Queer.

 The music was too loud. Their eyes were too intense. Sirius was going to find Potter after this dance, and tomorrow they will tell Pettigrew and Lupin and all have a good laugh. How Sirius tricked Severus into outing himself.  

No matter how good it felt in the moment, no matter how close they were, it never lasted. Sirius had humiliated him too many times before. It wouldn’t be any different this time. It couldn’t be.

If Tobias was here, if he was still alive to see him, he'd call him a freak. Spit at him like. What would Tom do or say if he found? Kicked him out after only a week?

His chest tight and heavy and it hurt. He was going to faint if he didn't get out of here. Sirius's smile fell slightly, sensing his panic. "What's wrong?"

He peeled Sirius's hands off of him. "I can't do this," he stammered out, his voice cracking.  "I can't do this."

Sirius frowned, stepping closer. “Sev—”

“Don’t!” Severus shoved him back, harder than he meant to. The aggression surprised them both. He couldn’t bear to look at Sirius’s face—confused, maybe hurt? No, no, he was faking. Surely, he couldn't be honest. This was a all joke at Severus's expense. 

 Severus just needed to get away, and leave. 

He bolted from Sirius, and shoved anyone who got in his way out of it. He swore he heard someone--Lucius--call after him. And there was distinct presence that followed after him, but he didn't see who it was. 

He shoved through the cloth divider, and stepped into the unforgiving darkness. He let out a staggering breath as the sudden cool air nipped at his skin. But at least he stopped suffocating.

He had a few seconds reprieve, where his mind was clear and had a moment to reflect on how he acted. He didn't know what came over him. He was so, so stupid. 

Why did he do that? 

Why did he even react like such a freak? He had been feeling good one moment, with Sirius Black no less, and the next he was panicked. 

Severus could have easily played off dancing—and, shit, had he been flirting?—with Black, but running out like that would tell a different story now…

A high-pitched whistle cut through the air, sharp and sudden, sending a jolt of nausea through him. His legs wavered beneath him, and dizziness seized his senses. He doubled over, the urge to vomit clawing at him with cruel insistence.

He retched, his stomach twisting violently as he expelled what little food he had eaten at the party. Mostly water, laced with the acidic sting of bile. His throat burned as he wiped his mouth with a shaky hand.

The whistle shifted, warping into a soft, melodic hum. It was a lullaby, haunting in its tenderness—a mother’s voice cradling a sleeping child.

        Come here, little ones, 
        Come and play, 
        You are the children 
        Who went astray.

His head jerked toward the sound. It beckoned from the hedge maze. Under the maze, was pitch blackness, but the lullaby was brighter than any lighthouse in the dark. Though still meters away, the voice felt near, impossibly close, as if the singer was speaking right in his ear. 

         O' Children, O' Children,
        We are Fair
         With silken words
         And silvered care

The melody wrapped around his mind soft wool, quieting his thoughts until he didn't have to think. The song would think for him. It would act for him. Breathe for him. Live for him. Nothing else mattered in this world. Not his mother, not Tobias, not Tom, not Lily, not Sirius. Not the laughter, the dance, the duel. 

The only thing that mattered was the melody. He was one the Children. He was one of the Children, and he had to obey. 

       Step closer, dear hearts,
       And heed our song, 
       For those who linger
       Won’t tarry long.

His mind, and the world around him fell silent. Still. Blissfully blank. Another step. And another. He trailed after the too, 

       O' Children, O' Children,
       Hear our plea,
       A gift awaits
       From the Serpent's decree.

Was that hissing? 

        But tread with care,
       And know this well,
       The Fair are kind,
       But kind can quell.

He hardly noticed the grounds flooding with light or the quiet grounds erupting with cheering and music. The enchanting song started again, and he ran to the maze. He was sure he heard his name--was his name Severus?--but he didn't stop. Not until he found the source of the melody.

And just as he slipped into the maze and loud, echoing bang erupted from the main garden where the adults were having their party. Followed by three more equally loud bangs. 

Gunfire. 

Someone had brought a muggle weapon among the pureblood elite. And while their children danced and laughed and cheered, blissfully unaware, the main garden descended into chaos and screams. 

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle left Severus and the little Muggle-born girl at the curtain, trusting Severus to follow when he was ready. He lingered for a moment, but decided to keep going. He had no energy to wait. Not tonight. Severus didn’t need him hovering like a chaperone. He could manage. He had to. This, after all, was the real reason Tom had avoided entering through the main entrance. If he had, he’d have been forced to parade Severus—and by extension, Lily—before his own peers, wasting precious minutes he could ill afford.

Nine o'clock. He intended to leave by then, if not sooner.

His fingers twitched involuntarily at the thought of he went through the main entrance with the boy. Eileen would've been brought up. Their failed marriage. The questions thrown at Severus. The boy didn't need that. She had abandoned Severus, left Tom to pick up the pieces, left Tom to do what needed to be done. Tom considered himself Severus’s sole parent now. No one else mattered in Severus's life. 

But without Severus as a buffer, the conversations he'd suffer was about the deep bags under his eyes and tiredness. The aristocratic purebloods around him would never understand the exhaustion of working to live. To them, labor meant hosting galas and strolling the polished halls of the Ministry, their hands unblemished by anything resembling real work. Tom, however, only knew working and surviving. The division between them was sharp and grand, no matter how much he played pretend at these oppressive parties. 

He rolled his shoulders, as if trying to shake off the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. What he needed was a smoke to cut through the haze clouding his thoughts.

Speaking of smoking. 

Across the room, tucked into a shadowed corner of the manor's grand hall, he spotted Sirius and Narcissa Black pressed against the stone wall, far removed from the other obnoxiously loud children. Sirius had a cigarette perched between his lips, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

Tom's eyes narrowed. A week ago, before he found out he was father, he visited Grimmauld Place just as the school children were returning home. Sirius had stolen a carton from him. Not that Tom cared. He had too many to bother chasing down one missing pack, and it was one of the wrong cartons Norman Avery bought him anyway. 

Truthfully, he left an extra one lying around, half out of laziness, half out of knowing Sirius would take it.

Without breaking stride, he cut through the clusters of chattering teens, his gaze fixed on the two cousins. Sirius stiffened, eyes darting to meet his approaching figure, and fumbled to hide the cigarette behind his back. Too late.

Tom inhaled sharply as he neared, the distinct scent of tobacco curling in the air, laced with the faintest trace of something sweeter. With a flick of his wrist, his wand slid into his palm, and without so much as a murmur, the carton of cigarettes zipped through the air and into his waiting hand.

Sirius blinked, startled, his mouth parting in protest. Narcissa simply arched a pale brow, unimpressed but wisely silent.

Tom turned the carton over in his fingers, inspecting it with the same detached curiosity he’d show a mildly interesting book. There was only three left. "I see you’ve been enjoying yourself," he said coolly, sparing Sirius a brief glance. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Oh, come on, Mr. Riddle, you hardly missed it," Sirius complained, putting an air of innocence but he knew from Orion there was nothing innocent about his oldest son. Narcissa watched with bored detachment. 

"I didn't," Tom said, tossing the mostly empty carton back. "Do me a favor and tell me where you seen your mother last so I can avoid that area all together." 

That got them both to laugh. “She’s holding court with her flock of harpies," Sirius answered, making a face. "Gossiping about anyone who wasn't invited." 

Tom inclined his head at the Black cousins and turned, leaving them to their own devices. He reached the silk-draped archway leading to the main party. With a glance over his shoulder, he scanned the unruly crowd of teenagers and spotted Severus and Lucius engaged in conversation.

Yes, Severus will do just fine.

He slipped through the curtain.

The narrow cobblestone path stretched ahead, winding gracefully through the perfectly kept grounds of Malfoy Manor. The glow of enchanted mushrooms illuminated the way, casting soft pools of light across the uneven stones. The air was cooler here compared to the sectioned-off area for the teenagers, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and night-blooming roses that curled around the manor’s stone walls.

As he rounded the corner, the cobblestone path gave way to smooth marble, and the expansive garden opened up into the courtyard. The towering silhouette of Malfoy Manor loomed behind it, its gothic spires cutting into the night sky, with the soft flicker of golden light spilling from the grand windows.

Tom gave pause, staring up at the manor's towering spires and stained-glass windows. His casual smile faltered, just slightly.

Mrs. Cole led the boys and girls to service. They were supposed to hold hands so they wouldn't get lost—except for the older girls, who were forced to carry the babies. It was their duty after all. But no one wanted to hold Tom’s hand. Not the ugly, used child whose tantrums shattered glass and splintered wood. Not the odd boy who whispered to snakes and started fires.

That was fine. Tom hated being touched, and it had only gotten worse in the last few months.

Tom's hands trembled as bits of buried memories resurfaced. He patted down his coat and trousers until his fingers brushed the carton in his back pocket. As he pulled it free, the carton slipped from his hand, scattering cigarettes across the grass. He swore under his breath and crouched, his hands twitching as he gathered them back into place. Keeping one out, he lit it with his mind, the warm glow of the tip steadying his nerves.

The faint scent of damp earth and roses mingled in the air, but his mind filled with something else. Thick incense smoke and the metallic clang of bells. He squirmed under the shadow of the cathedral—no, no, no, this was Malfoy Manor.

He exhaled another steadying breath and rolled his shoulders, forcing the past back into the dark corners where it belonged. The party. That was all that mattered. He had rounds to make, orders to give, and recruit new members. 

He was Tom Riddle, and Lord Voldemort and he was in control over his life. He's not the tiny, scrawny orphan with no one in the world to look out for him. 

Well, no. He didn't have no one. He had himself, and always had himself.

He inhaled again, and exhaled. And repeated the process. After a couple minutes, he approached the main party.

A series of ornate archways dotted the stone courtyard ahead, each intricately carved with twisting serpents and delicate silver inlays that caught the moonlight. The largest stood just before him, adorned with a lattice of ivy and silvery fairy lights that pulsed softly in rhythm with the classical, more sophisticated music drifting from beyond. The distant murmur of polite conversation floated through the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of crystal goblets and soft laughter. A worlds apart from the cacophony of the teen section. 

Tom didn't stand out as much as he wanted to. A shame, really.

His mind flickered back to the red trousers he had debated wearing tonight. He had considered them for a reason.

With a snap, he changed his black velvet trousers to the red ones. He shifted slightly, enjoying the way the fabric hugged his thighs, the smooth slide of it against his skin. Sharp. Clean. Controlled. Much better. It was a small thing, but small things mattered. He exhaled slowly, smoothing a hand down the fabric, admiring the way it fit him exactly as it should. He did not tolerate imperfections. Not anymore. Just because he was dead tired, didn't mean he couldn't look his best.

He reluctantly put out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe before slipping it in his pocket for later. 

Tom straightened out his waistcoat and his sleeves before he entered. He stuck to the shadows, on the edges of the party. His gaze swept across the garden, carefully examining the faces of the crowd. He needed to be strategic who to talk to first. Obviously, seek out Abraxas and Leanan, and Odette. Find Yaxley's, ask him about Selwyn. There people to greet, but he wouldn't stick around for a conversation. His priority was was find Orson Shacklebolt. 

Orson was a seer and cofounder of the Quibler. In between the pages of wild conspiracies, was staunch pro-Death Eater sentiment. Tom needed Orson as Death Eater. The Shacklebolts were a notorious family for light magic. Their youngest son was an Auror-in-training. Nabbing Orson would be an upset to in politics. Orson would be here, as he moved in the same circle as many of the younger wizards and witches that filled bottom ranks of Death Eaters. And his family were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. They weren't Weasleys or Longbottoms or Prewitts. There were closer to McKInnons, teetering on the edge of acceptability. 

As Tom was about his hiding spot to make his presence known, he caught sight of her. 

Standing with Bellatrix Black, and two other witches he couldn't place names to their faces, was a woman he had been dying to meet. 

Mangala Verma, columnist for Witch Weekly, was here.

He hadn't expected her to be here. He had been reading her articles from the beginning. She was one of the writers who had turned the domestic magazine into a platform for hard-hitting political activism. A radical, some called her. A troublemaker. She pushed for Muggle-born rights, held scathing views on blood purity, and—of all things—was determined to bring feminism to Magical Britain. All the while she warned the dangers of muggles persisted despite the idea the witch trials are over. She used her own country as an example. 

Yet, here she was here, despite his expectations. In the center of the garden, dressed like a dream in pale pink.

The silk of her lehenga shimmered under the lantern light, soft against her deep brown skin. The gold embroidery traced delicate patterns along the fabric, catching the glow as she moved. Her dark hair was pulled up, exposing the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her throat. She carried herself with an ease he found hypnotic: unbothered, unaware of him. She was always unaware of him. 

He never had the chance to speak to her. Not yet. But he had seen her before. Walking through Diagon Alley, speaking animatedly to shopkeepers, or stepping out of a bookstore with a stack of novels and grimoires. He would stop what he was doing, watch, and—when curiosity overcame him—trail behind, observing how she moved, how she carried herself. He learned little about her, except she was an animagus who turned into a Common Kingfisher. More than once, he had followed her all the way to her flat in Brixton. 

He never approached her. Not then.

But tonight, that would change.

In a far better mood than a moment ago, he left his hiding space. He slipped into the party as if he had been there the entire evening. He first approached Orion Black and Caspar Burke, both standing off to the side at a high table, sipping on wine. Their debate was heated, or at least as heated as two aristocrats would allow.

As he approached, he picked up what they were talking about.

"Your bill pushes too far too quickly," Orion said coolly. "We need to boil the cauldron slowly, not let it spill over. If we move too fast, we will only make the Muggle-borns desperate, Caspar. They need to be managed, not spurred to action."

"Come off it," Caspar dismissed. "This kind of appeasement has already poisoned our bloodlines. The Ministry, Hogwarts, St. Mungo’s, all vital institutions. How can we call ourselves a magical society when these places are infested with Muggle-borns who will never understand our ways?"

Ah, the Blood Purity Preservation Act.

Tom hated Mudbloods—especially the ones who refused to assimilate into the magical world, those who endangered them all by clinging to their Muggle roots. But in moments like this, Tom truly hated the purebloods he surrounded himself with.

He got close, and that’s when both men noticed him. He lightly touched Caspar’s shoulder, leaned in, and whispered,

"Why, Burke, it almost sounds like you hate having a Mudblood in control. One might think… you're not loyal."

Caspar stilled. His throat bobbed.

"There are exceptions, of course."

Tom chuckled softly. "Oh? So you’ll be adding a provision to your bill, then? ‘No Muggle-borns, except for that pesky Riddle—he’s allowed.’"

Casper opened his mouth to argue, but Tom continued, harsher now.

"Next time you present an act in wizengamot, you will hand a draft over to Orion for him to read over. Because as it stands," his tone shifted to something far more menacing, "if your act passes, you cost me my job and my only way to support myself and my son. Do you understand me?"

A heavy pause.

"Do you understand me?"

Burke stayed silent. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Tom smiled and gave his arm a light pat. "Good lad."

Then he turned to Orion. "Walk with me." He spared Caspar one last glance. "And Burke—try not to hurt yourself. It would be a shame if something happened to the only living adult male in the Burke family."

He left, and Orion was at his side. 

"We warned him," Orion began.

"You don’t need to apologize for that fool," Tom dismissed. "There was a Wizengamot meeting yesterday. What was it about?"

They walked through the party, drawing attention as they moved. Heads turned when they passed Norman Avery and his family seated at a table. Avery excused himself, rising to follow. Corban Yaxley and his wife, Lianhua, seemed to appear from nowhere. Bernard Rosier, Cassidy Wilkes, and Armand Lestrange quickly fell in step.

Tom came to a stop in an open space, far from the dance floor but still commanding enough presence to hold court. Eyes flickered toward the growing group. Some were Death Eaters, others were enemies, but no one was foolish enough to interrupt.

"Well?" He pushed back his coat, resting both hands on his hips. "What was the meeting about?"

"Albus Dumbledore proposed that Minister Jenkins is unfit for the job," Orion explained. "He's calling for a special election."

"That means he has someone in mind," he said. "Do we have any idea who?" 

Lianhua slipped between the men towering over her, stepping to Tom’s side. Her black qipao whispered against her legs as she moved. "Barty Crouch Sr. and Charlus Potter," she said smoothly. "I broke into both their offices. Corban and I had our suspicions, but now we have confirmation."

Tom swore with his whole body. He fished out his used cigarette, and lighter. He sticked it in his teeth, speaking as he lit. "Who backed Albus?" 

"Selwyn," Norman answered, his disdain clear. 

"Son-of-," Tom hissed. "He didn't get the memo when I offed his auror contacts. That's it, he's frozen out. He's done. Orion, sweet talk his family to make them understand how done he is." 

Orion gave a quick nod. "Walburga and I will take care of the Selwyns. They will drag all our families down." 

"We have more trouble," Norman added. 

“Nothing good,” Armand Lestrange said dryly. “They want stricter monitoring. They’re claiming the committee isn’t just about Parseltongue anymore. It’s about ‘inherited dangerous magics.’ Meaning—”

“Meaning, they’re taking an interest in bloodline abilities,” Tom finished, his voice dangerously soft.

Corban sneered. “They might as well be coming for the Sacred Twenty-Eight while they’re at it. What next? Banning families from teaching their own children?”

Tom cocked his head to the side, thinking. "Who's pushing this? I was under the belief the Ministry isn't endorsing the committee?"

"Charlus Potter," Armand said, nodding his head to his right. 

Tom followed the direction and the blood-traitor was far enough way to not hear them, but close enough to take notice. He was watching them under his red mask as he faked having a conversation with McKinnon. He boldly raised his glass their direction. 

Tom snapped his head forward. "That bastard shouldn't even be at this party." 

"With Albus endorsing him secretly for Minister," Bernard started, but let the words hung in the air. 

He couldn't believe Albus would push for someone actively killing parselmouths. No wait, Albus only cared when it was his precious muggles. "If Jenken is ousted, I want us to be read to push our own candidates. Rosier, I want nine names who are loyal to our cause, and I wanted them yesterday." he paused, eyed Rosier's outfit and smirked. "I see you're wearing the right shade of green." 

Rosier sighed, looking rather exasperated. "Yes, Tom I will get right on it." 

Tom didn't miss a beat and continued. "What about that anti-werewolf legislation Cornelius Fudge is pushing a month ago?" 

"It's been stalled out by Lyall Lupin and Newt Scmander, and he's been fighting it," Corban explained, keeping his face neutral as possible. Tom knew Corban, and honestly all of them here were anti werewolf. That's fine. Just as long they didn't interfere with Tom's connection with the werewolves. 

"It's odd though," LeStrange cut in. "Lyall used to be on a werewolf registration committee about ten years go. He was practically advocating for their eradication." 

"Figure out why he changed," Tom said, a bit snappish. "I want to know how the man who headed the anti magical creature foundation and the werewolf registration committee is now working with the best of us in preserving magic." 

"I'll look into it," Orion said smoothly. "My oldest runs in the same circles as Lyall’s boy, Remus. I'll see if he's heard anything."

Tom made a face. Remus? Who the fuck names their kid Remus when their last name is Lupin? Then again, his ex-wife named their son Severus—objectively the worst pureblood name he’d ever heard.

"Good, good," Tom said, taking a hit off his cigarette. "I'm going to greet the Malfoys. Keep your eyes and ears open around the party. We're having a full meeting on Wednesday night. Masks and all."

He caught the brief flicker of confusion on their faces—why Wednesday? He rubbed his temple, exhaling smoke.

"I'm covering a shift tomorrow." A pause. "At the hospital. Where I work."

The moment stretched.

Bernard Rosier blinked, clearly perplexed. “But… why?”

"I think it's to curry favor with his fellow healers," Cassidy said, proud he guessed what he assumed was correct. 

"No, it's because if I don't, I will be fired and lashing out against a hospital is a bad for business," Tom said, visibly annoyed. But Cassidy didn't understand what was it like to be fired from a job when his dear old father gave him position at the Wilkes's law firm. "I'm going to find Abraxas. You all have your orders." he turned and left them. 

As he walked away, he caught a snippet of their conversation. Cassidy still rambling about “political positioning” like he hadn’t just made a fool of himself. Tom rolled his eyes and tuned them out.

Tom spotted Abraxas and Odette Malfoy standing on the grand staircase, conversing with the Saint Sang sisters. Even in a party full of aristocratic preening, they stood apart. Pristine, untouchable, a tableau of curated perfection.

Odette, of course, had orchestrated it all. Abraxas married the model just before her fashion designer career took off. Married to one of, if not the wealthiest aristocrats in Europe, meant she had a lot of time and resources to choose.  She stood in midnight blue silk, her gown flowing like liquid twilight, every thread stitched for maximum effect. The structured collar framing her shoulders was an unnecessary display, yet one that suited her. Even her mask, a white and sapphire half-mask, edged in silver filigree, was dramatic, yet impeccable. Everything about her was curated, designed to command attention.

Abraxas, by contrast, was almost effortless in his presentation. His emerald jacket, subtly embroidered with silver, fit too well, a fact Tom refused to linger on. He had never cared much for fashion, but even he could recognize how well the tailored trousers shaped his legs. Aesthetically pleasing, in a way that irritated Tom more than it should. Abraxas, was admittedly, handsome. And his silver half-mask didn't cover that fact up. He just seen Abraxas that afternoon, and their interaction left Tom feeling off. 

And then there were the Saint Sang sisters, standing like mirror reflections of each other in their white and gold ballet-inspired gowns, the layered silk of their skirts catching the candlelight with every slight movement. Their gold-painted masks turned them into porcelain dolls—uncanny, perfect, unsettling. If not for the occasional blink, one might mistake them for enchanted figures instead of women.

What it told Tom was their inbred beyond even his own pureblood relatives...well, maybe not. Marvolo did fuck his sister to to create his son, and Medusa knows what the hell they did to his mother.

He shook his head, contemplating just turning and leaving, but he had a second thought. The Saint Sang family were some of the worst anti-Mudblood bigots he’d ever met. They were so fanatical in their beliefs that one conversation with their vile matriarch had nearly turned Tom into a Mudblood supremacist just out of spite.  

The sisters weren’t any better. If he showed his face, they might leave.

And since he needed to teach Odette lesson for not keeping him up to date on the party's theme shift...

He approached the four purebloods, and Abraxas and Odette had contrasting reactions: joy and horror. And Tom greeted both a smile. 

"Hello," he said cheerfully. 

The Saint Sang sisters, Amaryllis and Aster, turned at the sound of his voice, their golden masks glinting in the candlelight. Their expressions, though partially hidden, turned to disgust at the very sight of him. Aster stepped a few paces away from Tom, covering her face with her fan. it was like if she was anywhere closer to Tom, she would vomit. 

Amaryllis's reaction was hardly any better. She stared at him like one would a nasty roach that crawled from under a pile of trash. "Odette, darling," she said, her thick accent hugging each word. "I was not aware you allowed these creatures onto your property." 

Abraxas looked around, naive as always, asked in confusion, "are the peacocks acting up?" while Odette covered her face with both hands. 

 "Oh, blimey!" Tom switched from the his learned posh accent to how he spoke as an unruly child, instigating fights in the common room.  "Didn’t fink I’d be rubbin’ elbows wiv such posh birds tonight! Cor, lucky me, eh?" 

He took a leisurely drag off his cigarette, exhaling smoke with the same casual ease as a bloke leaning against a pub wall. He might as well just play the stereotype. 

"Ain’t every day a filthy guttersnipe like meself gets ter stand in the presence o’ such fine, respectable ladies!" He threw mock admiration into the words, letting his grin turn just sharp enough to unsettle. "Oi, Odette, ya never told me this was a proper fancy do. I’da combed me ‘air an’ everyfing!" 

The sisters visibly recoiled. Amaryllis practically flinched as if the very sound of his accent contaminated her. Aster let out a high, strangled breath, gripping her fan so tightly it threatened to snap. If he continued, she might faint! 

"What is thi-this disgusting mockery?" Amaryllis hissed, her French accent warping into something sharp and horrified. "Odette, how dare you let such filth through your doors?"

"I mean, y'ain’t wrong, love," Tom continued, tilting his head, letting the smirk settle in. "Grew up in a proper rat’s nest, me. Not like you lot, wiv your silver spoons shoved so far up ya arses ya can taste yer inheritance."

Aster gasped audibly, like she’d been struck. Amaryllis made a horrified noise, stepping further away, the disgust clear in her tight-lipped sneer.

"This must be some kind of joke," Amaryllis spat. "Riddle, we have tolerated your presence in our circles, but this is just plain vulgar!" 

Odette took in a staggering breath. "Abraxas, deal with him!" she snapped. "Girls, girls, let's go to the parlor." 

Aster didn't have to be told twice to get away from Tom. She bolted back inside the mansion, while Amaryllis spoke in heated French about how filth like him shouldn't be invited to Pureblood homes. Odette tried to lead her inside the her inside. 

"Well, Tom, it was nice of you to arrive unannounced," Abraxas said, sounding weary of his antics. "When did you arrive?" 

Tom glanced at him briefly before returning his focus to the party below. "I came in when the McKinnons did. I just chose to avoid the front entrance. I took Severus and Lily straight to the teenagers’ section—ah-ha!" He snapped his fingers, spotting Orson speaking with Reginald Rowle and Travers near the bar.

He turned back to Abraxas, who was still watching him, expectant, waiting for something.

"I’ll have to talk to you later," Tom said. "I have a potential recruit."

Abraxas’s expression flickered, it was almost unreadable. Almost irritated, and regretful. But tom was so focused on his goal, he didn't care to examine. 

He opened his mouth, as if to argue  but before he could speak, Tom leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek.

Abraxas went utterly still.

The shift was subtle. A small twitch in his shoulders, a sharp inhale. His lips parted slightly, as if caught between shock and some response he couldn’t quite formulate.

Tom barely noticed. Or, at least, he acted like he didn’t.

Somewhere behind them, one of the women—Odette or one of the Saint Sang sisters, he neither knew nor cared which—made a disgusted, strangled noise.

Tom pulled away effortlessly, already turning on his heel. Abraxas hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. If he was flushing, or if his mask of composure had cracked for even a moment, Tom didn’t wait to see it.

By the time Abraxas fully registered what had just happened, Tom was already descending the opposite staircase, slipping seamlessly back into the party.

Tom approached the bar silently, letting the three younger men continue their conversation. Their laughter was loud, and obnoxious, and typical of three men in their twenties. Tom wasn't sure if he missed his twenties or not. He spent that decade in between women and traveling, but with no real purpose in life except studying magic. 

He listened in to the conversation, quietly ordering a scotch on the rocks for himself. 

"I swear to Merlin," Rowle said, voice loud and slurred from hitting the bar too early. "That little Finnish bird was insatiable. I had her screaming, and begging." 

Wulfric Travers, a spitting image of his grandfather, snorted into his drink. "Please. You did not," Travers said, dismissive. "She blew you off the entire night. But you know who had? Oldest Selwyn girl. The quiet one."

Rowle raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "The one with the big knockers?" 

"Yes, that one." Travers leaned in slightly, like he was sharing something particularly filthy. "Let’s just say she’s not nearly as quiet when you get her alone. She was soaked when I was done with her." 

Rowle laughed, knocking back his drink. "I bet. Bet she let you do anything, didn’t she? I heard she's bit loose. So no surprise there."

Orson, standing between them, tensed slightly. He lifted his drink but said nothing.

Rowle nudged him. "Come on, Shacklebolt. You can’t tell me Bellatrix isn’t just as mental in bed as she is out of it."

Orson turned his head sharply, gaze unreadable. "I don’t discuss my personal affairs."

"I bet she scratches like a wild cat," Travers said, snickering in his glass. "All throughout school she was known to give the best head."

Orson choked on his drink, covering up the fact that Tom did too.

He did not want to hear about Bellatrix Black this way. He had known her since she was a small girl, back when her parents barely noticed her because they're too busy with their businesses. Or their second daughter, the baby, Andromeda. She was fiery little girl who would force him to sit through tea parties and pretend weddings. She played the perfect little hostess, with her dark curls bouncing and frilly dresses. She was practically Tom's niece!

Now here he was, listening to men discuss her like a common whore. Should he stab them? Cygnus might not like he stabbed purebloods, but surely he wouldn't care if it was defend Bellatrix's honor...no, no...he can't solve all his problems with killing people. Even if that was the preferred method.  

He pushed his cigarette between his teeth and exhaled slowly, composing himself.

"You two are making this harder to listen to than it already is." His voice was lazy with forced indifference.

Rowle turned, grinning, assuming Tom was about to join in. "Why Mr. Riddle, when did you get here? Father said you're wild when you're our age." He smirked at Travers, elbowed him. "You got any stories for us?" 

Tom arched an eyebrow, and rolled his eyes. He wasn't wilder. He had his share of women, yes, but he wasn't at an orgy every weekend. "Seb would say that," he murmured, now scanning the party with disinterest.

Then, he caught sight of her.

Mangala Verma, standing alone among the pillars, pacing. She was impatient, as if she was waiting for something. Or someone. She just didn't know it yet she was waiting for him. 

"I was married. I was engaged. I have many stories," he said offhandedly, smirking around his glass as he watched her move.

Travers followed his gaze to Mangala. "Well, well, well. Someone’s got a conquest tonight, do they?"

Tom chuckled low. Oh, they had a lot to learn.  He pointed at her with his glass, and said, "a woman like that isn't a conquest you discard after a one-night stand. That's a woman that would break boys like you. She needs a man." 

"Isn't she our age?" Orson asked, brow raised as he sipped on his drink. 

Tom dismissed that with a hand wave. "And even when you're my age, she still would be too much to handle. Now, you two keep talking about lovely ladies, and you'll never find a wife." He set his half-finished glass of scotch down with a clank. A silver coin appeared in his palm with a flick of his fingers. On one side, a Medusa head snarled like a beast; on the other, a skull gleamed under the dim party lights.

He slid it toward Orson on the counter top.

Orson picked it up, brow furrowing. Rowle and Travers fell silent, their mouths parting slightly. They were both Death Eaters—lower ranked, of course—but they still knew what the coin meant.

Tom leaned in slightly, his voice low and filled with promise. "Orson, the Dark Lord would like to have a word with you."

Then, without another word, he shrugged off his coat and took off his mask, laid both on the bar, and turned away.

"Take care of this," he murmured to the bartender, already walking off, leaving the three young men staring after him.

He weaved through the pillars and free standing archways that lined the outskirts of the party. He saw his chance, and stepped right in front of Mangala.

She took a step back, shock flickered across her face before annoyance over took her features. Her brown eyes were a softer, honey compared his darker hazel. And the prettiest eyes he ever seen, especially as she glared up at him.  

"Excuse you?" she asked. Ah, her voice was better than he imagined. In two simple words, she spoke with the ferocity of firebird. 

"Excuse me indeed," he said. "My apologies, Miss Verma, but saw you across from the party, and I had to come over and speak to you." 

"Do I know you?" she asked, growing more irritated. 

"You do not, but I know of your work. My name is--

She held her hand up, her bangles falling down her arm. "I do not care." Blunt, and disrespectful. No one dared talked to him this way in years. He couldn't fight the grin off his face. "I don't want to know a self-serving, arrogant white man like you who feels entitled to my time and personhood. Now, excuse me. I have business elsewhere." 

She turned in flurry and left without looking back. Tom stood there, watching her leave with a bright grin stretching across his face, and hand over his heart. 

Oh, that went better than he expected! 

As Tom watches Mangala disappear into the crowd, still grinning, a sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

"Tom." 

Tom turned, annoyance flickering across his face.

Abraxas stood behind him, arms crossed, unimpressed. "Your son is about to embarrass himself. And you. And, more importantly—my family."

Tom blinked, his grin fading slightly. "Severus?"

Abraxas sighed as if this entire situation was exhausting him personally. "He's getting into a duel. Right now. The house-elves reported it."

Tom exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He cast one last glance in the direction Mangala had gone, then sighed—more dramatic than necessary.

"Alright, alright." His tone was dismissive, but not uninterested. Truthfully, he didn’t see the issue—Severus should be allowed to prove himself.

Still, he should be present. If nothing else, congratulate the boy when he wins. 

With a sharp crack, the two apparated to the teen party.

Mangala Verma stood at the edge of the party, watching the swirl of silk and enchanted masks, the glittering chandeliers reflecting off the polished marble floors.

This was not her world. And yet—it was.

The games of power, the careful social maneuvering, the way words meant something different depending on who spoke them. She was used to this life, but there was something fake about British wizards and witches. 

The British purebloods carried themselves with practiced ease, but Mangala recognized the truth beneath their polished masks. They clung to their bloodlines and dying culture. A mockery of the once great Empire this country had spun. 

She snorted into her glass of champagne. 

Pathetic. 

Her eyes flickered to the spot where she left that idiot Tom Riddle at. He was gone, and she couldn't feel his eyes on her, so maybe he just left the party all together. Doubtless. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

She knew who he was, this wasn't the first, second, third, or even fourth time he'd watch her from afar, but this was the first time he approached her. He had been following her for months, maybe a year. It was definitely right after she began writing for Witch Weekly. He did very little to hide himself. 

She did the only reasonable thing she could think of: stalk him in return. 

She found out his name, where he worked within a two weeks of her operation. She broke into his office at the hospital he worked at, found his his middle initial. She found out his address. He guarded his home with snakes, but she was a snake charmer. She just couldn't get passed his pesky charmwork, not yet at least. 

She returned the favor on some days, following him through Diagon Alley, watching, taking notes. He smoked, constantly. He was a vegetarian, which she hadn't expected. He disliked sweets, preferred savory and spicy foods—or what passed for spicy in this country. The British would cry over a single chili. He had a fondness for animals, and would go out of his way to pet a dog on the street or stare at the snake cages at the pet shop. It was cute. It also made her sick. 

She took her information and asked around her new friends, group of socialite witches like Bellatrix Black to tell her everything about Tom Riddle. 

Here's what Mangala knew. He was a half-blood who only just gotten that status change due to a law change from a few years ago. His mother had been a squib, and his father had been a muggle.  Tom might've been related to a dead pureblood family, but no one could prove a thing outside his middle name was Marvolo. Commoners either didn't know Tom, or only had good things to say about him. He was respected, feared, and hated among the pureblood elite. He commanded the pureblood elite with an iron fist, but he was painfully an outsider. That didn’t stop him from dressing like one, though. The bastard knew how to wear red. For all his social failings, he certainly didn't fail in the looks departments. 

She angerly sipped on her champagne until the glass was empty. How frustrating that her idiot stalker had to be pretty. 

With it empty, she wandered into the thick of the party to get more. At the table Bellatrix had claimed as hers and her friends, Mangala found there was bit of commotion. Walburga Black, the matriarch of the Black family, was pacing around the table, scanning the crowd. She was chewing on her bottom lip. "You said you just spoke to him?" 

Bellatrix in her black, lacy dress and matching mask. At her side was her boyfriend, Orson, wearing all white to contrast Bella. The two sat incredibly close, with Bella nearly in his lap. "Not even ten minutes ago, if not that, Ma'am," he said smoothly. 

 They weren't alone at the table. The table, that had been people her age, was now overtaken by not just Walburga, but Druella Black, Druella's sister, Leona Rosier, and a witch well into her fifties, Hazel Meadows. The four older women were sipping on the last bit of champagne that was at the table, so now Mangala needed to hunt for more.

But first, she was curious what was going on. 

"Something wrong, Lady Black?" Mangala asked, tilting her head just so, amusement curling at the edge of her words.

"My dearest sister-in-law is looking for Tom Riddle," Druella said, with an unimpressed drawl. 

Mangala frowned. "I had seen him a moment ago." 

Walburga turned around, her blue eyes blazing. "Where? Where did he went?" 

"At one of the archways," she said, pointing at the general direction. "I do not know where." 

"Wally, will you sit down. You already sent our men to look for him, he's been missing for only few minutes," Leona said with an airy quality that didn't match the rest of the women at the table. She twisted her blonde hair with her finger. 

Hazel took a bite of a frilly, French pastry, her silk-pressed curls shining under the candlelight as they framed her elegant face. Her red lipstick also looked lovely against her skin. Mangala had to ask the older witch where she got it, considering they same shade of brown. "She's concerned because Hepzibah Smith arrived."

Mangala's attention snapped to Hazel. 

Hepzibah Smith.

Her heart jumped to her throat, and her face grew heated. So Catharine Hepzibah Smith was finally here. She began to scan the party too, like Walburga, but she wasn't interested in finding Tom Riddle again. 

"You don’t understand," Walburga hissed, her voice taut with something close to real fear. "She’s on the Parselmouth Oversight Committee."

Orson Shacklebolt, who had been lounging in his seat with an air of bored disinterest, finally lifted his gaze. "She’s an antiques dealer, isn’t she? The whole Smith family is. Why does it matter if she’s on some committee?"

Walburga’s lip curled. "If you insist on being ignorant, then I suggest you stay silent, boy," she all but spat.

The shift at the table was immediate.

Orson sat up straight, his usually lazy, self-assured expression wiped clean. His dark eyes flashed, but he didn’t speak. Bellatrix looked between her boyfriend and her aunt, a bit stunned to say anything at all. She looked to her mother for help, but Druella said nothing either. 

Hazel’s pastry hit the plate with a soft clink. In one swift movement, she turned in her chair, eyes narrowing as she jabbed a manicured finger toward Walburga. "Watch who you're calling ‘boy,’ Wally."

The silken lilt of her voice was unmistakably dangerous. A few heads turned at Hazel’s sudden shift in tone, the air around them tensing like a bowstring. Walburga, for all her usual confidence, had the sense not to snap back immediately.

Mangala, watching the entire exchange unfold, let out a slow exhale. Her anger toward Hepzibah Smith hadn’t faded—but now, she had another reason to fume. 

"My apologies. A slip of the tongue," Walburga said. Too smooth. Too dismissive.

Mangala didn't buy it. Neither did Hazel. Or Orson.

Orson peeled himself away from Bellatrix, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an unpleasant feeling. His gaze settled on Walburga—sharp, knowing.

"You do realize," he said, voice low, deliberate, "that the more you panic about Smith being here, the more obvious it becomes that Tom is a Parselmouth?"

The table fell silent.

His tone wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t even loud. But it was precise, and condemning. 

Walburga’s fingers twitched at her side as she realized her mistake, the one Orson was trying to point out before her blunder. 

Mangala filed away the information, and didn't comment on it. 

Instead, her eyes caught something teal and colorful. 

Among the party guests stood Hepzibah Smith, speaking to a deluge of important foreign guests and ministry officials. 

Hepzibah was a spectacle of excess, draped in the spoils of colonial greed so garish it threatened to consume her whole.

Hepzibah Smith’s gown was cut in the elegant, high-waisted style of Regency fashion, but the fabric and embellishments were unmistakably Bhārat. 

The skirt, layered and trailing like the train of a sari, was woven from deep peacock-blue silk, shimmering under the enchanted fairy lights with an iridescence that spoke of hand-dyed, spell-treated craftsmanship. Gold embroidery in the shape of curling snakes and lotus flowers crept up the hem, climbing the fabric like jungle foliage reclaiming lost ground.

At her corseted bodice, the neckline dipped scandalously low for a woman of her age, trimmed in thick gold filigree that glittered. The sleeves were sheer and delicate, but decorated with multi-colored paisley motifs. A pattern too distinct, too intricate, to belong to the hands of any British designer.

Mangala's anger coiled in her stomach she thought she might vomit. 

She recognized the dress immediately. Nāga’s Glory. A relic of greedy hands and stolen culture. It had been commissioned for the first Hepzibah Smith nearly a century ago, an obscene display of colonial excess, drenched in magic and gold and sweat that never belonged to her.

She moved through the crowd, her presence commanding attention, effortlessly outshining the Malfoys at their own party.

She knew why.

One of the first things she did after leaving home in Jaipur was research the Smith family. Hepzibah Smith was a direct descendant of Helga Hufflepuff, a founder of Magical Britain’s most prestigious school. Its so-called sanctuary. That made the Smiths one of the most deeply entrenched magical families in Britain.

And yet, no other family could claim such a direct link to a Founder.

From what she had learned, the other bloodlines had died out long ago.

Except one.

There were whispers of an Heir of Slytherin, a ghost slithering through pureblood circles. But Mangala knew better than to put faith in rumors. Yet, she was curious if they were true. 

 As she approached, the others at the table stood. Mangala stepped back into the crowd so she wasn't seen by Smith. She needed to set her plan into motion. But she didn't move just yet. Moving would pull attention on her, and she didn't want anyone to see her and Hepzibah knew each other. Walburga moved around them all to approach the woman. She bowed slightly, the first time Mangala seen the headstrong Black matriarch lower herself. 

"Walburga! What a delight to see you here, and Druella, dear!" she said with condescending tone. Hepzibah was younger than both of them, but she looked down as if she weren't. "And Leona! I heard your daughter won a potions competition from Horace Slughorn. You must be so proud." 

Leona nodded along, a bit dreamy in her movements. "Oh, she did Lady Smith. Bernard and I are very proud." her voice turned a bit sharper. "I'm surprised you'd be interested in such a thing." 

"I'm always interested in learning about Hufflepuffs,"  she said. Mangala couldn't tell if she was sincere or was that her hatred creating a bias. To her, Hepzibah was a liar, and everything about her shouldn't be trusted. "And Mrs. Meadows, it is always lovely to see you." 

Hazel offered a tight smile. "You as well, Lady Smith." 

At some point, Orion had appeared at his wife's side, appearing from the crowds. His face didn't betray his worry that Walburga had a moment ago. "Lady Smith! I see you entered the party just well. Abraxas and Odette are dealing with an incident with the teenagers. They will be pleased to you know you arrived." 

Hepzibah inclined her head, a coy smile wrapped around her lips. "Lord Black, I hope it isn't too much trouble." 

"Hardly, just a bit of a scuffle between a couple of the boys," he said, dismissive. 

Bellatrix had an odd expression on her face. One twisted in disbelief and disgust. "Excuse me, Lady Smith, not to be rude, but what is that around your neck?" 

From where she stood, she could only glimpse the thick chain—a pendant, or maybe an amulet. The metal was old, tarnished with time, not polished or restored like her other jewelry. The chain itself was too heavy, too crude for someone like Hepzibah Smith.

Something about it felt wrong.

Hepzibah lifted a bejeweled hand to the pendant and grinned.

"This," she said, her voice laced with pride, "is Salazar Slytherin’s Locket."

The words hit like an explosive curse.

Shock rippled through the table. Even those nearby, those who hadn’t been listening, turned to stare. And yet, Hepzibah only smiled. She knew the reaction this would get. Mangala was new to Britain, but even she knew Hepzibah was wearing another Founder's heirloom was an offense. 

And in middle of Slytherins, Hepzibah kept going. "It is truly the most unique artifact I have in my collection. Did you know it was crafted by the Fae? Made of féithneoin. Duskiron." 

Mangala heard enough. She needed to get her plan into motion. As she passed through the people gathered around Hepzibah brag about how her family stole from another's. Mangala moved through the crowd, weaving between guests with purpose.

Then, a familiar presence cut into her path. She let out a slow, measured breath.

Tom Riddle.

He tilted his head slightly, that insufferable, knowing smirk wrapped around his cigarette. But it didn't reach his eyes like earlier. He was tired, and annoyed. Like the world kept beating down on him. 

She should have kept walking. Her plan, dammit. She needed in act her plan. 

But instead, she stopped just as he was going to pass, making him halt. "You might want to stay on your guard, Riddle."

"Ah, so you do know my name, Mrs. Verma." His voice was husky and sensual, but his eyes dragged over her slowly. Not subtle in the slightest. Of course he lingered on her chest. "Why should I stay on guard?" 

She leaned in just slightly, letting her words slip just beneath the hum of party chatter. "Because Lady Smith is here."

Something in his expression shifted. It was subtle—so subtle anyone else might have missed it. But she didn’t.

She gave him the same treatment, eying him like he was plate of delicious platter of food. She then, unexpectedly, reached up and fixed his collar of his waist coat. "Try not to get caught. I would miss you following me around." 

And with that, she walked past him, disappearing into the shrubbery near the Manor. 

Tom stood there for half a second too long. Not moving. Not reacting. Just processing. Then, as if shaking off a spell, he scoffed under his breath and rolled his cigarette between his fingers. Of course she knew who he was. She was intelligent, and determined. She was politically aware. He wouldn’t want a woman less than that. 

And of course, she had noticed him watching her! 

It was sexy before when she dismissed him. But the fact she talked like that to him, while knowing who he was, and that she actually was aware he'd been watching her, was even more attractive. 

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, flicking the ash from his cigarette. 

"I’d miss you following me around."

She was feisty. 

His eyes flickered toward the party. Hepzibah Smith was here, both Albus and Mangala confirmed it.  Well. It seemed his plans to leave by nine were shot. 

He flicked the dying cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel, slipping back into the party with renewed focus. 

Tom noticed more guests gliding onto the dance floor, the elegant twirls and practiced steps forming a rhythmic tide beneath the enchanted chandeliers. The music swelled with a slow, seductive melody. A contrast to what he heard in the teen party. 

His eyes flickered toward Mangala, watching as she moved through the crowd. He considered pulling her into a dance, the idea sounded pleasant. It sounded nostalgist. He missed dancing.

He hadn't danced with anyone since Eileen.

Once, it had been one of the few times they didn’t fight, the only moments they looked at each other without contempt. And before her—there had been others. Others who mattered, some who didn't. 

Emery Scamander—a sharp wit, laughter like ringing silver. She had taught him to waltz properly, correcting his form with a patient, amused touch.

Adalina Meadows—her fingers calloused from wand work, but her touch had been unshakable. They had danced in a jazz club in New York. Two British tourists finding each other under the dim lighting. Hazel wore her sister’s smile, and damn, did he hate that.

Myrtle Warren—awkward, shy, but full of light when she thought no one was looking. A Yule party for the kids who didn't have anywhere to go, stolen moments before everything went wrong. 

He shook his head of his past mistakes. He had to focus. 

Among the crowd was Catherine Hepzibah Smith, and right now, she was the only woman who mattered. 

He didn't get far into the main party, his eyes scanning for his men. He wanted Lianhua or Leanan or Walburga, an intelligent woman who knew how to play the game. But Walburga and Orion were probably dancing, to make a show that Hepzibah's presence didn't bother them. Lianhua might be with Corban, still kicking out the bloody Russian prince. 

But Leanan was an option. 

As he scanned the crowd as he approached, he saw Orson weave around the guests. There was a sense of urgency in his movements. The two locked eyes, and Orson's widen a fraction. The younger man hurried over to Tom, and Tom met him half way. 

"We need to talk," he hissed out. 

"Do we now?" Tom said casually, scanning passed Orson's head. 

"Yes," he said. He grabbed Tom's arm and dragged him closer for only them to hear. "I know you're Heir of Slytherin." 

"Many people accuse me of such," Tom said smoothly, letting nothing betray himself. "though, it is amusing a little lion cub is concerned for a serpent." 

"Are many of them True Seers?" Orson countered, and there wasn't an argument to be made. "I think I figured out how Hepzibah is weeding out--

"Tom Riddle!" a voice interrupted him before he could finish. 

They both turned and Tom made a disgusted face at the sight of Hepzibah. The woman was in early forties, yet was closer to resembling her great-aunt. Oh, he hated that wretch. She would come into Borgin and Burkes and paw at him like he was her property. 

This Hepzibah was no different. She latched onto him and dragged him from Orson, and wrapped her arms around his. "Oh, Tom, darling, it is so good to see you." 

Tom could hardly focus. Any of his quick thinking went out the window when he saw what was her locket. 

Slytherin's Locket. 

His mother's locket. 

Hepzibah didn’t notice his silence. She didn’t notice the way his face had gone blank, the way his body had turned rigid beneath her grip. She simply dragged him away from Orson and whatever warning had just died on the man’s lips.

The polished marble floor glittered beneath the chandeliers, reflecting gold and silver in dizzying, fractured patterns. Too bright. Too loud. The music swelled, couples moved in time, but Tom barely processed it. They passed followers, peers, enemies alike. Orion Black’s keen gaze flickered toward him. Bernard Rosier muttered something to his wife. Hazel Meadows arched a delicate brow. None of it mattered.

Hepzibah pulled him deeper, straight into the middle of the floor.

Her hands grasped his arms, guiding them to her waist, to the small of her back. Possessive. Controlling. He let her.

She was talking.

What was she saying?

"And isn’t this party divine? Truly, Odette outdid herself this year—though I would expect nothing less from the Malfoys. Ah, I do so love the holidays! Nothing like a grand gathering to remind everyone where they stand, don’t you agree?"

Still, he said nothing.

Hepzibah’s fingers curled tighter around his hand, and she spun them across the floor. He followed without thought.

"Now, tell me, darling—have you truly been keeping busy with all that tedious work at St. Mungo’s? I hear whispers of your… what do they call it now? The Healer’s Reform? Oh, such dreadful business, politics. But you always were ambitious, even in school," she said, laughing. "Of, course, you hadn't finished school, didn't you? You were drafted into that nasty muggle business in the forties." 

Nasty muggle business? When London, his city, was being bombed out of existence by the Nazis. While he was on the front lines, being shot at when he should've been in school with his pureblood and half-blood peers. And it was just...business? World War II was just business? The Holocaust was just muggle business? The atom bomb was just muggle nonsense? It was the very reason why Tom realized Muggles were a threat to their kind, and she dismissed it. As if it were nothing, and not a horror. 

His throat felt tight. He had not felt this in years.

He had seen death. He had caused death. He had controlled and commanded men twice her worth, and yet—yet this woman, with her greedy, gloved hands and gaudy, stolen gold, had undone him.

That locket had once belonged to his mother. 

He heard rumors, a back when he was store clerk for Mr. Burke that the first Hepzibah Smith had the locket, but he didn't believe them. The locket was lost to time. 

And now it was sitting on the throat of this woman, this ignorant, fattened collector of stolen legacies. 

Something dark and quiet slithered through him.

Kill her. 

A sharp voice in the back of his head whispered. The voice of silk and snakes tickled at his brain. 

The rage was his, but also wasn't. 

It was Lord Voldemort's voice. The real Lord Voldemort. 

"Where did you get that?" His voice came out hoarse, dry—foreign.

Hepzibah followed his gaze, fingertips brushing over the locket. "Oh, this?"

She paused. Something in her gaze sharpened.

"My great-aunt bought it from Caractacus Burke," she said. A beat. A flicker of amusement. "And he purchased it from a scrawny, pregnant Squib."

Tom’s stomach lurched.

Burke had known. He knew.

He had sold Slytherin’s Locket. Salazar Slytherin’s locket. The most prized possession of the Founder—his mother’s one relic of dignity. And Burke had sold it. Made Tom believe it was nothing more than rumor.

His heart slammed against his ribs. His breath came in uneven gasps, something burning at the back of his throat.

Fuck.

Was he going to cry?

There was a hard, cold edge in her voice now, something that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

"Did you know, Tom," she said, her voice syrupy, laced with something sharp, "that Salazar Slytherin's locket can grant the wearer the ability to speak Parselmouth, even when they were not born with the gift?"

Then she spoke it.

She dared to speak it.

The sound slithered from her lips—wrong, twisted by a tongue unworthy of it. She wasn’t speaking. She was butchering his language.

His mother’s tongue.

The one bit of magic Merope had, and Hepzibah dared to use it. To mock it. To defile it.

Parselmouths were being wiped from history. Hunted, erased, exterminated. And here she stood, wearing their stolen tongues around her neck.

And she had the audacity to speak it?

The world around him blurred, colors bleeding together in dizzying motion. The chandeliers, the spinning gowns, the music—it all dimmed into a distant, flickering thing.

And then, without thought, without restraint—

He corrected her.

"It’s Parseltongue," he hissed, voice a razor against the air. "You don’t speak Parselmouth. That’s the name of the people you stole from, you wretched bitch." 

His grip tightened on her waist. Hard. Controlling. Dangerous.

The music swelled around her laughter, and she ignored the pain he was causing her.

"Oh yes, Nagini corrected me many times," she said, light and careless. She glossed over it, moving on as if she hadn’t just made his skin crawl.

"You know, Tom, I was a second year when you opened the Chamber of Secrets—yes, I know it was you. It took time, but I finally figured out how to get proof."

Proof.

How many people would care if he killed her right now?

The thought came not as an impulse, but as a fact. A question with an answer waiting to be solved. The garden party flickered in his periphery—too bright, too loud, too distant. People moved, their laughter floating past him, meaning nothing.

He measured the distance between them and the nearest exit. His grip on her waist was firm—too firm. He could feel the fragile bones beneath his palm, the slight tremor beneath her composed exterior. She knew. She knew she was provoking something she shouldn't.

But she kept speaking.

"It's been an open secret that the Gaunts hadn't entirely died out, but no one could prove it," she said dreamily. "Oh, there was the Parselmouth clan the Gaunts came from. The travelers in Ireland. But the Committee took care of them two years ago..."

Something inside him turned to ice.

Took care of them.

Wiped out. Erased.

He saw the aftermath. The bodies. The burning caravans. The hands clawing at the ground. The tongues cut off, and stolen voices. Stolen children. 

His fingers twitched. His vision narrowed.

Hepzibah smiled. "Interestingly, right before this pesky Lord Voldemort reared his ugly head. But that's a rumor for another day, don't you think, Tom?"

His world snapped white-hot.

He was going to kill her. He was going to wrap his hands around her throat—was she still talking?

"Another fascinating thing I've learned about the locket, Tom?" she asked, grinning. "I can sense how many Parselmouths there are in the area. And it is telling me there is not just one, but two Heirs of Slytherin."

Oh, God. Severus.

Tom stopped dancing. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, fingers digging into fabric, into flesh. She gasped, startled. For the first time, she looked afraid.

"What the hell did you do to my son?" he snarled. His breath came fast, shallow.

She struggled, pushing against his grip, but he didn’t let go.

"It’s too late for him," she breathed, her voice sick with satisfaction. "Nagini has lured him to his death."

A strong hand grabbed Tom’s wrist.

"Let. Her. Go."

Charlus Potter.

Tom turned slowly, his rage coiling tight in his chest. Charlus’ grip was firm, not yet aggressive, but a warning.

"Move, Potter."

"Not happening."

Hepzibah stumbled back, coughing, rubbing her shoulders where Tom had grabbed her.

"He’s unstable—completely lost control—" she wheezed.

Charlus’ wand was still at his side. He hadn’t drawn it yet. He was watching Tom, calculating.

"What did you do to Severus?" Tom demanded.

"The same thing I did to the Ógánts," she hissed. 

Tom lunged.

Strong arms wrapped around his chest.

"Not here," Corban whispered against his ear.

Tom’s breath burned in his lungs. His body vibrated with the need to strike, to tear, to destroy— but Corban's grip held firm.

Charlus Potter stood before him, wand drawn, his stance sure, steady. Orion was at his side, his own wand aiming right back.

But they weren’t alone.

The air shifted.

A flicker of movement—then another. Light glinted off polished wood, sleeves shifted, bodies tensed.

Wands rose.

More than just two.

Tom’s eyes flicked across the dance floor, sharp and quick. They were surrounding him.

A half-circle of hostility.

Potter wasn’t just standing there alone—others had stepped in behind him. The McKinnons were quick to back him. Raghnall stood on Hepzibah's other side. A cluster of Ministry men, sharp-eyed and rigid, hands twitching over their wands. The Committee’s dogs, no doubt. And Aurors he hadn't known were here, Alastor Moody of all people had been invited? 

And yet, for every wand lifted in their direction, twice as many were aimed at them.

His people had moved just as fast.

Yaxley’s grip on him remained firm, but his other hand had already gone for his wand. Norman Avery was quick at his side. The entire Black family had drawn their wands, even old man Sirius Black the second left his seat and joined the frey. Rosier, Meadows, Mulciber, Dolohov, Wilkes, standing at his back. And the younger crowd, the LeStrange brothers joined their parents, and Orson was standing with Bellatrix. Across from his was his own younger brother, Kingsley. 

Their wands were drawn, pointed straight at Potter and his little coalition.

One wrong move. That was all it would take.

Tom felt the tension coil like a wire drawn too tight, moments away from snapping. His wand arm twitched, his body screamed for movement, for violence, for blood. The only thing keeping him still was the weight of Corban’s grip and the cold logic that the moment he moved, bodies would fall. 

No one spoke. No one moved.

The music had stopped. People were frozen where they stood, breathless, waiting.

"That is quite enough."

Albus Dumbledore’s booming voice cut through the silence.

"Enough."

Albus stood with Leanan Malfoy, behind them Abraxas and Odette. The Malfoys had not drawn their wands, but the tension in their stance was unmistakable—waiting, watching, ready to fight if need be. 

This was war. 

"What is the meaning of this?" Leanan demanded, storming into the middle. Her own wand was drawn, but she didn't aim it at anyone. "You are all acting like hooligans. All of you. Lower your wands, this instant." She spoke in her 'I used to teach all of you' voice, which did not seem to work. Not this time. 

Charlus and Raghnall and Alastor still held their wands up, which meant some of Tom's men had their wands out too.

Albus sighed.

It was the sigh of a professor who had spent decades dealing with stubborn, willful students who should have grown wiser with age. It seemed some, even long after graduation, still required his guided hand. He adjusted his cuffs with deliberate care, his expression unreadable.

"I believe Lady Malfoy gave you an instruction."

His eyes flicked across the party, assessing if the attendees would act as the adults they were or more like the children they used to be. There were still holdouts, rigid and unwilling. He recognized the telltale tension in their shoulders, the flickering hesitations.

Fine, then.

They were not schoolchildren, but they certainly acted worse than the students currently under his care. He shifted, and his wand slid effortlessly from his sleeve, settling into his grasp with the ease of second nature.

His voice remained mild, unhurried. "Unless you would like me to repeat it?" He got no responses. "Do I must cut to three." 

He didn't even get past one before all of them stood down. Wands lowered, just enough to lower the tension. Corban kept his hand on Tom's shoulder, as if to ground him as best as anyone could ground Tom in the moment. But the relief this conflict would not spill over was short lived. 

"You fools!" Hepzibah shrieked, now her wand was drawn Tom. "He's not one of us, he's a danger. He's a Parselmouth!" 

Her accusation rang out on the dance floor. 

Quiet murmuring erupted among the guests: 

"Dear Merlin!" 

"Isn't he a mudblood?" 

"But his mother was a squib!"

"I knew it," Moody's distinct voice cut through the whispers. 

"And?"

Albus’ voice was even, unimpressed. As though Hepzibah had declared something as dull as the weather. He didn't allow any of them to interrupt him. "Are you forgetting Tom is, or was I should say, a muggle-born. His mother had been a squib. As some of you," he glared at the witch who used the slur, "so painfully stated. Parseltongue does not pass down from squibs."

Tom tilted his head to the side, watching with narrowed eyes. Why was he...lying? Dumbledore didn't care enough for him to lie. It must to keep's Severus's identity safe. Severus was the one who was truly in danger if it got out. 

"And even so, I was not aware that speaking to serpents was a crime," he continued, voice smooth and unbothered. "Or are we now condemning wizards for their natural gifts?"

"It is a crime," Charlus said smoothly, adjusting his coat. "We just passed the law in Wizengamot this afternoon." 

Not because the law had been passed. But because half the Wizengamot had been cut from the decision. The weight of that violation crashed over the room like a breaking dam.

For Tom, it was the vote.

The party had erupted into a battlefield. Voices clashed, alliances cracked. Wands twitched at sides. Orion Black was already storming forward, Norman Avery’s outrage echoed in Tom’s ears, and Charlus...Charlus, that bastard,  had just admitted that the Wizengamot had voted in secret to exterminate his kind.

A calculated purge. A methodical genocide. 

And for two years, the accused him of pushing a genocide on muggle-borns. 

Orion Black stormed forward, his voice like thunder. “There was no assembly called!” He was in Charlus’ face before anyone could stop him, a pureblood lord to another, fury simmering beneath his skin.

Norman looked absolutely scandalized, his mustache twitching with rage. “This is an outrage! You do not pass laws of bloodline importance without consulting 

“You may have your Committee, but we have the Wizengamot, and you will not make a mockery of it,” Hazel Meadows snapped, her sharp voice slicing through the air. Her ball gown swirled around her as she turned to Abraxas Malfoy, demanding, “Did you know of this, Abraxas?”

Abraxas Malfoy’s was icy, the most furious he had anyone seen him. He was visibly trembling, while Odette clutched her pearls, aghast. Leanan took several steps back from Charlus, her wand hand twitching. 

“No,” he said softly. Too softly, but everyone stayed silent to hear him speak. “I did not.”

Silence. A thin, stretched silence, right before the fall.

“Then tell me, Potter,” Abraxas’ voice was like glass, sharp and controlled. “Which lordships were in attendance for this ‘vote’ of yours?”

"My family voted," Raghnall spoke out. "Along with the Longbottoms, and the Prewetts, and Selwyns. And the Smiths, naturally." he gestured 

"And my vote alone accounts for more than anyone other lord and ladyship," Hepzibah. 

Alastor Moody took several steps back, shock flickering across his usually unreadable face.

It was rare for him to be speechless. He had been quick to defend against Dark magic, but this was an affront to everything he had sworn to protect.

The temperature in the party dropped. What once was summer evening, was now short of winter. 

The air crackled.

"How dare you."

The words were not loud. They did not need to be.

They rang through the air like a death knell, vibrating deep in the bones of every man and woman present. The magic around them twisted, surged. A hum beneath the skin, an electricity in the air that made the hair on every arm stand on end.

Charlus stilled, horror stuck on his face. Everyone backed away from the raging storm brewing at the heart of the conflict. 

Tom, well, he couldn't help himself. He grinned. He always did delight in Albus's rage, when it wasn't directed at him. 

Albus Dumbledore stood utterly still, his hands curling into a fists, his eyes ablaze with something raw and furious.

"How dare all of you! You signed off on a genocide! Made it official! For what?" 

His voice cracked like thunder. The flickering candlelight flaring too bright for a single, breathless moment. The party, even those who just screaming moments ago, shrunk away from Albus's rage. And no one answered. 

"And you, Charlus—"

His gaze snapped to him like a curse, sharp, burning. "I endorsed you for Minister after Jenken, and you repay me by denying my vote? I am the Chief Warlock and you all went behind my back? And Hepzibah, you may claim Helga's blood, but you spit in the face of her legacy! You are permanently barred from setting foot on Hogwarts grounds!" the last sentence boomed with ancient magic, magic no one thought could work outside of Hogwarts. 

Hepzibah looked like she would faint.

Whatever excuse Charlus or Hepzibah had to offer was cut off by a new source of a commotion. A welcome reprieved for those who were terrified by Albus's rage. 

A young Indian man pushed through the crowd. He wore a blue kurta with matching pants. Tom didn't know him...but something about his face seemed oddly familiar. 

"Hepzibah Smith," he spoke in a thick accent, "do you remember me?" 

Everyone looked between her and the young man, Albus's speech already forgotten. 

She narrowed her eyes, only for them to widen. "You! You're Arjun! Why are you here?" 

Arjun lifted his hand, and pointed at Hepzibah with a small metal weapon. Many of the wizards and witches at attendance couldn't register what they're seeing. But Tom could. 

It was a pistol, one fairly similar to the one he carried when he was in the army. 

"To get back what you have stolen," Arjun said it in such a calm tone. 

He pulled the trigger.

His arm jerked back as he unloaded the weapon into Hepzibah Smith's

Hepzibah jerked violently with each impact, her body convulsing as bullets tore through silk and flesh alike. A red mist sprayed onto the white marble floor. Blood spilled from her mouth, choking as her lungs filled with blood. 

Several heartbeats of silence. 

Before the first scream cracked through the night. 

Lady Selwyn stumbled backward, knocking over a crystal glass. Someone tripped over a chair. A pureblood lord vomited onto the floor. Others fled from the scene all together. 

"Dear Merlin—!"

"What kind of magic is that?!" another bellowed.

Orion Black was the first to react. His wand was in his hand instantly, raised.

"Someone take him down!" he snarled, firing a stunner spell. 

But the Indian wizard vanished with a pop, and Orion’s spell hit the person behind him.

Gasps rang through the ballroom as the man reappeared on stage, right in the path of hexes and curses hurled his way.

He didn’t Apparate away. No—he shifted, collapsed inward, became something else entirely.

A bird. Ajurn was an Animagus. 

The transformation was seamless, unnatural in its grace. A practiced skill, not a desperate escape. A blur of blue darted through the air, weaving between spells measured practice. It flew into the crowd, and in that split second, Tom saw it.

A kingfisher.

His breath caught, but only for a fraction of a second

A common kingfisher.
A too-familiar kingfisher.

His eyes followed her fly and dodge spells, creating a scene. He needed to act quickly. He wasn't about to let the woman he now knew was his soulmate get captured by the Ministry. 

He snapped his fingers and shield engulfed her feathered body. It shimmered as a spell landed it's mark. 

Chaos surrounded Tom as it became clear the murderer was gone, out of reach. 

Good. Mangala deserved to go free. She did a public service. 

He would go to her later, but first, he turned his head to the maze.

He needed to find Severus and this Nagini. He broke into a run, not surprised that Albus followed after him. 

Chapter Text

Sirius barely registered the music still playing behind him. One moment, Severus was there—tense in his arms, wary but staying—and then, in a blink, he was gone. His retreat had been so sudden, so frantic, that Sirius hadn’t even processed what had happened until the space between them was empty.

For the first time, he wasn’t chasing Severus to antagonize him. He was chasing him because something was wrong.

He moved to follow, but before he could reach the curtain that led out of the dance floor, he was blocked.

Lucius Malfoy’s fiercely silver eyes flashed nearly white under the dim garden lighting. His expression was sharp—dangerous, cold. “What did you do?”

Sirius stopped short, irritation flaring. “Nothing!” he snapped, offended at the assumption. Of course Lucius would blame him. Princely, perfect Malfoy, always convinced he knew best.

He made to step around, but Lucius’s arm shot out, pressing firmly against his chest. Another body joined them—Seth Mulciber, his expression unreadable but voice dark with warning.

“Whatever you did to get him to dance with you,” Seth murmured, his grip closing just around Sirius’s sleeve, “it ends now.”

Sirius yanked himself free, scowling. “I didn’t do anything—”

But then—a streak of red and green shot past them.

Lily.

She wasn’t stopping to argue. She wasn’t hesitating. She was already running after Severus. she was doing what Sirius should be doing, what Lucius or Seth should. 

They both turned toward her instinctively—just the distraction Sirius needed. He shoved past them both and took off after Lily before they could grab him again.

Sirius nearly collided with Lily the second he got through.

"Oh, bloody hell—what now?" he groaned, bracing himself.

"Look!" Lily hissed, pointing sharply to their left.

Sirius turned. In the dark, Severus’s outline barely stood out—a shadow moving across the lawn, heading straight for the maze. His movements were slow, unnatural, his steps unnervingly even.

What the hell?

Before Sirius could react, Lucius shoved past them both, nearly knocking Lily off balance. She only stayed upright because James, of all people, caught her. Sirius wasn’t as lucky—he hit the ground with a curse.

By the time he looked up, Seth and Narcissa were already at Lucius’s side, staring ahead at Severus. His own cousin didn’t even glance his way But Marlene offered him a hand to get up. He grabbed it, and helped him up. 

As he dusted himself off, he caught sight of Dorcas Meadows standing toward the back—her chiffon pink dress and matching floral headband peeking through her afro. But no Garrett Avery. Sirius found that curious. He would’ve expected Avery or Rosier to follow Severus immediately—after all, they were his dormmates.

"What is he doing?" Lucius asked, looking at Seth, then Narcissa before calling out, "Severus! What are you doing? You mustn't go into the maze after dark! Severus?" 

But Severus kept walking. 

"Is he under a spell?" Dorcas asked, stepping out of the curtain. 

James snorted. "If Snivellus wants to go creeping into the dark, let him," he said callously. 

Lily let out a disgusted noise, and pushed James back. "Don't say that! What if something's terribly wrong?" 

James just shrugged, unimpressed. “Something is terribly wrong. My best mate was dancing…” he shot Sirius a knowing look, then scoffed, “…with Snivvy.”

Why would James say it like that? Like dancing with Severus was some kind of disease Sirius had caught. Like it was something he should be ashamed of. The worst part? They were all looking at him now. Waiting for an answer.

As if he owed them one. 

And he didn't give them one either. 

Four loud bangs rang out through the night. The air cracked and shattered with the sharp, unnatural sound.

Screams tore through the night.

Distant at first—then rising. Sirius didn't know what to think, he never heard such a spell. It wasn't bombarda. What magic would make the finest wizards in Britain scream like that? He looked around at the others who were just as confused and worried him.

All except for Lily, who was downright horrified. 

"Oh, heavens, was that a gun!"  She shrieked. She whipped wildly to where Severus had disappeared in the maze. "Oh, no. Severus. I have to stop him." 

She ripped away from James, pushing him off of her and bolted right after Severus. 

"Lily, wait!" Marlene called after her, and followed without hesitation. 

Sirius looked backed at James and his friend nodded and the two followed after the girls. 

Lucius didn’t move. His mind pulled in two directions—his instincts told him to find his father and mother, to go to the adults, to assess the situation like a proper heir. The gunfire—whatever it was—had come from the main garden. That was where he should be. 

But Severus—Severus was his friend. And that meant more. And wandering into the maze. There were all sorts of monsters lurking in his family's maze...

He pushed his hair out his face and pulled out his wand, and took after. At his side, Seth followed, and reluctantly, Narcissa and Dorcas were right behind them. 

The four of them stood at the fork in the maze, the silence stretching between them. The hedges loomed tall and impenetrable, casting deep shadows over the gravel path. The way left was eerily still, the air dense and unmoving, while the right path curved sharply into the darkness, where something—someone—had disappeared into the depths.

Lucius ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He could barely hear anything over his own breath, and they were wasting time. Severus was clearly in a trance of some sort, but what put him under...

“We should split up,” Dorcas suggested breaking through Lucius's thoughts. Glancing between the two paths, she pointed left. "Cissy and I can go down this path—

 “We should stay together." Seth cut her off. "You don’t split up in a maze—especially not this one.” His voice was steady, but there was a sliver of unease beneath it.

Lucius didn’t answer them. He shouldn’t be hesitating—this was his family’s maze. A Malfoy should never be lost in his own home, and yet, his blood had run cold the moment they stopped.

Then it hit him.

He was a Malfoy.

Of course, he could navigate the maze.

Closing his eyes, he pressed two fingers to the signet ring on his hand. The metal pulsed warm against his skin, responding to his lineage. When he opened his eyes, the hedges shifted ever so slightly—the faintest whisper of movement. A path was guiding him. 

"Right, the went right," he said, and turned sharply. 

Narcissa didn't hesitate and followed after betrothed, and Seth joined them without question. Dorcas looked back to the left where her gut told her. 

She chose to listen to her instincts. 

The three didn't even notice Dorcas went missing. They followed the guided path to sound of spells and hexes zipping through the air. 

"Oh, dear, I think they found one of Aunt Leanan's pets," Lucius said, as they came to slow stop before taking around the corner. 

He was right. 

The four Gryffindors--with no Severus in sight--were cornered by an Unseelie Mantis. A towering bug with iridescent wings and white body that shimmered in the moonlight. It let out a screech as it slammed its razor sharp legs down on Sirius. 

Sirius rolled out of its way and fired three bolts lightening. 

Narcissa let out a gasp and rushed to his defense. As the giant mantis came down on Sirius, she slid in front with a summoned shield, dirtying her silver gown in the process.    

The creature's razor-like forelimbs slammed against Narcissa's conjured shield with a deafening crack, its force nearly knocking her backward. She dug her heels into the gravel, wand hand trembling slightly.

Lucius cursed under his breath and flicked his wand, "Relashio!" A jet of bright white sparks shot at the mantis, forcing it to recoil, its lidless eyes flashing with something almost amused.

"Stop throwing spells at it!" Lucius snapped. He pulled a ring off his finger and held it out against the mantis, making it shrink back--iron. 

He thrusted the iron band toward the creature and it screamed. It dove into the bushes, scurrying away.

Narcissa dropped her wand, and Sirius got up, to touch her shoulder. The cousins shared a brief moment before Sirius stepped away from her and approached Lucius, furious. 

"Why in the bloody hell is there Fae in your family's maze?" he demanded. 

"My great-aunt collects them," he said in defense, holding his hands up. 

"I’m sorry—she collects Fae creatures?" Marlene repeated, incredulous, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "That must be what set Severus off, put him under some kind of trance."

"But how?" Lily asked. "He was fine one moment, and then he wasn't. Did he anger any Fae?" 

Lucius worried his bottom lip. "I do not see how. He had been with me and Seth the entire evening, he dueled Prince Alexei..."

"He simply stood around in the back when the band started playing." Sirius added. "Until I pulled him onto the dance floor. And then we're dancing. He began to panic and ran off." 

"Do we need to go looking for Snape?" James asked. 

"Yes!" everyone shouted him down, even Sirius. 

"We can't leave our yearmate in this maze--where's Dorcas?" Narcissa asked, looking around, frowning. 

"She didn't come with you?" Marlene asked, looking around as well. 

"No she went a different direction," she said, her usually perfect voice was clipped with fear. She pushed back her hair in frustration. "Madame Meadows will murder us if we let her only niece be taken by the Fae."  Narcissa’s fingers twitched at her sleeves, smoothing the fabric as she spoke—an unconscious tell of her rising anxiety.

"If we're concern about leaving our yearmates in a maze filled with murderous creatures, maybe we shouldn't be standing around here and go look for them," James said, exasperated by the whole ordeal. "Someone brought a muggle weapon to a party and used it. Our parents are over there, one of them could be hurt, and instead we're here looking for Snivvy." 

Lily shoved James, making him stumble back. He seemed hurt by the reaction, but quickly covered it up. Marlene’s brows shot up, while Sirius looked between them, lips twitching like he wanted to laugh. Lily had just been dancing with James minutes ago, so really, Sirius thought the shove was well-earned. Insult the girl's best friend, you don't get the girl.

"Then go! I'm going to find Severus--and Dorcas," she snapped, "without you!" 

She was about to flee, but Lucius grabbed her arm. She tried to pull free but his hand held tight. "Meadows got lost because she didn't listen, Evans." he let go of Lily and wiped his hand off his pants. He pointed his wand and the maze shifted, telling them to go left. "I know the way."  

There was no arguing with the Malfoy heir this time.  He used his iron ring to ward off the Fae beasts that came near them. 

The maze led them to massive clearing that housed a gazebo. The structure stood alone at the water’s edge, with only a willow tree for company. Its marble pillars were covered in vines and age. Its domed roof casting long, skeletal shadows in the moonlight. The surface of the pond stood perfectly still, and not a sound could be heard. 

And a girl's scream from gazebo ripped through the air. 

There was no hesitation, the seven of them followed the shout to its source.

Dorcas crawled onto a windowsill as a monstrous massive snake circled around the ground. Severus was pressed against the wall. Whatever spell that he was under broke. He was very much aware of what was happening him now, and he was terrified. 

Lily, or Narcissa, no one could tell, let out a mortified scream at the sight of this snake. 

It snapped its head toward them now. It let out a low hiss and slithered toward them in a speed impossible for beast this size. It opened its mouth, lunging toward Lily. James pulled her out of the way. Seth grabbed the backs of Marlene and Lucius's clothes and yanked them back, almost toppling all three into the pond. 

Narcissa let out shriek, and she grabbed Sirius's hand and pulled him away from the jaws of the snake as it turned on him. 

And Severus hurried forward and grabbed its tail and with all his strength, pulled it back. 

And then he spoke. 

He hissed.

He hissed in the ancient tongue of the earth, and the snake paused, turning to face him. 

Lily covered her mouth, letting a gasp. "Oh no," knowing that Severus just revealed his biggest secret. 

Sirius pulled from Narcissa's gasp, and took three steps forward, forgetting about the giant snake. He was transfixed on Severus. "He's a parselmouth?" he whispered under his breath in awe. He rejected his family's dark magic obsession and pureblood ways, but that didn't stop Sirius from being a pureblood with a dark magical core. 

Severus had blood through his veins, but how ancient?

The snake tilted its head as if it listened to Severus's pleas. It curled back around, slithering toward Severus.

Dorcas dropped from her perch, and for a moment they all relaxed. A parselmouth can handle a snake, right? 

But the serpent proved Severus's words didn't work. 

It lunged at the boy, and Severus couldn't get away fast enough. Severus couldn't scream, but Lily did it for him. She tried to run forward but James held her back. She twisted in his arms, hitting him in the chest to let him go. 

Sirius didn’t think—he moved. His wand was in his hand before he realized it, his body acting faster than his mind.

"Get away from him!" he roared, slashing his wand forward.

A burst of pure, blinding blue light shot from his wand—a raw, defensive blast meant to shove the beast back rather than kill it outright. But the serpent didn’t falter. It only twitched as if mildly inconvenienced, its dark eyes locked onto Severus.

Sirius barely noticed his hands were shaking. It wasn’t fear. It was the same feeling he’d had when he’d first seen Severus in his fine tailored robes at the party. That strange, nagging pull—something old. Something deeper than magic.

"What are you?" Sirius whispered, barely audible.

“Confringo!” Marlene rushed to his side.

At the same time, Lucius yelled, "Stupefy!" 

The serpent, before their eyes, shifted rapidly in a flurry of magic. A petite, Asian woman stood in the snake's place. She wore a dark dress with slits down the side. Her wand was clutched in her right hand. 

Her mouth smeared with blood.

Severus's blood.

The windows of the gazebo rattled with a powerful magic. The air was metallic and oppressive, pressing down. 

At first, Sirius thought it was her. But she took several steps back away, and her eyes grew wide with fear. 

He turned around and saw the true cause. 

Tom Riddle stood at the mouth of the gazebo, the others giving him a wide birth. Flanked on either side of him was Albus Dumbledore and Leanan Malfoy. 

Sirius didn't know if he should feel relief at seeing their Headmaster,  or terror at how enraged Mr. Riddle was at this moment. 

He yanked Marlene out of the way just as Mr. Riddle raised his wand. 

Wordlessly, he raised his wand.

A bolt of deadly green light shot across the gazebo—but the serpent-woman vanished in a blur of movement, faster than should have been possible. The Killing Curse slammed into the marble railing, cracking it into jagged shards that tumbled into the pond.

The witch reappeared a few feet away, breath ragged, her pupils blown wide. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth—whether from Severus or from some unseen wound, no one could tell. She raised a trembling hand, fingers twitching as if torn between attacking or fleeing.

Tom advanced, wand still aimed directly at her heart.

The gazebo shook with his rage. A second spell was already forming on his lips, the air thrumming with deadly intent. The very wood beneath their feet splintered, reacting to his fury.

She moved before he could speak. Her body twisted, limbs distorting in flashes of sickly magic—not fully human, not fully snake. She flickered, half-Apparating, half-slithering, appearing in three different places in rapid succession, each time barely avoiding another jet of light from Tom’s wand.

The final flicker landed her right beside Albus.

The Headmaster barely had time to react. His wand was raised, but he hesitated just long enough to look at her properly—his lips parting slightly, his blue eyes sharp. 

"Nagini?" he murmured, as if saying her name could ground her. As if he recognized her.

Her eyes widened—then she seized the moment.

With a burst of unnatural speed, she lunged forward—not at him, but through him. Her form twisted back into something serpentine, curling through the air like a ribbon, phasing through his robes like mist.

Tom roared, firing a spell just as she vanished into thin air. The hex exploded into the gazebo’s roof, shattering wood and sending debris cascading into the water. The impact rocked the entire structure, making the teens stumble.

She was gone.

A heavy silence followed. The pond rippled from the force of Tom’s last spell, reflecting the pale moonlight in shattered fragments.

Tom stood there, chest rising and falling sharply, his face shadowed with something dark and unreadable. He flicked his wand, and the remnants of the gazebo stopped trembling—as if he had only just remembered himself.

Severus.

He dashed across the now distressed gazebo, sliding across the floor, tearing his trousers in the process. He didn't waste time with comforting words or panic. At Severus's side, he was not just a father, but a seasoned soldier and mediwizard. He cast a diagnostic spell, his free hand stroking Severus's black hair.

Whatever the spell revealed made him swear.

"Shit," he hissed under his breath. He looked down at Severus. "I will be right back." His voice was steady, but something dangerous lurked beneath it.

Severus, pale from blood loss, barely nodded, his grip weak as he clamped his hand over his wound.

Tom turned sharply to the others. His tone brooked no argument. "No one touch him. His blood is poison. If you touch it, you will die. Albus, come here and put pressure on the wound."

And then, with a loud crack, he was gone.

Albus, despite hearing what Tom just said, didn't hesitate. He bent down and pressed a hand over Severus's wound. 

"What are you doing?" Leanan demanded in a shrill voice. "He just said that you could die!'

Albus gave her a knowing smile. "I have certain immunities." he said 

Lily approached, but kept her distance. Her make up stained her face as it streaked down her face. "Headmaster, is he going to be okay?" 

"Of course, Miss Evans," Albus assured, speaking in a much gentle tone. 

Another loud crack split the air.

Tom had returned.

He clutched a vial in one hand. And, if anyone had been watching closely, they would have noticed something new—a ring now rested on his finger. The black gem in its gold band gleamed, almost pulsing in the moonlight.

He didn’t acknowledge it. He only pointed to the entrance. "Everyone. Out." His voice was calm—too calm.

Leanan didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed Lily’s shoulder, ushering her out before she could protest. The others followed, glancing back only once.

Without lifting his wand, Tom cast a silent spell. The air shimmered—the illusion settling around them like a veil, cutting them off from prying eyes.

Tom knelt at Severus's side. He gently propped Severus up so the boy was laying on his lap. The boy was deathly pale, his lips were turning blue. He was practically a ghost. And if Tom didn't act fast enough, Severus would haunt the pond for ever. 

"You brought the ring," Albus said. There was a slight accusation in his voice. 

Tom's gaze flickered upward for a moment. "That is plan b," he said softly. He popped the cork out of the vile. The clear liquid turned a sickly black once the air touched it. "This is plan a." 

"Tom," Albus began, his voice laced with warning. 

"Don't," he said, stopping the lecture Severus didn't have time for. "I just got my son for a week, I am not losing him. And if I have to break natural laws to keep him, and use the Gaunt ring, I will." 

Tom brought the potion to Severus's lips, and forced it down his throat. The potion was instant. His black eyes flew opened, and he gasped for breath. The color in his cheeks returned, turning pink under the moonlight.

Severus sat up, and sputtered at the vile taste, practically gagging. "What is that?" he asked, wiping his mouth. Whatever it was it cured him of the venom instantly.

"I reverse engineered Basilisk venom into a potent healing potion," Tom explained as if it was he didn't casually admit he had a stash of the most illegal magical substance in the world.

"What?" Severus asked, aghast.  He scrambled to his feet. "You gave me Basilisk venom?" 

"No." Tom stood as well, brushing his pants off. "I gave you a healing potion made of Basilisk venom." 

"Tom," Albus said, surely enjoyed using his name as a warning. He stood as well, but needed assistance from Tom to help him up. "Where did you get Basilisk venom." 

Tom snorted and lightly tapped Albus's stomach with the back of his hand in overtly friendly gesture. He leaned over and whispered something in the Headmaster's ear. Genuine fury clouded Albus's face. 

"Tom!" he hissed, and all he got was laughter. 

"Oh, relax, old man," Tom said, dismissive. The Chamber is sealed up tight. Not even Severus could get inside." 

"I don't even want to know," Severus muttered, cutting off whatever was about to become another argument.

His voice was flat, exhausted.

His shoulders slumped, and for the first time, he sounded much younger than fifteen.

"I just want to go to bed."

Tom swung an arm around Severus's shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. He gently ruffled his hair as he did so. "Let's get out of here. We'll be staying the night at the Malfoys."

"What about Lily?" he asked. 

"She can stay too," he said, walking toward the entrance. The illusion disappeared as they neared. 

"Would they let her?" 

Tom let out a low chuckle. "Oh, they have no choice. When I want something, Abraxas gives it to me willingly." 

"Uh-huh," Severus said in an unimpressed  

Albus watched the two, a frown pulling at his lips.  It was a picture he had seen before—one he had lived.  The familiar movements how he used to pull Tom close and ruffle his hair in quiet moments when the boy wasn't raging war at Albus for any slight. The teasing banter, the assurance. The promise of unwavering love. 

The same thing he once did with Tom. Only Tom would make good on that promise of protection and love. And isn't that something? Albus was quite sure Tom couldn't feel love at all, that he didn't understand it. 

Tom might actually be the father Severus needed, the father Tom needed and never gotten. He certainly couldn’t be worse than Eileen Prince. Not that that was saying much.

By the time they emerged from the maze, the air was thick with weariness. Leanan Malfoy's Fae pets didn't leave them alone. The only comfort the group of teenagers had was the fact they had three skilled duelists defending them and not just relying on Lucius's iron ring. One of them being Headmaster Dumbledore no less. Not single one mentioned they heard Severus speak Parseltongue. Albus, being their Headmaster, took it upon himself to explain that yes, their parents were unharmed. Yes, someone was harmed, but it wasn't anyone's relative. No, he did not tell any of them that someone died.

He didn't need to.

"Oh, she was shot right in front of everyone. It was great," Tom said with a demented laugh that carried through the maze.

Albus, without breaking stride, lifted a hand and smacked him upside the head.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Yes, let’s frighten the already stressed teenagers, Tom," Leanan added dryly, unimpressed but unsurprised.

Tom rubbed the back of his head with a smirk. "Ow. You’re getting slow in your old age."

"And you’re getting worse."

The group of fifteen year olds watch the two interact with bewildered expressions, so used to the Headmaster's kind understanding, and grandfatherly personality. Even Severus wouldn't guess this side of the Headmaster. This wasn't the man Eileen raised him to despise, the meddler and manipulator. It made him...human.  

They broke through the maze, and returned to the party. The music had long since stopped playing, but no one was screaming either. The guests depleted, which was expected when a socialite was murdered in front of a several hundred people. The party had fractured into small, tense groups, pureblood lords and ladies gathered in clusters, their voices sharp with barely restrained anger. 

"Oh, no," Sirius whispered. He pointed at the nearest group. "Father is livid at yours, Mate." 

"When has he not?" James said, with a shrug. 

Orion Black and Charlus Potter were locked in tense conversation that threatened to spill into a shouting match. Abraxas and Raghnall McKinnon were right there with them, posturing and picking up their political debate as if one of the Founding Fathers direct bloodline hadn't just been cut short. Abraxas had his cane out, a gift from Lord Severus Prince when the aging vampire was still around. He clutched the serpent's head, as if he was ready to draw out his wand. 

The other elder Black men were outskirts of the argument. Sirius II, Pollux, Cygrus and Alphard kept silent, allowing Orion be the family's voice. Corban and Lianhua Yaxley, and Norman Avery hovered nearby too, not moving. Standing behind Raghnall was his own father, Iian. But they're not alone. Caradoc Dearborn, Edric Abbott, and Hector and Amelia Bones stood with him. 

"Oh this is a nightmare," Leanan hissed, gripping her hair. 

"Aunt?" Lucius began. "What is going on." 

"Nothing you children have to worry about," Albus said. "You should go to the teen party." 

Lucius glared at the Headmaster defiantly. "You can order me around at Hogwarts, but we're on my grounds." 

Albus met the defiance with condescending amusement. 

"Hush, Lucius," Leanan chastised. "Do what the Headmaster suggested." she ignored his offended gasp as she turned to Albus, grabbing his arm with a death grip. "Go over there and take care of Charlus and Raghnall." 

"And what do you wish for me to do? I do not agree with what those cowards did," Albus hissed the word coward as if it was venom on his lips. 

Marlene and James exchanged glances, wearing mirrored expressions of offense. "Cowards?" James began while Seth asked, "what did they do?" at the same time.

Leanan turned sharply at them, then at Lucius. "Dearest, did I not just tell you to take your guests and retreat?" she didn't wait for compliance but went back to Albus. "I do not care what you do, I want something to be done." 

Without warning, Tom tore off his jabot, popping off the brooch. It fell and shattered on the ground. He didn't seem to care. The movement was sudden and jarring that made the teens back away from the man, all except Severus. 

"I will do something about it," he said, his tone flat, as he rolled up his sleaves. 

Leanan paled, realizing what he was about to do. "Oh, no. Tom, do not!" She let of Albus and tried to grab Tom but he shrugged her off. "Tom Marvolo Riddle!" she shouted after him. "Do not dare--Albus, do something!"

Albus sighed, slow and measured, rubbing his brow. There was something else in his expression—resignation, perhaps. Or was it disappointment? He didn’t lift a wand, didn’t move. Just stood there, as if letting Tom do what he could not.

Her yelling halted the arguing, and turned the attention of the arguing lords to what was approaching them.

Orion and Abraxas immediately backed away from Tom. 

Charlus went for his wand, but he was too slow. Too predictable. Too magical. 

Tom cocked his right arm back, his hand balled into a fist and slammed it into Charlus's face. The punch sent Charlus whirling. A sharp crack echoed in the garden. A hush fell over the gathering, the only sound the scrape of Charlus’s boots as he staggered back, clutching his face. There were gasps, wands were drawn, but no one dared to attack Tom Riddle. 

Leanan let out a muffled scream of frustration 

"Father!" James lunged forward, but Sirius was faster, grabbing his arm.

"James, don't—"

But James wrenched free. Big mistake.

Severus didn’t hesitate.

He slammed into James, knocking him down onto the ground. It wasn’t elegant, but it was effective. James hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs.

Severus wasn’t attacking him—he just held him down, pinning him with the weight of his body. James thrashed, his glasses knocked askew, but Severus was stronger than his thin body portrayed him to be. 

"Get off me, Snape!" James snarled, trying to throw an elbow into Severus’s ribs.

"Sit still, you idiot," Severus hissed in his ear, forcing James’s wrist against the floor. "Unless you want me to embarrass you like I did that Prince." 

And then—

"ENOUGH!"

Albus's voice carried over the crowd. 

Severus relaxed on top of James, and James shoved him off. But Albus's presence was enough to keep him still.

The Headmaster approached the group, his face stern but his hands were behind his back. His presence relaxed everyone there. He stopped short, standing next to Tom. "You're a terrible influence," he said, motioning to Severus. 

Tom had already reached for a cigarette and had it lit by the time Albus came over. "That? You think that was me? He known me for a week, Albus. That was his mother," he said smoothly. "Eileen loved using her entire body to slam into people in fights. It's just more painful when the boy does it because he's not a dainty ballerina." 

"Will you be quiet," Albus hissed at him, scolding him like a parent had caught their unruly toddler sneaking into the biscuit jar.

The aging wizard turned on Charlus. "I...I am disgusted to even look at you," he said, barely stringing the words together. "And you too," he said now at Raghnall. "And all of you?" he turned to the crowd that backed Charlus and Raghnall. "You are fine with them conspiring with the Longbottoms and Selwyns to undermined Wizengamot's tradition? Iian, is that how you raised your son?"

Iian McKinnon’s gaze was heavy, unyielding. "You have no right to question me, Dumbledore. You have no child of your own."

The words landed like a blow.

Albus straightened, drawing in a slow breath. "I have many children, I am an educator," he said—too quickly, too forcefully.

But his eyes betrayed him. They flickered, just once, to Tom. 

And that look wasn't missed by those around him. Oh, no. They all saw it. 

Charlus looked at the blood in his hand for a moment, then between Albus and Tom. "He's Lord Voldemort. The same man who's been terrorizing us for two years." 

There was murmuring now, low and soft. The thing everyone suspected but never said out loud. Tom didn't respond. 

Albus looked at Tom, then looked at Severus. And made snap decision that he knew he would regret. 

He turned slowly toward Charlus, tilting his head to the side. "Charlus, you are accusing a man who, just six years ago, was legally considered a muggle-born running a pureblood supremacist group. Do you know how absurd that is? Your accusation is as baseless as Hepzibah Smith's accusation of Parseltongue," he paused, allowing his words to simmer and create doubt. "Now, Tom is ambitious, so naturally he made powerful allies--allies he made when he was in school, by-the-by. That is hardly enough evidence to accuse a man of terrorism. Unless you have something to prove your accusation?"  

Charlus was stunned into silence. Tom continued enjoying his cigarette with a smug grin on his face. 

Iian McKinnon, however, would not remain silent. The Scottish wizard pointed his wand right at Tom while addressing Albus. "Lord Prince left Knights of Walpurgis in Riddle's hands. Any of us of the old guard know what he did with it." 

"I am part of the old guard and followed Lord Prince," Sirius II interjected. He strode through, pushing passed Orion and Abraxas, and passed Charlus and Raghnall. He stopped right at Iian's feet. "Are you suggesting the most Noble and Ancient Black follows a Mudblood?" 

"I am not suggesting it," Iian said, his voice calm and eerily cold, "I am proclaiming it." 

Arguing erupted once more, less incoherent and less about politics. 

Tom inhaled a long drag before exhaling. He leaned and whispered to Albus, laughter in his voice. "I love parties, don't you?" 

Albus pushed back his glasses to rub his eyes. "And this is why I never attend them." There was a moment Tom didn't speak. No insult, no sarcastic retort. 

Silence. Or as much silence there could be in the chaos. 

He turned to see Tom was studying him through the smoke, his expression unreadable.

"You really are a complicated man, Albus," he said, his tone was light and airy, a total contrast to his demeanor and face. And then there was shift. His brows furrowed into a paranoid glare. "You just saved me. Why?" 

Albus’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at Tom when he responded. "Don’t mistake necessity for charity. Nor assume that I am ignorant to the truth. I know what you are, Tom. " 

His lips stretched into a strained smile. "I'm what you made of me, old man," he murmured. "I appreciate it nonetheless."  

Albus shot him a sidelong glare. "The Ministry has no right to stopping you. You will have your war, but not with them.""

Tom simply smirked. He took one last drag of his cigarette, then flicked the spent stub away, grinding it under his heel.

"I hope you give me a better fight than you gave Grindelwald," he said smoothly.

And that stun, but not as much Albus expected it would. He sighed, tired.  

He looked over at his shoulder at Severus, and glanced at Lily before looking back at Albus. "I was going to stay here for the night, but I feel the purebloods will be at each others' throats. I'm taking my half-blood son and his muggle born friend home. It suddenly feels...less safe here for my kind." 

Tom swiveled on his foot and approached Severus, and pulled him away from James. They collected Lily before the three vanished in the air without another word. 

The lords still shouted. Wands were still drawn. But somehow, as Tom vanished into the night, the chaos felt… smaller.

Albus wondered, briefly, if he should confess he knew Tom was Voldemort and it was a misunderstanding. But, no, no, no. He chose a side, and that side was family. 

But he was already regretting it. 

The moment Tom landed in London, the cold, damp air wrapped around him, thick with the scent of rain and petrol.

He was home.

An hour ago, he and Severus had dropped Lily off at her house and barely escaped being roped into a tedious chat with her family. Not just her parents—her sister, what was her name? Tulip?—and that boyfriend of hers—Vincent? Fortunately, Severus had the presence of mind to feign a stomachache, sparing them both.

Back at the cottage, neither of them had spoken much. Severus had been dead on his feet, still recovering from nearly bleeding out earlier in the night. Tom had simply ordered him to bed.

Now, with the house silent, Tom had shed his party finery for something simpler—plain cotton shirt, well-worn trousers, and a dark denim jacket in place of his fine waistcoat.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, the polished mediwizard and Heir of Salazar Slytherin, was gone.

Now, he was just Tom—just another working-class bloke from Whitechapel.

Whitechapel. 

He wasn't sure why he came here, he should be hunting down Mangala at her flat in Brixton. 

Well, no. He knew why he came. 

He turned around and walked down a narrow alley. The buildings were different, but the alley was still the same: he paused under a fire escape, next to a trashcan. He was born here.

Merope, when she finally told him the truth he already guessed by the time he was seven, had brought him here. It was a funny thing, being an orphan yet still having a mother alive to show him the place of his own birth. To show him the steps she took before collapsing on the floor in a heap. Delirious, she walked down this alley, bleeding everywhere, and broke into a tiny clothing shop. She knew she couldn't lie to the matron of the orphanage with bloody clothes. A rare moment of Slytherin cleverness from Merope Gaunt. 

He followed the ghost of his mother out the other side of the alley. He traced her steps many times, and each time it would be the last time. But it was never the last time. He looked up to see the sign of the clothing store his mother robbed for fresh clothes. The sign above the door was different, the glass cleaner, the windows filled with fresh loaves instead of fabric scraps. It was a bakery now.

His bottom lip twitched downward, fingers curling at his sides. He forced them to relax. Oh, well, it made sense.

Many shops from back then closed or were bombed out of existence. Why should he care the shop wasn't standing anymore? He didn't. 

But he did.

Down the street, Wool's would've sat, was gone. Now, it was apartment buildings, homes for the poor. Maybe things were not so different? He didn't hold any grief for Wool's. He was damn well glad the Nazis bombed it to hell and back.

Even at nineteen, when he returned from mainland Europe, the church still stood. Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering. A funny name for a church. 

It was gone now too, however. 

Burned down by the young man the nuns used to call Devil's spawn. 

He reached for his pack of smokes in his back pocket. He put the cigarette in between his lips and returned his carton in exchanged for his lighter. 

He paused, and stared down at the engraved bird he hardly noticed anymore. He had this lighter since he was nine. The boss of the local mob had taken him, mentored him until he was killed by a rival. What was his name? Ivan? 

Yes! Ivan "Birdie" Calloway, that's right. 

Calloway gave him this lighter after his first real job—watching for coppers while the men shook down shopkeepers.

He had annoying blue eyes that sparkled, an all knowing tone. 

He wondered of Calloway would be proud of what Tom made of himself. The empire he built.

It didn't matter, but it did matter. It meant everything. 

Tom lit the cigarette, and put the lighter back. 

The quiet night cracked when Tom disappeared under the streetlamp. 

Tom appeared just outside Mangala’s flat. Well, down the hall from her actual flat, to be precise.

This was his first time here.

Not for lack of trying. He had considered breaking in once—not for anything nefarious, of course. Just curiosity. But even he knew that would cross a line, shifting him from a simple admirer to an outright stalker. And Tom Riddle, despite his many, many moral failings, refused to be a creep. He did not prey upon women half his age. 

He simply...admired them. From outside, and into their windows. 

Very different. 

He approached, ready to knock and charm his way inside, but then he heard it. 

Raised voices—an argument.

Tom’s body tensed instinctively, his cigarette paused mid-way to his lips. He had been expecting a quiet arrival, perhaps a cold reception, but not this.

A woman’s voice, sharp, accented, words spilling out in rapid Hindi. Anger, frustration, something bordering on desperation.

Another voice, lower, a man’s, cutting through hers with heated, clipped words. Condescending. Oppressive. 

And then—a choked sob.

Tom’s jaw clenched.

It wasn’t Mangala. But it was another woman. And she was crying. 

His fingers twitched at his side, itching for his wand. Old instincts. The kind that had been burned into him before he ever learned magic. 

He approached the door. He inhaled sharply, and exhaled out the smoke. He lifted his foot and put his cigarette out, and put it away in his breast pocket. He adjusted his jacket, and pushed back his hair with his fingers. He felt ready enough. He knocked three times, loud and forceful.

Tom waited patiently for either Mangala or the man to open the door. They were taking a quite a long time in his opinion. But the woman who was hysterically sobbing inside the flat at least stopped. He was curious on why that woman was crying, a morbid need to be noisy. 

Light footsteps approached the door, and swung open. Tom's eyes widen just slightly when on the other side was the man Mangala used to kill Hepzibah Smith. He was wearing something far more casual, and his wavy hair was a bit of a mess, but it was the very same man. 

Mangala appeared right behind him, still wearing her pink lehenga, arms across her chest. Seeing the two standing next to each other, Tom saw the similarities. Both wore angry expressions that mirrored one another. Interesting. 

"What are you doing here?" she angerly spat out. 

"I just wanted to drop by and say hello, Miss Verma," he said in a sing-song voice. 

The man looked back at her. "Who is this man, sister?" he spat out the question like it was an accusation. "Are you shaming the family by sleeping with him?" 

Her anger turned to an intense rage, and Tom couldn't be happier to be here. How entertaining! He was ruining lives without even trying too. 

"How dare you! No, I am not sleeping with him!" she hissed through clenched teeth. She pointed at Tom. "That man's been stalking me for a year, and you think I'm sleeping with him?"

"Stalking you?" Tom asked, offended. "I have not been stalking you. I have simply followed you around Diagon Alley and London when you do shopping. And yes, I follow you to your flat and stand outside your building and look into your windows on occasion. And yes, I have been cutting up your articles and your picture in Witch Weekly and keeping them. It's called research, love."

Mangala stared at him like he was an idiot, but Tom just assumed that is how her face rests. 

Her brother, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to punch Tom right then and there, but Tom couldn't understand why. Wouldn't he want such a devoted man for his sister? Once Tom had decided he needed Mangala, he even stepped back from sleeping around--not entirely, but last woman's bed he warmed was three weeks ago. 

But he kept this to himself. He was sure Mangala didn't need to know all of that. He would hate to make her jealous. 

Instead, he took their stunned silence as an invitation. He slipped between them both, ignoring her brother's complaints. Mangala just pinched her nose in frustration and followed after him. He heard her mutter under her breath, "unbelievable, entitled white bastard," or something similar in Hindi. He didn't care much about the insults, just focused on sweet her voice sounded when she was angry. 

But Tom's mood shifted the further he entered the flat. The art hanging on the wall was now on the floor or a skewed. There were broken fine China on the floor. He cast a curious expression at Mangala, but her face was twisted into something dark and hateful. 

And Tom had a feeling that hatred wasn't for him, but the brother that just closed the door. 

He rounded the corner of the narrow hallway, and he paused. 

It was cozy, in a lived-in sort of way. The kind of place meant to be warm, comforting—a quilted throw draped over the arm of a well-loved couch, books stacked haphazardly on a low wooden table, a few bangles forgotten on a windowsill. But that warmth had been violated. A cup of chai lay spilled across the rug, its rich brown stain still seeping into the fibers. A broken lamp leaned awkwardly against the wall, its shade bent inward like a snapped rib. Books scattered the floor, the pages ripped apart. The air was stale with sweat and something darker—violence that had settled into the very bones of the flat. 

It brought back sharp memories of how Tom and Eileen's flat looked like when they lived together for a brief moment. Only, there was a lack of scorch marks of hexes in the walls. When the pressure of Eileen's family came down on her, and the only person she could take her anger out on was him. 

A woman, a tinier one than Mangala, sat in the middle of the couch. Her left eye was swollen shut and her arms were badly bruised. Her lip was bloody, and her clothes torn. 

Tom's bemused manor dropped. He looked over Mangala's head to her brother who just stood there as if the destruction of his sister's flat meant nothing. "Certainly explains the arguing I heard when I came by." 

"This has nothing to do with you!" Mangala's brother shouted. "This is between me and my sister and wife. Get out." 

Tom looked around the destruction, sparing a glance at the woman on the couch. "Oh, see, now it's my problem," he spoke in a low, dangerous tone. 

It is hard for him to compare his life with Eileen to what was on display here. Eileen used to beat him, instigate fights and duels, cut him down with her words. But Tom was a man, and men didn't get abused the same way women did.

"You need to leave," Mangala said, cutting into his thoughts. "Right now." She turned back to her brother. "Kumar, you're leaving too! I will not have you around Jiya!" her voice rose and cracked on the words. 

"You do not get to order me around or keep me from my wife! Not while you whore yourself out to some Englishman," he spat out the words with venom. 

Tom drew out his wand without a warning and wordlessly hit Kumar with a powerful stunner. the red streak zipped passed Mangala's head, and hit Kumar in the chest. He crumpled to the ground. 

Jiya let out a scream, and rushed to Kumar's side, crying over his unconscious body. Tom didn't understand why, shouldn't she be happy her bastard husband was finally getting what he deserved. 

Mangala whipped around and slapped him across the face. Stunned and shocked, Tom reached for his cheek. "What was that for?" 

"That was for being a sexist pig!" she snapped. "I had it under control." 

"I disagree," he said, motioning to the destruction around them. 

She let out a frustrated noise from the back of the throat. "You're impossible! You stay here—

"Didn't you just tell me to leave?" he asked, smirking. 

"Shut up!" she spat out. She hurried to Jiya's side, and pulling her away from Kumar, speaking softly in Hindi. Something about staying in Mangala's bedroom while Mangala sorted everything out. 

As the two women walked passed him, Mangala shot him a scathing look of contempt. He smiled, despite the growing bruise on his face. She was just too lovely to not smile at. 

Once they disappeared to the back of the flat, Tom took stock of the living room. Since he was here, he might as well be useful. He waved his wand and shimmer of light sparkled around the tip. The books repaired themselves and flew back to the bookcase. The coffee table pushed back to its spot, and the pieces of the teacup came back together. It floated gently into the air before landing back on the matching plate it belonged to. Tom zapped the wet spot on the rug, removing the stain. He walked closer to the hallway, kicking Kumar as he passed, and waved his wand again. The fallen artwork and pictures flew to their right spots, and the bent light straightened out. 

He looked around, and hummed. It was if a fight hadn't taken place at all. And that is when the most interesting thing in the living room caught his eye. 

Tom’s eyes landed on a glass terrarium tucked against the wall. It was large but unassuming at first glance, the sort of thing a casual guest might overlook. But now that the room was put back in order, it stood out—the only thing untouched by his spellwork.

He took a slow step closer. The tank was long, rectangular, and filled with layers of gravel and dark soil, dotted with smooth stones and dried bark, arranged deliberately, like a miniature landscape carved from the wild. A small bonzi tree was put in the corner of the tank. The leaves were cherry blossoms, and glowed with a faint enchantment. A heat lamp hummed lowly above, casting a faint, magical warmth over the habitat.

Tom crouched, placing his hand against the cool glass. 

And then, movement.

From the shadows of a coiled branch, a sinuous body shifted. A flicker of scales—pale pink and indecent—curled lazily around the base of a rock. A head lifted, tongue darting out to taste the air.

A genuine smile curved around Tom's lips. A cherry blossom serpent. He had seen and conversed with one when he briefly visited Japan in the fifties. That serpent was ancient, and massive. A tricky Yokai that held so much knowledge that it could crush Tom. 

This was a baby.

"Hello there," he hissed. 

And the snake lifted its pretty head up more, perking. "A ssspeaker!" she squeaked out.

Tom chuckled low, and smooth. Every snake grew excited to hear he was speaker. "Yes, I'm a speaker. What is your name, little one?"

"Mistresssss calls me Momo," she hissed back, delighted. "Big noise issssss gone. Ssssscary."

"Ah, did you see the fight?" he asked carefully as he would a small child.

"Yesssss the two legged creaturesssss always fight." she shrunk in on herself. "Always loud. I liked it before. When he wasn't here. When it was just me and Mistresssss." 

"I think it will just be you and mistress soon enough," he assured gently. "You must be tired with all that noise going on. You should rest." 

"Okay!" Momo said, and promptly went back to sleep. Well, that was the end of that conversation. 

"You being a parselmouth is the biggest shock of the night," Mangala said somewhere behind him. 

He stood, his bones in his knees cracking as he did so. He turned around and was a taken back by her change of outfit. She was now in a pink-coral house dress, the sleaves lined with white lace, and silk slip dress. Her hair was down now, spilling over her shoulders. 

She raised a brow at him. "Oh, please, close your mouth. You had to have seen me in this before when you watched me from the street." she pointed out the window, snappish. 

"But not up close," he said, approaching her. He cast a curious look at her unconscious brother. "So care to explain why you're setting up your own flesh and blood for murder?" 

"Why do you care?" she asked, not even denying it. 

"I don't," he said with a shrug. "But you did just killed a woman in front of me using his face. I am a curious man, Miss Verma." he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Thank you by the way. She was a real bitch." 

Mangala sighed, and relaxed her shoulders. As if she was giving in. She turned away from him and walked over to Kumar, and he followed. 

"My motives are simple. The Smith family took part in colonizing India and stole my family's artifacts. Jewels, saris, pottery, magic scrolls. My father and his father and his father before him been trying to get it back," she explained. She looked up at him, frowning. "And they failed. So I, like always, will take care of my family's business."

Tom inclined his head in understanding. He knew what it was like to have his history taken from him, stolen before he even had the chance to claim it. The Gaunts had severed ties to the Parselmouth clans long before his time. The Ógánts, the clan his mother's family came from, had been slaughtered—the only people who might have understood him, two years prior. His mother’s locket had been the last piece of something real. And it was sold off to the Smiths before he was born. 

"I can relate," he admitted, voice smoother than he felt. "My mother’s family was—" he paused, reluctant. "Irish. And were Parselmouths, obviously."

Mangala looked up at  him. Her eyes were the prettiest shade of brown. Like rich, smooth pools of coffee. They flickered gold in the dull light of the apartment. "Then you understand."

"It doesn’t mean I’m not British," he added quickly, before she could get the wrong idea. He didn't want to claim he truly understood her plight being Indian. He didn't. He couldn't. But he...got it, on some level."But I might have a unique perspective my fellow Englishmen lack," he said, smoother, more distant. 

"Of course," she said those two lines in a dejected tone. "Now, for my brother, you might think it odd but I cannot live with him beating Jiya. He gets away with everything being the first born son while I do everything." 

"Now that you do not need to explain that to me," Tom said coolly. He walked around Kumar, glaring down at him. "My dearest uncle and grandfather treated my mother a slave since she was old enough to clean. Among other things," he added quietly, mostly to himself. Bile rose to his stomach at the mere thought of what those sick bastards did to his mother. 

He pushed down the past and bile back where it came from. He looked up at Mangala. "You framed him, but we're going to let him go? What was your full plan?" he asked.

She rolled her shoulders, looking away. "You saw part of it at the party." 

"Yes, you used him to murder Hepzibah, and escaped using your Animagus form," he countered. 

She perked slightly, and snapped her fingers. "Ah-ha," she said grinning as if she caught him in a gotcha. "In India, we do not register Animagi like you Europeans. I am not in the database. 

"Fascinating," Tom said coolly. "And...the rest of your plan? What if they look into his mind for a motive?" 

She had enough humility to look embarrass. "I...did not think that part through. My hope is the Aurors will just arrest him for murder and send him to Azkaban with no trial." 

 He laughed, a low, soft chuckle. "Well, love," he said smoothly. "Good job you caught the attention of a man with my skillset—I've got plenty."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't trust you," she said. 

"You shouldn’t," he replied, not even sparing her a glance. But then he pulled out his wand from inside pocket of his jacket. "But you are talking to an expert in mind alternation magic. And I may have done something similar."

She took a step closer to him, forcing his attention back on her. "what do you mean?" 

He smirked. "I mean I too have framed a relative for murder."

"Do I want to know?" she asked in a tone that suggested she didn't think he had been justified. 

He explained anyway. "When I was fourteen I murdered my muggle father, his bride to be, and his parents. Oh, and their gardener." he added as an after thought. "Then I murdered my paternal grandfather and framed my uncle for all of it." 

Mangala exhaled sharply, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Yep," she said, nodding. "I didn’t want to know."

Tom's smirk grew into a wide, cheerful grin. "I best get to work." 

It took an hour to work through the spell. At fourteen, he had no clue what he wanted to do to Morfin, or hot preform the proper charms to alter an mind. He botched it, and left Morfin a drooling mess. Not that he cared. Morfin deserved worse. 

Here, in Mangala’s cramped little flat, he worked precisely, weaving through Kumar’s mind like he would preforming surgery. He bent memories, twisted intent, reshaped emotions—framing Kumar’s evening into Mangala’s. He forced his thoughts toward the stolen artifacts, planted motivations that mirrored hers, but never once let the evidence point back to her.

He'd hate to break Mangala out of Azkaban if the truth ever was found out. 

But once he was done with Kumar—he was discarded on the couch—Tom wasn't finished preforming complex magic. He slipped into Mangala's guest bedroom where Jiya slept. With Mangala watching him intently so he didn't do anything else, he healed Jiya of her injuries. Her bruises vanished, and her eye and lip returned to normal. The woman melted into the bed, relaxing in her sleep. 

"Thank you for healing Jiya," Mangala said, as she walked hm to the door. "I am not particularly skilled in healing magic, and she would've refused to go to the hospital." 

"Do not mention it," he said, dismissive. He glanced at her, brows raised. "At the party, Smith called you Arjun, but your brother's name--

Mangala let out a frustrated noise. "Arjun is our cousin. They look similar enough that the idiot mistook Kumar and Arjun for one another. I just hope it doesn't affect him. He's set to take my father's...oh, it doesn't matter." 

Tom disagreed. He liked hearing about the little details of her life. He liked collecting them, like a child collects insects in jars. "So to put it simply, she's racist? Or was. Can't be racist while you're dead." 

That earned him a snort and laugh. 

Mangala opened the door, but he didn't step out. The narrow space was intimate and he couldn't bring himself to leave her side again. "We will meet again soon." 

"Aw," she said, tilting her head to the side and giving him a mock pout. "And here I thought you would go back to stalking me and avoid talking to me like I was a plague." 

"Now I have your attention," he said softly, his hand reaching for hers. He was pleased she didn't pull away. "why would we go back to the way things were?" he asked. 

She blinked a few times, until a tiny, genuine smile graced her lips and it was the first real one he gotten from her. At most she only flashed sneers or coy smirks. But this one just lit up her entire face, and he adored her even more now. 

"I have to admit, I rather you be like this than skulking in the shadows like a creep in the middle of the night," she said. 

"I do not skulk," he said in defense, clutching his chest. "I simply...wander around after you. A difference." 

"Oh," she said softly, nodding along. "My apology," she said softly. "My mistake. And when will we see each other again?" 

"I am quite busy man this week," between Death Eater meetings and work and now Severus, he had a quite full schedule. "But soon. We'll see each other soon." 

He raised her hand to kiss it, but she forced her hand free to grab his collar of his waste coat. He had a second to register she was going to pull him down for a kiss before she did. 

And it wasn't a chaste kiss. 

It was heated kiss full of teeth and tongue, vicious and hungry. He gripped her hips and pushed her against the wall and pinned her there.  Her hands moved from his collar to his hair and back, clinging to him. She tasted of faint hints of expressive champagne and sweet jam. She moaned into his mouth as he thrusted his tongue into hers. 

They broke from air, their breathing shallow and fast. Her eyes were wide and her pupils dilated with want. 

He kissed her again, much slower and less desperate. He wanted to savor her. 

But she ended the kiss she started by wiggling out of his grip. He let go, and wasn't surprised by her shoving him out the door. 

And then slamming it. 

"Goodnight, Mr. Riddle," she called out. 

He touched his bottom lip where she nipped it at some point in their kiss. "Goodnight, Miss Verma," he whispered, more to himself than for her to hear.

Chapter Text

The weekend came and went in a flurry of news articles and radio programs dissecting the fallout of Hepzibah Smith’s murder, the bitter infighting among the pureblood lords, and the Ministry’s slow, staggering collapse.   And Severus tuned it all out. At fifteen, why should he worry? The talk of war bored him when he heard it on the telly in Spinner's End, and it bored him here, in Thornespire. 

Severus, instead, dragged his record player into the kitchen, so he could cook and listen to music at the same time. He missed the telly, if he was honest with himself. He didn't miss how loud Tobias would leave it on at all hours of the night. He just missed the background noise, and certainly missed Doctor Who, and The Twilight Zone. 

But he had his own record player, and house that wasn't filled with violence and screaming. A leap considering who he was living with now. 

Still, Severus didn’t test Tom’s patience. He kept his Led Zeppelin album low as he moved around the kitchen. Tom had worked back-to-back the last couple of days, and after the excitement on Friday night, he deserved to sleep in. He didn’t need to be woken by heavy guitar riffs and wailing vocals.

The house filled with the scent of garlic and onion, of fried potatoes crisping in the pan. Mushrooms, beans, eggs, and buttered bread. No meat, still—a strange adjustment.

But it didn’t matter.

He was just happy to cook for a parent who wouldn’t beat him for a burnt lamb anymore.

When Severus was plating the food did Tom stumble into the kitchen. After two days of no shaving, his stubble was threatening to turn into five o'clock shadow. He trudged into the kitchen, rubbing his eye. He caught sight of Severus, and for a moment, Tom looked like a man still getting used to not living alone.

"Shit, lad," he said, a slight chuckle in his voice. "Damn near gave me a heart attack."  He wandered over to the counter and looked at the food, sniffing. "That a proper fry-up?" 

Severus picked up both plates, turning around with a small smile. "I noticed you didn't eat anything yesterday, so I thought you would enjoy a full breakfast." 

A strange flicker of emotion crossed Tom's face. Almost unreadable. 

He hesitated, as if the simple act of being cared for was unfamiliar. Severus knew the feeling.

"Well, yes," Tom coughed to clear his voice, forcing out his East End Roots out of his throat. "Hard to find time to eat when your colleagues are idiots." He took his plate, and inclined his head as a thank you. 

He walked over to the breakfast nook, and the tea kettle and teacups came floating over with him. Severus shouldn’t be impressed by such simple magic, but the fact that Tom didn’t even glance at the objects—yet they followed his will—was something else entirely. Severus hoped he could achieve Tom's skills. 

Severus followed over and sat opposite of Tom. "Did something happen at the hospital?" 

Tom spared him a glance that said everything before Tom could weave his tale. "One of my soon-to-be-dead Death Eaters attacked an Auror—Frank Longbottom—with a rare poison bomb," he began, stabbing at the potatoes and mushrooms, as if they offended him. "The poison, while difficult to cure, is not impossible. Especially since I created the poison and know the antidote." 

"You know," Severus cut in, pointing his fork at Tom, "that has to be karma." 

"Fuck off," but there was no heat in his voice. 

"Definitely karma, father," Severus said, humming. He dipped a fried potato in the runny egg yolk. "You shouldn't kill one of your Death Eaters for using something you made." 

"Eat your food," Tom commanded, "now where was I?" 

"You were explaining how you create your own problems, father," Severus drawled. 

Tom gave him a withering look before continuing. "So I created this poison, and one of the head healers tries argue with me about how to cure Longbottom. He gave the Auror ambrosia behind my back and sent Longbottom into shock. I spent three hours inducing the bastard to vomit everything out of his system after I stabilized him." 

"That’s disgusting." He took another bite of potatoes-dipped-yolk anyway.

"And what did you do the last two days?" he questioned. Just as he spoke, The Immigrant Song began to play in the background. The dragged-out yell almost startled Tom—almost. "Besides listen to your questionable taste in muggle music." 

"It's not questionable, it's good," Severus argued. 

"Frank Sinatra and  Lena Horne are good," Tom corrected. He gave a wary look at the record player like it was possessed. "This is...what is this?" 

"Rock," Severus supplied. 

"Swing and jazz is better, son," he said, but he made no move to turn the record player off. 

Severus rolled his eyes, and answered the first question. "I was looking through your bookshelf. You have an abundance of medical books, I've been studying those." 

"Of course, I have an abundance of medical books, I studied medicine and work in a hospital," Tom said flippantly, but his eyes hardened, just for a moment. "You expect me to believe a teenager was just reading medical textbooks?" 

Severus shrugged casually. "What did you do when you were my age?" 

"Hope they didn’t lower the draft age to fifteen," Tom mused. His gaze flicked to Severus, amused and assessing. "Dodging a question makes one suspicious, you know."

Severus felt his cheeks burn.

He was dodging the question. But Tom had a way to needle at people, and even knowing him a week, Severus knew Tom would needle away at him as well. 

He poked at his food, while Tom waited for an answer. "I danced with someone at the party," he explained, avoiding mentioning it was Sirius Black, "and we've been talking through the fireplace and letters."

"Aww, adorable," Tom cooed out condescendingly. "Who is she?" 

Severus didn't answer, because he didn't know how to answer.

Tom raised an eyebrow at the silence. There was an expectation of a name, a direct answer. But this...quietness was different, and odd. His gaze flicked up from his plate, scanning Severus’s face with the same keen interest he reserved for human puzzles.

Severus kept his focus on his food, prodding at a piece of mushroom like it might answer for him.

For several minutes, the only sound between them was the slow scrape of metal against ceramic.

Then Tom exhaled, long and thoughtful, and there was something different in the way he regarded Severus now. His tone, when he spoke again, was quieter. More certain.

"Who is he?" 

Severus's hands trembled under the weight of that simple question. Should he answer? He shouldn't. But Tom could get the answer. He could slip into Severus's mind with ease. He just needed to make eye contact with his father. And then, his private thoughts wouldn't be his anymore. 

"Sirius Black," he mumbled to his food.

Tom made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "A Black? Those inbred tossers? Severus, you're the heir of Slytherin. Have standards and find a nice bloke, will you?" 

Severus slowly looked up from his plate, eyes wide. "You don't care that...I'm..."

"that you're queer?" Tom asked, cutting him off. "Hardly. Hell, it's preferred. I do not want your mother to have grandchildren." 

Severus's expression went from shock to flat. "Really?" 

"Yes," Tom said, taking a bite. 

"You're accepting of me being gay because you hate Mother?" 

Tom shrugged. "Do you want me to not accept it?" 

"Well, no," Severus said slowly. 

"Then stop bitching," he said. "Sides. If I hated queers, do you think I'd be so close to Albus Dumbledore?"

"...don't you hate him?" Severus asked, a bit hesitant.

"Yes, but because he's a bastard," Tom explained, "not because he's queer. Same with Emery—she was my fiancée before I married your mother. She's transgender, and queer, but that wasn't why we broke up." 

Severus blinked. "Wait—what?"

Tom waved a hand dismissively. "She was too idealistic. Too skittish around casual murder. Scamander genes, you know how they are."

Severus opened his mouth, closed it, then just stared. "You—you were engaged to a transgender woman? And what do you mean the Headmaster is gay?"

"Yes, I was engaged to a woman, Severus. Keep up," Tom said impatiently, spearing a mushroom with his fork. "Honestly, boy. You are focusing on the wrong details when you should be focusing on finding a boy who isn't Sirius Black." 

Severus didn't know how to respond to anything Tom had said so he focus on his breakfast and tea. Actually, he needed something stronger than tea to deal with this conversation. 

Tom was unbothered by Severus's disengagement from the conversation. He summoned the Daily Prophet, and hummed an unfamiliar tune as he unfolded it out to read the front page. "Ah, Mangala's brother was caught and arrested for Hepzibah's murder. Delightful," he said in a cheerful voice. 

Severus knew he would regret entertaining his father further, but he asked, "isn't that the writer from Witch Weekly?" 

"Yes," Tom said, flipping through the newspaper. "Supposedly I have been stalking her."

Severus nodded to himself. He definitely regretted starting a new conversation with Tom after the nightmare one he just had. "What do you mean by that?"

Tom glanced Severus's way. "Apparently, following a woman around markets, and to her flat, and standing outside her flat to watch her from the streets is stalking. I thought I was just showing my interest in a courtship."

Severus just stared at his father for a long moment. "Is that what you did to my mother?" he asked, alarmed. 

"Hardly, your mother forced me into a relationship," he said, dismissive. He sat the paper down. "Alright, finish eating so you can get ready for our duel."

Severus sat his fork down, and folded his hands together. "Father, what you just said...everything you just said is why nearly everyone assumed you would've kidnapped me if you found out about me prior to my mother telling you."

Tom tilted his head to the side, thinking. "Truthfully, you're right. I would have kidnapped you if I knew about you sooner, but doesn't that show how much of caring father I am?" he asked with a manic smile that was equal parts loving and horrifying. 

And yet? Tom was still a better father than Tobias Snape ever could be. 

"Sure, Dad," he said, tone flat. "Why are we dueling?" 

"Because I want to test your skills," he explained. "You’ve beaten that upstart Prince—now try beating Lord Voldemort."

Severus did his best to not fly into a panic. "Wait, am I dueling you as my lunatic father, or dueling you as the Dark Lord?" 

"Yes," Tom practically chirped. "Also, excellent cooking, Severus. Just watch the mushrooms while cooking, they're slightly burnt."

Severus lay on his back staring into the endless blue sky in utterly sore and defeated. 

Tom’s shadow cut across the sun as he loomed over Severus, hands in his pockets, a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. "This was unimpressive. I thought you're skilled duelist, boy." 

It was maybe after breakfast. After they changed, and Tom shaved and cleaned himself up, the two headed to the backyard. Tom ordered Severus to fire the most powerful spell he knew, which Tom easily deflected and fired a very simple stunner. 

Nothing crazy. Nothing traditionally dark. Nothing evil.

Severus groaned, and rolled onto his side, attempting push himself upward. 

"You know what went wrong?" Tom asked, crouching down. 

"My mother abandoned me to an utter madman?" he asked, nearly whining. 

"You left yourself open for attack," Tom continued. "You used a good part of your magical core on an unnecessary attack. You should've fired a stunner, and had a shield up, predicting I was going to have one ready as well." 

Severus pushed himself upright, his anger overcoming his pain. "I only did so because you told me to!" 

Tom took a long drag, inhaling the smoke. He didn’t exhale directly into Severus’s face, but he certainly didn’t avoid it either. "Your first mistake was trusting your opponent. You will face many magicals in duels, not all of them will be as nice as me." 

He sprang back to full height. "Now then! Let us test you're endurance." 

Severus let out a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and flopped down onto his back. Why, oh why had he been so excited to have Tom train him and teach him magic? 

23 October, 1945

"Consider this a test of endurance," Gellert Grindlewald said, the very last thing he said to Tom before he fell unconscious. 

Tom leaned against a wall, his fingers gently stroking over the curve of his wand handle. It was a comfort to hold his wand, to feel the hum of magic in it. He stared at nothing and everything around him. The bombed out buildings, the cackling fire. At Albus. 

His professor grew his hair out, something Tom had just realized. At the end of his fifth year, Dumbledore had kept his hair and beard short, and slicked back. His hair was completely white now, long gone was his streaks of graying-auburn. 

He forgo his purple suits, and lavender robes. He was in a black suit. 

He looked like death personified. 

Not that Tom had to worry about seeing Death any time soon. Or ever. 

Albus looked from the flames and at him, and he glanced away, pretending he wasn't watching his former professor. 

He ignored Albus getting up, picking up a blanket, and a healing potion. He ignored the sound of Albus walking on stone and dirt, approaching him. He ignored the blanket thrown over him, tucking him in like he was a toddler. 

He ignored Albus sitting down right next to him, offering the healing potion. 

Tom glanced at the swirling red liquid, and he blanched, thinking how many times his body was drained of his blood, only to feel the sensation of it replenishing on its own. Still, Tom did not ignore the potion. He took it, and downed it in seconds. His body wanted to reject it, but he forced it down. 

"I won't ask you how you feel Tom," Albus began, and when did the professor become so old? "But I will ask how you ended up at that camp." 

Tom rolled his head to the side, staring directly into Albus's bright blue eyes, only they're weren't so bright. They're dull, lifeless. They might as well not be blue at all. "My division was taken and Grindlewald wanted to experiment on muggle-borns. What is there to say? You saw what he was doing to us mudbloods." 

Albus glanced away, looking at the fire, a frown settled on his face. "I know...I just...wonder if he knew who was taking."

"That he was taking the owner of the Resurrection Stone?" Tom asked, pushing Albus to confirm it. Confirm the Curse was real. 

Albus flinched and lowered his head, staring at his own wand. The Elder Wand. 

"I regret ever giving Marvolo that ring," he murmured. "Or Felix Potter the Cloak for that matter."

Tom should be angry, should lash out, but he didn't. He couldn't. Albus should've told him years ago about the bloody Curse. The Three Brothers' Curse. But Albus didn't, and Tom should be angry, but he was too tired. Grindlewald made sure of that. 

However, he did say this, "when this is all over, I am dedicating my life to making you miserable." 

Albus chuckled, devoid of humor, but it was still a laugh. "That will be a long, very long life, my boy."

Tom couldn't keep his head upright. He slumped to the side, resting his head on Albus's shoulder. He found no comfort in Albus's presence, but he was safe. Safe enough to sleep. "I hate you," he grumbled.

Albus adjusted and put his arm around Tom in a half hug. "I know, I know," he said quietly. "Get some rest, my boy. We have a long day tomorrow."

Severus collapse onto the couch, exhausted and and battered from their hours of training. Tom watched from the doorframe, bemused. But only for a moment. He walked into the kitchen and got a glass of water, and put slices of cucumber and lemon in it to had a bit of freshness. He snapped his fingers and a random album appeared in his hand. It was from Severus's collection, the one Tom had bought without a care Severus wanted. Tom was only concerned with making sure Severus had enough gifts to make up for the fifteen nears of birthdays he missed. 

He examined the cover. It was of four men against a dark back drop with black hair, and delicate features. Light peered down on them from up above with the word Queen II written in the corner. 

Whatever this music was, it better be more pleasing than that Led Zeppelin nonsense. Merlin's ass was that horrible.

He took the album and the glass of water back to the living room. He put the record on his own player that sat under the windowsill. He hardly paid much attention to where needle dropped, just got it close to the beginning of the album. 

A soft, haunting melody began, with an electric guitar rift. Ah, yes, this sounded better already. 

Severus lifted his head up at the first few notes, giving Tom a confused look as Tom approached the couch. 

Tom offered the glass of water before he sat down next to the boy, crossing his legs. Severus made a face as the cold water touch his lips, possibly tasting the sourness. But he didn't complain, just drank it in silence. 

When the singing began, and the lyrics A word in your ear, from father to son played, Tom chuckled at the song accidental song choice. But he didn't comment on it. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I dueled a crazy terrorist for five hours," Severus grumbled into his glass.

And that made Tom laugh, which turned into a nasty cough. Damn cigarettes made laughing hurt. Still, he leaned at an angle to fish one out of his pocket. "You will thank me when you're older. I'm preparing you for war, lad."

Severus grunted. "You did that at the party, dressing me up like a miniature Lord Voldemort. The raven mask was subtle," he drawled out each word out, sounding clipped and annoyed. It was these little moments that reminded Tom his son was raised to be a Prince and not a working class Northerner.

"That...was more unintentional than you think," Tom said carefully. Truthfully, until Severus had just mentioned it, he hadn't even noticed he gotten a masquerade outfit to mimic Tom's Lord Voldemort attire. 

He wouldn't admit it entirely however. "It was accident that I embraced and used at the party. Do not think too much into it." 

"Except my house mates believe I'm the second coming of you," Severus said sharply. He drank more of the water, taking in more gulps. 

"And your housemates are...Lucius, Norman Avery's boy, something Rosier, and...Seth Mulciber," he said, a bit unsure. Truthfully, he didn't care to learn the names of all of his followers' children. He just knew enough to guess who was who and what year they're in. Lucius, being one of the many godchildren people forced on Tom, was special. 

"Yes, them," Severus said, frowning into the glass. "They positioning me to be their leader. Only a few weeks ago, I was just the half-blood Prince, son of a blood traitor."

"As they should, you're a heir of Slytherin," Tom stated, patting Severus's leg for assurance. "We're superior to them."

Severus hesitated for a moment before asking, "is there war truly unavoidable? I know the Death Eaters had done attacks..." 

"Albus declared it on Friday," Tom said. He supposed it was inevitable, but he had enjoyed the illusion of choice while it lasted. "Quite honestly, I had hoped the old man would do what he did with Grindlewald and avoided direct confrontation with me. But it seems he learned his lesson about allowing his feelings dictate his actions. A pity." 

Severus put his glass of water down on the coffee table. Just before it touched the wood, a coaster slid under the glass. Tom would not have his perfectly polished table crafted by satyrs stained. 

The boy didn't even acknowledge he nearly ruined an antique. Tom let it side...for now. 

Severus looked back at Tom, frowning. "Do you want me to fight for you?" 

"Your mother would kill me if I gave you the mark at fifteen," Tom said dryly. And considering she was a vampire now, she would make it hurt too, even if Tom can't die. "And I’d rather not have child soldiers fighting for me. If you wish to take the mark, I will give it to you when you're out of school. No sooner than that."

Severus remained silent, the music said enough between them. Funny, you don't hear a single word I say. 

They sat in silence, Tom smoking, Severus sipping his water. Neither pointed out a great horned owl came swooping from the sky and too the window. It flapped it's massive wings, casting a shadow into the house. 

Tom snapped his fingers, and the note tied to it's ankle vanished. The owl screeched and took off, not even bothering to land. 

Of course, it wouldn't land. 

The owl was trained to not touch the houses of mudbloods.

"Who's owl was that?" Severus asked, curious. 

"Orion Black's," Tom said, his cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. He unraveled the note. 

In perfect script fit for the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, Orion scrawled:

Meet me tomorrow. I just gotten word the Order of the Phoenix has been reformed last night. I will stop at nothing but ensure we will win.

Tom exhaled a slow stream of smoke, reading the words twice before flicking the ash from his cigarette. The embered flecks landed on the parchment, eating tiny holes into the edges of Orion’s message. A war had already begun; this was just confirmation.

"Well, well," Tom said, tossing the note onto the table, the charred edges curling inward. "We're going to see your little boyfriend tomorrow. How delightful."

Severus buried his face in both hands and groaned.

Tom, grinning, took another drag of his cigarette. His laughter turned into a rough, hacking cough—but even that didn’t stop him.

Chapter Text

When Severus arrived at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, he hadn't expected the most Ancient and Noble House of Black to live so mundanely. And among Muggles, no less. They Apparated to London, the thrum of the city bleeding into the quiet of the Black townhouse’s wrought-iron gates.

It was underwhelming. Pathetic, really.

He glanced at the crooked row of houses, the grime-streaked windows, the sense of decay seeping from every stone. He thought it was a joke. Surely, Tom hadn’t brought him here for this.

He looked up at Tom, gesturing sharply at the house. “Is this it?”

Tom shoved his hands in his pockets, humming. “Were you expecting more?”

“I suppose I was,” Severus drawled. “Mother was selective about what things she taught me about the wizarding world, but she said the Black family was one bad investment away from poverty. But I thought she was lying based how Sirius, Narcissa, and Regulus carry themselves at school.”

Tom chuckled low, shaking his head. "You think every pureblood lives in a castle like the Malfoys?" 

"No," Severus said carefully, "but I expected a little more from a family that sneers at the Weasleys."

Tom looked down at Severus, brow raised. "Everyone looks down on the Weasleys. And you want to know why?"

“Mother said it’s because they’re blood traitors,” Severus replied, echoing Eileen’s voice with polished precision.

Tom’s lip curled, the expression more disgusted than amused. “Eileen raised you on nothing but hypocrisy and superstition. It’s not because they’re blood traitors. It’s because Aldric Weasley—a pathetic, useless man from the 1800s—gambled them into financial oblivion. Racked up debts he couldn’t hope to repay and left his family’s reputation in tatters. Maybe now they don’t engage in pureblood politics, but they did. And some still do. Did you know that despite being 'muggle lovers' not a single drop of muggle blood is in their family?" 

Severus shook his head. He didn't know that. 

"And I mean in the main line. Albus Dumbledore's mother, Kendra, married a half-blood," he went on to clarify.

 "Now what does that have to do with the Blacks?" he asked, gesturing to Grimmauld Place. "Because they're in a very similar situation as the Weasleys. They're sneering at their own fate. It's the fate the Weasleys are suffering, and the Gaunts had suffered. But!" he said that one word a bit pitchier. "As of right now, they're political power houses. And I need them. Don't let your mother's biases push you away from opportunities." 

"Didn't you call them inbred tossers the yesterday?" Severus questioned. 

“That’s because my bias is accurate,” Tom said, smugness oozing from every word. His gaze slid to the house, a cool smile playing on his lips, only to fall. It was if he was remembering something too late. His fingers twitched like needed another cigarette. “Now, go knock on the door. I can’t step foot on their grounds until one of those incest freaks lowers their precious little blood wards.”

Severus frowned, confused. "What blood wards?" 

Tom pulled out a loose cigarette and his lighter from his pocket. "The blood wards prevent mudbloods from entering Grimmauld Place. It was written before the law changed that declared squibs are magical. So, I can't enter." He put the cigarette in between his lips and lit it. He took in a sharp breath, relaxing as the smoke filled his lungs. 

"But you're Lord Voldemort," Severus said, incredulous. "They follow you." 

Tom raised a finger. "No, no. Only a few follow Voldemort. And there is a difference," he lowered his voice, "trust me, there's a difference." A chill ran down Severus's spine on what that meant, but was too afraid to ask. His father can keep his secrets. "And while Orion is pragmatic and backs *me*, his father doesn't. Many don't in the Black family." 

He inhaled again and exhaled, the smoking dispersing in the air. "Now," he said, shoving Severus roughly forward into the street. He caught his balance before his face planted onto the concrete. "Go over there, and get them to lower the wards so I can enter. Hurry up before a muggle tries to talk to me." 

Severus glared at Tom over his shoulder before he approached the town house. 

He passed the iron gates and dead grass on the lawn. Wouldn't the Black family even attempt to keep outward appearances? Maybe the inside the townhome was cozier?

He knocked on the dark wooden door three times. He folded his arms as he waited for someone to answer. And waited. And waited. And waited...

From across the street, he heard the unmistakable voice of an elderly woman say, "oh, what a handsome young man!" 

He glanced back at his father, and someone's grandmother was poking and prodding him. Severus stifled a laugh as Tom forced a pleasant smile on his face as he placated the woman. 

Tom, sensing Severus was laughing at his misery, sent him a withering glare as the lady was now babbling about introducing Tom to her granddaughter. 

He snorted, and covered his mouth. He filed this moment for later to bring up just as the door unlocked and creaked opened. 

He glanced down, and the most hideous house elf was on the side, sneering at him. "A Prince!" he snarled. "Vampiric filth darken the House of Black!" And he slammed the door shut on Severus's face.

A spark of fury over clouded Severus's best judgement. "I'm not a vampire, you shriveled up ball sack!" He shouted and pounded on the door. "Open the damn door, you nasty house elf!" 

He hit the door several times, jiggling the handle, but it didn’t budge. The locked door was a slap in the face, and his pulse hammered angrily in his ears.

“Bloody elf...” Severus muttered, his fists trembling at his sides. He couldn’t shake the sting of the insult. As if that scrawny, shriveled creature had any right to sneer at him.

Over the sound of his pounding heart, he heard a familiar, obnoxiously loud drawl behind him.

“Oh, my, a ruffian. Young men these days,” the elderly woman cooed with disapproval.

“I know,” Tom replied, all exaggerated politeness. “An example of sparing the rod, and spoiling the child.”

“Well, I must be off. I do not want to cross sorts with a young scamp like that. Take care, deary!” she said with a giggle.

Severus rolled his eyes hard. He could feel Tom’s gaze drilling into the back of his head, no doubt relishing the spectacle.

There was a moment were Severus wondered if he should set the building on fire, and that would get the attention of the residents inside. 

But there was click, and the door opened again, this time by a young woman who looked identical to Sirius. Same strong jaw, sharp nose and cheeks. The same cerulean eyes that picked apart weaknesses to be exploited later. Same full lips, and wild black curls that framed a the perfect face. The fell over her shoulders, bleeding into the black, lacy pattern of her dress. Her dress was liberal compared to the dresses and gowns pureblood ladies were expected to wear. Why, she had a split down her dress, exposing her leg up to her knee.

Eileen would've called her a whore. 

She looked Severus up and down, smirking the same way Sirius did. "You are a Prince."

"And you're clearly a Black," he countered. 

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You are at the most Ancient and Noble House of Black. You are? Kreacher didn't say. He just said, 'Persian rot is on our steps, Lady Bellatrix.' And I had to see with my own. Two. Eyes." 

If madness of Black had a face, it was hers. 

"Severus," he supplied. 

She raised a bushy brow. "Morgana's tits, you even have the name of a Prince. Why are you here?" 

Severus stepped aside, and gestured to his father, who raised a hand and waved expectedly. 

Bellatrix screamed.  

She shoved Severus out of the way, and he almost fell off the porch as she practically leapt off of it, but he was saved by hands grabbing his arm and steadying him. He turned to see it had been Sirius to have saved him. 

Bellatrix screamed again, and pulled their attention away from eachother from across the street. 

Bellatrix had jumped into Tom's arms, forcing him to hold her as she hugged and kissed his face. Severus looked at Sirius, bewildered what was going on.

Sirius waved his hand. "She does this to him too many times."

 There was a moment of struggle, as Tom pried her off of him. From here, Severus could tell his father was deeply unsettled by the affection while Bellatrix looked up at him with a manic grin that stretched too far. As soon as Bellatrix was off of him, Tom brushed down his suit with meticulous, rapid motions, like ridding himself of dirt.

The fact Tom was uncomfortable by her, Severus vowed to never be alone with her. If someone was too crazy for Tom Riddle, they're beyond dangerous. 

"Bella," he said her name carefully. "Can you lower the wards?" he urged. 

"Oh! I forgot." She said, and then fell into a laughing fit, doubling over, holding her stomach. 

Severus sent a weary glance at Sirius who took it in stride. Sirius let go of Severus's arm and pulled out a wand that was definitely not his normal wand. It must be unregistered like the one Tom bought him last week. 

A spark, and cackle emitted from Sirius's wand. He then turned back around and waved Tom inside. "They're down, Mr. Riddle." 

Tom let out an audible, “Oh, thank God.” He hurried across the street and into the shabby yard. His pace slowed when he reached the stairs, and he bent down to murmur in Severus’s ear, “Don’t accept any drinks from her. Or from anyone. Don't drink or eat off their fine china." 

Before Severus could even process the warning, Tom ushered him inside.

The waited inside the vestibule, a cramped space covered with faded hand painted wallpaper. Severus saw the touchups weren't touchups, but magicked to look like refreshed coat of paint. It was painfully obvious the family didn't hired an artisan to go over the detailed vines. And instead of doing it themselves, they just pointed their wands at the problem. 

Eileen did this this back at the house in Spinner's End. There was only so much magic could mend and alter before the illusion falls apart. 

Tom was right. The Blacks were falling into disarray. But didn't they sit on a mountain of wealth? Surely they could afford proper repairs.

Or maybe this was what Tom meant. The decay was setting in—just like the Weasleys. Just like the Gaunts. And just like his mother’s desperate attempts to maintain a crumbling house with frayed magic and stubborn pride.

The air was thick with the scent of stale dust and something acrid, like an old potion left to fester and cultivate a colony of bacteria. There was something very wrong with this house, and the sooner he was the better. 

They peered out the entrance to see what was taking Bellatrix so long, and saw she was in the yard. She grabbed a handful of dirt and stuck it in her mouth. And chewed it aggressively.

Severus mouthed what the fuck. He spent a week living with Tom, hearing the man talk about murdering people casually. He admitted that he would've kidnapped Severus if he knew about him sooner and his mother refused Tom custody. 

And yet. Somehow. In some bizarre, horrifying way.

Bellatrix Black disturbed Severus more than his own terrorist, delusional father.

Sirius cast them a glance, his expression unreadable. "She will be back in a couple minutes," and closed the door with a soft click. 

Sirius avoided eye contact with Severus, and that was find with him. He didn't know how to handle discussion they need.

"Sirius, where's your father?" Tom asked, shoving his hands in his pocket. 

"He's upstairs in his office speaking with Grandfather Pollux," he answered, bouncing on the balls of his feet, acting innocent.

Tom swore, loudly, with his whole body. He dragged a hand over his mouth, a hand on his hip. He pointed at Sirius. "Go upstairs and tell him I'm here." 

"You don't want to talk to Pollux?" Sirius asked, his tone far too pure for the mischief in his eyes. 

Tom fixated on him with a glare. "Go." he ordered, just as Bellatrix joined them inside. 

Her mouth was spotless when she spoke. "Is there something you need, my Lord?" she asked, a sickeningly sweet twinge to her voice. The way she looked at him was if Tom could move the moon and stars with his will alone. 

"So we're finally acknowledging he's Voldemort?" Sirius asked casually, making Bellatrix gasp in horror. 

She swatted him. "Do not speak to him that way!" 

Sirius flinched away, rubbing his arm. "Ow." 

Severus's brows shot up, a bit shocked. But he found that wasn't surprising. Not when all his dormmates knew Tom was Voldemort as well. 

Tom rubbed his brow. "Sirius, go collect your father. And make it clear I don't want to see Pollux Black." 

Sirius inclined his head, realizing he shouldn't push his temper. He walked passed Severus, the two sharing a look before the other boy dashed up the winding, Victorian staircase. 

"I'll take you to the sitting room," Bellatrix said. As she led them through the narrow, hallways, she peeled off a paint chip--to Severus's horror--she put it in her mouth. 

He looked at Tom who was impassive as ever. 

Didn't he just see what Severus saw?

But...Tom was raised in the thirties. It was clear wasn't ignorant of muggles, but he wasn't up to date. An old place like this must be coated in lead paint--

Lead poisoning. 

It clicked just as she pushed the sliding doors opening, and the sound of laughter filled the space. 

The decent size room, decorated in pale blues and dark stained oak. What made it feel cramped was the over a dozen or so twenty-somethings in the room. Some, Severus recongized as former seventh years who graduated when he was first year. Like Ophelia Greengrass and Rupert Yaxley. Then there others he knew because they're older siblings of his current peers, such the dark haired boy in crimson robes standing against the wall. He was a Burke, if his square jaw and parament scowl meant anything. He was quite sure the brother-sister twins hanging off each other were the Carrows, and the red-heads were the Lestrange brothers.

There was someone Severus didn't know, but pulled his attention A woman with wild brown hair, and large glasses that made her eyes buggy. While she wore an Edwardian dress like most wizarding ladies--even Bella did with her modifications--she accessorized with Roma textiles and headbands. And she flickered through a deck of cards, with a wide grin on her face. 

Severus's stomach tied into knots with anger. The rare times his mother did wear color, it was rooted in the culture of a grandmother he never met. And this lady just draped herself in a part of his heritage he wasn't allowed to explore. 

The laughter died as Bella opened the doors, revealing she brought to unexpected guests to their gathering. 

They turned, various expressions of curiosity to fear mixed in on the crowd young adults. 

Except one person. She was visibly outraged at seeing Tom. 

A  short, Indian woman stood up from where she sat on the floor. "Why the hell are you here?" she demanded in her thick, Indian accent, her arms folded tightly over her chest as if bracing herself for a fight.

Tom wasn't mad, or offended. He went from showing no emotion at all, to revealing his white teeth in a bemused grin. He looked like a child presented with a surprise gift, eyes alight with an eager, almost manic delight.

"Ms. Verma, what a happy coincidence!" Tom said, rolling on the balls of his feet. He was, in fact, giddy to see her.

Everyone stilled in the room, waiting to see what would happen next. All except Bella, who hopped over the loveseat and sat next to a man with warm brown skin and a tailored khaki suit. She seemed oblivious to the tension around her, curling up beside the man like a cat. He stiffened under her touch, his discomfort obvious, but Bella either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Severus looked between the woman and his father. Verma? As in Mangala Verma? That's the woman Tom's been stalking.

She stood out in a room filled with people trapped in an Edwardian painting, and in a Victorian house falling apart. She was modern, very modern. She looked like a Muggle who wandered off the streets of Soho in her blown-out hair, bellbottoms, and flowing, bohemian blouse into a pureblood supremacy meeting.

Some of the guests exchanged glances, confusion and annoyance painted across their faces. Others stared outright, their discomfort almost palpable. The air felt stifled, made worse by the decay clinging to the walls.

Tom's grin only widened as if her fury was the most charming thing he'd ever encountered.

Mangala broke the staring contest by rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest, exaggerating her cleavage. "Are you just falling me around now openly?" 

"I," Tom said, placing a hand on over his chest, "was invited here by my dear friend, Orion. You being here is just a delightful surprise."

A woman next to Mangala grabbed her jeans and tugged on them. "Mangala, do you know who you're talking to?" 

Mangala pulled away from her, making a disgusted noise from the back of her throat.  "I very well know who he is. He's a mentally ill, deluded man who's allowed to walk around and act as if he's so brilliant because you people are afraid to call him an idiot."

Terror rippled through the room. Those around her, scooted far away from her. 

But Tom tilted his head to the side, still smiling. "You are such a spirited little thing, aren't you?" His eyes gleamed with a twisted sense of affection. Instead of frustration at her insults, he adored her.

Severus didn't know if he should be disturbed by Tom's idea of flirting, or be grateful that Tom wouldn't hit woman like Tobias. -*

"And you are chauvinistic, condescending bastard." She fired back, pointing at him. 

Bellatrix clapped her hands, and her companion on the loveseat smiled at her nervously. "That was reverting," she said, grinning manically. 

Heavy footsteps approached them, and Severus turned to see Sirius came back down with his father and grandfather in tow. Orion was stocker, and shorter than Tom, but his presence was felt the moment he stepped into the sitting room. He soothed over the tension created by Mangala's fierce rejection of Tom.

"My apologies, Tom," he said, hand out as greeting. "I was preoccupied with other matters or I would have the wards down."

Tom took Orion's hand, and patted his shoulder. "It is not a worry, your son lowered them and Bellatrix played hostess in her own special way."

“Or maybe,” Pollux Black’s voice creaked from behind them like rotting wood. His cane struck the hardwood floor with each step, a pointed echo that drew every eye in the room. The old man’s face was gaunt and lined with disdain, his cold gaze fixated on Tom with all the arrogance only a withering pureblood could muster. “Maybe we shouldn’t allow a whore squib’s bastard in our house.”

And the air changed. 

It was sudden shift. The summer heat was overpowered by an oppressive chill that settled into the bones of the house. The shadows bled across the floor like ink from a bottle. 

Tom's face was blank, a stark contrast from the gleeful joy he had a moment ago exchanging words with Mangala. 

It was terrifying how he showed no outward emotion, but his magic warped the decaying house and bending it to his will. Everyone in the room shrunk away from Tom, even Bellatrix cringed away from Tom on the couch. Orion moved in front of Sirius, using his body as a shield. 

Sirius, with a shaky hand, pulled Severus back away from Tom. 

But truthfully, Severus wasn't fearful of Tom hurting himself. Whatever Tom did next was Pollux Black's fault. Tom's identity was an open secret no one wanted to address despite his attempts of normalcy . Calling Lord Voldemort's mother a whore should've been an obvious no. At this point, Severus considered it natural selection. 

Mangala's mouth fell slightly open, but she wasn't afraid of Tom either. If anyone paid her mind in this moment, they would see she enjoyed being exposed to his raw power for the first time. No, not just enjoyed it, she was turned on by his display of power before her. 

Tom took a step forward toward the elderly wizard, who stared down him with a sneer. 

"Repeat it," Tom said, his voice was soft and even. It would've been more terrifying if he shouted, but no, he was eerily calm. "Repeat was you said about my mother. Go on, Pollux. Repeat it."  

Orion, bravely, swiftly stood in between Tom and Pollux. 

“Sirius, escort your grandfather to the kitchen. Now.” The urgency in his voice was not lost on anyone.

Sirius stepped forward, his face pale as he grabbed Pollux’s other arm. “Come on, Grandfather.” His voice was tight, but he didn’t wait for Pollux’s permission, just started dragging the old man toward the door.

As Pollux stumbled away, his eyes flashed with outrage. But he did not speak. Whatever insult he had been about to throw died in his throat under the sheer weight of Tom’s silent rage.

Once the elderly wizard was out of sight, the house seemed to exhale. The oppressive chill receded, and Tom’s body relaxed—just a fraction.

He fished a cigarette from his pocket, and it was already lit by the time it touched his lips. Tom inhaled sharply but didn't let the smoke linger in his lungs. When he exhaled, the smoke poured from his mouth like a living thing, coiling through the air.

“We’re leaving,” he said to Orion, his voice flat, leaving no room for argument. There was a slight tremble to his body, the only indication he was still reeling from the insult.

“Of course, Tom,” Orion replied, his posture and voice stiff.

Tom turned to Severus, his expression softening in a way that was almost jarring. He fished a small coin purse from his pocket and tossed it to Severus, who caught it easily.

“We’ll be back later. Feel free to visit Diagon Alley,” Tom said, and then his voice shifted again, addressing the larger room with calculated authority. “This is my son. He’s under my protection. If I learn of any ill treatment, you will hear from me.”

Severus looked around the room, feeling rather smug. It was nice having a parent who could protect him and declare it so.

Everyone dumbly nodded, too terrified to question Tom. Though Mangala looked like she wanted to question Tom about having a son in the first place.

As the two left, Tom slammed the door, making the whole house shudder. 

And the tension eased. Everyone slumped, taking in breaths they didn't even know they're holding in. 

The woman who tried to get Mangala to be quiet let out a staggering sigh and looked up at her friend. "What was that!?" she demanded, gesturing to the place Tom had stood a moment ago. "Do you know how dangerous that was? You saw how reacted to Pollux Black?" 

Mangala looked at her friend with confusion and mild disdain. "What I saw was a man responding, rightfully, with anger to his mother being disrespected. What I did was tell Tom the truth that he's crazy."

"Tom?" One of the Lestrange brothers, the older one--Rodolphus, maybe?-- leaned forward in chair, looking up her in disbelief. "You're on first name basis with him?" 

"We've known each other for a year," she admitted casually. 

Severus without thinking asked in a deadpanned tone, "he's been stalking you for a year?" 

Irritation flared in her. "Oh, my god. He would tell his teenage son he's been stalking me. He's such a pig." 

She rolled her eyes and sat back down in a huff. Severus wasn't sure if 'stalking' was somehow getting to know each other, but Severus has quickly learned to not question his father and any woman interested in Tom must be as crazy as Tom. That included his own mother. 

Rodolphus shook his head and turned to Severus, giving him once over. "You're Tom's son?"

"Supposedly," he said with a shrug.

Bellatrix gasped, and slapped her knees before standing up. "Where are my manners." 

She moved around the people gathered on the floor and the table to reach to Severus. She pulled him close, and pressed her body to his. He cringed away from her, but her firm was tight. "This is Severus Riddle--

"It's Snape," he corrected at once. 

She blinked at him. "Snape?" she questioned. "Is that muggle?"

"No, my step-father was a wizard," he paused and added, "he was a muggle-born."

"Wow," she said slowly, giggling. "Eileen Prince left a mudblood for another mudblood and didn't even have the curtesy to give you the Prince surname. How pathetic of her." 

She laughed more, and some joined her. Severus looked to the entrance out into the hall, actually praying for Sirius to come back and saved him from this madness. 

The man on the loveseat saw his discomfort, and stood and walked over to them. He grabbed Bellatrix's hand, and pulled her back. "Bella, dear, you're scaring the kid." 

She pulled her hand back, annoyed. "Am not!" she said. "We're good friends, and his new friend, I'm going to introduce him to everyone in this room."

Where the fuck is Sirius?

He was going to have Tom have it when he returned. 

Bellatrix’s fingers dug into Severus’s arm with a mock-affectionate grip. She dragged him toward the center of the room with the dramatic flourish of someone presenting a prize at an auction.

“Well, my little black bat, let’s not keep you in the dark, hmm?” Bellatrix cooed, her eyes wide and glittering with manic delight. “You have to know who’s who in our delightful little gathering.”

“Please, Bella,” the man said, tone both weary and resigned. “Let the boy breathe.”

“Oh, hush, darling,” Bellatrix said with a saccharine smile. She reached up and stroked Orson’s arm like he was a beloved pet. “You already know Orson Shacklebolt. The only man in this room worth his salt.” She gave him a doting smile that was so out of character it made Severus’s skin crawl. “My brilliant Seer. He’s not like the rest of you lot. Knows things. Real things.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Orson said with a polite nod. Unlike the others, his eyes held neither mockery nor malice. Just...curiosity and kindness that felt so out of place in this room. 

Severus returned the nod, knowing this man would be his saving grace if Sirius did not return soon. 

"And you know Mangala," Bellatrix said with a dismissive wave. “And now for the rest of these mongrels." and she fell in a fit of a giggles.

She pointed to the two gingers lounging on a loveseat, both sprawled out like cats too pleased with themselves to bother with proper decorum. “Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange. The dullard and the dunce. But one’s pretty enough, I suppose.”

Rodolphus preened, his hand lazily brushing through his hair. Rabastan didn’t bother acknowledging her insult, too busy nursing a glass of whatever dubious liquid he’d conjured.

“Speaking of inbred cretins—” she continued with cheerful cruelty, “the Carrow twins, Amycus and Alecto. Can’t tell which one’s more miserable, but that’s part of their charm.”

The twins exchanged matching smirks as they touched each other in ways that suggested their relationship beyond brother and sister. Alecto tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking Severus over like she was planning to boil him alive.

“Ophelia Greengrass,” Bellatrix sing-songed, gesturing toward a regal woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. “Still playing Queen of the Mudpile, darling?”

Ophelia sniffed, her nose tilted high. “Better a queen than a madwoman, Bella.”

Bellatrix’s eyes flashed but she let the jab slide with a mad giggle. “And there we have Rupert Yaxley. Half-blood, half-Asian, wholly dull. His father’s trained him well to be just another yes man and his mother trained him to fear house shoes.”

"It's a legitimate fear," Rupert argued, scowling at her, ignoring the other insults. 

Mangala, who sat between him and Ophelia, nodded along. "Even worse when they start flying."

Severus's lips twitched into a smirk because at least he understood that well enough. 

Bellatrix brushed them off and kept going around the room. “And over there sulking like a kicked puppy is Cassius Avery. His father’s got him running errands like a common house-elf, but maybe one day he’ll find a spine. Or steal someone else’s.”

Cassius shot her a sour look, hands clenched into fists. Severus knew Cassius. He was a sixth year when he was first year--and Garrett's older brother. He was shorter, stockier than Garrett was, but had none of Garrett's boyish charm. Cassius, if Severus remembered right, was more prone to fight than sweet-talk his way out of situations. 

“Clarissa Mulciber. Edward’s darling, baby sister. Has all of her brother’s charm, none of his...utility.”

Clarissa sniffed dismissively, but her glare spoke volumes. 

Severus knew her too. She was Seth's half aunt, a bit of black sheep in the Mulcibler family because she was the love child of  Seth's grandfather and their muggle-born maid. She truthfully didn't look much any Muliciber. Her heart-shaped framed by her afro was contrast to the squared, sharp features to the rest of her family. 

“Adrian Rosier,” Bellatrix pointed to a tall, wiry man lounging against the wall with a glass in hand. “Thinks he’s important because his brother is. Might be a bit mistaken.”

Adrian sneered, his eyes burning with hatred, but he stayed silent.

“Solomon Travers,” Bellatrix practically spat the name. “Though everyone knows Wulfric got the better half of the family’s brains.”

Solomon hiccupped, already drunk, and oblivious to the insult.

“Henrietta Nott,” she gestured toward a woman sitting like a statue, her eyes icy and judgmental. “Hates everyone. Especially women who know their own minds.”

Henrietta’s nostrils flared, but she said nothing.

“And Vivian Parkinson—my favorite little gossip. I’m sure she’s already invented a dozen scandals about you, Severus. Careful, or you might end up married to someone twice your age in the rumor mill.”

Vivian tossed her hair and gave a catty smile. “I’d only marry him if he were worth the scandal.”

Bellatrix leaned closer to Severus, her voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “And then we have our little weirdo couple—Sybil Trelawney and her darling poet, Xenophilius Lovegood.”

Severus's frown deepened when Bellatrix stopped at the woman fidgeting with tarot cards. Sybil smiled at him, her eyes distant and far from the dark wizards and witches in the room. She painfully didn't belong, but Severus found he had no empathy for her. She had no business wearing his mother's heritage as costume. 

"I had a dream about you," she said in a dreamlike voice earning laughs. Severus's face flushed red. 

Bellatrix cackled loudly over the laughs. "Sibby! You're a riot." 

"It's true!" Sybil said, standing up now.

 She stalked over to Severus, and now he was trapped by two crazy women with wild hair. Merlin, where the fuck was Sirius!?

She held up her deck and drew a card with a flourish. It was of an old king with a beard, holding a golden scepter. Without even looking at the card, she declared, “The Emperor!” Her voice rang out theatrically. “You have a wise, guiding hand beckoning you to join him.”

More laughter, but Sybil didn’t falter. She drew another card, and the room grew quiet.

It was a bleak image of a castle tower being blasted apart by lightning, people flung from its heights. “The Tower,” Sybil breathed, her gaze sharpening. “You’ve recently received earth-shattering news—your entire life has been torn down and left in shambles.”

Severus stiffened under Bellatrix’s grip. That...that was a bit accurate, but it meant nothing.

“Oooooh,” Bellatrix cooed in his ear, her breath hot against his skin. He squirmed, trying to break free, but neither woman would let him go. “You said something he agrees with, Sibby!”

“Of course, the deck never lies!” Sybil chirped, undeterred. Orson snorted from his corner, but she ignored him.

With reverence, Sybil pulled the final card and held it up for all to see. A collective murmur swept through the room as she inhaled sharply. Xenophilius clapped, delighted by the theatrics.

She turned the card toward Severus.

The Devil stared back at him—horned, seated before two chained figures, naked and bound. It was a biblical reference, he was sure, but Tobias barely believed in God unless he could weaponize his false faith, and Eileen’s faith was something else entirely. Maybe he’d been to church a handful of times in his life.

Sybil leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with something akin to pity. “You will choose ambition and power over guidance and structure. You will embrace the authority of an oppressive figure over the guiding hand—because of your new identity. If only The Emperor reached out before The Devil had.”

Severus made face. What a bunch of rubbish. It was all fake, and he needed to get away from these people.

"This is ridiculous--and will you get off of me?" he snapped at Bellatrix. 

She laughed in his face, but complied. "Aww, the baby bat doesn't like Sibby's tricks." she pouted. "You're going to hurt Sibby's feelings."

"I don't care," he said bluntly. 

"You don't believe in the a gift?" Xenophilius asked, curious and not offended for his girlfriend. "Your aura doesn't fit the one of a nonbeliever."

"Of course I know people are Seers, but this," he gestured to Sybil, "is a farse--you're playing pretend."

"I am not playing pretend," she argued, her dreamlike expression morphed into frustration. "I trained by Gypsy fortune tellers."

Severus grew impossible hot and he was lightheaded. His heart jumped to his throat, stopping him from screaming. 

A sharp memory of his childhood came to mind. Eileen suffered slurs, and sneers and harassment for being 'Paki', for being a 'Gypsy'. The neighborhood clocked her as a witch, not because she was one, but because she fit the stereotype.

He heard both names hurled at her and him once it was known her race. 

He looked around the room and of course, none of them knew what Sybil said was wrong. What struck Severus was the silence from Orson and Rupert. They kept their heads down, eyes carefully watching but not intervening. Not yet. Their posture spoke of survival, not solidarity.

But there was one person who did not let it slide. 

Mangala’s face twisted in disgust, her gaze snapping toward Sybil with such intensity, it nearly crackled. 

"Hey!" Mangala was standing up again now, fixing Sybil with a nasty glare. "They're not 'Gypsies' they're Romani."

"Isn't that the same thing?" Sybil asked, genuine in her confusion. Her tone made it clear she didn’t think she was doing anything wrong.

Clarissa stared at Mangala for a moment, before saying, "it's not the same thing, Sybil. Just don't say something like that."

Orson finally looked up, meeting Clarissa’s gaze briefly. "Clarissa’s right. Trust me, Sybil, it's not a mistake you want to repeat."

Rupert cleared his throat softly, nodding toward Mangala and Clarissa. "Better to listen. Especially here."

No one else intervened. Their words hung in the air, but the crowd’s attention was already starting to drift. Mangala was an oddity in this world of purebloods, their attention on her more for entertainment than respect. And Clarissa was only here because of her surname. Severus felt something tight in his chest loosen. Mangala’s fierce rebuke, Clarissa’s steady support, and now Orson and Rupert’s quiet backing—it was more solidarity than he had ever expected to see in a room dominated by pureblood pride.

Severus felt his fists clench involuntarily.  Was this what it was like for his mother? Surrounded by those who thought themselves superior, who could dismiss your words as easily as breathing? 

"Snape?" a familiar, and much welcomed voice broke through the tension. 

Severus turned to see Sirius, like knight in a leather jacket and plaid trousers. "Do you want to walk to take the Night Bus to Diagon Alley?"

Severus didn't hesitate. He shoved passed Bellatrix and Sybil and out of the room. "Merlin, yes, get me away from these freaks." 

He didn't care if he offended any of them. They couldn't touch him for his rudeness--less they wanted to face the wrath of Lord Voldemort. 

The sliding doors closed with shudder behind him as he and Sirius left Grimmauld Place behind. 

Tom and Orion arrived in a secluded alley of St. James. The crack of their apparition was muffled by the roar of passing cars and the low hum of the city.

“And another thing,” Tom snapped, his hand on his hip, pointing at Orion with accusation. “Do you know how easily I could break your family’s wards?” His fingers snapped, the sound cutting through the noise like a knife. “Like that, they’d be gone. If Pollux—”

“I know!” Orion’s voice cracked with sharp, frantic desperation, but he caught himself. He sucked in a shaky breath, steadied himself, and forced his features into calm. With deliberate care, he stepped forward, his hand settling on Tom’s shoulder with just enough firmness to ground them both. His other hand gently pushed Tom’s accusing finger down.

“I know,” he repeated, his voice smoother now, almost soothing. “Tom, I value our association. You are a brilliant man, and you’re willing to fight for our ways of life when so many of us flounder. But you cannot expect the older generation to make you the exception.”

Tom’s breathing slowed, but the fury still simmered beneath the surface. It had been boiling since they left Grimmauld Place, and nothing Orion said could fully extinguish it. To insult him was one thing, but it was another to insult his mother. 

 "I am well aware my place in this world." he said, sharp and cold. "Before me, your father-in-law's generation was content to allow the Ministry to strangle our magic into we're overrun by muggles. Now, they support Lord Voldemort in public, but bar Tom Riddle in private."

“And I don’t agree with it,” Orion replied, his voice quieter but no less certain. “Truthfully, I don’t even hold to purity. If Sirius married a mudblo— a Muggle-born girl, I would not be ecstatic, but I’d fight Walburga about keeping him in the family. Particularly, if she would prove herself to embrace our way of life.”

Tom arched a brow, eyes narrowing in a way that made Orion’s fingers twitch with anxiety. “How progressive of you,” Tom said, with a faint, derisive smile. “And how do you know he’s interested in girls?”

Orion's reaction was telling. The way he stiffened, and his eyes widen and his mouth fell opened. He snapped his mouth shut and looked around as if there was another person in this alley. There weren't. 

"Who told you?" he asked in a hushed voice, leaning in close. 

He took a bit of pleasure of answering. He clasped his hands behind his back, smirking. "My son."

“Damn it all to hell, Tom.” Orion’s face twisted in pure horror. “Of course, it would be your son who tempted my heir into that... lifestyle.” His hands shook at his sides before he visibly forced himself to calm. “I suppose there is Regulus...”

Tom let out a soft, pleased chuckle. “I do so enjoy making your life difficult.” There was brief pause before he hesitated and patted Orion's shoulder. "Never repeat this to anyone, but I consider you a friend. I would not say you’re my best friend—”

“That would be Abraxas,” Orion supplied with a slight smile.

Tom’s grin widened. “Exactly. But still, a friend. Just... don’t brag about it. I have a reputation to uphold.”

"Of course, Tom," Orion patted Tom on the back as the exited out of the alleyway.

As they walked through the streets St. James, the muggles passing them by did look at Orion's Victorian style suit with curiosity. Orion paid them no mind.

Tom was just grateful Orion wasn't one of those fools who would wear brightly colored robes like a clown. It was a matter of surviving a world hostile to the point they had to keep themselves secret. 

They didn't have to walk far to their destination. 

The Blackthorn House looked like any other upscale gentlemen’s club from the outside—an unassuming white stone building with elegant iron railings and darkened windows. The gold-lettered sign above the door read “The Blackthorn House” with understated opulence, a place meant to attract wealth and power without drawing unwanted attention.

It sat comfortably among the other elite establishments of St. James, blending into the Muggle world so seamlessly that most passersby gave it no more than a cursory glance. To them, it was just another members-only club catering to rich, eccentric men with their cigars and endless talks of business and politics.

 The iron gates swung open for them as they approached, and closed tightly once they stepped through the threshold. 

Tom pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into a dimly lit foyer. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood, aged whiskey, and the faint perfume of expensive colognes.

An elderly wizard in fine robes—probably one of the few actual employees not here for pleasure—gave a respectful nod, his gaze lingering just a fraction longer on Tom than Orion. There was always recognition, even when unspoken.

Tom let Orion lead him through the winding hallways lined with oil paintings of past patrons, their stern faces immortalized in gold frames. A pair of glamorous witches in low-cut gowns passed by, their laughter delicate and glittering as they whispered to each other, glancing back at Tom with open interest. 

If it had been last week, before his kiss with Mangala, he would've nodded back. Given them a wink. Maybe grab the curvy one with the curly bob and pull her close and whisper which room he should meet her in. 

But that was before he got a taste of Mangala. 

There was only one woman he wanted, who needed. Who could satisfy him, and she was back at Grimmauld Place entertaining Bellatrix's gaggle of idiot friends. 

Orion noticed how Tom ignored the young ladies and slowed to match Tom's pace. "That was unlike you."

“My mind is occupied,” he said dismissively.

They stopped at the grand staircase to their private room where the others were waiting for them. Tom raised a brow at Orion, waiting for him to needle at him. 

"Are you sleeping with Rita Skeeter again?" the question was blunt, something Orion wouldn't go for, but apparently he felt he had to be when speaking with Tom. 

"Circe, no," Tom said, sneering. "Rita is old news. Bloody hell, do I regret ever letting her have access to my bed."

"As you should." Orion's eyes flickered downward to Tom's crotch. "Especially after she gave you that social disease." 

Tom grabbed Orion's coat collar, and pulled him close. "I told you not to bring that up." he hissed. 

Orion slapped his hand away. “Someone has to remind you of your poor choices,” he said dryly, his mouth twitching with amusement.

The two glared at eachother for a brief second before Tom broke contact, brushing his sleaves off from imaginary dirt. "No, I am not fucking Skeeter. I learned my lesson, Dad." he added in a mocking tone, which did earn him an amused snort. "But I do have a woman," he admitted, reluctant to do so. "Not officially. But I think we have something special."  

Orion narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Tom, you have met her? This isn't one of those times you..." he paused, thinking of the word, "researched some poor woman and think you have something special."

Tom avoided eye contact. "We talked several times by now. Anyway, "his voice sharp. "The others are waiting." He could feel the judgement at his back as he turned swiftly. 

They reached the private room at the top of the grand staircase, a parlor called the Ouroboros Room.

Tom was greeted by the familiar scent of cigars, brandy, and the underlying musk of desperation disguised as elegance. Voices hummed from the far end of the room where the others were already settled, waiting for him to hold court.

This wasn't like when he held his inner circle meetings in muggle grandparents' mansion. He was more Voldemort there. Where death lingered on the walls. Here? At Blackthorn, he was Tom Riddle, the Senior Thaumaturgist of the Curse Containment & Malediction Ward at St. Mungo's. The ambitious half-blood who had too many powerful friends for someone of his standing. 

He pushed the doors open with a slight bang, silencing the room. 

The parlor was a spacious, smoke-filled room with dark leather armchairs gathered around a polished mahogany table, where an unopened bottle of Firewhisky and crystal glasses sat waiting. The air was thick with the scent of cigars, cologne, and pipe tobacco.

A large oil painting of Salazar Slytherin loomed over the fireplace, his gaze stern and judgmental. The portrait was a striking blend of ages—his face painted with Renaissance realism, sharp-boned and commanding, but framed by medieval iconography. Gilded serpents wove through the border, their scales shimmering under the dim light. His dark robes bore illuminated script written in gold leaf, tracing his lineage with words long forgotten. Despite the refinements of later generations, his eyes held an older magic, fierce and unforgiving, tracking every movement in the room with chilling intensity. 

The portrait used to belong to the Gaunts, but from what Tom learned, Marvolo's father lost it in a betting war and the Notts put it in storage. And Leanan Malfoy rescued the painting from collecting dust by placing it in the Ouroboros Room.  

Corban Yaxley lounged in the chair closest to the fireplace, fingers idly tracing the rim of a half-full glass. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp and alert. Lianhua sat on the armrest of his chair, her silk dress glinting under the light as she chatted with Leanan, who had chosen to wear a well-tailored men's suit instead of her usual opulent gowns.

Norman Avery reclined in his chair, his face partially obscured by shadows as he shuffled a deck of cards, clearly waiting for the real conversation to begin. Bernard Rosier and Edward Mulciber were seated directly across from the door, their voices low as they whispered about some scheme that would undoubtedly be interrupted by Tom’s arrival.

Abraxas Malfoy stood off to the side, dressed in perfectly tailored robes that looked effortlessly stylish. He held a cigar between his fingers, its ember flickering softly as he spoke to Alphard Black, who looked both bored and restless, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the arm of his chair.

The first to speak was not Norman or Leanan or even Abraxas, it was the portrait. 

"Ahhhh, my heir," Salazar said, soft and silken like his voice was satin sheet blanketing the room. He dominated the room despite his whispering tones. His frame could not contain his authority and presence. Tom wondered what it had been when he was alive, the kind of power Salazar wielded. 

He would like he a fraction of Salazar's commanding presence. 

Everyone waited to see if the portrait would speak again, even Tom did. Salazar had a habit to drag out conversations with silence to needle those engaging with him. With an amused grin, he finally added. "And now I have someone equal to my intellect to engage with."

If the others felt slighted against The Founder's insult, no one showed it. 

"Salazar, it is a pleasure to see you, as always," Tom said with a slight bow as he walked in, eyes gleaming. He remembered when Leanan first brought him here at fifteen, the summer before his fifth year. The summer before he opened the Chamber. 

He shuddered at the memory of the Chamber, and quickly shoved it back where it belonged. 

 Orion quietly closed the door behind them, but the noise was to drag him out of the past. 

"Simple flattery," Salazar said, raising his hand with a dismissive wave before it returned to its resting spot. "Enough focusing on the dead and hold court, Heir. I have information of my own." 

Tom raised a brow at that. Oh, when Salazar had information, it was because someone was foolish to speak within earshot in front of his portrait. 

With the Founder's permission, Leanan sprain to her feet and glided across the floor. "Tom, darling!" She kissed both his cheeks in a motherly affection. 

The others stood from their seats, and those already standing approached them. They formed a line behind her, waiting for their turn. 

"I hope that incident with Prince Alexie has been smoothed over," Tom said, giving her a sharp look. 

Leanan laughed, acting as if a few days earlier she wasn't livid over Severus's duel. "Darling, please, I spoke with Emperor Fyodor, as promised, and gotten that squared away. You were right, as always. Alexie's reputation finally caught up with him." 

"And when will you learn I am always right?" he asked smoothly. Salazar didn't hold back a noise of agreement. 

Leanan rolled her eyes playfully. "Tom, dear, I had every right to worry. What I hadn't expected the rest of the evening would unfold the way it did." 

Tom clicked his tongue, thoughtful. "I doubt anyone would." Despite being his benefactor and former teacher, he dismissed her with a wave. 

She obeyed silently, and stepped aside, positioning herself right behind him, next to Orion. 

The first up was Alphard Black. He was not directly in Tom's inner circle, not like Orion or even Walburga were, but he was useful.

"I don't know if my dear brother-in-law," he spoke in a smoky voice as he clutched a Cuban cigar between two fingers. "But we dealt with the Selwyns."

Tom looked back at Orion, questioning him.

For his part, he said with raised eyebrows. "We were occupied with Pollux." His fingers flexed at his sides, a subtle sign of irritation.

"What did my father do now?" Alphard questioned, his own frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Tom narrowed his eyes into slits. "He insulted my mother." The words were knives, and everyone felt their edges.

"Who dares insult Slytherin blood?" Salazar's intrusion was a quiet whisper, his voice somehow colder than before. The temperature of the room seemed to drop a fraction, and the others shifted uncomfortably.

Tom met Salazar's eyes, keeping calm. "It was dealt with, ancestor. He will not do it again." He looked back at Orion, "Right?"

"Correct," Orion said with a short nod, his tone deliberately even. His gaze avoided the portrait, though his shoulders had tightened at Salazar’s words.

"The only sure way for him to not insult my blood is for this whelp to not breathe," the Founder seethed out. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "However, I know times are different...in my life, I would have gutted any man foolish to insult my mother. But she had been a queen."

Tom's jaw clenched. Merope hadn't been a queen, but she had still been his mother, and he wished he could've painted the Black home in Pollux's blood. But he couldn't. Society progressed since the tenth century.

The others exchanged uneasy glances. The weight of Salazar’s expectations hung in the air like a storm cloud. Alphard looked like an instant headache overcame him. "I will deal with Father once we leave here." He cleared his throat. "Where was I? Selwyns...we hosted his wife, parents, uncle, and siblings for dinner."

"It was quite an illuminating conversation," Orion said coolly. "Walburga made it a point that Mattias overstepped and could not step back."

"Sir Fredrick, his firstborn, voted with McKinnons, Longbottoms, Prewetts, Bones, and Potters against our ways in secret," Alphard said. He licked his lips before adding, "He endorses whatever you need to do as long it doesn't harm the rest of the family."

Tom's lips twitched upward. "Adorable he thinks I need approval, but I'm pleased Sir Fredrick is more intelligent than his now walking corpse son." He nodded his head sharply for Alphard to step aside.

The tension remained, but Tom’s amusement was enough to force the others into reluctant smiles. Corban exchanged a glance with Lianhua, his fingers tapping idly on the arm of his chair, as if waiting for his turn to speak.

But it was Edward Mulicber and Bernard Rosier's turns. They stepped jointly, Edward had a more smug look than Bernard, who's shoulders were slumped and looked utterly pathetic. 

Oh, this would be good. Bernard couldn't hide his emotions even if he tried. Tom couldn't wait for this one. 

“Negotiated another shipment of dragon-hide from contact in Greece,” Edward added, his fingers still idly tracing the rim of his glass. “Twice the quantity we got last month. I arranged them to be dropped off with Madame Borgin so she can begin working on our armor." 

Tom nodded sharply. "Good. I want nothing fancy. Just simple black with my mark etched on the back."

"I will relay the message," he said, and he glanced at Bernard to speak next. 

"I have five names," Bernard began but Tom cut him off. 

"I told you I wanted nine," he said staring down the shorter man with a fixed glare.

To his credit, he didn't flinch. "You won't need nine, Tom. I have our candidate within the five I picked out for you."

Tom looked him up and down, scowling. "Bernard, if I disagree, your punishment will be swift. You disobeyed."

"You will not be disappointed," Bernard's voice trembled, just slightly. But he didn't break eye contact. That told him Rosier was telling the truth. 

Salazar made a disgusted noise in the back of his painted throat. "Be grateful I am not alive," he sneered down at Bernard. "A Saxon disregarding what my heir ordered, thinking he knows what is best. In my day you would have been flogged."

Leanan bristled beside Tom, but he didn't pay her much heed. She wasn't one for unnecessary violence. But who was going to argue the Founder?

Tom flashed a bemused smile at Bernard, who was doing his best to hide how mortified he was by Salazar's words. "You heard him, be grateful I don't have you flogged by Corban," he said, patting the other man's shoulder. 

Bernard glanced at the hulking man that towered over them all. Yaxley tilted his head, simply waiting his turn to speak. 

Bernard simply sighed, and Edward, smirking, dragged him out of sight. 

Corban cleared his throat, his thick fingers drumming against the arm of his chair before finally pushing himself to his feet. Lianhua's elegant body stiffened into something sharp and unyielding. Whatever news they brought was heavy.

“The Ministry passed a new decree during the night,” Corban began, his voice low and carefully controlled. “Aurors have been given authorization to use Unforgivables. Legally.”

The room fell dead silent. The shock was immediate, palpable, a sharp intake of collective breath. Even Salazar remained wordless, his painted gaze narrowing with interest.

Tom’s eyes sharpened, a dangerous gleam flickering like embers waiting to catch fire. He took a slow step forward, circling Corban and Lianhua like a predator deciding whether or not to maul its prey. “And how, pray tell, was this passed without the approval of the Wizengamot?”

“The same way they passed the Parselmouth ban,” Lianhua answered softly. Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed unease.

That was all it took. The room erupted.

Everyone started speaking at once, voices overlapping in a rising clamor of outrage and fear. Bernard swore furiously in French, his hands clenched into trembling fists. Norman Avery’s face twisted with fury as he launched into a rant about Minister Jenkins and her recklessness. Edward Mulciber and Alphard Black were having their own heated discussion, while Abraxas moved like a caged animal, his hands gripping the back of his chair until his knuckles whitened.

Salazar’s portrait spat something venomous in ancient Gaelic, his fury practically warping the air around his frame. The lines of his painted face deepened, his mouth curling into something feral.

"Typical Ministry cowardice!” Bernard snarled, his voice shrill with panic. “Giving those Mudblood Aurors free rein. My family should have never left France!"

“It’s a death sentence,” Edward snapped. “Jenkins has gone mad. She’s signed that aurors can execute us!" 

"She signed into law to execute non-white magicals," Lianhua said, clutching her belly, her eyes wide with fear. She locked eyes with Edward, the only person in the room who would understand. "It's our magic that's labeled Dark." Corban pulled her closer in a protective gesture. 

Edward ran a shaky hand over his hair. "Fucking hell." he hissed. 

“It's not about legalizing public murder!” Norman exclaimed, eyes flaring.  "She didn't just legalize the Killing Curse! She legalized Crucio and Imperio on top of that. And behind our backs, in the dead of the night." 

Orion paced around the room. "We need to warn our families." And half his family actively supported or were in the Death Eaters. 

Abraxas stopped pacing and pointed a sharp finger at Orion. "Warn our families? We should be storming the Ministry and deal with the traitors before they come after us!" 

“Do you hear yourselves?” Leanan said, trying to break through the madness. “You sound like rabid dogs—”

"SILENCE!" 

The room fell to immediate stillness, like a sudden drop in temperature. Even Salazar’s furious muttering halted. 

Tom looked around the room, his eyes a piercing red. The room warped with his magic, creating moving, unnatural shapes on the floor and the wall. The fireplace came to life, burning high.

"This is what I warned all of you about," he said, his voice cold and sharp as glass. "The Ministry will not stop at wiping out the Parselmouths. Or werewolves. Their laws forced the entire Prince family to flee from the country." 

He walked over to Leanan, placing a hand on her arm. She looked down at it in the moment. "This began when Charlus pushed and won the removal of ritual magic in Hogwarts." His eyes flickered to Lianhua, then down to her hand on her pronounced belly before looking her back in her eyes. "It started with fertility rituals and rites to control the women in this country." 

He moved around the room. He stopped at the married couple who dropped the news on them. He looked up at Corban, frowning. "And then, laws that always have been on the books, began to be reinforced. Cultural magic was targeted." 

He slipped next to Edward, clasping firmly on his shoulder, speaking close into his space. "They want us to squirm, and grow rabid, and fearful, and make mistakes. But we don't make mistakes, do we, Ed?" 

Edward's jaw was tight, biting back on his fury. He shook his head, and hiss out. "No. We don't."

Tom slipped in between him and Bernard, wrapping his arms around them both. His hand was a bit tighter on Bernard's shoulder. "Bernard, you know they would not hesitate to hunt down your family in France. You know this. Fleeing is not a option," he said coldly. 

"I would never abandon the cause, you know that," he growled. 

"I do," Tom said smoothly, relazing his grip, "but I am painting the picture others will think they're safe if they leave. But we know British Ministry stretches its will to other countries." 

Tom continued his pace, his projecting his voice loud and clear for everyone in he room. His eyes flickered to Norman, then Abraxas. They watched him with silent agreement--though with Abraxas, there was look of worship for Tom that left him thrilled. 

"This is beyond blood purity. If they cared about mudbloods as they claim, it wouldn’t take me to break through the glass ceiling. And yet, the so-called blood traitors running the Ministry don't protect mudbloods. If anything, many of you in this room benefit. Yet...they use blood purity as the reason why they in act these laws." He said, stepping next to Orion and Alphard. He looked between them to make his point before continuing.

"Orion, Alphard—you’ve seen what happens when power is left in the hands of the Ministry’s puppets," he spoke softly, calmer, almost sweeter. "How many homes and accounts and artifacts has the Ministry stripped the most Ancient and Noble House of Black? Hmm? Why, is the Black family Grimoire is still in the Ministry's vault of dangerous dark magic."

Orion physically bristled, barely containing his anger. Alphard used his cigar to hold his tongue. 

One thing he could count on from the Black family was their ability to keep their emotions on a tight leash.

He moved from the cousins, and slinked passed Norman, and then Abraxas, the most loyal of his inner circle. 

"Norman's right," he said, smirking seeing how the Avery Lord stood straighter. "This isn't just a death sentence. It's a legalization of torture. They want to break us."

He turned to Abraxas, studying his handsome profile. Abraxas's silver eyes flickered toward him, adoringly so. "But I won't let them." 

"I know you won't let us down," Abraxas murmured. 

"They paint themselves as progressives fighting against bigotry," he said, sneering. There was grumblings now, with Corban muttering hypocrites under his breath. "No, no, the Ministry is run by tyrants, and those tyrants fear magic. They fear the loss of Britain's Empire. Magical Britain had always benefited from Muggle imperialism. And now they fear losing the power it cultivated by the systematic oppression outside the British isles, so the Ministry has turned its fangs on us.”

His lips curled into a predatory smile. “I have never feared the Ministry’s laws. The Unforgivables are my herritage, crafted by my ancestor," he pointed to Salazar's portrait. "His descendant. That is Slytherin's legacy, to protect us from outsiders--not non-whites or even mudbloods. But muggles." He hissed that word like it was nasty disease. 

And to this crowd, the way all their eyes flashed with rage and disgust at the mention of muggles, it was a disease. "My mother, a squib, was brutalized by one of those heathens. The Ministry would see us under the boots of muggles before giving up their power."

Salazar looked down on him with smug approval. "Here, here, my Heir." He motioned as if he was cheering on Tom. 

Tom's smile was tight and gleeful. Only for a second. Having Salazar's approval right now is what he needed to finish his point. "But now, they’ve made murder a policy. And when the Ministry draws first blood, they cannot cry foul when we respond in kind.”

He let his words sink in, his gaze sweeping over each of them. “Look at you all. I warned you, did I not? And now you panic like children lost in the dark. The Ministry counts on our fear. I will not give them the pleasure.”

The room returned to normal as his eyes stopped glowing a bright red. His predatory smile was poisonous and cold. “So we will defang them. But we will not fall into a panic. We will not storm into the Ministry," he gave Abrazas a sharp look. "We will plan their demise, my friends."

With his words, the room eased into quiet determination. The fear was still there, but overcame the terror was a burning rage. 

Good. 

Tom thought it was long time they got angry. 

At the party, Ministry showed its hand with Charlus and Raghnall, now they're doubling down. 

Someone, Norman, cleared his throat. He shot a glance at Abraxas before stepping forward. "Well, I can't say our news is more exciting at that," he said lightly, trying to ease the tension. 

And it worked. Alphard and Edward chuckled, and Orion's lips twitched upward. 

"I will be the judge of that," Tom said softly. He motioned for him to continue. "And?" he asked.

"The Smith family has postponed the funeral for Hepzibah Smith's funeral," Norman explained, glancing at Abraxas. "They wanted her to be buried on Hogwarts grounds." 

"As all of you are aware," Abraxas said, with the haughtiest tone a Malfoy could muster. "Norman and I on the school board, and we had a meeting early this morning. They petitioned us and Albus to place her on grounds."

"And you said no?" Orion asked, voice tight. "Because if that dead woman desecrates Hogwarts grounds, I'm pulling my boys out and sending them to Beauxbatons Academy." 

Bernard nodded along. "After what she tried to do Tom, I will not have Evan and Pandora continue their education there."

Tom was touched that was Bernard's reasoning--he still wasn't off the hook not giving him the amount of names he wanted. But Tom was touched. 

"We didn't even get a chance to," Norman interrupted. "Albus shut down the possibility. We didn't even have a vote." 

"Good." 

Salazar cut into the discussion. His painted lip curled in repulsion. "That wretched Smith woman—Hepzibah, bearer of Helga's noble bloodline—used my sanctuary for her trysts." 

The living exchanged bewildered glances. For a hysterical moment, Tom was certain he'd misheard: had his thousand-year-old ancestor just interrupted to deliver scandalous gossip?

Leanan stepped forward, expression shifting from curious to outright disbelief. "Excuse me, Lord Slytherin—are you telling us Hepzibah Smith was cheating on her darling husband, Rhys Prewett? Or were these...trysts, as you call them, with Rhys?"

"She is wed?" Salazar scowled in disgust. "In my day, a woman who disgraced her vows would have been branded—or worse, put to death. Your era is too forgiving." 

Tom shifted slightly, experiencing a brief, unwelcome pang of discomfort. He’d been unfaithful to Eileen during their short marriage, but he was a man, immune from such archaic punishments. He knew his gender allowed him liberties women like Hepzibah could never hope for. But as quickly as the thought came, Tom dismissed it. Life was already difficult enough without adding moral complications. Merlin knew he'd earned every advantage he could grasp—being born a man was just another stroke of luck he refused to apologize for.

"I know nothing of this Rhys Prewett," Salazar continued, unprompted. "The Saxon who disgraced my sanctuary was Charlus Potter."

Tom’s lips twitched, a dark gleam flashing in his eyes. “Charlus Potter?” He let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, low and incredulous. “Oh, now that’s rich. The righteous man himself—caught skulking around like a common degenerate.”

He let out another snort, cutting himself off before the laughter could spill over. Tom didn’t need to look at Orion and Alphard to know his amusement was misplaced. The tension radiating from them was thick enough to choke on.

Orion’s expression twisted into fury, and he kicked Tom’s leg hard enough to make a point. “This is not humorous, Riddle!” he snapped.

Abraxas hummed in mild approval, his voice as icy and amused as ever. “I disagree. Charlus is a pious bastard, and he cheated on his wife.”

“Exactly!” Orion snapped. “His wife—our cousin! Dorea is a Black.”

Alphard’s voice cut through the tension, flat and certain. “We have to kill him.” His tone was calm, as if they were discussing the weather.

"You must drag his useless hide through the streets tied to the end of a horse and allow the good people to beat him," Salazar said firmly, and unlike Alphard, it was clear he was serious. "He deprecated your family and you must not let this slight go unchecked. But there is more to this story, Heir, if you are done laughing."

Tom wiped away the remaining hint of a smirk, but the glint of vicious amusement still lingered in his eyes. “Please, do continue.”

And genuine hatred flickered in those ancient, painted eyes. "Hepzibah had bound another to her. Another woman," his voice dripped with venom. "She kept another slave. Paraded her before the men she entertained. Forced her to perform acts that disgraced this woman. Acts I cannot speak of in front of the fair company present."

The implication settled around them. Any delight Tom had over finding out about Charlus and Hepzibah's sordid love affair vanished and was replaced with cold horror. 

Tom held no delusion that he was a good man. Righteous, yes, but good? No. He was no saint. He committed atrocities, deserved maybe, but they were horrible acts. But this? Enslavement of another human...and Merlin knows what Salazar meant. Tom assumed the worse. And that worse were lines Tom couldn't even imagine crossing. 

He wasn't the only one. 

Leanan slowly covered her mouth, her eyes going wide with genuine horror. Corban looked thunderstruck, his usually stoic expression twisted with disgust. Lianhua looked outright revolted, her lips pressed into a thin line, her hand moving unconsciously to her stomach as if shielding the child growing within her.

Alphard and Orion’s anger depleted to the same quiet horror flooding Tom. Bernard shook his head in disbelief. Abraxas ran a shaky hand over his hair, and Norman let out a low whistle.

 Alphard and Orion's anger depleted to the same quiet horror inflicting Tom. Bernard shook his head in disbelief. Abraxas ran a shaky hand over his hair, and Norman let out a low whistle.

He muttered, "holy shit," quietly under the weight of Salazar's words.  

Edward stepped forward to the portrait, his voice cold with a harsh rage. "Did she have a name? What did she look like? Like me?" he gestured to his face.

Salazar’s painted eyes moved over Edward, assessing him with a frankness that bordered on insult. “No, she was not a Moor.”

Edward’s face crumpled, and he pressed his hand to his forehead, rubbing his temple in frustration. But there was relief there, as if he expected something far worse. Tom pressed his fist to his mouth, cringing at the use of his ancestor’s archaic words. They should really update Salazar’s vocabulary before he offends half of his inner circle.

“I do not know where she is from, nor her name,” Salazar continued, his voice softer now, though still filled with contempt. “The only woman with similar features I have seen is the fair lady besides your enforcer. The Saxons hadn't discovered their kind in my day." 

All eyes flickered to Lianhua.

“That woman was of my kin?” Lianhua’s voice was low, almost too quiet. The words were clipped, fury restrained under a mask of civility. But her eyes blazed.

“It would appear so,” Salazar answered indifferently. “Though I could not say for certain. Her features—sharp, dark eyes, and hair like silk—reminded me of your likeness.” He nodded toward Lianhua. “But she was bound, humiliated. Forced to perform for the pleasure of her captor and her guests." 

"Was she still with them?" Tom demanded, his voice far more forceful than he should be with Salazar. "When Hepzibah left this room, did she take this woman with her?" 

The Founder took no offense by Tom's tone, but seemed to approve. He nodded once. "She did. The woman is one of ours. A parselmouth," he said in a hushed whisper, nearly impossible to hear. Unlike many men, Salazar Slytherin expressed his anger in quiet tones, and right now he was enraged. "She spoke our language, the ancient tongue of the Earth. She turned into a massive snake, a beautiful creature."

Leanan gasped, holding her hand up. She whirled on Tom, eyes frantic. "Nagini! Her name is Nagini," she repeated, looking around the room. "She was the snake that attacked Severus." 

"The one that turned into--an Asian woman," he said, pausing once the realization hit. 

Tom’s eyes flashed with the intensity of a man who had just stitched together the final pieces of a gruesome puzzle. His posture straightened, shoulders taut like a bowstring.

“I know how she was controlling Nagini.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the room’s stunned silence.

All eyes turned toward him, some confused, others already horrified.

“How?” Lianhua asked. Corban’s arm tightened around her shoulder, as if he could protect her from whatever horror was about to be revealed.

Tom's lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke. “Hepzibah had the locket. Salazar’s locket.” His gaze briefly flicked to the portrait, the ancient man’s expression a mixture of expectation and fury.

“Dear, Merlin," Orion said in quiet horror. "She paraded it around at the party. She told everyone, flaunted it for us Slytherins to hear." 

"I should have thrown her out then," Abraxas murmured, cold and unyielding. "How did she get a hold of the locket?" 

Tom's hands balled into fists, glaring at the ground instead of meeting anyone's eyes. He spoke a truth he hated to admit. "My mother sold it when she was pregnant with me and homeless on the streets of London. She had been half starved, half delerious, didn't know it's value and it ended up in the hands of Hepzibah Smith SR. Then, once she passed, Catherine Hepzibah Smith claimed it as her own." 

He looked up now, meeting Abraxas's eyes, finding comfort there. "Hepzibah claimed that the locket could grant anyone the ability to speak Parseltongue." he now looked around the room. "Even a filthy, undeserving hag like her. She flaunted her so-called power, and she...used it on Nagini. To bind her.”

Leanan looked like she might be sick. “How—how could that even work?”

“Through rituals lost to your age,” Salazar intoned bitterly. “The locket was not simply an heirloom. It was a tool of power. Meant to be wielded by one of our blood, by one who truly understands the language of serpents. Not a thief who parades my legacy like a common trinket.”

“But the locket is with her body,” Tom continued. His tone grew colder, angrier. “It’s buried with her because her family is trying to make her a martyr. And that means Nagini is either free now or still under its thrall.”

“You said the locket was a tool of power.” Lianhua’s voice was trembling with rage and desperation. “Does that mean she was enslaved by it? Compelled to do whatever that wretched woman ordered?”

Salazar’s lips curled in disgust. “Yes. The locket allows the wearer to mimic the voice of the bloodline. But it is a false mastery, a blasphemy against our lineage.”

“It’s more than that,” Tom said, his fists clenched at his sides. “The locket forces obedience from Parselmouths. She wore it to subjugate Nagini. To force her to...perform.”

Leanan looked sickened. “Oh, Merlin.” Her gaze darted toward Lianhua, guilt painting her expression. “I had no idea. If I had—”

“If any of us had known, we would have stopped it,” Corban growled, his face darkening. “Damn it all to hell, we would’ve burned her fucking house to the ground.”

“I would’ve done it myself,” Edward added, his voice like iron. “And I would’ve made sure she suffered first.”

Salazar’s painted eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating growl. “It was more than just enslaving a Parselmouth. That woman—Hepzibah—used the locket as a weapon against my kin. Against those born with the gift.”

Orion’s face went slack with horror. “You mean—she used it to kill Parselmouths?”

Tom's magic lashed out, distorting the room's shadows once more. The furniture trembled, and the chandler shook. 

“Yes. She hunted them, like animals." He spat out each word. "She weaponized our artifact so the Oversight Committee can butcher my people."

He let his words settle. 

Lianhua was now in near tears, a mix of fury and grief. She stared down at her round belly, fearful if her children were next. Norman looked mix of rage and disgust...and quiet acceptance of this is human nature.

Orian's stiff voice sounded like knife's edge of shouting. "And Ministry just legalized public executions. And who's magic is being banned?" he looked around the room. "It's obvious some of us are more accepted in this society. But last near they pushed a banned several island based magic." 

Edward dragged his hands down his face, nodding his head well aware.

"They banned the use of blood magic," Abraxas said softly, contemplative. "We can't even use banks without pricking our fingers under goblin law. They could use that to bar us from our ancestral claims."

Leanan stumbled back, her hand over her mouth. “Gods...this is a growing nightmare."

Lianhua’s face was ashen, her hands trembling. “And what about that woman?” she said, bringing them back to Nagini. "Hepzibah used that locket on her to control her, but now Hepizbah's dead and the Smiths have the locket."

“We have to retrieve the locket,” Tom said, voice calm but tight with anger. “Not just because of its power, but because it’s a symbol. It’s a weapon that’s been used to oppress and destroy my kind. And it will be reclaimed. I will not allow it to be used against us any longer.”

Salazar’s voice was a low, growling rasp. “That witch wore my legacy as a weapon of destruction. If you are truly my heir, you will see it restored to its rightful place.”

Tom’s voice came out in a low, dangerous purr. “I will,” he promised. “We will not allow them to use our own magic to destroy us." his eyes swept across the room, meeting his followers in their eyes. "All of us. I will fight for our families and our society, you can put your trust in me. I know what's like to be left behind the system. I seen what the Ministry will do to those labeled dark. The Ministry had cut out the tongues of parselmouth children. Stolen them, and gave them to respectable magical families. This is my people they did this to first, but how long until it's your family?" he fixated a look in Alphard and Orion's direction, then Corban and Lianhua's.

It was cruel to prey upon the fears of a pregnant woman, but the way she whimpered and covered her mouth to hold back tears was what he needed. 

The men gathered around the couple, as if to shield Lianhua from a threat that hasn't been uttered. 

"This will be bloody, and dangerous, but if we don't fight now, they will pick us off one-by-one like starved dogs," he said slowly. "This wasn't about blood purity, political dominance. This is about survival. About the freedom to practice magic, without restraints. This is about protecting ourselves and our families from being taken from us. The Ministry, and the light magic users want war, I say we give them war. For the last two years, we made little attacks here and there, but the Ministry has taken our push back as a means to double down on their atrocities."

"And what of Albus Dumbledore?" Orion asked, speaking up. His tone was flat, as if he was drained of emotion.

"He reformed with Order," Leanan said, confirming something Tom already knew. "It's not the old crowd he had when he faced Grindelwald, but he plans to stop you just the same." 

Tom bristled at the thought of being compared to Grindelwald in Albus's eyes, but didn't let that anger to fester into his words. 

"Truthfully, I would rather Albus fight with us against the Ministry. But no, the old man wishes to fight us to protect the status quo. As far as I'm concerned, we could've had a powerful ally in him, a man who claims to fight for the oppressed and downtrodden, but his fear of dark magic and love for muggles has blinded him. He thinks if we take over, it would be more dangerous for society," he said, smoothly. "But he's wrong, and we will prove him wrong." 

"Albus sees us as the enemy because we challenge the lies he protects. But he's made a grave mistake: he thinks we're fighting for power alone, blind to the fact that we're fighting for our very lives. Let him and the Ministry underestimate us—it will be their undoing."

Tom’s voice lowered, now soft, intimate, almost gentle as he looked each follower in the eye. "Tonight, we begin to reclaim what's been stolen from us—our magic, our history, our dignity. Each of you is here because you refuse to kneel and let them tear your families apart. I promise you, the Ministry will regret what they've done."

He paused, the weight of their attention sharp and focused. "Let them fear us. Their legalization of murder and torture is proof we are right. They have chosen this path, not us. But we will finish it. For our families. For each other. We will fight until our magic is no longer feared, but respected."

"Albus has chosen his side," he said, quiet but decisive. "Now it's time to show him the cost of standing against us."

Stolen into the night, Tom transformed into Lord Voldemort. He moved silently through Diagon Alley, moonlight glinting sharply against the plague doctor's lenses, his robes whispering across cobblestones as he approached the empty square. The feathers on his shoulders ruffled through the sharp, summer wind. The smell of rain and coal drifted around him. A perfect night for his message. 

With a decisive flick of his wand, three dummies—bearing the crude likenesses of Minister Jenkins, Charlus Potter, and Albus Dumbledore—erupted simultaneously into flames. The roaring fire illuminated every shopfront, transforming the peaceful street into a blazing indictment. The flames did not burn the cloth dummies, nor did they overpower the signs Leanan and he created. 

Around Minister Jenkins’ dummy hung a sign painted in bold crimson letters:

         "MINISTER JENKINS:
         TYRANT. BUTCHER.
         CHILD THIEF."

It was under her when the Oversight Committee had slaughtered so many parselmouths and stolen their children. It was fair, accurate. Siding with the Committee after the fact meant she could no longer live. 

Around Charlus's dummy, Leanan wrote this one her self. Truthfully, all the purebloods in the Ouroboros Room helped with this sign. Their rage toward Charlus was tenfold. 

Alphard even took care to make sure his glasses and hair were accurate. 

        "CHARUS POTTER:
         ADULTERER. OPPRESSOR. 
         TRAITOR TO MAGIC." 

And for Albus, Tom took care of his. 

       "ALBUS DUMBLEDORE:
        ALWAYS CHOOSING THE WRONG SIDE.
        YOUR TASTE IN ALLIES IS AS TERRIBLE AS YOUR TASTE IN MEN."

       "Really, Tom. What does his homosexuality have to do with this?" Orion asked, visibly annoyed. 
       "Nothing, I just like mocking him for his poor choices in love." 

Tom watched the flames dance in the night for a moment before pointing to the sky and shouting, "Morsmordre!" His voice echoed around the quiet shops, amplified for those who were still awake to look out their windows. 

He hadn't expected his son and Sirius Black to be the first ones out of the Leaky Cauldron. A brief pang—something sharp, protective, almost regretful—tightened his chest, but he forced it down, vanishing into smoke before either boy could catch a glimpse.

Chapter Text

"Did you see what she was wearing?" Severus asked, rage buzzing beneath his skin like a cluster of bees. 

"Sybil?" Sirius glanced over, casual. "Yeah, she always wears that stuff. Ever since she came back from traveling with those Romani witches and wizards."

He hopped onto the narrow stone wall that bordered one of his neighbor’s front gardens, perfectly at ease. "Why does it matter?"

Severus glared up at him, seriously considering shoving him off. "Why? Because if my mother had worn anything like that in Cokeworth, she'd have had her teeth kicked in. Or worse. If she didn’t have magic, that’s exactly what would’ve happened to her."

Sirius’s smirk slipped. He blinked down at him, confused. "Why?"

Severus stared. Long and hard. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if Sirius was being deliberately thick or just so steeped in privilege he didn’t know what he didn’t know.

Against his better judgment, he decided to explain. He knew he didn't owe Sirius an explanation, not to someone who used the very racist insults he heard his entire life. But Sirius looked genuine in his confusion. He just didn't know. 

Because Sirius Black, the white pureblood boy—whose family inbred itself into preservation rather than risk so much as a drop of Muggle blood—wouldn’t know what it meant to be a half-Romani, half-Iranian woman walking through the slums swarming with National Front bastards. 

Wouldn’t know that you could be pale and still never be white enough.

"Because, Black," he said, doing his best to hold back his natural sarcasm, "my mother is visibly not white. Her family was from Persia, before the name change. Her own mother was Roma. She practices a religion that's not Christianity. She kept a lot about the Princes from me, but she did tell me we wore black in public and not colorful outfits. Because it was safer."

He raised his fingers, counting. "Our noses? Sharp. Pointed. Big. Our skin? Olive. Or yellow, depending on who’s throwing slurs that day. Our hair? Greasy, black, not European." 

He paused, casting a nasty glare at the ground. "My name isn’t even supposed to be Severus. It should’ve been Savir.” 

He shook his head of the name that was not his. He didn’t say it often, but it was like reopening a wound that was allowed to fester. Until recently, he didn't even know his mother's original surname. 

He should've been Savir Mizra, instead he was Severus, the Half-Blood Prince. 

"And until very recently," he continued, voice tight, softer and tired. "We lived in all white neighborhood with neo-nazis because she tied herself to a man who couldn't be fucked to move out despite knowing his wife got rape threats daily because of her race. You think Parseltongue's the only language I had to hide? All I know is to hide." 

And sharply, it hit him. If Mother hadn’t left Tom, neither of them would’ve dealt with the bigots in Spinner’s End.

Shock flickered across Sirius face, then something more quiet. Guilt. 

He jumped off his perch, now the two were standing toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye. "I didn't think about...all these years. All those mean comments about," he waved his hand, gesturing, "I didn't know." 

"Most people don't think," Severus said, snappish. "But whatever works for a laugh, right?"

"Well, not anymore." Sirius said, a slow smirk forming. He bumped their shoulders lightly. "Not after that dance."

And like that, Severus's anger vanished under a cloud of embarrassment. His cheeks turned pink, and sharply turned away from Sirius. 

Trying to hide how flustered that one line made him, he bit out. "I hope you have something better to say then," he paused sending a raised eye brow and sneer Sirius's way. ""You’ve got a resting glare that could kill a man. I bet I would look good in a coffin.""

Sirius grinned. "I liked that line! And you didn't complain in your letter." 

"Because I intentionally ignored it," he countered, "because it's stupid." 

"I think I'm rather smooth," Sirius said, brushing the imaginary dirt off his jacket. 

"That coffin line might come true," Severus said, slyness edging his voice. He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "I told Tom about you."

The bravado Sirius had a second ago dropped and was replaced with terror. 

"You told your murderous father we're..." he paused, and asked. "Are we dating?" 

Severus shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. "Sure, why not,” he drawled—far too casually for someone whose heart was about to leap from his chest.

"Cool," Sirius smiled briefly before it fell again. "You told your murderous father we're dating? You do realize he's crazy right?" 

"I lived with him for a week," Severus said bluntly. "Of course, I know. I figured that out within an hour of knowing him." His dark eyes slid up and down Sirius’s frame, and his lips twisted into something between a smirk and genuine sympathy. "Sucks to be you. He doesn't approve of you."

Sirius scowled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I didn't think my first boyfriend would be so cold-blooded."

He paused suddenly, like he'd only just realized what he'd admitted. His expression slipped from irritation to something softer—uncertain, embarrassed.

"I didn't think I'd ever date a boy," he said quietly, glancing away as heat crept into his cheeks. Another pause hung between them, thick and strangely fragile, before he finally met Severus’s gaze again. "I didn’t think I'd date you."

Severus stilled, the sarcasm temporarily knocked from him. Sirius’s words had landed somewhere he hadn’t anticipated, making his chest swell and him blush. For a moment, he just stared at Sirius, absorbing the sincerity behind those words, unguarded and warm, before forcing himself back behind his usual sardonic cruelty.

"You're a romantic," Severus finally said dryly, voice deliberately steadied. He sent Sirius a sidelong glance, mouth curving into a faint smirk as he tried to pull back from the vulnerable edge. "I have to admit, you are different from Evan Rosier and Seth Mulciber."

Sirius made a face, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I knew it. You like both of them. Mulciber, I sort of get—if you're into dumb sports fanatics—"

"Aren't you a Beater?" Severus pointed out, a smile tugging at his lips.

Sirius ignored the jab, pressing on with forced casualness. "But Rosier? Really?" His tone sharpened a bit, eyes flicking away. "He's one half of a creepy twin set. You could at least have standards."

Severus lifted an eyebrow, intrigued by the slight edge beneath Sirius’s playful words. "Evan and Pandora aren’t creepy," he argued. "Now, those Carrow twins—what were they doing on your family's couch?"

Sirius visibly shuddered. "Don't ask me. I avoid Bella's friends as best I can." He hesitated, eyes briefly shadowed, before adding lightly, "Only some of them are all right."

He tried smiling again, though it looked a little forced. "I'm not looking forward to the day my uncle makes Bella break up with Orson just to shove her at Lestrange or someone equally awful."

Severus frowned slightly. "Why would they force her—" He stopped mid-sentence, realization dawning. "Right. He's a pureblood, but he's not British."

Sirius rolled his neck, bones cracking audibly. “Forget wizarding politics. Let’s go get lunch.”

With an easy grin, he slipped a hand into his back pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet chained to his belt. The Black family crest—stitched in real gold thread—caught the sunlight like it was announcing their location to the entire street.

He flipped it open, revealing a thick stack of crisp paper bills. Too many. All too neat.

“Uncle Alphard gives me Muggle currency,” he said, proud as a kneazle with a dead gnome. “He works for the Muggle government.”

Severus stared at the wallet, then at Sirius’s smug face. All he could think was his boyfriend was going to get them jumped.

He slapped the stack with his hand and pushed it down. "Can you, please put that away." He looked around as if someone was going to jump out of the bushes. "What does he do?" 

Sirius obediently tucked the bills back into the wallet and snapped it shut. “He said something once about MI6, whatever the bloody hell that means.” He slid it into his back pocket like they weren’t still in public. “So. Where do you want to eat?”

Severus chose to ignore the fact that a member of the most notorious blood purist family in Britain was apparently on MI6’s payroll. “I’ve never really explored London,” he said. “So you pick. Preferably somewhere that serves meat. I’ve been living with a vegetarian for over a week, and it’s killing me.”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Riddle only eats vegetables and fruit,” Sirius said, already strolling down the sidewalk. “I asked him why once when I was twelve. He said something about it being better for the environment, then went on this wild rant about how the proletariat should be bombing Muggle oil companies instead of letting them pollute our water supply.”

"That does sound like him," Severus muttered. "Where are we headed? Tom gave me coin for Diagon Alley."

"But why go to just Diagon Alley when we have a whole city to explore." Sirius said, smirking.

Before Severus could object or ask for clarification, Sirius reached out and grabbed his hand.

Severus didn’t breathe for a moment.

The contact was brief at first—fingers brushing over knuckles, then clasping fully. Warm. Callused from Quidditch. Unapologetic. Sirius tugged him forward, weaving between a lamppost and an old man feeding pigeons without a second thought. They walked like that—joined—for nearly a full block before Severus realized he hadn’t let go.

The giddiness bloomed just behind his ribs, like bees fluttering against flowers. He tamped it down hard, forced his expression flat, but his pulse betrayed him. He wasn’t used to this kind of acceptance. This kind of care. He wasn’t used to being pulled toward something good.

“Bus stop’s just up here,” Sirius said over his shoulder, like he hadn’t just caused Severus’s brain to short-circuit.

And sure enough, a little green-and-white pole came into view near the corner, marked with a peeling “73.” A few Muggles were already waiting—an old woman with a tartan shopping trolley, a teenager reading NME, and a man with a comb-over staring blankly at the street like it had offended him personally.

Sirius let go just before they reached the crowd, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket like nothing had happened.

Severus flexed his fingers slightly, as if testing whether the sensation still lingered.

It did.

Without permission, Severus was on his first date.

He wouldn’t realize it until years later—deep into his bitter twenties, terrified of AIDS and attending more funerals than he had even during the war his side lost. Only then would it hit him: July 1st, 1975 had been his first date.

With his first boyfriend.

Who was now rotting in prison.
For betraying his best friend.
A friend Severus had hated.

But on that afternoon—long before werewolves and betrayals and Azkaban and an epidemic ignored by both Muggles and magicals—none of that existed. There was only Sirius, tugging him through the sun-washed city streets, his laughter cleansing four years of hurt like smoke in wind.

And Severus was being pulled toward something dangerously close to joy.

After a few hours of wandering SoHo—ducking into record shops, dodging muggle traffic, and pretending they weren’t dragging six bags between them—Sirius finally tugged Severus back to Grimmauld Place.

The house greeted them with silence.

Bellatrix and her shrieking pack had vanished. Orion and Tom hadn’t returned from wherever they'd gone—and Severus was fairly certain he didn’t want to know. Walburga, Cygnus, and the half-dozen other adults packed into the creaking Victorian house were all absent, either off at the Ministry or chasing whatever business filled the Black family’s evenings.

But silence didn’t mean empty.

They were barely halfway up the stairs, hands still clasped, three bags dangling from each wrist—when they were blocked.

Kreacher stood like a gargoyle on the top step, beady eyes locked on Severus with all the loathing of a pureblood portrait come to life.

The elf sneered. “Master is touching that vampiric Gypsy filth. He’ll need a bath—if only he remembered how to take one.”

Sirius let go of Severus’s hand so fast it stung. In the same motion, he swung one of his bags at Kreacher, but it passed clean through.

The house-elf was already gone, vanished with a snap of ancient magic and old rage. But his voice lingered in the stairwell like rot in the walls:

“Young Master is a disgrace to the Noble House of Black. Kreacher wishes and wishes for Mistress to burn him off the mural.”

The bags hit the floor with a thud. Sirius stood frozen, jaw tight, fists clenching the plastic handles hard enough to crinkle them.

Severus bit down on what he wanted to say. House-elves were steeped in Fair Folk magic. And Mother had made it very clear: never offend the Fair Folk.

Sirius let out a slow breath. “One day,” he muttered, almost to himself, “that little bastard’s going to vanish and not come back.”

"He's rather pleasant," he said instead, keeping his thoughts to himself. 

"Oh, very," Sirius grumbled. He picked up his bags, but didn't reclaim Severus's hand again. And Severus wasn't about to reach out for his. 

It was for the best. The stairs were narrow, and two teen boys wouldn't make it up them without one falling over the railing. 

They reached the top of the stairs and the next roadblock to Sirius's room reared his curly little head. 

A door popped open, and Regulus leaned his head out. "Why are you spending time with Snape?" 

Sirius's face turned red. "None of you business!" he snapped. "Bloody hell, can't a man walk through his own house without being harassed?" 

The door from across Regulus's creaked open, and Narcissa and Lucius stepped out. Both their cheeks were flushed pink. It was obvious what they're doing. Even clearer when Narcissa was adjusting her blouse and Lucius was fixing his jacket. 

"I don’t see any man here, Sirius," Narcissa said coolly, avoiding eye contact.

Sirius ignored the jab and focused his rage on Lucius. "What the hell were you doing with my cousin?"

Lucius turned his attention—first to Severus, eyes narrowing with dissection, then sliding lazily back to Sirius. "I should be the one asking," he said softly. "What, exactly, are you doing with my best friend?"

"Again, it's no one's business," he sneered. He nodded his head for Severus to follow.

There was awkward silence as no one said anything as the two crept on by--Lucius clearly had something to say, because of course he did, but he held it. 

For a moment. 

"I disagree," Lucius said, with an air of an authority he doesn't have. "Severus is under my protection."

Severus turned, biting down on a laugh. "Since when?" 

"Since..." Lucius faltered, eyes darting around the room as he tried to find an excuse to continue this conversation. "Since right now. Because I don't trust Sirius." 

"I wouldn't," Narcissa said, mocking. "My cousin is quite the fake charmer. Ask Marlene McKinnon."  

Sirius flipped her off just as Regulus asked. "Can we go to Diagon Alley for dinner?" 

All eyes fell on the thirteen-year-old. "No one is home and if Snape is staying for dinner, Kreacher might poison our meals just to get him too."

Severus turned to Sirius from confirmation, and he shrugged in agreement. "He would." 

Lucius made a face. "How are we going to get there? And I refuse to eat at the Leaky Cauldron, let alone step through their Floo Network. I am a Malfoy, and I have standards that will not be lowered. 

About ten minutes later, the five teens stepped off the Knight Bus. 

"That was the most vile, disgusting, repugnant," Lucius stormed off the triple-decker bus, ranting at full volume. "Experience of my life!" 

He stepped onto the sidewalk, felt something stick to the bottom of his right shoe. He lifted his foot and saw an offended piece of something pink. 

"What is this?" he asked, mortified, hopping around with on leg before he lost his grip on his foot and had to put it down. He aggressively scraped it off the bottom of his shoe.

Regulus leaned into his space with mirth in his eyes. "That's gum. A muggle had that in their mouth." 

The noise that emanated from Lucius's throat caused people on the street to turn and stare, while Sirius and Regulus fell into matching giggling fits. 

Severus whispered to Narcissa. "That's your boyfriend." 

"That's your best friend," she said, barely containing her own fit of giggles. 

"You laugh?" Lucius snapped at the two Black brothers. "Do you have any idea how rare these are? Belladonna di Notte doesn't even sell to the public—they curate their clients. This gum has been in some Muggle’s mouth, you-you heathens! I might as well burn the shoes." 

Sirius covered his mouth, biting back his laughter. "Oh, we should lay them to rest—

"And hire priestess to bless the grave," Regulus added, snickering.

"So they don't crawl from the depths of Hell to haunt you for this slight," Sirius finished before the two doubled over in laughter. 

Lucius stared at them, scandalized, hands on his hips. “Mock me all you like, but you forced me onto that death contraption. I think a homeless person tried to sell me drugs.”

"Lucius," Narcissa said, with all the patience Lucius didn't deserve, "that was the bus driver. He was telling us their was sale at the apothecary."  

"I heard what I heard, Cissa," he snapped, with all the confidence of a boy who was isolated in a Gothic Castle. 

Severus stepped closer, placing a hand on Lucius’s shoulder like he was grounding a hysterical patient. “It’s not a big deal,” he said calmly. He drew his unregistered wand, aimed it at Lucius’s shoe, and zapped the gum away. “Now, if it were the blue kind... then we’d have a problem. I think Muggles accidentally cracked the secret to anti-magic. Without even realizing it.”

Lucius blinked, deadly serious. “I’ll avoid the blue ones, then.”

Sirius just stared. “You can’t be real.”

“I am very real,” Lucius said, smoothing his cloak with aristocratic flourish. He pivoted on the spot, chin raised. “Now—how exactly are we getting into Diagon Alley from this end of the city? My parents always just Apparate. Less chance of running into criminals and... vagabonds.”

Regulus snorted behind his hand. Narcissa sighed, walking past the boys to tap the wall for it to break the enchantment. 

"You know," Severus began as they waited for the bricks to move out of their way. "When Lily first came to Diagon Alley, she almost got squished by the bricks closing back on her because was trying to save a rat and keep it as her pet. It bit her and scurried off" 

"She's a strange girl," Sirius said, with a hint of affection. 

"She's a muggle-born and you need to ditch her, Severus," Lucius said, looking back at her. "Inviting her to a pureblood gala...my family's gala at that." 

"I didn't invite her, your father did—which we told you at the party," Severus corrected, irritation creeping in his voice. "I'm not 'ditching' my friend of six years, Lucius."

"Yes, yes, Father is fascinated by mudbloods," Lucius said, dismissive. Severus bristled at the word. "His friendship with Mr. Riddle is proof of that."

"Mother thinks your father and Mr. Riddle are having an affair," Regulus blurted out. 

Severus raised a brow, but held his tongue. Based how Tom interreacted with Mr. Malfoy on the day of the party, that wasn't far fetched.  

Lucius had another opinion. 

He whirled around, jabbing a finger against Regulus's chest. "My father is not cheating on my mother with Tom Riddle!" he hissed through clenched teeth. 

Sirius moved quickly and pushed down Lucius's hand. "No one here said he is--Reggie is just repeating what our mother said. You're so uptight, you need to calm down."

Narcissa swept in and latched herself onto Lucius's arm, pulling him back. "Let's hurry. House of Lanterns is always busy at this time."

Placated, Lucius allowed himself to dragged further into Diagon.

Severus approached Sirius's side, and whispered, "is my father having an affair with Mr. Malfoy?" 

Sirius waited for Regulus to trail behind their cousin and the disgruntled Malfoy heir before replying. 

"I once caught Mr. Malfoy giving Riddle a back rub in my dad's office while waiting for him to return," Sirius confessed. "It was...strange. I left before they started quoting poetry at each other or whatever." 

Severus didn't show any outward reaction, but it did make him wonder if Tom's immediate support after Severus had came out was more personal than he let on. 

Their dinner was less fraught with tension and filled with laughter--mostly from the three Black cousins. Severus watched Sirius, Regulus, and Narcissa recount stories and laugh and argue about details all three forgot. It was interesting, and different. 

Lily and Petunia was Severus's exposure to siblings, and Petunia was a bully. She made fun of Lily's magic, made her cry, and picked fights. Severus also seen the oldest Evans sister break a boy's nose for pulling Lily's hair, and tackled an older girl for calling Lily a freak for gathering beetles in jars. But they didn't have conversations like this. 

Once or twice, Severus and Lucius looked at each other, and he wondered if Lucius was thinking what he was: wouldn't it be nice to have a sibling or close cousin to share memories with? To laugh with?

But Lucius had been raised with wealth and structure, and most importantly with love. 

Severus was raised with poverty and disfunction, and bitterness. Tobias hated him--and he now understood it because Tobias had been raising another man's son in secret. Eileen, he was sure his mother loved him in her own way, was still cruel, secretive, and allowed Tobias to beat him. 

As nice as the thought was to have a sibling, the fantasy curdled as soon as Severus followed it through.

He wouldn’t be a brother—he’d be a parent. A shield. He’d be the one standing between them and Tobias's fists, between them and Eileen’s cold silences. He’d be the one sneaking extra bread onto their plate, the one dragging them out of the way when bottles started flying. And when Hogwarts came, he’d spend every day of every year terrified that they were being bullied, hexed, mocked, or hurt.

He’d walk the corridors with their name in his mouth like a prayer. He’d watch the sky for owls, waiting for the letter that said something had gone wrong.

No.

It's a blessing Severus was an only child growing up. It wouldn't stop envy from crawling up his spine when Regulus looks up at his brother adoringly and with pride, but it helps knowing it's better he didn't have a baby sibling. 

But there was always Tom. Tom could decide to give Severus a sibling. 

The conversations had begun to quiet as twilight drifted darker, and darker.

Lucius reflected the shift in tone by choosing a different kind of topic. “How’s your neck?”

Narcissa and Sirius both turned toward Severus, wearing matching frowns. Regulus looked on with open curiosity.

Severus clamped a hand over the spot where the snake-woman had bitten him. The ghost pain still throbbed beneath the surface. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “Tom healed it when it happened.”

“That was terrifying,” Narcissa murmured. Her voice was nearly drowned by clinking silverware and the hum of other guests.

“What happened?” Regulus asked, loudly—almost comically so, as if he hadn’t noticed how hushed the others had become.

“Severus got bit by a big snake,” Sirius said bluntly, and left it at that. He turned back to Severus. “I don’t know if this means anything, but James swears he won’t out what he heard.”

It took Severus a second to catch his meaning—James Potter, son of the head of the Parselmouth Oversight Committee, heard you speaking snake.

“I don’t trust him,” Severus said flatly.

“Trust James with what?” Regulus asked, blinking.

“Never you mind,” Narcissa said briskly.

“You really think Potter would keep Severus’s secret?” Lucius added, scoffing. “Because I don’t.”

“James is our cousin,” Sirius said, trying to appeal to Black family loyalty. “You know he’s not malicious.”

“Isn’t he?” the four Slytherins asked, each in a different register of disbelief.

Sirius squirmed under the collective weight of their doubt. He didn’t have a real answer.

And Severus saw it—that hesitation. Sirius didn’t know if James would keep the secret. Not for sure.

The only reason he wasn’t flying into a panic was simple: Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, was his father. If Severus wanted to, he could tell Tom and beg for James Potter’s death.

And Tom would do it. Without hesitation. He’d burn the entire Potter family to ash if Severus asked.

He was certain Charlus Potter was already on Voldemort’s shortlist. 

But the terrifying part was... he didn’t know if he wanted it. Not really.

So for now, he had to hope. Hope that James Potter, Gryffindor’s golden boy, understood what was at stake.

Hope that he was half as noble as everyone claimed.

Chapter Text

MINISTRY OF MAGIC – DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT
CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL – EVIDENCE ITEM #431-C
Do Not Distribute • Possession is a Class C Offense

Recovered during the June1975 raid on The Quibbler office, Diagon Alley.
Filed under “Seditious Materials and Propaganda.”

THE MEDUSA’S HEAD
a manifesto of magical liberation
Author: Unknown (suspected affiliation with radical magical separatist Tom Riddle)

“They fear us not because we are dangerous. They call us dangerous because they fear us.”
— Opening line, The Medusa’s Head

“The Ministry will not protect you. It was never built to.
What they call order is a scaffolding of lies atop graves...

...They smile and tell you you're safe while quietly criminalizing the very roots of your power.

One kind of magic outlawed is a warning: all will be outlawed in time.”

— Page 2, ‘The Crimes of the Ministry’ section

Stamped in red ink:
BANNED PUBLICATION under the Magical Propaganda Prevention Act of 1973
Surveillance Enchantment active on all known copies
Reproduction or distribution punishable by imprisonment

NOTES - MINISTRY COMMENTS (MARGINALIA & CASE FILE ADDITIONS)

[Handwritten note in black ink, likely from Junior Auror P. Diggle]

“This has more footnotes than half our Hogwarts curriculum. Dangerous and well-sourced. Who edited this thing?”

[Typed internal memo stapled to cover]

“Please note: We suspect several altered versions of The Medusa’s Head are circulating without the more inflammatory sections. Do not be fooled by these ‘abridged’ copies—any version constitutes a Class C offense.”
– Cornelius Fudge, Undersecretary

[Scribbled in the margin of page 3]

“Mentions goblins, werewolves, and merfolk in a sympathetic light. This is clearly anti-human rhetoric. Recommend we increase raids in Knockturn Alley.”
— Mafalda Hopkirk

[Redacted line with a smudged Ministry seal]

“Direct quote from Margret Carrow, 1898, verified as authentic. Consider removing from public copies—might inspire unrest among witches aligned with ancestral practices.”

[Sticky charm tag, affixed to the back]

“Lovegood claims he thought this was a ‘satirical performance piece’ from a Yugoslavian theatre troupe.”
— Auror Longbottom 

[Final stamped warning at the bottom of the evidence folder]

“DO NOT ALLOW THIS DOCUMENT TO BE READ ALOUD. The original contains activation phrases that may trigger concealed magical scripts. Senior Aurors only.”

Medusa's Head
A Manifesto for Magical Liberation

By A Wizard Like You, 1965

"They fear us not because we are dangerous. They call us dangerous because they fear us."
Rodnar, Goblin Revolt, an essay

The Ministry will not protect you.

It was never built to.

What they call order is a scaffolding of lies atop graves. The Ministry tells you magic must be tamed, classified, and regulated—but whose magic? Yours? Mine? Or theirs?

They smile and tell you you're safe while quietly criminalizing the very roots of your power. One kind of magic outlawed is a warning: all will be outlawed in time. This is not theory. This is history.

The Crimes of the Ministry:

• Ritual magic, once central to fertility rites, healing ceremonies, and ancestral blessings, is now prohibited. The soil dries. Wands crack. And we are told this is progress.
• Caribbean spellwork, steeped in ancestral knowledge, has been banned—yet Shrunken Heads are still sold as novelty gifts in Diagon Alley.
  The Ministry does not criminalize based on danger. It criminalizes based on origin. Culture. Race.
• Druidic wizards were hunted in the last century. Executed. Vanished. We do not speak of them because we are not allowed to.
• Pure-blooded witches and wizards are targeted now for “radicalism” if they practice their ancestral rites—while Muggle-borns, born into a society that still burns women for witchcraft, are funneled from orphanages to insane asylums.

Tell me again: who is safe under this system?

The Statute of Secrecy is not protection. It is a muzzle.
It is not meant to shield us from Muggle violence. It is meant to ensure we never respond to it.

The Ministry would rather cull magical creatures to extinction than risk upsetting the Muggle world. They would rather erase our history than let us reclaim it.

You see it already:

• Goblins forbidden their own metalcraft.
• Werewolves starved into madness.
• Merpeople corralled like beasts.

I have seen the way they speak of magical creatures. As if they are beneath us. As if their wildness is a disease to be tamed.

They would rather erase them than uplift them. They would rather slaughter them than share power. And they will come for us next. They label you Dark, and will use Dementors to control us.

This is the future they offer you: a sanitized, Ministry-approved magic that does nothing, heals nothing, means nothing.

I ask you—what does it mean to be magical if you are not free?

What is the point of heritage, of power, of wands and spells and old bloodlines if we are made to kneel before paper-pushers and unelected tyrants?

Do not be fooled by the Light.

In their quest to 'look proper and cause as little trouble as possible,' they have become complicit in the Ministry's agenda. Their inaction and desire to maintain favor have made them instruments of the very oppression that seeks to dilute and destroy the essence of our magical identity.​

To these 'Light' families, I say: The pages of history will not absolve you, nor will the future generations who inherit the remnants of what you allowed to be stolen.​

And I will not hesitate to name names:
To the Potters, you started the Parselmouth Oversight Committee. You claim the committee is only here to observe, but history shown observation leads to genocide. Prove me wrong.
To the Prewetts, you are directly responsible of the death of Druidic culture. You will not be forgiven.
To the McKinnons and Smiths, you are colonizers and cultural thieves.
To the Longbottoms, Fudges, Bones, Weasleys, and the Crouches. You wield your silence like weapons as your colleagues dismantle our society.

The time has come to choose a side. Will you stand with those who fight for the freedom and richness of our magical world, or will you continue to adorn yourselves with the trappings of respectability while the soul of our society is eroded?​

Remember, when the Ministry has finished with the so-called 'Dark' witches and wizards, when they have extinguished the flames of the passionate and the proud, they will come for you. And who will stand for you then?

“The Ministry doesn’t want peace. It wants a society of Squibs, and magic centralized in its own hands.”
Sabastain Sallow, Musician and Political Activist.

THE PROLETARIAT OF MAGIC

Look to the Muggles. They rise. They strike. They burn. They fight. Their society does not stagnate.

We must learn from them

And why should we learn from Muggles?

The Ministry will tell us we are the dominant race of people, we have magic. But who is in hiding? Who scurries like rats in a maze? It’s not Muggles.

When a Muggle beats us, rapes us, kills us, we cannot raise our wands. We are told to smile in the face of subjugation, of isolation.

I seen what that looks like:

Camps and gas chambers. 

“What you call peace is silence. What you call safety is submission. What you call law is a leash.”
Margret Carrow, at the Witches Strike rally of 1898

We are a dying people.

Not by war. Not by famine. Not even by the Muggles we hide from.

No. Our rot is slow. Quiet. Sanctioned by the state. Whispered into law by bureaucrats in velvet robes who call themselves our protectors.

They are our jailers.

The Ministry of Magic has criminalized power. They have colonized culture. They have burned libraries, outlawed languages, silenced ancestral magics, and caged the sacred. All in the name of "peace"—a peace that suits only them.

The Ministry will not hesitate to exterminate all magic if it threatens to breach the Statute of Secrecy.
You think your wand is your freedom?
Wait until they ask for it back.

Our culture is not safe in their hands.
Nor is our future.

And when the time comes—when Muggles invent machines beyond our imagination, when they stretch beyond the sky and find our traces—we will be defenseless. 
Because the Ministry will have stripped us of the tools we need to survive.
And the time is coming, my friends. Muggles have satellites, and radios, and radars, and planes, and rockets.
They will find us hiding with their tanks and their bombs.
And we sit here and do nothing.

Muggles are shooting for the stars.
And we can barely survive on dying planet. 

And I say: Burn the cage.

Let us return to the roots.

Let us reclaim what was ours before the Ministry decided it belonged to them.

They are not afraid of Dark magic.
They are afraid of free magic.
They are afraid of those who remember what it once was.

No more apologies. No more hiding.

They will call us dangerous.

They will call us radicals.

Good. Let them.

They should be afraid.

We are coming

Chapter Text

After dinner, the five teens wandered into the apothecary, drawn like moths to its alchemical glow. The shop was dim, perfumed with dried mandrake, powdered moonstone, and something sweetly acrid, like scorched sugar. Dust floated in the lamplight, and each step stirred the creaking floorboards beneath rows of dark bottles and forgotten bones.

Severus lingered by a shelf near the back, fingers tracing the edge of a container sealed with black wax. Inside: a perfectly preserved, mummified spider curled into itself like an offering. Lily would adore it. She loved strange things with too many legs.

He was beginning to read the faded label when Sirius brushed past him. Close enough for Severus to feel the warmth of his jacket's sleeve against his arm.

A soft bump of the shoulder. The slow, deliberate touch of fingers skimming his knuckles. Their hands didn’t quite hold. But they didn’t move away either.

“Do you like movies?” Sirius whispered. His breath was warm against Severus’s cheek, laced with clove and peppermint from the post-dinner sweets.

Severus swallowed. “Sometimes,” he murmured.

Sirius leaned closer, voice low and lazy. “Do you know how cute you are when you’re concentrating?”

The words were so sudden, so quiet, that Severus forgot how to breathe.

His fingers froze on the jar. The spider’s tiny legs seemed to twitch in sympathy.

Sirius's grinning face didn't help bring oxygen back into his lungs. 

"Hey!" 

Severus and Sirius turned to the counter at the front. Lucius, Narcissa, and Regulus were waiting for them, impatiently. 

"Will you two hurry up?" Narcissa continued, scowling. In this moment, she looked much more like her other cousins, Evan and Pandora, than Sirius and Regulus. 

He glanced at Sirius, "I can come over on Friday?" 

"And we walk to the movies?" Sirius asked. 

"Yeah," he said, a small smile on his lips. "By ourselves." he shot a glare of the three interlopers before picking up a beetle and a bat to match the spider. 

Lily deserved all three insects if he was honest. 

They paid for their trinkets. Narcissa picked up potions ingredients to experiment with enchanted perfume blends. Sirius and Regulus each grabbed a sleeve of rock candy with crickets inside, daring one another to eat the biggest bug first. And Lucius ordered an entire thirty-two volume encyclopedia set on magical curiosities.

The price tag was obscene. The Black cousins did a double take. Severus looked physically ill.

Lucius, catching their reactions, completely misread the moment. He assumed they were upset about not ordering the last available set.

He offered to share, but only with Narcissa and Severus. He also made it clear one of his house elves would pick up their purchases in the morning so the two wouldn't have to carry their bags like peasants. 

"As for you two," he added, turning to the brothers with a smug grin, "you can fuck off."

As they made their way toward the Leaky Cauldron, Sirius and Regulus took turns lobbing pieces of rock candy at the back of Lucius’s perfectly styled hair . He didn’t flinch, but his increasingly stiff posture suggested he was very aware of each sugar-coated impact.

Rather than entering through the main alley, they took the quieter side path that wound from Carkitt Market, slipping into the Leaky Cauldron through a lesser-used entrance tucked between two shuttered shops.

"I'm surprised you agreed to use the Cauldron's Floo Network with the rest of us peasants," Sirius said, teasing. 

"After you forced me to to take that bus," Lucius sneered, "I realized there were worse options." 

Narcissa pushed open the door, and the stillness from the street gave way to a murmuring hush. They had been bracing themselves for the inn’s usual loud chattering but it was eerily quiet.

Slowly, the five entered the pub. Every patron was out of their seats, pressed against the windows. Even Tom the bartender stood at his counter, staring out, utterly still.

As they passed, Sirius grabbed a bottle of unopened firewhiskey and slipped it into his bag, winking at Severus.

He rolled his eyes and was about to say Sirius was a bad influence when a shout from outside cut him off.

"Morsmordre!"

It was high-pitched, almost inhuman, but there was no mistaking who it belonged to:

Tom Riddle—

—no.

Not Tom.

Lord Voldemort.

Severus’s feet were moving toward the door before he could process what he was running toward.
Sirius was right behind him.

They spilled out into the street, eyes snapping upward.
Among the stars, the sickly green Dark Mark burned a hole into the night sky.

Below it, orange flames licked across the cobblestones—
a fire raging in the center of Diagon Alley’s square.

And among the flames stood the shadowy figure.

Opposing. Daring someone—anyone—to pick a fight.

The feathers on his shoulders shifted like wings. His cloak billowed and snapped with the wind.
He turned, deliberately, and looked right at them.

He tilted his head to the side, birdlike. Curious. Mocking.

Severus's heart skipped. He stared at the mask.
What lay beneath that raven beak?
Were his father’s eyes still hazel beneath those mirrored lenses… or had they turned red?

A crack of magic.
And Voldemort vanished into smoke.

Behind Severus, Lucius spoke, voice low. Almost reverent.

“Was that the Dark Lord?”

As if he didn’t hold venom for the man behind the mask.

Diagon Alley was flooded with store owners, late-night shoppers, and early sleepers drawn from their homes. The crowd grew in size and volume. First murmurs, then whispers, then rising voices demanding answers. But there was no fear. Only curiosity.

And Severus saw it for the first time.

He’d read about the attacks in the papers, heard them reported on enchanted radios, caught whispers in the halls of Hogwarts but he had never seen Voldemort in action. Never seen the terrorist in person.

Sharing fizzy drinks at one in the morning or eating breakfast in the kitchen, that was Tom Riddle. That was his father, the man he’d only met a little over a week ago.

What he’d witnessed just moments ago was Lord Voldemort. And the public wasn’t afraid, like the Daily Prophet had claimed.

They were curious. Intrigued. If anything, Voldemort’s followers seemed more afraid of him than the people did. This was not the reaction the Prophet had promised. This wasn’t terror. This was fascination.

Severus found himself walking toward the fire, unnoticed and unchallenged. He wanted to see what Tom had burned for all to witness.

No one stopped him, though Sirius followed. Lucius hesitated before falling in step. Regulus went wherever Sirius went, and Narcissa trailed behind them all, careful not to let her skirt brush the embers.

Within the flames stood three dummies, tied to wooden frames.

Of course they were crosses. Tom had grown up in a Catholic-run orphanage. He probably didn’t even realize he’d made them that way.

The last figure was unmistakably Albus Dumbledore, a sign hanging around its neck. Severus couldn’t read what it said.

He raised his wand and banished the fire with a flick.

Without the flames, the signs became clear and sharper. 

And damning. 

"MINISTER JENKINS:
         TYRANT. BUTCHER.
         CHILD THIEF."

"CHARUS POTTER:
         ALDUTERER. OPPRESSOR. 
         TRAITOR TO MAGIC." 

And: 

"ALBUS DUMBLEDORE:
        ALWAYS CHOOSING THE WRONG SIDE.
        YOUR TASTE IN ALLIES IS AS TERRIBLE AS YOUR TASTE IN MEN."

Sirius blinked at the sign, mouth falling open. "What the fuck does Dumbledore being gay have to do with any of this?"

Severus stared, unmoving. "Nothing," he said softly. "He’s just trying to get under his skin. Same as always."

Regulus stepped closer to the center dummy, peering up. "Hey, Cissy, Sirius! Come here."

Narcissa joined him, arms crossed tight around herself. Sirius hesitated, then shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it around her shoulders. His hand lingered gently on her back; she smiled. A brief moment of them just being cousins. 

"What is it?" Sirius asked.

Regulus pointed at the dummy of Charlus Potter. "Uncle Alphard wrote this one. It’s his handwriting."

"It is!" Narcissa gasped.

Before they could say more, the crowd began pressing in. More voices, louder now.

"He's talking about the Parselmouth Oversight Committee."

"But isn’t the Committee doing good? The Prophet said Parselmagic is dark."

"No witch or wizard who spoke to snakes wasn’t dark," a man added. "I say we get rid of the lot of them. They’re dangerous."

The words landed like blows. Severus’s heart slammed into his throat. Dread settled in his gut, mixing with the bile. They were talking about him. And saying it like it was justified. Like it was nothing.

But he was used to it, wasn't he? He and Eileen were never say in Spinner's End. Too Persian, too Roma, too different. Can't speak Farsi around Tobias, or he would throw a bottle at Mother, too paranoid. Eileen could be teaching Severus to disrespect him behind his back in a foreign language. 

Neo-nazis with their boots would chase them down, hurling slurs and insults and go back to your fucking country despite Eileen and Severus were born here. y

And if he spoke Parseltongue, the crowd here would hold him down and cut out his tongue. He could be whispering lyrical curses, dark curses, evil curses. He's evil because he speaks to snakes, but it's okay for men like Charlus Potter to butcher kids like him. 

People weren't afraid of Voldemort. 

They thought what he fought for was a joke. And he was fighting for them. 

Lucius stepped up beside him, hand closing over Severus’s stiff shoulder. "Maybe we should get out of  here. Now."

Severus nodded, numb.

But he didn’t move.

His legs felt like stone. His hands like static. The sound of the crowd folded in on itself. distant and muffled, like he was underwater. Voices churned into noise, boots scraping pavement, words slipping past him in a blur of they’re dangerous and cut out their tongues and get rid of them—

“Sev.” Lucius again. Firmer this time. Closer.

A hand gripped his elbow and he flinched.

“Hey. You’re alright,” Sirius said softly, appearing at his side now, his voice unusually steady. “Just breathe, yeah?”

Regulus had stepped in too, a silent flank on the other side of his brother's, his posture tense and watchful. He didn't fully understand what was happening--he hadn't been there when Severus spoken to the large snake like the other three, but he knew something was wrong. 

“I’m fine,” Severus whispered, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

“You’re not,” Narcissa said, her voice a sharp and yet gentle. She took his other arm, wrapping it in hers like it was nothing. “But you will be.”

“Let’s go,” Lucius said again. 

He shoved people out his way, bellowing, "I'm a blood Malfoy! I told you to move! Wait until my father hears about this disrespect." 

It kept attention on him and not on Severus. 

Once they cleared the mass of people and reached the quiet of the storefronts, Severus's knees buckled.

"Easy, we just need to get to Leaky Cauldron," Sirius assured. 

Once out of the crowd, Severus could breathe. His hands trembled and his knees gave out. He slumped against the door of Flourish and Blotts. 

Narcissa slid to the ground next to him, while Regulus sat on his other side. Sirius and Lucius stood, acting as a shield as Severus got his shit together. 

He was embarrassed how their words affected him so. He should have better composure. He was almost a man in two years’ time.
But he couldn't deny the hostility gnawed at his brain and innards, making him sick.

“They missed the point of the Dark Lord's message,” Lucius said, his voice taut with genuine hatred. In stunning clarity, Severus realized Lucius was a true believer. “Jinkins and Charlus destroyed centuries of precedent in weeks because they fear real change, and the simple-minded fools think it’s a show.”

Sirius turned to him, frowning. “You say they missed the point like it’s their fault,” he muttered. “Maybe the point wasn’t all that clear to begin with.”

“The point was obvious. In their faces. Well...maybe not whatever Mr. Riddle wrote about Albus,” Lucius conceded with a grimace. “But Jinkins allowed the Committee to operate. Charlus Potter criminalized bloodlines. We’ve all heard Mr. Riddle’s views since we were children. He’s never been unclear.”

Mr. Riddle, not the Dark Lord. And that distinction made sense because Voldemort the revolutionary hadn’t written that sign. The author of that sign was a petty first-year still clinging to a decades-old grudge.

Sirius let out a short, humorless laugh. “Let’s pretend the man behind the Dark Lord isn’t a bloody lunatic who used to read us Muggle political theory like bedtime stories,” he said dryly. “Let’s say yes, his points came through.”

He gestured to the smoldering dummies and the crowd now dissolving into the streets.

“But he’s talking to people who are already brainwashed and the rest just see a performance. He’s not starting a movement. He’s putting on a fucking circus.”

“It’s not a performance,” Severus said, voice quiet but sharp enough to draw blood. He wasn’t looking at Lucius or Sirius. His eyes were locked on the crowd, their backs retreating like they hadn’t just sentenced people like him to death with their indifference.

“It’s survival,” he said. “It’s noise, because noise is the only way people like him get heard before they’re crushed. You think it’s petty, or dramatic but he’s not doing this to make you think. He’s doing it so no one can pretend they didn’t see.”

"And this isn't about tradition or Charlus breaking pureblood rules," he continued, letting out a soft laugh without humor. "The Committee isn't just banning Parselmouths, it's slaughtering them. The Death Eaters aren't fighting for 'cultural purity', they're fighting our survival, but none of you see it because you don't know what's it like outside our community. The Dark Lord does. And he's screaming and clawing at the system suffocating is all. "

Neither Lucius or Sirius said anything, but a quiet didn't fall over them.  

"The Dark Lord is a man, but he's giving a voice who aren't anyway," Narcissa added quietly, twisting the end of her long skirt. "Before the Death Eaters took over Witch Weekly, the whole magazine was about radio dramas and make up and latest fashion trends. It's rather nice to see real issues for girls in there." 

Regulus squirmed in his discomfort of the seriousness of their conversation. He thought this was about keeping mudbloods out, at least that's what Mother said. But these were topics he barely understood at thirteen. 

The crowd dispersed, no one touched the dummies. Why? Maybe some agreed, maybe some wanted to see the Daily Prophet spectacle in the morning.

And then there were several loud cracks in the air, followed by loud enchanted chantwave. A mix of ancient Gaelic chants done in spoken word over guitars, bass, and aggressive beats. People turned toward the alley, curious what other loud noises would distract them from their evening.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” muttered the owner of the cauldron shop. He stormed right back inside as the music grew closer and louder. 

Severus stood up, followed by Regulus. Lucius helped Narcissa up. 

Bellatrix Black twirled into view, her wild black curls flew around her. She grabbed Orson's arm, hugging him close. He was laughing, walking with Rodolphus Lestrange. The two were sharing a private joke no one knew about. 

Their entourage followed in their wake like a tidal wave. 

“I brought my own afterparty,” she announced to no one in particular, one arm raised like the star of her own opera. She waved eagerly for all to see her. 

 Rabastan and Rupert Yaxley trailed behind, pushing and messing with each other 

Alecto Carrow threw confetti. Amycus tried to catch it in his mouth. Vivian Parkinson threw a glitter bomb into the crowd, and exploded everywhere.  

Cassius Avery joined Vivian, tossing more glitter bombs, painting the streets in shimmery paint. Adrian Rosier and Henrietta Nott were half making out, half stumbling over each other. 

Clarissa Mulciber, Ophelia Greengrass and Mangala Verma walked together, dancing and spinning each other to the music. If one could call chantwave music. 

And then there was Xenophilius Lovegood and Sybill Trelawny, gently sprinkling flower petals  on the cobblestones and both explaining its symbolic resonance to a completely uninterested Wulfric and Solomon Travers. 

There were others in the party of young Death Eaters, names and faces Severus barely recalled from when they we're in Hogwarts.

“Why are they always like this?” Sirius whispered, watching from the corner with a mixture of dread and secondhand embarrassment.

“Because no one ever told them no,” Narcissa muttered. “I don't think Bella took her medicine today." 

“She said she doesn't need it,” Regulus said, frowning.

Severus turned sharply to their youngest member. "She sits out on your front lawn and eats dirt. Why doesn't force her to take it?" 

"They only do when she's dragged out to parties," Sirius muttered. 

"Someone should've told her to take her medicine," Lucius said, eyes following his future sister-in-law through the crowd. 

Bella let go of Orson and ran ahead, jumping onto a platform.  “IS THIS A VIGIL OR A WAKE?” she shouted before falling into fits of giggles. 

She pointed her crooked wand and blasted the radio at max. She let out a scream and jumped into her entourage, caught by Orson. 

She pointed her crooked wand and blasted the radio at max volume. She let out a scream and jumped into her entourage, caught by Orson.

The initial crowd of Diagon Alley shop owners and residents didn’t panic at the growing number of young Death Eaters—no, no. They were just annoyed. And Severus found that odd, too. It was like the public saw them as menaces and thugs. He thought about when the pack of young Death Eaters invaded the restaurant last week. People were only concerned when their afternoon meals were interrupted and terrified when Tom got out of his seat and approached the group.

Here?

Their lives weren’t disrupted. Only inconvenienced. People turned and left. Shops quietly shut their doors. An elderly witch threw her hands up and dragged her grandkids toward the nearest Floo exit. One man grumbled, "Not again. Last time they knocked over a pension fund office."

And yet, for every pair of disapproving eyes, there were others pulling closer, caught in the gravity of the noise and glitter bombs. Some stayed and joined the wild party.

"Should we leave?" Narcissa asked. 

"We should because Bella's music taste is terrible," Sirius said, sneering. "Muggle music is so much better."

Lucius turned sharply to him. "You would like muggle music. Severus exposed me to that gutter trash and it was horrifying."

Sirius glanced at Severus, silently asking what he played for the Malfoy heir. 

"Black Sabbath," he said, smiling slightly, feeling himself relaxed now the first crowd left. "I played Black Sabbath and he clutched his pearls." 

Sirius's eyes sparkled with recognition, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted. 

"I was not clutching my pearls!" Lucius argued. "I wasn't even wearing pearls..."

"It's a figure of speech," Severus said, rolling his eyes. He looked out to the party that sprung up. "Maybe we should stay." 

"I want to stay!" Regulus added. "Look, there's Adrien!" he said, pointing into the crowd. He took off before any of the older teens could stop him. 

"Regulus!" Narcissa called out to him, but he was gone. She turned sharply to Sirius. "Aren't you going to stop him?" 

"He’s thirteen. He can take care of himself," Sirius said. His words were dismissive, but there was a flicker of concern before he added, "I used to join Bellatrix's wild parties his age." As if he wasn't Regulus's age just two years ago. 

She made a disgusted noise before running after her younger cousin. Lucius shot a look at Severus and Sirius before he followed at his girlfriend, head held high as if he owned the block party. 

Sirius pulled out the bottle of firewhiskey he nicked from the bar. He held it up, smirking. "Let's have fun." 

Severus didn't say anything before he took the bottle. He popped the top and tipped back into his mouth, wanting to forget for a second. The whiskey burned his throat. He didn’t cough. He’d learned not to when he used sneak regular whiskey from Tobias's open bottles. And he had been doing that since he was nine. Firewhiskey was no different, just spicier. 

Because he took it from a boy he thought he hated, and now very much liked versus the stepfather that used him as a punching bag. 

He handed the bottle back to Sirius once he had his share. 

Sirius drank like it was lifeline. Like he had practiced too. 

Between the two of them, the bottle was half empty. Sirius put it down on the street corner, maybe for them to come back to later, or maybe someone else will finish it. Severus didn't know, nor care when his boyfriend grabbed his hand and dragged in the thick of the block party. 

In the thick of the crowd, Bellatrix spotted Narcissa and shrieked, delighted, arms flung open like wings.

"Cissy!" she howled.

Narcissa didn’t have time to move. Bellatrix barreled into her with a rib-crushing hug, spinning them both until they stumbled hard into Rupert Yaxley. His drink sloshed over his yellow shirt, splattering red up his sleeve.

“Bloody hell,” Rupert snapped, jerking away, shaking his hand like the firewhiskey had personally betrayed him. “That was my last glass.”

Bellatrix cackled, already dragging Narcissa into a twirl, oblivious. Narcissa mouthed a flat sorry to Rupert over her sister's shoulder.

He scowled and turned, stomping off through the press of bodies. The chantwave thumped louder. Bright bursts of magic painted the cobblestones in shimmering streaks as he shoved past Adrien and Henrietta mid-makeout.

He stopped near a low enchanted cooler pulsing softly with runes, half-buried in a tangle of cloaks and discarded confetti.  Clarissa and Mangala were dancing nearby, spinning each other in tight circles, laughing. Their hands glazed up and down each others' bodies. 

Rupert paused, taking a moment to enjoy the two beautiful women touch and dance with each other before he grabbed a new bottle beer. He popped the cap and took a swig, moving on. 

He passed Solomon dancing with Ophelia Greengrass and one of her cousins, girl, Rupert talked once or twice. Alecto and Adrian Rosier were nearby, half dancing-half grinding against each other up against a lamppost...while her twin brother watched. 

Rupert turned sharply and went the opposite directing. 

He saw red, and grinned. He came up behind Rabastan, and put his arm around his friend's shoulder, hanging off of him. Rab glanced his way, and smiled before going right back to his conversation.

"I'm telling you, Orson, being a Death Eater's freeing!" He shouted over the loud music. 

Orson was rolling a Medusa coin in between his fingers, staring at the silver symbol most recruits got.

Not Rupert. 

He asked his father the mark the second he left school. He didn't need a coin from the Death Eater to get him to join. 

Vivian walked over clutching three vials sparkling purple elixir. Pixie Serum. 

"Not as free as this stuff," she said, her voice sultry. She looked at Rupert. "Do you want some?" 

He held his beer up. "I got my vice, Vivi." 

She shrugged and handed a vial to Orson and Rab.

"I agree with the message," Orson said. "I'm thrilled The Dark Lord got rid of the Prewett brothers, but I don't know..." 

"The Dark Lord is the only one who has a vision for a future, who's willing to fight," Rab countered, and Rupert nodded along. 

He knew the Dark Lord's methods were radical. Violent even, but when his mother can't practice magic she was raised with and assimilation is the name of the game to exist...maybe radical is what they need. 

"I joined, Orson, c'mon. We could use more Gryffindors anyway," he pushed, winking. 

Orson let out a low chuckle. "You lot could use someone who looks good." He raised his vial and downed the elixir in one gulp. 

Rab and Vivian quickly followed suit. 

A glitter flew over head, and exploded at their feet. They flinched, but Vivian screamed which turned into a laugh. 

"Who did that!" She shouted. 

And Wulfric raised his hand in the crowd. He was covered in brightly colored dust and glitter, sparkling in the moonlight. 

"Ditch the bums and dance with a real man!" he called out over the music.

She laughed again. "Yeah, I think I will." she tossed the vial over her shoulder, not caring the glass splattered into the thousand fragments. 

And she grabbed Rupert's arm, pulling him off of Rab. "Dance with me," she said, not asked. 

A hand patted Wulfric’s back, condescending and heavy.

His fist clenched on instinct. Ready to swing, hex, or both but he turned and found himself staring at the smirking face of Bella’s little cousin.

Sirius Black.

“Tough break,” Sirius said, his tone light and mocking, eyes gleaming with amusement.

Wulfric narrowed his gaze. He wasn’t about to beat the shit out of a fifteen-year-old in the middle of a party. Well, he considered it but opted for restraint. "Fuck off," he muttered, giving Sirius a shove before stomping off to find another girl to dance with, probably one who wouldn’t laugh at him.

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, swaying slightly on his feet, tipsy and pleased with himself.

A second later—

Pfft!

A colorful explosion burst at his feet.

He yelped and stumbled back, looking down in alarm. Only to see clouds of yellow, pink, and turquoise powder swirling up around his boots.

“Sev!” he cried, half-outraged, half-delighted.

Severus stood a few feet away, smug and swaying slightly, an empty powder bomb shell in his hand and more tucked under his arm like firecrackers. His long fingers were dusted in streaks of fuchsia and green.

“You looked too clean,” Severus said, voice drawling, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Fixed it.”

“You bloody—” Sirius lunged, but it wasn’t a real lunge. It was a stagger-step forward and Severus danced out of reach, tossing another bomb—this one lavender—and laughing as it burst on Sirius’s shoulder in a puff of glitter.

They were both laughing now.

Real, unguarded laughter. Sirius doubled over, breathless with it, streaked in riotous colors like a painting exploded in his face. He reached up and gripped Severus with both hands, smearing lavender on his cheeks.

And he pulled Severus in for a messy, sloppy kiss.

Severus tasted spice and whiskey on Sirius's lips. He had never been kissed like someone meant it.

The connection lasted a second before the other boy pulled back, his blue eyes filled with startling clarity. "Shit, I'm sorry—"

But Severus surged forward, wrapping his arms around Sirius's middle, pressing their bodies and lips together.

There was no hesitation this time. Sirius overcame his shock instantly and wrapped his arms around Severus’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

They were in a crowd of dozens, but they were the only two people who mattered in that moment. As smoke bombs dyed fuchsia, orange, yellow, and teal burned around them, Severus and Sirius kissed like they were stealing back time.

All that color and still, nothing was as vivid as this.

They broke from the kiss, breathing heavily. Severus was grinning hard it hurt, and Sirius let out a tiny laugh. 

"Wow," he said, gasping. He pushed back his curly hair. "That was...that was...

Severus silenced him by giving him another kiss, feeling bold. "Go get us beers if you're going to be useless and stuttering."

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. "Fuck off!" he shoved Severus, but yanked him back for their fourth kiss and pushed him away. "I'll be back!" he said before taking back off into the crowd. 

Severus stared after him, still smiling and feeling lighter than he never had before. For the first time in his life, he felt safe. 

And not like how he felt since he started living with Tom. That was different. He was just happy to not live with a drunk who beat him and his mother. No, no, that kiss made Severus think...he could allow himself to be happy. 

And to think, four weeks ago, Sirius—when Sirius was simply Black and Severus Snivellus—mocked the very idea of someone kissing Severus. 

He wondered what would Potter say if he saw his best mate now. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered to the edge of the block party. He hadn't stepped too far from where they had been. 

Severus caught sight of Sybill sitting on a street corner, staring at her shoes and the powdered beneath them. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes were cast downward. She looked like a depressed beetle. He didn't know if it the was whiskey, or if he was coming off the high of his first kiss, but he felt concern...or maybe he was just curious on why the hippy lady was depressed in a middle of a party.

He walked over to her, stopping a few paces away from her. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, blunt and with no tact.

She jumped at the sound of his voice, and relaxed once she realized it was just him. "Oh, hello, Severus," she said, standing up. She brushed some of the powder off her skirt.

He noticed she wasn't wearing any Roma patterns and the headscarf like she did earlier in the afternoon. Instead, she accessorized with clothes with French, frilly patterns, and replaced her scarf with a floral crown. She replaced her beads and coins in her hair with flowers too.

"Nice flowers," he said, showing he noticed. "What's going on with you?"

She smiled tightly, but didn't say anything else. The fact she changed was enough. "I saw the Grim." She pointed to the ground.

Severus looked over, and to him, it looked like clumps of powder and colored glitter. Maybe he saw an animal, but it didn't look like the Grim.

"What does it mean?" he asked, but clarified. "I know what the Grim is, but why are you seeing it?"

She pursed her lips together in a frown, and hugged herself. "I don't know, but I...I..."

She stopped talking.

It wasn't that she lost her train of thought and was collecting herself. She stopped talking. She went still.

"Sybill?" he asked cautiously, leaning into her space.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, revealing the whites of her eyes. She spoke barely above a whisper, the chantwave almost drowned out her voice.

The meadow mourns its firstborn bird.
        A stranger’s egg cracks in a haunted nest.
        The fire will burn before the bloom,
        And death will make way for birth.
        One son leaves. One child comes.
        The stars will lower their altar to earth,
        And name it daughter.
        The clearing will echo with the cry of the cuckoo,
        And the world will not yet know its meaning.

Severus‘s heart hammered in his chest, panic threatening to overcome him. If anything could sober him up, it was this.

Sybill just did an actual, honest to God prophecy. This wasn’t like her half-assed attempt at tarot, this was fucking real. Someone was going to die.

"What the fuck," Sirius breathed behind him, giving voice to his terror. Severus had been so hyper-focused on Sybill he didn't even notice Sirius had returned. Or the fact Sirius had dropped two bottles of beer. 

Sirius's eyes were wide, his hand reaching instinctively for Severus's wrist. The color had drained from his face.

"That was real, wasn’t it?" Sirius said, almost to himself. "She just... she really saw something."

Severus nodded once, stiffly.

Sybill’s eyes returned to normal. She blinked away her vision, her expression dazed, as if she was lost.

"I'm sorry, were you saying something?" she asked.

Severus’s mouth went dry as the lie spilled out. "No, I was just over here to tell you I like your flowers."

She smiled, unlike before where she glossed over his words. "Mangala helped me pick them out!" She looked back to the crowd as the music swelled. "I love this song!" And she dashed back into it, calling out for her boyfriend.

"What the hell was that?" Sirius asked, forcing Severus to face him.

 "That was our cue to get the fuck out of here," he said. He grabbed Sirius's hand. "Where's your brother and Narcissa?"

 "I have no idea," he said, looking to the crowd of party goers. "I don't know where Lucius is either." 

"Lucius's my friend," Severus muttered, "but I'm way more concerned about the thirteen-year-old and Narcissa because she's a girl. If we can't find him then he can figure it out on his own." 

Sirius didn’t argue. And why would he? Of course, he would care more about his baby brother and cousin over the snob he hated. 

The fun they’d been having moments ago had evaporated like smoke in wind. The street pressed in from all sides. Too many bodies, too much sound. Chantwave pounded in their skulls. The glitter, the lights, the shifting magic in the air. It all made Severus's skin crawl despite moments ago it was the most wonderful sensation in the world. 

A powder bomb exploded too close, and Severus flinched.

Someone elbowed Sirius in the ribs, but that didn't stop him. 

“Regulus!” he called again, frantic this time. “Cissy!”

"Narcissa!" Severus called out, but it was pointless in a party like this. 

“Can I get everyone’s attention?” Xenophilius’s voice echoed over the chaos and the bass. Not shouted, but somehow heard. He was bell tolling in a storm. 

The crowd didn’t go silent. Not right away. But a hush began to ripple, rolling outward from where Xenophilius stood on the platform that housed the dummies Voldemort had set ablaze earlier. His wild blond hair haloed by the magical lights. Sybill was standing off the side, grinning at her boyfriend. All traces of her prophetic vision were gone.

Severus and Sirius were forced into a standstill by the crowd's slow turn toward the makeshift stage. They should move, but Severus was too overstimulated to think and act. The only thing anchoring him to the ground was Sirius’s hand still gripped in his own.

The chantwave turned down to a simmer.

“Thank you, thank you. I got my hands on something important,” Xenophilius said. He pulled a booklet out of his jacket pocket. “The Ministry has banned this as being seditious. They confiscated my original, but Orson and I created copies. Many of them.”

There were a few murmurs among the partygoers. Severus’s brows shot up. This wasn’t what he expected. He glanced at Sirius, and he wasn’t expecting it either.

“Read about the crimes!” Orson called out. “Show ‘em what the Ministry wants to keep us from reading!”

Xenophilius nodded, deadly serious. “This is Medusa’s Head: A Manifesto for Magical Liberation. It was published in 1965, ten years ago. There is no credited author, but I think we all know who wrote it. Recently, the Quibbler was raided by Aurors. Not just any Auror ran the task force." He paused for the dramatics. "It was Alastor Moody!" 

The crowd erupted in boos and jeers. 

“Corruption at its finest!" Bellatrix cupped her mouth and bellowed. “We need our wands up, and eyes open!”

This time the crowd cheered, and another glitter bomb went off. Somehow, this was menacing and not just pretty colors in the night. Severus’s heart dropped to his stomach. Fuck. This was going to turn ugly. Is that what Sybill meant? Was that her warning? That the party was going to get out of hand? He turned to Sirius and he wore the same nerves on his sleeve Severus felt. 

"Moody beat me to a bloody pulp," Xenophilius continued. "I took the fall for Orson, knowing they'd do far worse to him than to me."

Severus spared a glance Orson's way. The man stood rigid. Jaw clenched. Hands balled into fists. And then he looked back at Xenophilius, and the difference between the two friends was jarring. He could only imagine what the Ministry would've done.

"And you want to know what they did to me?" Xenophilius asked.

The crowd let out a resounding yes.

"They shipped me to prison. For three days."

A pin could drop and it would be louder than any colorful explosive.

They sent him to Azkaban? For a book? For just having it. It wasn't even a book, it was a couple pages stitched together. What the hell was in it that warranted Azkaban?

"Holy shit," Sirius hissed out, transfixed on Xenophilius. And then louder, as if he couldn't help it: "They send you to Azkaban for what, owning something Tom Riddle wrote ten years ago?" There was real fear in his voice, as if he could feel the cold touch of Dementor's kiss on his lips.

"It's true!" Sybill said to the crowd, making some people gasp, some people swear. "Orson and I picked him up from the pier! He was half-starved and half-mad." 

She reached for her boyfriend's hand, squeezing it. The two shared a look that Severus couldn't quite make out from here. “We and his parents were ordered not to tell anyone!”

“We were threatened to stay silent, but silence is compliance!” Orson yelled out to the crowd.

And the crowd met his anger with: “Wands up, eyes open!”

Xenophilius held the booklet up. "You want to know what the Ministry broke my ribs over?"

More yeses, Bellatrix and Mangala's voices ringing louder than the rest.

“The Ministry will not protect you. It was never built to,” Xenophilius began again, his voice clear and crisp, barely containing his just rage.

“What they call order is a scaffolding of lies atop graves. The Ministry tells you magic must be tamed, classified, and regulated. But whose magic? Yours? Mine? Or theirs?" he paused for the words to sink in. "They smile and tell you you're safe while quietly criminalizing the very roots of your power. One kind of magic outlawed is a warning: all will be outlawed in time. This is not theory. This is history.”

The cheers erupted again, louder than before. Someone started beating a drum in lieu of clapping. People raised their wands and sent sparks.

Severus looked around, and spotted Narcissa and Regulus next to Bellatrix. He knew they should leave, but... but he wanted to hear more.

Xenophilius waited for the crowd to settle, then lifted the next page.

“The Crimes of the Ministry: Ritual magic, once central to fertility rites, healing ceremonies, and ancestral blessings, is now prohibited. The soil dries. Wands crack. And we are told this is progress.”

The women in the crowd erupted, their voices rising in a wave of fury. Bellatrix cursed and stomped her feet, wild-eyed and ecstatic in her anger. If anyone looked Narcissa’s way, they’d see her fists clenched at her sides, tears welling from pure rage.

Clarissa booed, yelling, "How dare they tell us what to do with our bodies!"

Everyone booed along with her, men joined the women. Lucius’s furious cry broke through the crowd broke through:

"Those bastards roughed up my aunt for performing them! A Malfoy!" It wasn't said with a sneer or with snobbery attached. It was said with urgency. With fear. If it could happen to a Malfoy, what will happen to you?

And his message was clear for everyone to hear. A panic rippled for the women in the crowd.

"What if we're next?" Vivian asked.

"Let them try!" Bellatrix hollered. "We're stronger than the men who banned our bodies and the women who joined them."

Mangala stepped onto the platform, joining Xenophilius.

“Bella is right! It’s our bodies!” she roared. “Our blood. Our rites. How dare those pigs and harpies in Ministry robes decide what we’re allowed to do with the magic carved into our skin and sewn into our wombs?”

She raised her arm, voice cutting clean through the crowd.

“They call it Dark because they fear what they can’t bleed for themselves! Because it doesn’t come from a wand but from a body they don’t own! Five days of blood and they call us cursed? We call it sacred. We call it power.”

The crowd howled.

“They outlawed it because they can’t control it. That’s what this is. Not safety. Not tradition. Just control, dressed up in parchment and lies!”

Gasps. Wands in the air, sparking with rage.

Mangala paused, chest heaving, and Xenophilius stepped forward. He didn’t say a word. He just held the booklet out to her, knowing she would do better than him speaking the next words on the page.

She took it without hesitation.

“Caribbean spellwork, steeped in ancestral knowledge, has been banned, yet Shrunken Heads are still sold as novelty gifts in Diagon Alley,” she read, her voice steadier now. “The Ministry does not criminalize based on danger. It criminalizes based on origin. Culture. Race.”

She nodded at that last word, jaw tight. She knew all too well.

From the crowd, Orson shouted, “Fabian Prewett—may his soul rot—raided my store four fucking times last year!”

He pointed up the street, toward the glowing shop windows. “Not a single shop here was ransacked. Not one white owner had their wand snapped. Not one lost their license. But I did. Twice.”

He yanked his wand from his coat and raised it high, fist clenched. “But I will not be silenced. The Dark Lord got rid of that racist bastard Fabian and his brother, too. And I’m still here. Still standing.”

The crowd clapped and howled. Rupert hugged Orson from behind, wrapping his arm around Orson’s neck and patting his chest. Clarissa hooted and clapped harder than anyone else there. Bellatrix kissed his cheek, and he was grinning wide and elated he had the space to talk.

When there was a moment of quiet, Mangala pressed forward. “Druidic wizards were hunted in the last century. Executed. Vanished. We do not speak of them because we are not allowed to.”

There was no response to this line, but the chantwave played in the silence. The Gaelic they had been listening to was the sounds of dead people. Forgotten people. 

It wasn't that Gaelic was dead, or muggles didn't continue practicing the Celtic culture and passed around the customs. 

No, it was the actual magical practitioners were dead, with some wizards and witches trying to bring it back. 

It's what was happening to his people, to Parselmouths. 

“Pure-blooded witches and wizards are targeted now for “radicalism” if they practice their ancestral rites,” Mangala said, softer now, “while muggle-borns, born into a society that still burns women for witchcraft, are funneled from orphanages to insane asylums.” 

She looked up from the booklet. “I wrote about this just a few weeks ago. You can say this is a muggle-born issue, but when muggles discover us, it will affect all of us.” 

"It happened to my grandmother." 

The words tumble from Severus's lips before he could stop himself. It was loud, cutting through the air. 

And then dozens of pair of eyes were on him and he regretted ever opening his mouth. 

But he kept talking. His words came out fast, and biting, but they came out. 

"My grandmother, Tom's mother, had been a squib," he explained, a wobble in his voice. "Somehow it came out she knew a little bit of magic, and she was taken by muggle doctors. She was given shock therapy and a lobotomy."

Solomon Travers asked in a mix of disbelief and disgust at the idea. "Did that really happen?" 

Severus glared at the man because why would he talk to a crowd if it hadn't? 

"Why don't you ask Tom Riddle," he said sharply. "Go on, repeat it to Tom." He dared, echoing the words his father said Pollux Black. Many here, including Solomon, had witnessed what happened if someone brought up Merope. 

"Oh, fuck that, I'm not suicidal," the younger Travers brother said, earning a few chuckles in the crowd. 

The tensions simmered, and the feverish pitch they were reaching had been muted, but not forgotten.  

Xenophilius jumped back on the platform. He held his hand out for the booklet back, and Mangala complied without ceremony. 

 “There’s something else I want to mention,” he said, genuine disgust in his voice. “This was written when the Parselmouth Oversight Committee was forming.”

And Xenophilius got the crowd back. 

“This is under the section directed to the Light families,” Xenophilius explained. He flipped through pages of the small booklet. “I know my family is associated with Light magic, and my core aligns with Light, but what the Ministry did to me proves its not Light versus Dark. This is us," he paused, "versus the Ministry and neutrality."

The crowd clapped, but there was no cheering or shouting. Something grounded the party-turned-rally. 

Xenophilius refocused on the the booklet. "To these 'Light' families, I say: The pages of history will not absolve you, nor will the future generations who inherit the remnants of what you allowed to be stolen.​"

“And I will not hesitate to name names,” he continued reading, “To the Potters, you started the Parselmouth Oversight Committee. You claim the committee is only here to observe, but history shown observation leads to genocide. Prove me wrong.” 

Xenophilius lifted his head, and looked back the dummies that had started this night. Jinkins and Charlus's signs were left for anyone to see. 

Rupert spoke what everyone was thinking. "We can say Charlus Potter proved him right." He looked around them all. "In China, Parselmagic is revered."

"It's the same in India," Mangala chimed in. "It's bullshit. Britain doesn't even have venomous snakes and an active genocide is happening right now as we speak. And if voice your support for Parselmouths, you'll be investigated. I had my flat ransacked by Aurors."

Sirius's fingers grazed against Severus's in a form of solidarity, a small comforting smile on his face. 

Severus hated it, but he could feel the corner of his eyes tear up. He went from crowd tonight that called him dangerous to knowing some places he could speak freely. 

"They invaded your home too?" Orson asked, disgusted. "What the fuck. You see what we have to go through?" he asked of the crowd.

Bellatrix's eyes gleam with murderous intent. "What happened to the Aurors who did it."

Mangala was looking at her nails, avoiding the crowd. "Oh, they're dead." she then looked back up, her face impassive, but her eyes were alit with something hungry. "Tom took care of them when he was...'researching'," she used air quotes on the word, "me." She shrugged. "I think its rather sweet." 

While the rest of the crowd, at least Severus hoped they were, was put off by what Mangala said, Bellatrix was not.

"Having a man murder for you is devotion," she said in horse tone, wide eyed with envy. 

"I'm not killing people randomly, Bella," Orson said, stopping that train of thought where it was. 

There was some laughs, and quietness. Xenophilius hopped off his platform, satisfied with what he had to say. He helped Sybill off the platform, and Mangala jumped down in her platform heeled boots. 

Severus let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He turned to Sirius. "Let's go." 

They approached Narcissa and Regulus. They could hear Orson and Bellatrix argue under hush breaths. 

"Why not?" she demanded. 

"Because I'm not fucking insane like Tom Riddle," he argued. 

"He's not insane, he's a genius!"

"One doesn't cancel the other out." 

Severus shook his head. Poor Orson didn't realize his girlfriend was suffering from lead poisoning. 

"We have to go," Sirius said, pulling Severus out of his stupor. He was talking to Regulus and Narcissa. Regulus looked dead on his feet, while she looked drained. 

"Yes, please," Lucius said, approaching them. "That was tiring. But thrilling. I never been to a protest before. I cannot wait to tell my father about this." 

"Oh, I’m sure Abraxas will be so proud," Sirius said, voice dripping with mock sincerity. "Now let's go."

"What's the urgency?" Narcissa asked.

 A crack of Apparition split the air and twelve Aurors materialized in formation, robes whipping in the summer wind. At the front stood a thick-shouldered man with grizzled mutton chops and a gaze like broken glass. His wand was already drawn, leveled not at the speakers or the older radicals but directly at the cluster of teenagers: Severus, Sirius, Narcissa, Regulus, and Lucius.

Sirius let go of Severus's hand and moved right of Regulus, while Narcissa cowered closer to him, clutching his jacket's sleeve. 

The street inhaled, no one daring to move except Bellatrix who swept right in front of her sister, and attempted to push Sirius behind her. 

Lucius and Severus's fingers twitched for their wands, but they knew better.

"I am Deputy Chief Auror Hector Grimsby," the man barked. His voice was burning coal, ashy and course. "By order of the Ministry of Magic, this gathering is declared unlawful. Any resistance will be met with force."

Severus's breath hitched as horror overcame him. 

Sybill saw the Grim, not in the glitter on the cobblestone. She saw Grimsby. Oh, damn it all, why didn't he and Sirius get the others and leave when they had the chance. 

Grimsby took a step forward, wand tip narrowing like a threat.

Mangala moved.

Her boots hit the cobblestone with a sharp clap as she stepped between the Aurors and the group of teenagers, her arms outstretched, her stance unyielding. He towered over her even with her platforms, but she stood defiantly under his glare. 

“They’re children,” she said coldly. “Lower your wand.”

Grimsby didn’t flinch. “They’re suspects,” he growled. “And suspects don’t get age-based exemptions anymore. Not when Dark magic’s involved.”

“We have done nothing,” Mangala snapped, still keeping her arms stretched out as a shield. "There has  been no Dark magic except party." 

His eyes flickered to the sky where the Dark Mark burned. "Explain that."

"That was cast over an hour ago, long before any of us were even here," she argued, keeping her voice calm. "Lower your wand." 

Hector’s gaze went back to her. Oh, but not to make eye contact. 

He didn't even hide the fact he dragged his eyes up-and-down her body, lingering on her chest. The way his mouth twitched was telling. 

Rudolphus, Xenophilius, Rupert, and Orson moved closer to her. Everyone tensed, inching for their own wands. 

But Mangala did not budge. She didn't cover herself up. She stood firm against him. 

"You must be Mangala Verma. Foreign instigator. Your brother was arrested for the murder for the murder of Hepzibah Smith," he said coolly, "and you expect me to believe you're here for no other reason? Partying. Under the Dark Mark. Maybe I should bring you in." 

His voice was laced with obvious sleaze and want, and Rudolphus was at Mangala's side, stepping in front of her now. She let him take over, and Bellatrix grabbed her wrist and dragged her back, creating distance between herself and Grimbsy. 

"There is no need. We're packing up and leaving," he said calmly. "We apologize for creating a disturbance, but we already well on our way.”

Another Auror, much younger than Grimbsy, stepped next to his deputy. He was clean shaven, and bald, and had a gold earing. He brown skin looked golden under the street lamps. 

Beside Severus, a hiss escaped Orson through clenched teeth. His hands balled into fists, his posture went rigid. 

"Deputy Grimsby," he said softly, but firmly. "If they're done with their party, then we should let them go."

Grimsby turned sharply toward the younger Auror and sneered. “Don’t get above yourself, Shacklebolt. Some of us still remember where your family comes from, lad.”

”Don’t you talk to him that way!” Orson shouted, moving past Xenophilius, but Rudolphus blocked him. “You have no right.”

“Orson, don’t,” Kingsley said, holding his hand up in a placating manner. “Deputy Grimsby, they’re leaving. There is no need for escalation.”

 Most rest of the Aurors didn’t agree with him. They were twitchy, hands ready for their wands. 

“These people,” Grimsby people, said with venom, “are the same people who murdered Fabian and Gideon Prewett. And they are no celebrating their deaths.”

Rupert pointed an accusatory finger at Grimsby. “Maybe you should’ve looked into the reports about them instead of waiting until someone had enough.”

There was a hushed silence that followed afterwards.  

Severus shot a worried look Rupert’s way. He knew who killed the Prewett brothers. Tom did, as Voldemort. He was quite sure Tom hadn’t done it for vitreous reasons, but possibly they we’re chosen because they were safer targets. 

“That sounds like a confession,” Grimsby Said, grinning with his teeth bare. 

“It’s not a confession, it’s a condemnation of the Aurors in charge who ignore abuse in your damn ranks!” Orson fired back. Minus Kingsley, the Aurors bristled at the accusation. 

Rudulphus turned and gently, but firmly pushed Orson back. “Don’t give them a reason, keep your cool.” He hissed before turning back to Grimsby. “Are we being charged with something officer?” 

“Let's start with," he said smugly. "Unlawful assembly. This gathering was not sanctioned by the Ministry and constitutes a breach of public magical order." 

He raised his hand, to count on his fingers. "Distribution of Medusa’s Head, a banned manifesto, with intent to undermine Ministry authority. Written by a known agitator and suspected terrorist," he pointed to the Dark Mark in the sky, "Tom Riddle, or Lord Voldemort."

"Didn't Albus Dumbledore dispel that baseless claim this past Friday?" Orson argued. 

"Be silent, lad. Your betters are talking," Grimsby spat out. 

"There is no reason to talk like that," Kingsley argued, glaring at the deputy. 

But the man continued. "So that's three crimes. Ritualistic spellwork—powder bombs, blood rites, ancestral chants—clear signs of magical extremism—

"What!?" Vivian shouted, and agitation grew around them. 

In a moment of clarity, Bellatrix hissed to Narcissa. "Take Reggie and get the fuck out. Now. While they’re too busy measuring their wands." 

Narcissa looked up at her sister, fearful, but didn't need to be told twice. 

"What? No I want to stay," Regulus protested, reaching for Sirius.

 But Sirius shoved him into Narcissa's arms as she dragged him back. 

"And finally: Corruption of minors through exposure to Dark radicalism. That’s five!" Grimsby shouted over the jeering and protesting from the crowd. "Should I keep going? How about vandalism, and disturbing the public? Interference with Auror-led dispersal of an unlawful crowd. Physical obstruction by Miss Verma, verbal dissent by multiple parties? Verbal hostility, insubordination, and failure to comply with direct orders from a Ministry official? I can continue all night."

Lucius moved forward, and Severus reached for his shoulder, but he was shrugged off. 

He pushed himself to the front, head held high and back straight. "My father and mother will pay for any permanent damages, Auror Grimsby. If we contact them now, they will have this matter straightened out." 

There was a stillness,  everyone holding their breaths to see how the halfblood Auror would respond to a Malfoy taking charge, even a young one. 

And Grimsby lifted his hand, and backhanded Lucius across the face so hard, there was sickening crunch of bones. 

And then he shoved Lucius into Rudolphus's arms. He stumbled into the red head, blood blooming down his chin.  No one moved. No one breathed. Reudolphus clutched Lucius's shoulders, too stunned to say anything. 

Severus covered his mouth to stop himself from yelling. 

But Mangala yelled. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" She bellowed, shoving herself into the front. Her sleaves of her blouse flowed around her like flames as she did so. "He's fifteen! Have you lost your mind--

A streak of red from one of the Aurors's wands, an older man well into his seventies. The stunner slammed into Mangala’s chest. She didn’t fall but she swayed, blinking hard, her heels scraping cobblestone as she fought to stay upright.

Gasps echoed in the crowd now. Angry and visceral. 

Beside Severus, Sirius drew his unregistered wand. He did the same. They weren't alone. Those who weren't yelling at the Aurors, had their wands out, sparking with rage. 

Another Auror, Frank Longbottom, shoved the elderly Auror back. “She was unarmed, you bastard!” Frank shouted. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

"She was threatening the Deputy!" He argued, snarling. 

Mangala held her hand up, wand raised. "Wands up! Eyes open" she chanted. "Wands up! Eyes open!"

On the second chant, everyone followed.
Rudolphus shoved Lucius out of the way and stepped forward, wand raised, jaw tight.

Lucius stumbled back beside Severus and Sirius. He looked around at the wands in the air, the people chanting and raised his own without a word.

Orson pulled his illegal wand like it was second nature. Bellatrix stood beside him, gripping his hand, her voice the loudest in the square.

Sybill held her wand in both hands like it might shake loose.
Xenophilius didn’t raise his wand at all. He held up the manifesto instead, arms steady, face unreadable.

Across the crowd, the wandtips glowed: Blue. Green. Red. Yellow. A wave of color moving through the square like sparks catching dry grass. Only Mangala’s glowed a different color, a brilliant orange singling she was untouched by Hogwarts. 

"Wands up! Eyes open!"

Frank and Kingsley rushed in between the protesters and their fellow Aurors, their hands raised, trying to form a human shield of reason.

“STAND DOWN!” Frank barked, his voice slicing through the rising chaos. “Marwyn, you’re out of line! You STUNNED an unarmed civilian!”

“We had to!” Marwyn snarled back, blood still on his lip. “She rushed the Deputy!”

“She was defending a child!” Kingsley snapped, voice trembling but firm. “What are we even doing here?”

Grimsby’s voice cracked like a whip.

“You’re out of line,” he growled, stalking toward them. “Both of you. You’re Aurors, not bleeding hearts at a Witches' Liberation rally!”

He raised his wand—not at the crowd, but at his own men.

Frank flinched. Kingsley went still.

Grimsby’s eyes swept across the protesters, narrowing on the wands raised in fury and grief, on Orson with his illegal wand, on Bellatrix with her mouth curled like a curse, on Xenophilius holding that damn booklet like a holy relic.

“You think this is a protest?” he roared. “This is sedition!”

He turned to his team.

“ARREST THEM ALL. USE FORCE IF YOU HAVE TO.”

For one breath, the world held still.

Then boots shifted. Wands rose, sparking with white bright lights.

“No!” Frank shouted. “You can’t! Grimsby, there‘re kids here!”

“They’re radicals!” Grimsby bellowed. “Traitors-in-training! And they came here to start a war. And guess what?” 

He raised his wand. “This. Is. War!”

And Grimsby fired.

A red streak cracked through the air, past Frank and Kingsley, straight at Rudolphus Lestrange.

Rudolphus deflected it with practiced ease, turning on his heel and firing back a simple hex. 

And then Bellatrix, and Orson. And Rupert. And Mangala created shields when the Aurors fired back. Clarissa played support, boosting magic with glyphs. Travers brothers and Carrow twins sent stunners and hexes.

Spells snapped through the air. Yellow, blue, white. Stunning spells. Disarming hexes. Crowd control.

Severus’s heart pounded against his chest, and his wand hand shook as he fired his own Stupify at a Auror triple his age, and triple the experience. He was bulkier than the rest, but twice as agile, taking on five people at once, including himself, and Sirius. 

Severus’s heart thudded in his ears. He shot off a quick, silent Expelliarmus, knocking the wand out of the Auror's hand. But he drew a new wand and fired icy daggers at Severus's head. 

He ducked out of the way, shocked. 

The Aurors were using deadly spells? He and Sirius shared a quick horrified look. He could see how Sirius trembled, shaking as bad as he was. 

Vivian summoned a shield, one made of glass, to block rapid missile from the Auror from hitting Lucius. 

Snap! Snap! Snap! 

Three, then four, then seven more Aurors arrived, joining the original dozen.

The two were closest to the apparatation point, and they scattered. 

One of the new Auror took aim at Clarissa. Rupert shoved her aside and took the hit—a knockback hex—but hard enough to send him sprawling. But he was back at his feet, blocking hexes and stunners. 

Smoke drifted through the square as firecrackers popped. Someone had unleashed chaos charms. Spells bounced off wards and ricocheted into windows. A glass storefront exploded behind the crowd.

Someone, maybe one of the Carrows, threw a beer bottle with a lit cloth. It exploded on impact, knocking back four Aurors. 

Bellatrix stood amid the ash and glittering glass, using her body and wand to shield Narcissa and Regulus huddled against a corner, screaming and crying as hexes zipped by. 

Severus fired another Stunner, barely clipping his target. This was nothing like dueling the Prince. This was hardly a duel at 

“Protego!” Severus snapped, but one hit close and knocked him sideways.

“Get behind cover!” Sirius barked at him.

Then someone shouted:

“CRUCIO!”

The crowd turned as one, the spells stopped firing for only a heart beat. 

An  Auror, a stocky woman had Adrien Rosier at wand point as he thrashed and screamed under the weight of the torture curse. 

Clarissa screamed his name and ran toward him but was sent flying into a wall, knocking her unconscious. 

Severus froze, horrified. 

A carnal fear that told him to run or fight, but left him standing like a doe in the middle of the street as two lights come straight at it. 

The Carrow twins swooped down on the Auror, sending two equally powerful knockback spells. Rudolphus and Rabastan worked in tandem against three Aurors, while also shielding Ophelia as she checked Adrien. 

Xenophilius, had long dropped his booklet and started casting rune circles on the pavement. The glyphs boosted magic for his allies, but it left him vulnerable 

Orson, standing firm with Xenophilius behind him, raised a ward in time to deflect a stunner but not the Bombarda aimed low.

The explosion knocked him clean off his feet, legs crumpling beneath him. Xenophilius turned, screaming, "ORSON!" 

He stood now, firing dangerous hexes he as pacifist swore never to utter. 

Kingsley dove into the smoke, grabbing Orion by the collar and dragging him behind a toppled cart.

“Stay with me!” Kingsley shouted, throwing a shield charm over them both.

On the opposite side of the square, Bellatrix lunged forward, trying to reach her boyfriend, but two Aurors tackled her to the ground, wands at her throat. She snarled, teeth bared like a feral animal, her limbs thrashing. “GET OFF ME!”

In the haze of flying spells and smoke, Mangala faced off against a broad-shouldered male Auror with a greasy smirk and too many medals. Her bellbottoms were frayed at the end, and her orange blouse was singed on the sleaves.  Her rage was clamped down and controlled. 

“Come quietly, sweetheart,” he sneered, raising his wand. “Foreign girls like you don’t do well in Ministry custody. But maybe I’ll make an exception. Take real good care of you.”

Mangala’s eyes blazed. She raised both hands, chanting in Sanskrit. “Agni, vajra, raksha me!”

A burst of white-hot flame, shaped like a serpent, flew from her wand and wrapped around the man’s arm. He screamed, dropping his wand, his sleeve smoking.

She raised her wand again.

But another Auror came from behind—

“CRUCIO!”

The curse hit her full force.

Her body snapped back, stiff as a struck wire. She let out a sharp, guttural cry as she collapsed onto the pavement, limbs jerking violently.

It was so fast, so brutal, Sybill barely registered what she was seeing before she was already running.

“Stop it!” she shouted, her voice raw and cracking. She shoved the man aside, forgetting she had magic and a wand. 

He stumbled back, shocked at first. Shocked she would even touch him. “You want it too?” he snarled, raising his wand again. This time, he didn't need to say the name to invoke the torture curse. It came out freely the intent. 

The curse struck her mid-step. Sybill screamed, and dropped like a rag doll. Her hair smoking, silk sleeves burning, wreath of flowers torn from her head. She curled in on herself, twitching and writhing on the cobblestone. Her screams echoed around 

Something in Mangala’s body jolted.

She laid on the ground, facing Sybill. Sweet, naive, idealistic Sybill. 

But she wasn't seeing Sybill being tortured in the middle of British street by Aurors.

She was twelve again, hidden beneath a market stall in Jaipur, knees scraped and screams caught in her throat, the scent of mango skins and diesel thick in the air. 

She was watching her sister, be torn apart by men—by animals. Hurting her. Violating her. Breaking her. In broad daylight, in a crowded market. And no one helped her. No one helped her sister, or their cousin. No one did nothing as animals ravished their bodies, tearing brocade fabrics and letting blood fly. 

And Mangala was under the stall, too small, too weak to save them. 

Now, her body shook from the memory. 

She would not freeze again. Not while another girl screamed.

She pushed herself up, ignoring the fire in her nerves, her voice raw with fury and something older than pain. She ignored her fallen wand, forsaking her colonizer's tool of magic, and used her voice alone to bring forth her own. The one the Aurors have beaten her. 

Her hands glowed black, with edges flicker to burnt orange. 

  "Om Krim Kalikayai Namah!"

Her voice vibrated with the weight of her invocation, of older magic, far older than the crooked streets of Diagon Alley. The air around her distorted and warped, as it crackled with magic. 

 A radiant blue figure coalesced into form—a towering woman, skin midnight-dark, four powerful arms wielding weapons, covered in beads and skulls of men. Her long black hair cascading around her, wild and free. Kali’s presence surged with raw, protective fury.

The Aurors recoiled, fear plain on his face. "What in Merlin’s name!" he began, but Kali surged forward, backhanding him with supernatural strength, sending him crashing through a storefront.

Kali advanced, her form flickering with unnatural light, eyes glowing like twin suns in eclipse. She raised one arm, and the ground shuddered under her step.

The square had gone still.

Even the Aurors hesitated.

This wasn’t standard combat magic. This wasn’t Ministry-approved dueling.

One of the younger Aurors stammered, “What kind of spell is that—?”

“She’s not casting,” whispered another. “She’s channeling an evil spirit!.”

Kingsley, crouched beside a bleeding Orion, muttered. "What is that thing!”

But it was too late. Kali surged forward.

The Auror who had tortured Sybill barely had time to scream before a blue hand grabbed him by the throat and flung him through a window. He crashed through glass and vanished in a tangle of limbs and masonry.

Two more Aurors tried to flank her. Kali bared her fangs, and the air rippled around her as Mangala, still standing despite her wounds, lifted her voice again. Her feet dug into the earth like roots anchoring something divine.

“Do not touch her,” Mangala said. Her voice was haggard and course, but strong. “You will not harm another.”

They didn’t listen.

Four Aurors. Then five. Wands out. Circling.

“She’s dangerous!” one barked.

“She’s summoning demons—!”

“Take her down!”

Stunners lit the sky like desperate fireworks. 

Mangala raised her arms, one last invocation in Hindi burning from her tongue. Kali shimmered brighter, intercepting the first volley.

But five was too many.

A binding curse hit her in the ribs. Another snapped her head back. A third knocked her sideways, and her knee hit the cobblestone with a crack.

She tried to rise.

They struck again.

Her blouse tore, her gold bangles clattered to the ground. Her breath came in broken gasps.

Still, she lifted her head. Still, she stood.

“Om Krim Kalikayai—”

One last curse hit her square in the chest. She dropped.

Hard.

The avatar of Kali flickered, and the construct faded into the wind..

The fight between Aurors and civilians faded with her. A certain despair fell over the protestors. With her fall, she 

“Target down!” someone shouted.

Grimsby surged forward. His wand still on Mangala's form. 

And the curse, the one most forbidden was on his lips. 

"Avada—

Kingsley abandoned his brother's side and appeared right in front of Grimsby, punching his superior officer in the face to stop him. Shock held Grimsby's wand. 

A terrible over came the square. 

They were about to witness a public execution. 

Sirius gave voice to the assumption they all thought when Adrien Rosier was Crucioed. "Are the Unforgivables legal now?" he breathed out to no one. 

Grimsby rubbed his jaw, his shock turning to fury. "You're out of line, Shacklebolt."

"She's down!" Kingsley yelled. "She's unconscious. You're going to execute her while she's knocked out?"

"You saw what she done!" Grimsby. "She has gone beyond Dark, and is dabbling into Black Magic. She's brought a creature of evil from the Otherworld into ours. A direct violation of the Statue of Secrecy. If Britain still controlled India, we could enforce her people into compliance."

Kingsley's mouth fell open, too disgusted to even speak. Is this what he signed up for?

Rupert watched this unfold and knew what he had to do. He couldn’t summon the Dark Lord like the Dark Lord could summon Death Eaters, but he could call on him.

Clarissa was still unconscious. Mangala lay twitching on the cobblestone. Sybill whimpered beside her. Adrian was still twitching. Bellatrix was pinned to the ground. Orson's legs were bloody and torn up. No one was coming. No one was going to stop this.

But there was someone could save them. The Dark Lord would save them. 

He pulled back his sleeve and pressed his wand to the Dark Mark.

For a brief moment, he mentally connected with the Dark Lord. And it was soothing.

Rupert? a soft voice, a comforting voice, fleeted into his head. Relief washed over him. He could almost cry.

Aurors, they're using Unforgivables--

You're safe now, the voice seemed to say. I'm coming.

And then—

“She’s not a Death Eater!” someone in the crowd shouted.

“She saved the kids!” another voice cried.

But Grimsby had already seen the tattoo, and Mangala was not important. Not anymore.

He shoved past Kingsley, raised his wand, and roared—

“AVADA—”

It was felt through the link.

Not the spell but the absence. The absence of something bright and curious and loved. Like a candle snuffed out in a room already full of smoke, Rupert’s mind went dark. 

The green light passed over Orson, through Rudolphus’s hair, past Severus’s wide eyes and struck Rupert square in the chest.

He crumpled to the ground like a marionette doll that had it's strings cut. 

Grimsby, a symbol of death in red robes. His chest moved up and down, breathing hard. A nasty smile stretched over his face. He had been itching to use the spell when the Minister signed the order for them allowed to use Unforgivables. 

Rabastan dropped to his knees, staring at the man he’d known since they were tots. No he wasn’t staring at what Rupert was now. He was staring at the boy who used to climb trees in summer, the boy who helped him pull pranks on professors, who made him laugh during the worst days at school. His dormmate for seven years. His first kiss, though neither ever admitted it. 

His hand shook as cupped Rupert's cheek, pushing back his hair out of his way.

 Xenophilius was crouched down next to Orson, covering his mouth in horror. The state was killing them in the streets now. No where was safe. Orson hit the ground with clenched fists. "Damn you all to hell!" he shouted at the Aurors. All of them. Even Frank Longbottom, a man he shared a dorm with for seven years. 

In this moment, the only good Auror is a dead Auror, and that mantra only stopped when it came to blood.

Narcissa clutched a hysterical Regulus against her, curled with him against the side of a building like they could disappear into the stone itself. Her arms were wrapped around his head, shielding his eyes, but hers were wide open—locked on Rupert’s body.

“Don’t look, Reggie! Don’t look!” she sobbed into his hair, even as her own tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. 

Lucius stood over them, stunned. Blood—not his—spattered across his shirt like ink on white parchment. His wand hung from limp fingers. His mouth moved but no sound came out.

Ophelia stood nearby, gloved hand clutching her chest. Her expression was a cracked porcelain mask, eyes wide and shimmering but unbroken. “They didn’t even give him a warning,” she murmured. “They didn’t even—”

Vivian had dropped to her knees, fingers scrabbling at the ground to pick up pieces of her crushed charm pouch, her trembling hands smudged with her own blood. “He said we’d get dinner next week,” she laughed, hysterical and half sobbing. “He wanted to try that new curry place. He said my shoes were ugly and I said he dressed like a librarian. He asked me out tonight." 

She folded in herself, wailing into the ground. 

Amycus and Alecto were silent, their typical manic energy replaced by stunned stillness. Amycus muttered a curse or maybe it was a prayer. Alecto’s eyes were locked on Rupert’s body like she couldn’t look away, like if she blinked he’d disappear.

And in the center of it all—

Sirius was frozen, eyes wide. He had a hand on Severus’s arm like he was trying to anchor them both but it was trembling. “He’s dead,” Sirius whispered. “They killed him. Just like that.”

Severus didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Something inside him had gone very still.

He stood stock still, one arm still half-wrapped around Sirius like he’d forgotten what they were doing. His fingers were locked, white-knuckled, on Sirius’s wrist.

He was shaking.

Sirius turned, but Severus wouldn’t look at him. He was staring at Rupert’s body, too stun to speak. 

Sirius opened his mouth, but didn’t speak.

Because Bellatrix screamed.

It wasn’t the kind of scream people associate with madness. It wasn’t theatrical or high-pitched. It was animalistic. Raw grief and rage ripped from the bone. The scream of a girl who’d known Rupert since he was a baby. Who she dressed him up like her baby dolls. Who so close in age to Andromeda—

Bellatrix screamed again, and the force of her magic—raw and unshaped—exploded from her like a detonation. The Aurors holding her down were blasted backward, skidding across the cobblestones.

Her hair was wild, her face streaked with soot and blood, but her wand was steady.

“YOU FUCKING COWARD!” she shrieked, arm shaking as she aimed for Grimsby. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

The Killing Curse erupted from her wand, bright green and hungry.

Grimsby dove. The curse missed him by inches. Struck an Auror behind him instead. With the second death that night, he crumpled to the ground. 

The other Aurors pounced her, pinning her to the ground. Bellatrix will not go silently.

Not with spells. With teeth and nails and screams that scraped the bones of everyone watching. She clawed at them like a feral dog, kicking and spitting, wand flashing when she could lift it.

An Auror grabbed her arm, another tackled her from the side. And a third pulled back and punched her hard across the face. Once. Twice.

“BELLA!” Narcissa screamed, torn between shielding Regulus and reaching for her sister. “Bella, STOP!”

But she didn’t stop. Because she wasn’t fighting them anymore. She was trying to reach Grimsby, everything else was obstacles. 

Sirius snapped. He ran full force into the Auror, using his Beater build to his advantage. He slammed into the Aurors like a living curse, knocking one back with pure rage. He swung his fists, teeth bared, screaming something no one heard.

But there were too many.

They swarmed him.

One kicked him down. Another shoved his face into the cobblestones. A third drove a boot into his wand hand, grinding until he let go. His arm was twisted behind him, snap! His bone broke and scream ripped from his throat. 

On instinct, Severus raised his wand. Only one spell on his mind, the only spell that could be used right now. 

The Killing Curse.

What’s one more dead body?

But a hand clasped around his wrist. 

Severus stared at the hand. It was covered in a thick, black glove. He followed the arm up to the person's face. 

Staring back at him was the mask of Lord Voldemort. 

The plague doctor said nothing. He simply pushed Severus’s wand down with a single finger, gentle but firm.

Then he turned—robes sweeping behind him—to look at Rupert’s broken body, then the Aurors still manhandling Bellatrix and Sirius. He tilted his head slightly, like someone weighing a decision.

The air turned cold.

The shop windows rattled in their frames.

Frank Longbottom felt it first. He stepped back, eyes wide. “Shit—”

Too late.

Voldemort raised one hand.

Frank was lifted off the ground like a rag doll, spun midair, and hurled through the front window of a bistro. Glass exploded. People screamed.

The Aurors turned in unison. Bellatrix and Sirius were forgotten.

Deputy Grimsby, bleeding and badly bruised, raised his hand. 

He didn’t even hesitate. “Avada Kedavra!”

A bolt of green light ripped across the cobblestones—off-target, wild. It wasn’t going to hit Voldemort. It was going to hit Severus.

He couldn't move. Couldn't think. He heard Narcissa scream. Lucius shout his name.

But he was frozen in time. 

And Voldemort stepped in front of him.

The Killing Curse struck the Dark Lord square in the back.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t fall.

He turned around slowly, like someone responding to a nuisance. The green glow faded behind him.

He was still standing.

Severus stared in silence.

Voldemort looked at him, voice low. “Which one killed Rupert Yaxley?”

Severus raised his arm without hesitation and pointed. “Him. Grimsby." 

The Aurors stumbled back, mouths hung open in horror. Grimsby backed away. His wand trembled in his hand. “How is this possible?” he demanded, voice cracking revealing how terrified he was.

In a blink, Voldemort moved right in front of Grimsby, using his sheer presence to create a barrier between the Aurors and the Black Cousins. 

Grimsby raised his wand, but Voldemort backhanded him across the face, just like how the Auror had done to Lucius. Only he sent the man flying. 

Voldemort caught him by the throat, lifted him clean off the ground, and slammed him against the shop wall. The man’s wand clattered to the cobblestones. Voldemort drove his elbow into the Auror’s ribs—once, twice—until something inside gave way with a wet pop. Grimsby fell to the ground, struggling to stand, but a heavy boot came crashing down on Grimsby‘s back, making he yell. 

Voldemort didn’t draw out his wand. He didn’t need to. 

“Vermis Intra.” He said. 

Grimsby screamed.

At first it wasn’t clear why, because Grimsby just laid there perfectly fine. But he screamed and screamed until wiggling was beneath his skin and he stopped screaming. His mouth opened too wide, eyes bulging. Maggots forced their way out from his nose, his ears, the corners of his mouth.

He clawed at his own face, desperate and panicked—

His body exploded, painting the street with blood and bone and organs. 

 Narcissa screamed. Regulus sobbed. Rudolphus swore. Someone vomited. 

"What the fuck," Orson breathed out in shock. 

Sirius and Bellatrix scrambled to get away from the maggot infested corpse, falling over 

Voldemort simply stood there, head tilt to the side, curious by the aftermath. 

He raised one hand. The white blood-maggots lifted off the ground and flew toward the Auror who had fired Bombarda at Orson. The woman screamed. The maggots clumped together, forming a white viper that wrapped around her body. She screamed louder and harder, struggling against the transformed beast. Three Aurors struggled to pull it off of her. 

And Voldemort hissed out a command, one only Severus could understand. “Eat her.” 

The snake bit her neck, and Severus felt the ghost of the serpent that had attacked him few days ago. He clamped down over his neck, watched his a sickening daze as the chomped down the woman. 

The three Aurors stopped trying to help her and leveled their wands at Voldemort. 

With a powerful boot to the chest, Voldemort sent one flying. With just a look, the man's body was engulfed in neon green and died. 

Voldemort used Avada Kedavra without a wand, without saying it. He thought it, and he killed. 

Another came from behind. She ducked low, swept at his legs, went for a disabling hex. Voldemort caught her wrist, twisted it until it cracked, then kneed her in the stomach. As she doubled over, he grabbed the back of her robes and flung her headfirst into a wrought iron lamp post. She collapsed with a grunt. 

The grunt turned into a scream. Her body twitched on the ground, as she pounded her fists against the cobblestone road. 

Crucio. 

Two Aurors charged at Voldemort while his back was turned, wands raised.

Severus couldn't help himself. "Behind you!" he shouted. 

But Voldemort didn't need a warning. 

Because one of the Aurors, against his free will, turned on his colleague. 

"Kill." he commanded. And a green light shot out of the Auror's wand, hitting his colleague. 

Voldemort turned as another Auror tried to attack him with a nasty hex. Voldemort kicked the wand from his hand, grabbed his collar, and headbutted him with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed. The man dropped without a sound.

He faced the Auror he had under Imperio--a silent, wandless Imperio he casted without even looking--and said:

“Fiendfyre.”

Fiery serpents engulfed the enchanted Auror, burning him alive. 

Then—Kingsley.

He stepped in, wand raised. Controlled. Composed. And yet...his hand shook.

Voldemort turned to him, slowly to him. 

"No! No! No!" Orson let out a panicked yell. "Kingsley! Don't! Lie down!" he tried to pull away from Xenophilius, but Xenophilius wouldn't let him go. He could barely stand as is after the Bombarda to the leg. 

Voldemort vanished and reappeared right in front of Kingsley, and the young Auror didn't flinch--much. 

"Thank your brother for your life, little Auror," he said softly, almost fatherly. "And tell Albus to train his new Order Occlumency. Now. Sleep." 

Kingsley fell without a word, knocked out with a word. Voldemort grabbed him and lowered him to the ground gently, as to not hurt him.

The remaining Aurors had enough sense to lie their wands down on the ground, holding their trembling arms in the air. 

Voldemort turned and addressed them. "Let this be a warning. You hurt one of mine, I destroy you. I showed restraint tonight."

He turned on his heel. He called out to the protestors, to his people. "tend to your wounded. If you bear my mark, and more Aurors come, call me immediately." 

And he stormed passed them all, even Severus. He bent down and picked up Rupert's body, cradling him to his chest. 

He paused before before he left and added. "And someone check on Auror Frank Longbottom and make sure I hadn't ended his life prematurely. I actually like him."

And with a snap, Voldemort vanished. 

Chapter Text

Severus stumbled out of the fire forty minutes later, and not second back home, Tom had him in a bone crushing hug. 

He didn't get a word out before Tom as quickly held him at arm's length. The look of terrified and concern flickered over Tom's face. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" he asked, panicked. 

Annoyed, Severus pushed his father's hands off of him. "You just saw me not even an hour ago. You know I'm fine."

"I didn't get a chance to check on you because I was tad busy," Tom countered. He looked Severus over, his eyes zeroed on the bruise on Severus's cheek. "Which Auror did that?" 

"The one you sat on fire," he deadpanned and tired. "I just want to go to bed." 

Tom hummed, thinking. "Do you want a light snack before you do?"

Severus made a face of disgust. "You think I can eat after I saw what you did Grimsby?" he paused, thinking. "Actually, I'm a bit starved."

"I'll make you a sandwich," he said, smiling a litte. "I have to be quick about it. I have to go into work." He turned sharply on his heels. 

Severus followed after him to the kitchen. "Why?" 

Tom looked over his shoulder. "I got a call through my enchanted mirror. The protestors flooded St. Mungo's, and Frank Longbottom and that Auror I Cruciod are all there. Now I have to tend to them." 

“You’re going to treat the people you almost killed?” Severus asked, his emotions cracking beneath. 

"Severus," Tom said, his tone deadly serious. "I am a healer. I took an oath to do no harm. It doesn't matter how they became my patient because once they're my patient, I will take care of them."

He stared at his father for a long minute, trying to process what he was hearing but then...shrugged. "Okay, makes sense to me." At least, it makes sense when dealing with Tom Riddle. 

For the next ten minutes, Severus sat at the breakfast nook, eating hiss veggie sandwich, while Tom hovered, demanded answers. 

Why didn't you leave when the Aurors arrived?

Severus didn't have a good answer except explain he wanted to, but everything happened so quickly and they went from a party to a political rally to an Auror shoving a wand at himself and his friends and boyfriend.

Aww, so you are dating Sirius. Adorable. I killed the Auror who threatened you?

Severus had to explain it was Grimsby.

Oh good. Not good because he threatened you or your little friends, but good he's been punished.

Severus said nothing and ate his sandwich. 

I know what you're going through. They call it shell-shocked. I got it after I left the army. I have a particular aversion to explosions. 

Severus could've guessed that. Tobias was the same way, and Tom served in WW2 as well. It made sense. 

There were two seers there--did Orson Shacklebolt or that Sybil girl say or see anything before things turned south?

And that question, that horrifying question brought Severus back to reality. His eyes widened and his sandwich slipped from his fingers, falling to the ground. Cucumbers, carrots, sun-dried tomatoes, and fresh basil leaves spilled everywhere. 

Tom was out of his seat and kneeling in front of Severus in a second. He didn't care his trousers were pressed in tomato juice, or smooshing the bread, smearing mayo everywhere. 

"Severus?" Tom asked, gently gripping Severus's shoulders. "Severus, look at me. What was it?"

Severus's chest tight, it was like all the oxygen was sucked out of the room, leaving him to drown. 

He pushed Tom out of his way, and paced around the room, gasping. His head pounded with Sybil's prophecy. 

The meadow mourns its firstborn bird.
        A stranger’s egg cracks in a haunted nest.
        The fire will burn before the bloom,
        And death will make way for birth.
        One son leaves. One child comes.
        The stars will lower their altar to earth,
        And name it daughter.
        The clearing will echo with the cry of the cuckoo,
        And the world will not yet know its meaning.

Tom grabbed his shoulders firmly, but gently. "Severus, look at me. You need to breathe," he murmured. "You're having a panic attack."

"You don't understand." Severus chocked on a sob, trying and failing to keep himself together. "She-Sybil-she told me. She gave me the warning--

"Severus," Tom cut him off. "That's not important right now." 

"It is! She told me!" Severus shouted. He ripped himself from Tom's hands. "You don't get it. I could've prevented it! She told me, she had a prophecy--I knew something bad was going to happen! Rupert didn't have to die."

A flicker of understanding crossed Tom's face. In Severus's state, the perfectly crafted mental walls he erected crumbled, and Tom slipped inside and saw everything. 

He wrapped his around Severus's thin frame, and held him. It was not a gentle hug, or one for comfort, but one to bring Severus down from the heights of his panicked state. 

"You listen to me," Tom hissed, harsh but caring. "It's not your fault for what happened. You're a child. There was dozens of adults he should've and could've not escalated the situation. You're not responsible over anything but yourself." 

Severus's chest moved rapidly, up and down. His face hot, trying to keep himself from crying. 

"Do you remember what I told you last week?" Tom asked. 

Severus shook his head because so much happened in the last two weeks he couldn't keep track. The man he thought was his father wasn't. His mother abandoned him to a stranger. The stranger was Lord fucking Voldemort. Who happened to be his real father. He got thrusted into a world of politics and war he didn't want. And he just saw the former Head Boy who used to tutor him in Transfigurations get killed in front of him. It was all too much, and all too overwhelming. 

"I said you're boy, and it's okay to cry. If you need to cry, don't bottle it up, or you're going to end up like me." There was a deep regret on Tom's face when he said, "and you don't want to end up like me. Or Tobias. This isn't the 1930s. It's okay for boys to cry." 

Severus's face twisted into something nasty and he collapsed into Tom's arms, burying his face against Tom's shoulder and sobbed. It wasn't a wailing noise, Severus hadn't made a noise at all. but his body trembled uncontrollably as he clung to his father's shirt.  

Tom never went into work.

He told his director he couldn't. His son was at the riot and shaken up. 

When his director complained, Tom rephased his no.

"Go fuck yourself." and muted the enchanted mirror the hospital used to call in healers. 

What would she do? fire him? 

She would be hard press to find a cursebreaker with his knowledge and skillset. Especially now with the war and him causing the curses that brought in their patients. 

So he stayed home. 

They ended up in Tom's office. Severus laid on the couch, sleeping, as Tom read thirty-odd letters. 

Walburga was livid. Something, something about traumatizing her thirteen-year-old boy. If he hadn't shown up, her little Regulus would've been dead. Ungrateful bitch. 

Of all the Blacks, Tom hated her the most. Well, he hated Pollux Black more, but he had more history with Wally. 

His hand went to his throat without thinking, and he rubbed the spot where a possessed Walburga held a dagger to it. 

He shook his head of the thought, burying further than the Chamber of Secrets had been buried. 

Tom flipped to the next letter. It was just as short, from Leanan. She's over at the Yaxleys now. Good. Someone should be with them.

Tom was not an emotional man. 

...

Okay, he was emotional, but those emotions were usually tied to rage. But sadness? Despair? No, Tom didn't feel those. 

But just recalling Lianhua's shrill, almost inhuman scream as she cradled Rupert's lifeless body to her chest. The way her two oldest daughters collapsed next to her. The way eight-year-old Meilin sobbed in Corban's arms, wailing for brother. 

And Corban, stood rigid and stoic to keep his family together. 

Tom was struggling to keep himself together during that. Only to come home and pace around waiting for Severus to return. 

How did things escalate so badly? He knew the legalization of Unforgivables would shift the conflict, but never had he assumed Aurors would be using Crucio on civilians. 

Or Killing Curse on nineteen-year-old boys. 

He slumped in his chair, deep in thought. He had plans tomorrow. They had to deal with Selwyn, but he wasn't going to force a meeting and demonstrate what happens when someone dared to betray him. Not after tonight. Not when Rupert's body was still warm, and his parents were still grieving. Corban had been loyal to him since he first entered the magical world, looking past his muggleness. Corban ignored Tom's cockney accent, his inability to read. And Lianhua was one of the few people Tom called a friend. 

He would not hold court without them, and he would not disrespect their loss by demanding their presence. 

If anything, his hope was Selwyn heard about the violence he inflicted upon those scum and learned his lesson. Tom was nothing but merciful. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by someone triggering his wards--Albus. 

He recognized that magical signature anywhere. It was light, and warm, and yet, hard around the edges. Brittle. Like a burnt chocolate biscuit that was still gooey in the center. 

Disgusting. 

Tom always preferred jammy biscuits.  

He glanced at Severus's sleeping form, frowning. He should greet Albus before the old bastard triggers a screaming match and wake the boy up. Just seeing the man would cause Tom to yell on good days. 

Tom stood, snapping his fingers. A wool quilt appeared on top of Severus. Smiling despite himself, he headed out, gently closing the door behind him. He muttered a sound proofing spell--just in case. 

He headed into the sitting room, commination on his lips, but his venom died on his lips once he saw Albus. 

The old man was just sitting on the couch, head bowed in his hands. His hair was a mess. His robes were wrinkled, possibly unclean. It was if Albus heard a terrible news and rushed here without a second thought. 

Tom approached, leaning over in Albus's space. "Albus?" 

The old man jumped, just enough for Tom to notice. He turned to face Tom, his eyes not a sparkling blue but were  deep pools of well water, murky and darkened by grief. 

"They legalized the Unforgivables," Albus breathed, standing up. "Kingsley Shacklebolt told me what happened tonight, went straight to my house in Manchester after he woke up from that sleep spell you put him under." 

"Did he tell you he needs to learn occlumency?" Tom asked, ignoring everything else. "Because I specifically told him to do that and I hate giving orders and then being ignored." 

"Tom, be serious once in your life," Albus hissed, hands on his hips. "The Ministry's lost all good sense and you're wasting our time being petty?" 

Tom tilted his head to the side, a sarcastic remark was on the tip of his tongue--

Albus reached up and slapped him upside his head, making Tom flinched. 

"Ow," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "You didn't know they passed the law?"

"Do you think I would be here at this hour?" he asked. He let out a staggering breath. "Merlin, Tom, this is a nightmare. Frankly, I don’t even understand their logic. You’re radicals, yes—but until tonight, there was no justification for this kind of escalation."

"Yes, it is a nightmare," Tom said slowly, "for them. The beat a Malfoy, and murdered the heir of Yaxley family bloodline. Tortured members of prestigious families. Terrified my son. Attacked my girlfriend."

Albus gave him a curious look. “Is this an actual legitimate relationship,” he asked, deadpanned “or one of those times you spoke to someone once, found them fascinating, and imagined the two of you dominating the world together?”

Tom's eyes narrowed, flicking to the side and avoiding contact with Albus's. "No, of course not." he turned away to light up a cigarette.

Albus let out a weary sigh, continuing on the conversation. 

"I did not realize the rot in the Ministry's this severe," he said, sounding very much his age. He moved back to the couch, looking haggard. 

Tom hoped he aged better than Albus. Then again, the old bastard always blamed Tom for going stark gray sooner than he should have. 

"If only you could be come Minister and fix this mess--oh, wait, you can't. You're a homosexual," Tom said, laughter on the edge of his voice until he sharply remembered Severus was gay and his tune changed. "You should burn those homophobic bastards down with me, Albus."

"Arson does not change laws," Albus corrected, rubbing his temple. 

"Not true."

Tom pulled his coffee table back, and sat in front of Albus. "I read about a riot in the States called Stonewall. You ever heard of it? it's a muggle thing."

"No?" Albus asked, sounding even more confused. "Why are you bringing this up?"

"I have a point," Tom argued, growing frustrated with Albus's ignorance. Didn't the man read international news? "In the States, I believe New York City, there was riot that broke out among queers against fascist cops. The cops were conducting raids on gay and lesbian bars, harassing transgenders and drag queens. You know, freaks such as yourself."

The withering look on Albus's face told him the old man wanted to hex him but was too drained to lift his wand. 

"And after these riots, America removed homosexuality as a mental illness," he finished. "See, fighting back changes the law. Sitting passively hoping for justice will not bring change."  

Albus stared at him for a long moment. "Tom, you slept with men. You are calling yourself a freak." 

"Sleeping with men is different from being a queer, Albus," Tom corrected, dismissive. 

Merlin's ass. So what because he had sex with five...or ten or fifteen so men and all the sudden he's now a deviant? Albus just loved throwing his past in his face. The man was so judgmental. And derailing the conversation!

"And you're missing my point," he argued. 

"You have one?" Albus asked. 

"When the state prevents you from existing, fighting is the only existence you can afford to have." Tom stated. "You should be on my side. You're a war hero and celebrated educator, but you can't even adopt a child. They didn't even want you as Headmaster--the school board is always looking for a reason to get rid of you. Why do you protect them?"

"I am not protecting the Ministry, Tom," Albus said, sighing. "I'm protecting the people, our countrymen."

"And so am I," Tom countered. "I'm fighting for magical liberation, protect us from Muggles."

"Are you? Are you just using legitimate pain and suffering to justify your actions?" He spoke the words so softly, but it didn't dull the slap across the face. 

"I do not need to justify anything," Tom breathed out, biting back from yelling. "Parselmouths are being murdered, Albus. The bans on cultural magic is getting worse every year. They stripped us of our rituals and rites. The Ministry is run by predominantly halfbloods who don't care about traditions. Magical creatures are being hunted to near extinction. Albus, they're begging for riots."

Albus nodded slowly, agreeing. "I will not argue on the last part. The Ministry and certain members of Wizengamot have crossed lines in the last week I cannot tolerate. But I will not trade in an oligarchy for a radical with delusions of grandeur."

Tom rolled his eyes, leaning back. "It's not radical when your existence is criminalized."

Albus's eyes narrowed and Tom knew him well enough whatever the old man was about to say was meant to hurt. 

"You're not talking about me," he said, choosing his words carefully. Too carefully. "You mean yourself." 

"I am directly speaking about you, in reference you can't even become minister because of your sexual preferences," Tom countered, not liking where this is going. 

Albus was shaking his head before he even finished. "Yes, I know I've been barred from certain things in life." he raised his wrinkled hand, and counted. "I know Muggle views of homosexuality influenced the our society's criminalization on sodomy. And the Ministry has done nothing to reverse it. I am hyperaware I cannot adopt children, and every five years I get round of letters and articles how I am dangerous, that I should be fired. Any time I have been caught in public with a man, it is a scandal and I calls for my firings begin. Do you think I am unaware, Tom? You think I flocked to Grindlewald solely because I loved him? You're not the first man to use this against me."

"But," he continued not letting Tom speak, "this is not about me. This is about you. You can't even declare your rightful place in our government because you'd out yourself as a Parselmouth, which was just made illegal officially." 

Tom's nails dug into his pants, and he bit his tongue. He would not react. He would not react to Albus's bait. 

"Parselmouths are being murdered," Albus halted for a second, and guilt flickered in his icy blue eyes. "It's a genocide, and we're complacent in it. But what you want in return won't stop what's happening across Europe or North America."

"I'm trying," Tom seethed out. "I'm going after the Parselmouth Oversight Committee. My targets have been exact, members and supporters. Aurors who joined on the raids. I documented everything I know about the clans. I pulled strings and money to send the surviving children out of the country and to Asian countries that can better take care of them."

"You commit murder," he said, calm. "You terrorized this country for two years, and you wonder why the Ministry legalized the Unforgiveables."

"They legalized them to control a justified uprising," Tom countered. "Tonight was a peaceful rally, and the Ministry responded with violence. No one is doing anything to stop it, but I am. It's not terrorism—it's resistance. I'm liberating the masses, because no one else will." If the Ministry was afraid, then they should be. If they weren't corrupt and diseased ridden, they wouldn't need Tom to cure them. 

"Your methods are extreme, Tom," he said, voice soft. Almost tender, but there was a hint of judgment. "You are too much like your grandfather."

Tom slapped Albus across the face, before standing abruptly. "Get out." 

Albus rubbed his cheek, not stunned. But calculating. 

Fuck. Albus was expecting this reaction.

That was a test, and he failed. And that angered him more. 

"I said get out out," he repeated, barely above a whisper. "Go back to your castle, and rot." 

Albus stood and walked swiftly to the fire place. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and dropped it at his feet. In a flash of green, the headmaster vanished in the flames. 

Tom hurried to the spot where Albus stood, his wand out. For a split second, he considered barring Albus from ever using his fireplace again, denying access from Hogwarts and Albus's home in Manchester. 

His hand shook with uncertainty, but then...his hand dropped to his side. He couldn't do it. 

About two hours later, before Tom woke Severus to send him to his real bed, Albus's owl flew in through the cracked window and dropped a single note on the desk.

Are we still on for brunch this Friday?

Tom scribbled a quick reply.

Yes—but I’m choosing the place this time. Your last restaurant gave me food poisoning.

He tied it to the owl’s leg and shooed her back toward Manchester.

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place was loud.

Adults stormed through corridors, doors slammed like thunder, and the radio played some overwrought string piece that couldn’t compete with Orion’s rage echoing off the walls.

In the drawing room, Sirius, Narcissa, and Regulus sat apart from the adults, but not from the riot they’d survived. The silence between the three was heavy and merciless.  Last night hovered above them like a guillotine blade.

Sirius’s knuckles were still swollen. He hadn’t changed out of the blood-splattered shirt. One eye was purpled and half shut. His right arm, bandaged and trembling, rested across his lap like a shame he couldn’t shake off.

They didn’t speak.

Because what could they say?

Rupert was dead.

The Ministry legalized the Unforgivables, sparing no one. 

And Voldemort had carried Rupert’s body like it meant something. Had spoken gently to Kingsley. Had spared Frank Longbottom. 

He spared a glance at his brother, and Narcissa. 

Regulus was doing his best not to cry. Their other grandfather, Arcturus the Third, had told him that “men don’t snivel like girls.” Sirius had been at the hospital when it was said. If he’d been at Grimmauld just a short few hours back, he might’ve beaten the old bastard with the fire poker. Merlin knew he'd thought about it before.

Narcissa was allowed to cry, but she held it. She just dabbed her eyes momentarily. 

Orion’s voice boomed from another room. “That old coot thinks we’ll meet in the assembly after last night? After they murdered Yaxley’s boy in the bloody street?”

“Bellatrix is still in the hospital,” Druella snapped, sniffling, her voice cracking. “They... they ruined my daughter's beautiful face." her renewed sobs over the damage done Bella. 

"If I see that traitor Selwyn, I'll kill him," Cyngus spoke, his voice more measured then Orion's and that made it worse. "He voted to legalize Crucio. Crucio, of all curses. I could almost understand Imperio or the Killing Curse, but Crucio?" 

"This is the fault of that Voldemort," Pollux's words drifted in the air, raspy and cruel

Sirius didn't have to be in the other room to know Orion rolled his eyes. 

"Will you be quiet," Orion said with dismissive scoff. "Voldemort protected our children—your grandchildren last night. Bellatrix would be dead if it were not for him." 

Like an invader of their personal space, Walburga swept into the sitting room. 

Her stern gaze flickered over her sons and niece. "Sirius, I want to speak with you. Now." 

Sirius didn't have it in him to argue with her. He spared a weary glance at Regulus and Narcissa and followed Walburga out of the room and down the hall where Father's voice was muted. 

There was no kindness in his mother, but she wasn't without her maternal instincts. She fixed his collar of his jean vest and corrected his his curly hair before she spoke. "We will be hosting a guest soon," she began, voice stiff. "Your wounds are healed, yes, but you will still smell like fresh blood to them." 

His brows shot upward. "Are we hosting vampires?" 

"Princes," Walburga explained. "Tempest Prince is bringing her second, Crispin, and Eileen here."

Eileen...Eileen, why was the name familiar—? 

"Isn't that Severus's mother?" Sirius asked, once his memory jogged. 

"Yes, she's a vampire now," Walburga explained, "recently turned. I worry with your injuries they could trigger a blood frenzy." 

That didn't sound good at all. 

She put an arm around him, and pulled him further down the hall, away from the main entrance of their townhouse. As if the vampires would show up at any moment as they speak. 

"Right now, the Princes are at the Wizengamot,” she said in a hushed tone, though they were the only ones in the hallway. “But they’ll be arriving here afterward. Your great-grandfather once allied with Lord Severus Prince, back before he turned.”

Sirius tried to follow the politics of it all, but he was too exhausted to make the leap from Lord Severus Prince to dead again. That he was now a dementor, haunting Azkaban like the rest of vampires when theyre allowed to age.

She continued, voice carefully measured. “I think it’s best if you stay at a friend’s house until they’ve gone.”

“Because Eileen might have a blood frenzy?” he asked flatly. 

“Yes,” she said, leading him toward the second fireplace on the other side of the house. It hadn’t been used in years. A thick layer of dust coated the mantle. Kreacher really ought to clean in here more often.

“I suppose I could see if Remus is home,” Sirius mumbled. He had no interest in seeing James after last night. Not because he blamed him for Charlus Potter's crimes. He just didn’t trust James not to say something stupid.

Walburga made a face. “Really? The halfbreed?”

Sirius’s head snapped away from the fireplace to her. He glared. “You’re inviting vampires into our home, but werewolves are where you draw the line?”

She never said how she’d found out about Remus, but she’d guessed years ago and never let go of it.

“Beasts are different than vampires, Sirius,” she said coolly. “Vampires at least become something higher when they die. Beasts just lose control.”

"You're sending me away because Eileen might not be able to control herself," Sirius countered, sighing. He knew he couldn't change her mind, but even in his exhaustion he wouldn't fight back. He had too. 

Walburga raised a finger, a signal she was done arguing and his "nasty attitude". With her other hand, she pulled out her wand and started a small fire in the unused fireplace. 

"Now be swift," she said. "I need to prepare for the Princes. Tempest is not a woman to displease."

She turned on her heel and headed out of the room. Her heels clicked against the hard floor.

 He scanned the mantle, and spotted the forgotten 

Sirius took a pinch of Floo powder from the dusty urn on the mantel and tossed it into the flames. They flared emerald, hot enough to warm his face but not enough to soothe the ache in his bones.

Crouching down, he called clearly into the fire.

"Remus Lupin."

For a moment there was nothing but the crackling hiss of fire and the distant, muffled shouting of his father down the hall. Then the flames shifted, warped, and Remus’s startled face appeared in the grate, haloed by the green flames.

“Sirius?” Remus’s brow furrowed, concerned and surprised all at once. "Are you alright?"

Sirius exhaled, feeling his shoulders sag under the weight of that question. "Can I come over?"

A hesitant flicker crossed Remus’s face, something Sirius instantly recognized as discomfort. Before Sirius could take it back, Remus quickly clarified, voice gentle but strained:

"I was actually about to contact you," Remus admitted softly. "James and Peter are already here. They showed up a little while ago. I wasn’t sure if..." He trailed off, uncertain.

Sirius felt a pang—not betrayal, exactly, but a familiar ache of disappointment. He wasn't sure why, but he had hoped it would just be him and Remus. James would be too loud, and Peter would mimic James. Remus was soft, and kind. And maybe he would understand what happened last night, but he won't with James being there to focus on Dark Magic and Peter's nasty comments. 

"It's fine," Sirius managed, forcing himself to sound more sure than he felt. "I'll come. Better than staying here."

Remus gave him a small nod, eyes understanding in a way only Remus’s ever were. "Alright. I'll leave the Floo open for you."

And with that, Remus’s face vanished from the flames, leaving Sirius staring once more into the empty hearth.

He threw the rest of the Floo Powder into the flames and said clearly, “Mossby Hollow.”

Sirius left the dusty fireplace and appeared in the cozy, pastel sitting room decorated in frilly doilies and knitted blankets. The classical music and shouting were gone. In their place were the soft tunes of heavy guitar riffs and aggressive vocals.

Remus was sitting to the left of Sirius in a chair his grandfather had crafted sometime at the turn of the century.

On the couch, facing the fireplace, were James and Peter. The laughter in the room died when Sirius entered.

All three wore shocked expressions at the sight of him. James's morphed into protective fury.

He stood abruptly. “Who in Godric’s name do I have to hex?” he demanded.

Remus was slower to stand, but it was out of fear and concern more than rage. Peter’s eyes darted to the other two before he chose to leave his seat.

“Oh, Merlin,” Remus muttered, before going to Sirius and pulling him toward the couch to sit down. James and Peter made room for him.

“What happened to you?”

Sirius waved him off with his uninjured hand, eyes darting anywhere but at them. “I’m fine. Just a scuffle.” A lie, thin and obvious. 

“A scuffle?” James repeated, harsh and voice cracking. He was just on the edge of manhood, but their years as boys hadn’t left him, not yet. He stood over Sirius with his hands on his hips, staring down at him like a worried mother. Or what Sirius imagined a worried mother would act like. He wouldn’t know. “A scuffle? Last time I saw you, it was that whole Malfoy party disaster—and now look at you. What happened? Did you have another round with your uncle Cygnus?”

Sirius bit his tongue. Hard. The taste of copper coated his mouth. Another round? His uncle slapped him before but he never done this! Did James think his family was violent brutes?

“James,” Remus said firmly. “Maybe now’s not the time.”

“Now’s not the time?” James asked, worry creeping into his voice. “Our best mate comes here, looking like this, and now’s not the time?”

Peter slid back into his seat, giving Sirius space. “Do you need any healing potions?” he asked, cutting through the brewing argument. “I’m sure Mr. Lupin has some.”

“Didn’t your parents give you anything?” James asked, frowning.

Sirius was given potions, of course. But the Aurors last night hadn’t just beaten him. They used nonverbal spells to make sure the injuries lasted. That’s why Bellatrix was still in the hospital. It wasn’t permanent, but Sirius was going to heal like a Muggle—or until he met up with a powerful Healer to break the curses placed on him.

“I’m fine!” Sirius snapped, his voice rising more than he wanted it to. He glared at each of his friends, even Remus, and then sighed, forcing back his anger. “Sorry, I just... don’t need any potions. And I don’t want to talk about it. I just needed a place away from my family.”

They were mercifully quiet for a moment. James settled next to Sirius, moving into his personal space. Remus sat back down in his chair, hunched over, fingers latched together.

The quiet gave Sirius a moment to reflect. Here he was in torn plaid trousers, a bloodied shirt, and a jean vest fraying at the armholes, missing buttons he’d collected over two years. He was still covered in glitter and tinted powder from the colorful bombs from last night. His boots hung off his feet, barely laced up after he put them back on when his parents picked him up from the hospital this morning.

His friends were all in respectable trousers, khakis, and tucked-in shirts. Fresh and clean.

They didn’t know he was at the riot. The riot he already knew the Prophet was twisting into some frothy tale of savagery and fear. And even if he told them, even if he said I was there, they wouldn’t understand. They’d think he was playing at Death Eater. Testing out the family name, going Dark.

Peter fiddled with his sleeves, twitching like a rodent too close to fire. “Well... James was just telling us about the Malfoy party.”

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut. He swore at every Founder, at Merlin, at Morgana, and Circe too, because of course James would bring up the party. And there was only one reason why.

“Said you danced with Snape,” Peter finished, all nerves and no tact.

Sirius opened his eyes and aimed his glare at James, not Peter.

“And?” he said, voice low.

James snorted. “Mate. You danced. With Snivellus.”

“Yeah, I danced with Severus,” Sirius said, deliberately. “What of it?”

Surprise flickered on James’s face. “I thought you had been joking.”

“Did it seem like I was joking at the party?” he countered. “I was the one who invited him to the dance floor. And we had fun.”

“Did you hit your head on his giant nose?” Peter said, his voice laced with laughter.

Sirius inhaled sharply. His stomach was filled with bile, and it threatened to come out in nasty words to cut Peter deeply in retaliation.

"Our noses? Sharp. Pointed. Big."

And Sirius remembered joking about Snape looking like a vulture.

"Greasy hair."

And he remembered James calling it “goblin oil" and getting the entire class to laugh—all except Lily Evans. And when she hexed James, Slughorn only took points from her. “Lily, I’m very disappointed.” He hadn’t said a word about the slur. The goblin oil comment just floated away, like laughter was justification enough.

"My name should’ve been Savir."

And he thought how proud he was of his own name. Sirius Orion Black. Carved by starlight, and Severus got a name made out of assimilation. 

Sirius’s jaw locked. The bile climbed higher. His voice came out low, almost a growl. “Don’t insult his nose." he exhaled, and forced himself to calm down. "Just...lay off him. Okay? He's not that bad." 

Peter blinked, thrown off. “Merlin, I was just joking—”

“I know, but does it have to be all the time?" Sirius asked.

Remus cleared his throat, stepping in with his usual quiet ease. “Maybe we leave the jokes out of it, yeah?” His tone wasn’t sharp, just firm enough. “We all know what it’s like, getting kicked around for how you look. Or act. Or are.”

Peter looked down at his hands.

James shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t tell them, by the way.”

Sirius looked over, confused. “Tell them what?”

James met his eyes. “That Severus is a Parselmouth.”

Peter’s head shot up. “He’s a what?”

James shrugged. “Didn’t think it was mine to say.”

Sirius stared. He hadn’t expected that. For all James’s loud-mouthed righteousness, there was something... careful about that. Protective, even. But the moment was ruined, of course.

“So why did you say it now?” he questioned, tone flat.

James gave him a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his head. “Uh... it slipped out without thinking.”

“I hope you’re more careful about my secret,” Remus said, and glared. He was angry on Severus’s behalf. “And you better not say anything around your father. The Parselmouth Oversight Committee is frightening.”

“The Committee is just dealing with dark magical users,” James countered, but he didn’t sound like he truly believed it.

Remus’s glare darkened, not buying the act. “Right. And I’m a dark magical creature who should be tagged and registered.”

“Well, no, of course not,” James said quickly, almost stumbling over his words. “I don’t agree with everything my father’s doing. And if I report Severus, I think Sirius would strangle me.”

“I’d do worse than that,” Sirius hissed. “You can’t tell anyone else. And it’s not just for Severus’s sake—it’s for yours, mate. His father is a very dangerous man.”

“Isn’t his father some Muggle bloke?” Peter asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

“I think his father is a Muggle-born, that’s what Lily said,” Remus corrected, but Sirius was already shaking his head.

“No. That was his stepfather,” he explained. “His real father? I’ve known him my whole life. He’s always over at my house, spending time with my father. His name is Tom Riddle. He is dangerous and unhinged. Like seriously fucked in the head.”

"That's the bloke who punched my father at the party," James said, his voice unreadable. But he couldn't hide the anger in his eyes, that hungry look for revenge Sirius seen a hundred times. It was the expression James get just before he began plotting a prank in retaliation. 

Sirius didn't know how to explain James that retaliating against Tom Riddle would get him killed. Everything told him that Riddle was Lord Voldemort, but even before Voldemort was invented, Riddle had been dangerous. 

But James was big-headed. He said he didn’t believe in blood supremacy—but he acted like half-bloods and Muggle-borns couldn’t touch him. Riddle was a half-blood. A proud one. And James would see that as a challenge. Or a joke.

That’s why their targets were always people like Severus. Never Mulciber. Never Avery. Pranking Lucius would cause political scandal. Mocking the Half-blood Prince? That was easy. That was safe.

Sirius looked away from his friend, stomach curdling. He was just as bad as the rest of his family. He thought getting into Gryffindor made him better. The fact he was friends with muggle-borns and Remus meant he wasn't his mother. The fact he punched Evan Rosier for calling Mary Macdonald mudblood made him superior. But he wasn't. And James wasn't too. 

Peter, oblivious to the shift in mood, cut through the tension. “So, uh… did you really fight fairfolk?”

Sirius blinked, then rolled his head toward him with a lopsided smirk. “Oh yeah. Unseelie mantis. Old Hagrid would have an aneurism if he saw that.” His grin spread wider at the awe blooming across Peter’s face.

“We should go into the woods and look for Fairfolk,” James said suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Uh… no,” Remus said flatly. “You’re not going to piss off the fae that live near my house.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Moony?” James countered, grinning wide.

Remus gave him a long look. “I like my soul where it is, thanks.”

Peter chuckled nervously, fidgeting with the fray of his sleeve. “You think there’s giant spiders in this forest?”

There was a nervous twitch in his voice—one that hadn’t quite left since second year. He’d developed a fear of spiders after James pranked him with a miniature Acromantula in Potions class. Peter had accidentally ruined their project by burning the base ingredient, and James had decided that warranted a "lesson."

It was one of the rare times Sirius hadn’t laughed. Even then, he hadn’t liked cruelty without reason.

But in the end, James convinced them. 

The woods behind the Lupin house had grown wild from neglect, moss slick across stone and the brambles thicker than Sirius remembered. They made a half-hearted attempt to summon Fairfolk—Peter banged a spoon against a tree, James howled like a banshee, and Remus dutifully muttered an old Welsh rhyme that sounded like a curse but probably translated to "please go away." Sirius stayed silent because he knew not to mess with the Fae. This is why his family lived in a Townhouse in London. Less contact with the Otherworld, outside of house elves of course. 

But despite James and Peter's wishes, no fae came.

Just a family of hedgehogs that Peter nearly tripped over, and a suspicious number of spiders that caused him to walk several meters behind the rest.

Sirius trailed behind his friends, spotting potions ingredients on the forest floor he could pick and bring to Severus. He was hardly paying attention to the conversations between his three friends, because his mind kept wandering to the duel at the party. The way Severus looked as he tossed his coat, and his waist. In that corset. And his legs. A shiver went down his spine. 

At school, Sirius instigated almost all the duels between Severus. He just enjoyed watching the other boy get angry and flustered and loved his barbs. Unfortunately, James would insert himself as the third wheel, and Remus and Peter became a crowd, and it wasn't him versus Severus, it was four on one. And that wasn't fun. 

So to watch Severus dance around Prince Alexei, something primal snapped inside Sirius. 

By the time they wandered back toward the house, Sirius felt calmer. Lighter. Dirt on his boots, a leaf tangled in his hair, blood dried in places he didn’t want to inspect. But he’d laughed. He’d walked the woods like they used to do as boys. And maybe Sirius had picked up a stems of foxgloves, handling them with gentle care. 

And maybe he noticed James whispering to Peter, glancing Sirius's way. 

But he didn't pay attention. 

Until Peter spoke. 

“Maybe the fairies didn’t show up ‘cause they caught a whiff of Snivelus’s shampoo on Sirius,” he joked, flicking a bug off his shoulder. “Or lack thereof. Merlin, that hair—does it move on its own?”

It was another typical barb. One they all had said before, and it shouldn't matter.

But Sirius stopped walking.

James barked a single laugh. Remus glanced between them all, nervous but remained silent. 

Peter's smile faded when he got a look at Sirius's face. “What? You said no nose jokes. This one’s fine, right?”

His voice came out low, flat. “You really think it's about his nose? Or his hair?”

Peter blinked.

“Mate,” James started.

“No,” Sirius snapped. “You think it’s the words, like if you just avoid the wrong ones, you’re in the clear. Like none of you meant it.”

He shook his head. “It’s not about the words. It’s about why they’re easy. Why it’s always him." and the words tumbled out of him, quickly without him meaning too. "You're no better than the Prince at the party, the one who called Severus a gypsy. Or Sybil, wearing Romani clothes like they're a costume. Or the Muggles who made him scared to speak Farsi outside. You're no different."

He didn't wait for them to speak.

Sirius grabbed his jacket from the porch railing and stormed inside without them to the fireplace. He went to the mantle and grabbed a fistful of Floo Powder. Just before he left, Remus came rushing in after him.

"Sirius, don't go," Remus pleaded, his amber eyes filled with worry. 

 "I'm not going to listen to any racist comments about him," Sirius all but snapped. 

"Don't you think that's harsh?" Remus's voice was soft, an attempt to calm Sirius down, but it did the opposite. 

"It's not," Sirius hissed out. "It's racist and wrong. You think only about lycanthropy and magical creatures, and I only thought about purebloods and muggle-borns, but it's bigger than that. The world is much bigger than that. I learned a lot last night." 

A flicker of understanding gleamed in Remus's eyes. 

"You were at the riot the papers were talking about," he said carefully. "That's why you're injured, and covered in powdered bombs. You're with the Death Eaters."

"It's not what they wrote about," Sirius tried to plead. "It really isn't. I heard, really heard, what the Ministry is doing to people. I saw it with my own eyes, experienced it."

"And where does Snape fit in all of this?" Remus asked, frowning. 

 "I kissed him." he confessed without thinking. "Severus is my boyfriend."

Remus's mouth hung open. "You kissed him? And you're dating?" he asked, and Sirius looked way. "I thought you're choosing to be his friend, the dancing was weird, but you like to be different and standout and just using Snape." 

"It's more than that," Sirius confessed. 

Remus got closer, hesitating taking a few steps toward him. "I just don't understand what changed. Are you gay?" He was now within an arm's length. 

Sirius didn't answer the question because he wasn't sure. He just liked interesting people, and he always found Severus interesting. It didn't matter of Severus was a boy or a girl, or anything in between. That's why he pulled Snape's hair all throughout their first year. Always talked about Severus. Thought about him and what he was doing. The others took it Sirius wanted to prank the other boy, and he just let them think that. Because it was easier. And maybe he should stay and tell Remus everything, explain himself. 

"I'll talk to you later," he said instead. He turned to the fire. "Thornespire, Riddle Cottage." and threw the ash into the flames, disappearing into them. 

Severus was sitting in the kitchen, attempting to read, but the words on the page began to blur. His eyes flicked across the same sentence three times without processing it. But what seeing in the book wasn't what he was hearing. He hearing Xenophilius reading from the manifesto. 

His thoughts drifted to the riot. To Rupert’s lifeless form on the ground. He hadn't even seen it coming, too focus on the Dark Mark, hoping for a savior. To Sybil Trelawney twitching under the weight of Crucio, her flower petals crumpled around her. And then to the green light—that light—coming right at him. Only for his father to step right in front of the spell, and survive. 

The only comfort he found was in the moment Grimsby died. Tom had killed him, but Severus pointed at the Auror. It was like he was directing Tom to kill every man who hurt him: Tobias, National Front members, James.

Severus had thought it. He was truly going to fire the Killing Curse, but he didn't need to. Tom Riddle was his Killing Curse. The satisfaction in watching that man get butchered in the streets after killing Rupert left Severus smiling. 

He didn’t allow his mind to linger on the details.  Instead, he sat very still and focused on that strange sensation of control. If this was what revenge bought, he wanted to chase the feeling. 

He stopped pretending to read and looked at his left forearm. He ran his fingers over the empty space. 

Soon, Severus will take his father's mark and join him on the battlefield. If Tom allowed it. Tom might shield him from this life, but Severus didn't want to be protected. He wanted to fight against the Ministry. 

The wards in the house were triggered. It felt it in his blood because they were written with his father's. 

He abandoned the novel in the kitchen and wandered into the living room. 

Standing in the middle was Sirius, looking around with disgusted look on his face. Apparently, the Gryffindor didn't appreciate the overt Slytherin decor. The other boy was still in yesterday's clothes, still covered in glitter and powders and blood. It was like the riot just happened an hour ago, and not last night. 

Severus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. "You look like shit," he said flatly. 

Sirius turned to him, smirking. "I like to look my best."

"Did a healer even looked at you?" Severus countered, brows furrowed. Did his parents even take him to the hospital? 

"The Aurors enchanted my injuries," he explained, walking over to Severus. "They can't be properly healed without a curse breaker. Is your curse-breaking father around?" 

Severus shook his head, standing straighter. "No, I don't know what he's doing or when he's coming back," he answered honestly. He pointed passed Sirius to the fire place.  "Last time I saw him, he Flooed out of here, declaring he was going to do something illegal and enjoy the leftovers in the refrigerator."

He dropped his hand and looked Sirius up and down. "Do...do you want a change of clothes?"

Sirius tilted his head to the side, smirking. "Aww, it's cute you think I can fit your clothes when you're a stick." 

Severus sneered, upping the venom in his retort. "You're right. I don't want inbred germs on my clothes anyway." 

Sirius grinned harder, the finally smile reaching his eyes. "At least my pureblood family hasn't disowned me yet." 

Severus scoffed, stepping a little closer. "Yet. Somehow, you’re the embarrassment of the whole inbred dynasty. Impressive, really."

"Please," Sirius snorted “your Gaunt family tree’s a wreath. At least mine has branches.”

“Knots don’t count as branches, Black.”

“So says the boy who probably sleeps with his wand. You practicing Avada on teddy bears?”

“No,” Severus said coolly. “Just your reflection.”

Sirius let out a laugh, and Severus smiled in the face of it. "Yeah, I could use a shower and extra pair of clothes." and his smile fell. "It's been long twelve hours." 

Severus led Sirius upstairs and to his bedroom. 

He flipped the lights on. "Excuse the mess, I'm still in the process of being settled in," he drawled.

Sirius slipped passed him and examined his new room. The dresser, bed, night stand were all there before Severus moved in. His school supplies were shoved in a corner, tucked neatly and out of sight. His new record player rested on top of the dresser, and his newly minted collection of records was up against the wall. In between everything that happened in the last week and half, Severus covered up the frankly gaudy wallpaper with posters of muggle bands, the few things he salvaged from his old bedroom. He had new ones too, and he was most fond of the queen poster that took up a part of his wall.

The only messes in the room was his bed was unmade, and he left his clothes from last night on the floor. 

To anyone else, it wasn’t a mess at all. But to Severus, it was enough to earn the belt. Tobias didn’t need a reason—just a sock left out, a wrinkle in the bedsheets, a book not tucked precisely on the shelf.
He could leave beer bottles on the floor, ash in the sink, takeaway boxes reeking in the heat. That was fine. That was his. 

But Severus? If his shoes weren’t aligned or his jumper wasn’t folded, Tobias would drag him out of bed at midnight to scream, hit, make him watch as he tore the room apart just to prove a point. That he was the mess. That Severus ruined everything by existing in it.

He felt comfortable leaving his bedroom in such a state because Tom proven he wouldn't hit Severus ever. 

"You call this messy?" Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow.

Severus shrugged and walked over to the dresser. He pulled out one of his baggier band shirts—a Rolling Stones tee he'd nicked from a shop when he was fourteen, back when neither Eileen nor Tobias had money to spare. Along with it, he grabbed a pair of looser jeans and tossed both to Sirius.

Sirius caught them, but almost dropped the jeans as his bad arm got in the way.

"What, no draws or briefs?" he snarked.

Severus made a face. "Just because we're dating doesn’t mean we’re sharing underpants." He gestured toward the door. "The bathroom’s down the hall. You can use your little unregistered wand to clean your pants if it’s that serious."

"Not gonna hop in with me?" Sirius asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Severus felt the blood rush to his face, turning his cheeks pink. He opened his mouth to reply, stammered once—and Sirius’s grin split into a barely-stifled laugh.

"You’re disgusting!" Severus finally blurted.

Sirius doubled over in laughter.

Flustered, Severus stormed over and shoved him out of the room, directing him toward the bathroom.

"Go take your shower. And hurry up!"

Sirius’s laughter followed him down the hall and behind the bathroom’s slightly ajar door.

Severus lingered for a moment before drifting over. He slid down to sit just beside the doorframe, voice low as he spoke through the crack.

“Is your cousin okay?”

There was a pause—only the sound of Sirius’s shirt hitting the tiled floor, followed by the soft shuffle of his feet.

“No,” he said, and for once, his voice held no sarcasm. Just quiet weight that was so unlike the other boy it hurt. “She’s still at the hospital. Bella got beaten pretty bad. She’s also off her meds and attacked the magimeds and thaumaturgists in the curse ward. So they’re transferring her to the Psychological Healing Wing for a while.”  

"I'm sorry," Severus said, because that's all he could say. 

They fell silent, and Severus heard Sirius struggling to take his pants off with his injured arm. There was a hiss of pain, almost a whimper. And he wasn't sure what to do to help, so he sat there until he heard the running water. 

Quietly, he walked down the stairs and through the sitting room, and the small hallway, on the right was Tom's office, on the left, was stairs down to the basement and potions lab. He actually hadn't been down there before, not yet.

He opened the door and the smell of chemicals, decay, and dried herbs and flowers lofted 

He waited for his eyes to adjust in the dark, and saw a  chain swinging on the front step. He pulled the chain with a click, and the staircase was illuminated by an orange lights. Glyphs were carved down the walls, ancient symbols Severus didn't recognized—at first. 

They're Celtic symbols, humming with Parselmagic. 

He walked down slowly, examining the engravings. They were done by hand, not wandpoint. They're crude editions to the house, smoothed over by time. 

He wondered when Tom created these and how long it took to create each glyph. 

Severus didn't dare to touch them. Who knew what the symbols meant and what they could do. He just needed healing potions and poultices. He didn't need the house to collapse because he was curious.  

The temperature dropped as Severus descended, not from lack of heat, but from layers of old magic, layered thick as dust. Tom had insolated the lab to preserve the ingredients, turning it into a walk in cooler. 

He came to the bottom of the stairs, and the lights on the walls automatically turned on. 

"Wow," he murmured under his breath. 

The laboratory was built with function in mind, not to impress anyone who would stumble upon it, but it certainly impressed Severus. On the left wall, shelves lined with glass bottles stretched floor to ceiling, each one neatly labeled in Tom’s unmistakable script. Some shimmered gold, burning like the sun. Others were bottled storms, raging inside their glass containers. Bloodroot, powdered star-iron, crystalized venom. Ingredients so rare they were considered to be myth. And they just here in his father's house, alphabetized.

A reinforced cabinet held crystalline vials marked with warning runes. Alchemical weapons. Explosives designed for skin, for wards, for souls. His father crafted entire arsenal. Severus approached the cabinet, examining the revolver with a glowing barrel and held together by gears. 

A long table along the far wall bore the evidence of in-progress experiments: dissected runestones, deconstructed bomb cores, fragments of cursed jewelry. And among the this chaos, were jars—

Severus paused, a slow creep of horror over coming him.

Suspended in stasis, inside the jars were body parts. A hand missing the thumb, a pair of eyes floating in deep violet liquid, a fetus-like shape curled tight in amniotic gold.

Severus's stomach twisted in knots seeing fetus. Had it been human? Was it still human? 

Across from the jars, a blackened forge and distillation cauldron still hissed with the remnants of whatever Tom had last brewed.

Not even the floor was spared from Tom's madness. Chalk runes lined up in circles, overlapping like Venn diagrams. 

Tom had a chalkboard on wheels. In loose script, Tom has drawn war plans on a tool for class rooms. He gotten closer, noticing the names of important ministry officials and lines through the words. A photograph of Fabian and Gideon Prewett were stuck to the board with sticky tack, a messy note indicating they're dead but they didn't confess what the traitor told them. 

A list of potential recruits were tucked against the side. Severus took note none of the names were people in school right now, but they were recent graduates. Orson Shacklebolt and Mangala Verma were underlined twice...

And there was a bizarre and frankly disturbing collage of Mangala stuck to the board too. Some of the photos were clearly taken from magazines, but some were her just walking down the street.

Severus decided it was not his problem his father was serial stalker unless he becomes violent toward her. Then he would care. maybe even floo Albus Dumbledore. But until then, he will let his father live in his delusional state.

And on the other side of the lab was shelf of potions, which is what he came down here for in the first place. 

But he didn't approach the shelf. Instead, he was transfixed on the full length mirror against the wall. 

It stood taller than Severus, nearly grazing the ceiling—a full-length mirror with a frame carved from serpentine stone, a dark green with streaks of black. The glass didn’t shine; it shimmered, pulsing faintly in tandem of his heartbeat. The surface moved in waves, mimicking the lake. He expected a merperson to swim by. 

At the crown of the frame sat Medusa’s head, chiseled in brutal, deliberate detail. Her face was not tragic, but regal in monstrosity—brows arched, mouth slightly parted as if she was in the middle of a laugh. Her eyes were blind and deep-set, the sockets filled with black opal stones that caught no light. Her hair was a mass of serpents, each rendered so realistically, he assumed they would begin to speak. They slithered down the edges of the frame. Their open mouths bared fangs, tongues flicking out of stone.

The snakes coiled downward, curling around the vertical beams of the mirror’s structure like a binding spell. Some wrapped tightly, others loosely dangled, creating the illusion they might twitch if you blinked.

Carved between the serpents were ancient glyphs, they were so archaic even Severus struggled to decipher them. They glowed faintly with that same burnt-orange hue that lit the staircase. 

He hadn't even noticed he was in front of the mirror until he her could touch the surface. 

His fingers almost grazed the surface. 

But his name on Sirius's lips pulled his attention. 

"Severus?" Sirius called from the top of the stairs.

Severus flinched, jolting out of trance he didn't know he was under. 

He shook his head and stepped away from the mirror before turning to the shelf. He had to force himself to not look back.

 "Down here!" he called out, exhaling sharply.  

Maybe he shouldn't invite his boyfriend down into his father's lab...

“This is bloody wicked,” Sirius muttered, eyes wide as he entered the lab, turning in a slow circle. "And most definitely illegal. I don't think this kind of alchemy lab is permitted outside of the Department of Mysteries." 

"I have the strangest feeling that my father does not care," Severus drawled, eyes scanning the different labels. Come one, his father was a healer by profession, where is his healing potions? Why did Tom need so many poisons? 

Sirius moved to Severus's side. 

"What are you doing?" he asked, but his eyes was on the strange mirror in the corner.

"Raiding Tom's potions for something that can heal you," Severus murmured. 

His eyes landed on a label on the third shelf: experimental healing elixir. 

Severus snatched the bottle by it's neck. The blood red liquid splashed around in the glass container as held it up for Sirius to see. 

"This should do," he said. "Here, take it."

"And how do we know it's safe?" Sirius asked. He rubbed his badly bruised arm, unsure if he should take it. 

"My father a professional healer, he knows what he's doing," he argued. 

He eyed the bottle, and then looked around the lab with a distrustful frown. Severus suppose he understood, but he trusted the potion anyway. This was the kind of lab could only produce the best quality of potions with its experimental ingredients and ancient magic carved into the very foundation of the basement. The Ministry stamped out creativity in the name of safety, regulating potion making and alchemy into glorified forms of chemistry with a dose of magic. Tom was a true practitioner, not like that social climber Horace Slughorn. 

He also trusted Tom because just a few short days ago saved Severus's life by reverse engineering basilisk venom into a healing potion. 

"Look," he said, pulling Sirius's attention. He screwed the top off and the overwhelming smell of Mandrake root overtook the clinical smell of the lab. The earthy, appley scent almost knocked the boys back with the strength 

"Blood hell!" Sirius exclaimed. "When Slughorn taught us how to brew healing potions they didn't smell like that." 

"It just means my father brewed something stronger," Severus argued. He thrusted the bottle into against Sirius's chest. "Just drink half." 

With unsure hand, Sirius took the bottle. He gave Severus another dubious look but drank it without complaint. 

Sirius's eyes widened as took one large gulp and swallowed. His pupils dilated, nearly over taking his blue irises. From his mouth, his veins glowed a gold under his skin. It lasted for only a second, but it was there. 

Severus wondered briefly if he made a mistake giving Sirius this random, experimental potion created by a madman unregulated by government and any god

Sirius lowered the bottle, giggling. "What is in this?" he asked as handed the bottle back to Severus. 

The effects were immediate. The bruises on his arm, lip, and eye were gone, the swelling went down.  His posture straightened, and his expression softened into something loose, euphoric. And then he laughed again.

And again.

And again.

He tried to cover his mouth, but the grin wouldn’t leave.

“Merlin’s tits,” he wheezed, nearly doubling over. “You have to try it.”

Severus wasn’t injured. But it couldn’t hurt. Not with the way Sirius was smiling at him like the world had cracked open and was full of sunlight.

So he brought the bottle to his lips—and downed the rest.

Euphoria crashed into him. Lightness lifted him, like his limbs were helium. His head floated up into the stratosphere, and all the weight he carried from last night—from the last few weeks—drifted away out of reach. 

Laughter bubbled from his chest. His fingers slipped. The bottle hit the stone floor and shattered with a sharp, musical crash.

Glass scattered across the flagstones in glittering pieces.

And that? That was hilarious.

Severus laughed harder.

And Sirius joined him. 

And the two just laughed in the middle of the illegal lab without a care in the world. 

Severus slowed, breathing hard, feeling happy, beyond happy. He didn't have a word for how he felt, but he better now than ever had been in his life. 

Sirius wiped his eyes, grinning hard. "Why is so funny?" 

"I don't know," Severus said, watching his steps to avoid the glass below. Why didn't he wear trainers or house shoes, he thought and that made his thought giggle. 

Sirius watched him struggle for a moment, bemused. He glanced around the floor, and spotted a clear spot with no glass shards near the mirror. 

Without warning, Sirius lunged at Severus, grabbing his waist and lifting him in the air.

Severus yelped, and clamped both hands over his mouth for a second. 

"Put me down!" he snapped, hitting Sirius in the chest, but Sirius didn't listen. "Black, you simple-minded, idiotic, brutish fool! I said put me--

his feet touched the floor once more, and he nearly toppled over, but Sirius caught him. 

Laughing, Severus hit Sirius again, pushing him back a bit. "You're a tosser, you know that?" 

Sirius didn't seem to mind the abuse or the name calling. He leaned into Severus's personal space, grinning and flashing his teeth like a dog. "I've might have heard that once or twice before." 

Severus took a step back. "Oh, than why haven't you changed then?" 

"I got you without changing, didn't I?" Sirius asked, taking a slow step forward. "Really, you're just encouraging me to be a bit naughty."

Severus's eyes widened, blushing and turning away, embarrassed. Suddenly, the lab wasn't chilly as he thought. 

He took another step and bumped right into the mirror—

and fell backward—

on to soft dirt and grass. 

It happened so fast he didn't even let out a scream, just shocked into silence. 

Severus sat up quickly and looked around wildly at his new surroundings. His legs were still through the mirror that turned not to be a mirror at all. In a panic, he scrambled to pull his legs out and to his feet. 

"Holy shit!" Sirius said, hurrying after him. "I thought that was...a mirror..."

His words drifted and died in his throat. 

Gone was the potions lab, the cottage, the Oxshire village. 

They weren’t in England anymore.

Towering over them were spiraling trees covered in silver leaves. They stood in between being dead and pulsating with life. They arched and mangled together, creating a natural tent. Through the leaves, Severus could barely make out the milky green sky that pulsed with magic like the mirror. The trunks were wider than the Hogwarts gates, and the roots broke out of the surface of the ground. 

A path of slick, stone steps wound up a distant hill. Giant stone pillars were reclaimed by time and nature, covered by moss, fungi, and flowers. 

Surrounding the mirror was a ring of mushrooms that glowed that burnt-orange carved into Tom's laboratory. 

Was Tom plucking from fairy circles? 

And that horrified Severus more than anything in Tom's lab. His mother’s warnings echoed in his head: Never step in a ring of mushrooms. Never thank the fair folk. Never eat their food. 

"Sirius," he hissed, the high he had been on a second ago came crashing down all around. "Sirius!"

But Sirius was moving forward, leaving the mirror and wandering a few steps out of reach. 

"This is brilliant," he said in awe. He looked back at Severus, blue eyes glittering with mischief. "Let's explore." 

"Are you daft?" he snapped, waving his arms around. "I have no shoes, neither of us have wands. What do you mean explore?!" 

Sirius turned around fully, shoving his hands in the back pockets of his bowered jeans, and grinning like it was an easy question.  

"Your old man has portal to the Otherworld and you're complaining not having trainers?" he asked, cheeky. 

Severus lifted his leg, showing off his socks. "Yes! Are you mad?" He put his foot down, and snapped a twig underneath. He flinched at the noise and noticed...there was no noise at all. No birds, no rustling leaves. Nothing. But stillness. 

They needed to get out of here.

"I didn't take you for a coward," Sirius said, a nasty glint in his eyes. Because he knew, he knew that would set Severus off. 

And did. 

He stormed right over to Sirius, grabbing him but the collar and pulling him close. 

"Do. Not. Call. Me. A. Coward." he snarled through clenched teeth. 

Sirius just grinned before reaching over and kissed Severus on the cheek, stunning him. 

He easily slipped out of Severus's grasp and hurried out of reach, stepping outside of the fairy circle. "Come on, let's go fairy hunting." before taking off. 

Severus let out frustrated sigh, muttering a spell to conjure trainers on his feet. Magic shimmered around him. he was expecting a slight deep in his mgical core for doing a wandless spell, but here the magic came naturally. And his trainers, the new ones Tom had bought him a weeks ago were on his him in an instant. 

Magic came easier here, he realized. 

"Will you hurry up?" Sirius asked, waving his hand. He was already up a few steps 

Severus shook his head and took after Sirius up the winding steps and slowed until he got closer. 

"This is foolish," he said. "We both were raised on horror stories about the Otherworld and the fae."

Sirius shrugged his concern off with a smile and pretty eyes that were still more pupils than irises. "It's fun." 

He held his hand out for Severus to take. "C'mon we'll just have a quick look." 

And Severus didn't hesitate and took his hand. "Ten minutes," he warned, but he already lost just by agreeing to this adventure. 

"Ten minutes," Sirius repeated with mirth in his voice before dragging Severus up the ruined stone steps and into the woods. 

Chapter Text

In the hallowed halls of the Ministry of Magic, Albus Dumbledore's voice carried and echoed like thunder off in the distance. 

"You legalized the Unforgivables?" Albus's question was not meant to be answered, but an accusation. 

He stood in the middle of court, looking up in the faces of men and women he once respected. It was not a full session. Several families were notably absent. The Malfoys, The Averys, the Blacks, the Parkinsons, the Mulcibers, the Goyles, the Travers, the Crabbes, the Lestranges. And many more were not there. 

The most notable member of the lords and ladies missing was Corban Yaxley who was planning a funeral for his son. A son who just a year ago graduated from Hogwarts. Rupert had a bright future, his eyes on post education and study ancestral magic. And it was snuffed out in a moment. 

And Albus, despite despising these families for their sickening pureblood supremacy and their support of a very dangerous man, was there representing them. Representing Rupert's memory and denied future.  

Becausethe alternative was Tom Riddle firebombing the Ministry into oblivion. 

"What were you thinking?" he demanded of the court, his voice trembled from grief and rage. "You didn't just pass it — you passed it in the dark. Denied others of their votes. And for what?" 

Lawrence Prewett stood from his seat.

"Lord Voldemort murdered my great-nephews, both Aurors, last week--

"So a madman’s violence justifies state murder now?" Albus asked, cutting him off. "That justifies crucioing three people last night? Two of whom were young women, one of whom is the daughter of a royal family from India!"

 He pointed a sharp, judgmental finger at the head of the Prewett family. "If you want to play ignorant to the crimes your damned Aurors committed last night and the consequences for this country, fine by me. You will reap what you’ve sown. But you will not ignore the international mess you all created by granting curse-happy men the right to kill in our streets!"

He put his hands on his hips, glaring up at assembly. Half lords and ladies of ancient families, the rest were bureaucratic officials crawled through the system through sheer ambition and will. He knew them all, because they're his classmates or former students. He knew their faces. Their names, their birthdays, their favorite subjects at school. He remembered Augusta Crouch, before she was married to Campbell, and her excitement for her first Hogsmeade date. He worked with Raghnall McKinnon on his Transfiguration homework so he could pass. He wrote a letter of recommendation for Eugenia Jinkins for her start in the Minister's office when she was twenty-five. And again when she became Minster.  

But did he truly know them? He didn't know, not after last week when they made Parseltongue—not even the magic—but the language illegal. And then they legalized the darkest of spells. 

Albus didn't know anymore. 

Among them, stood Humphrey Smith, great-uncle of Hepzibah stood, and Albus braced himself for whatever ridiculous argument he was going to make. 

"That woman who was corrected at last night's rally is the sister of the man who murdered my niece," he said, not to Albus but to the court. "If any country should be worried of retaliation it is India."

There was a low murmur across the the assembly. 

Albus watched in horror as some agreed, and beyond that, not seeing the reality of what has been done last night. They were justifying the murder of Rupert because last week Death Eaters killed Fabian and Gideon Prewett. Because a young foreign man murdered Hepzibah Smith, his sister deserved to be tortured?

How could any of them stand against the blood supremacists in the Ministry while being imperial racists? Are these the men and women Albus to ally with against the Death Eaters? Starting the Order was the correct decision. His resolve was resolute.  

But not everyone agreed with Smith. Some watched on in silence, with hate in their eyes.

Samir Patil looked like he wanted to speak, but held his tongue. But the hate and anger was evident. The former Ravenclaw student shifted in his seat, disengaging with the conversation. 

 The Meadowes sisters, Adalina and Hazel, were as disgusted as Albus felt. But they wouldn't fight both sides. No. Adalina would turn to her old boyfriend for safety. Tom would gleefully take another powerful pureblood family.

And where did that leave her daughter, Dorcas? To the Death Eaters? To the Aurors?

He needed to get to the younger generation before either side tore apart the future of their country. 

He was about to turn to leave, dejected by the system he swore to protect when a terrible presence reached the doors of the assembly. 

Albus felt her before she entered the room. They all did. 

The oppressive death that clung in the air followed by shuddering bang of the doors announced her presence. 

The room erupted into nervous glances and horrified gasps as three intruders dress in black strode in the court. They were vampires, they were Princes. 

Taking lead was Tempest Prince, a Vampire Lord, well into her two hundreds. Her black hair framed her face, making her sallow skin more sickly, more gaunt. Her frown was painted a warm rosy hue, the only color on her body. The intricate lacy dress clung to her body, and her silk cape bellowed out behind her, giving her the appearance of smoke. 

Flanking her left was her cousin, Crispin Prince. 

With a few tweeks to his face, he was what Severus will look like in twenty years. He stood straighter, towering over Tempest. His robes were simple, but not less impressive than what Tempest wore. He inherited his great-great grandfather's robes. 

And on Tempest's right, was  the youngest vampire to the Prince Coven: Eileen Prince. 

She did not wear her cheaply made muggle clothes, but instead dressed once more  like the pureblood heiress she was born to be before she married two muggle-born men, and soiled the Princes with a halfblood son. 

But she was more than just pureblood heiress returned from exile. She was a vampire. Her once obsidian eyes turned a shade of ruby, matching Tempest and Crispin. 

It hadn't even a been two weeks since she abandoned Severus to live with Tom, and Eileen was given her humanity up. But Albus doubted she had any to begin with if left Severus to suffer his father's cruelty. 

Charlus Potter stood from his seat, pointing down at the vampires. "You have no business here!" he bellowed, his voice didn't betray his fear. "You have to arrange meetings through the Department of Magical Creatures." 

"Silence, blood-traitor!" Tempest seethed out. "Before I rip your throat out!"

She flashed her fangs, hissing. "Blood pacts and treaties are older than this government. Unlike you all, we follow old magic." 

She stalked around the room, ignoring Albus entirely. 

He was the only one in the room who was a viable threat to her. They fought before, years ago, when he was younger and she still looked the same. She hadn't been a Vampire Lord then, but he beaten other Lords. 

He just didn't want to fight her because one these fools insulted her. 

"Hours ago," she spoke in harsh clarity, "my niece was contacted by the repulsive mudblood that defiled her."

Albus glanced at Eileen, who stood emotionless against the condemnation from Tempest. He wasn't surprised, but he had hoped she wouldn't take her aunt's abuse. 

"Informing me," the Vampire Lord continued, dragging out her words only a Prince could. The drawl was harsher on Tempest's tongue. "Her son was targeted and nearly murdered by one of your Aurors!" 

Her voice rang out, cutting through the chamber like a funeral bell.  It shook the foundation of the courtroom. People had to grab their seats. Eugenia Jinkins nearly toppled over her towering podium. Charlus gritted his teeth, wishing nothing to hex the vampire out of existence. 

Albus simply stood, arms behind his back and fingers laced together.  He knew what she was capable of—and worse, he knew she was right to be furious. And that is why he stayed his hand. For now. He would let her yell. He was tired of yelling himself. 

"He may be a halfblood, tainted by his repugnant half-muggle father, but he is still a Prince! He is still one of mine!" The last word came out as a roar. "I demand retribution!" 

Jinkins tried to gain control of her court. "The Auror who fired the spell was murdered last night--

"THAT IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH, MINISTER!" Tempest bellowed on the top of her lungs. And the  air crackled with raw, vampire magic. 

Jinkins shrunk away. Her eyes flickered to Albus for help. 

He shrugged at her as a response. He wasn't coming to her rescue. Just last week he pushed a bit to replace her, but now he wasn't backing Barty Crouch or Charlus Potter as her replacement. He will not back any of them. They will learn their lesson when the Death Eaters push their man to the front.

"And what do you want us to do?" Charlus countered, speaking for the Minister. He was forcing himself to stay calm while his boss shook at her podium. "If you want your vengeance, the man who denied your blood is not in the room. If our Chief Warlock hadn't suddenly forgotten his tongue, he could explain the situation."

He sent a sharp glare at Albus, his eyes screaming that Albus's silence was a betrayal was a betrayal. 

"Why should I continue to speak when you cut out the tongues of children?" Albus said coolly. The assembly rippled with murmurs, but Charlus didn't flinch. "That is what you do on the Parselmouth Committee. There are...rumors." Rumors he believed because if there was something Tom wasn't it was a liar. He could lie, but he never made it habit. 

"Unfounded rumors drummed up by radicals who wish to use the Committee's legitimate concern over unregulated Dark Magic to back Voldemort's cause," Charlus spoke rapidly, with a righteous vigor, while some nodded along with him. "Who, I want it be known that I still believe is Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"My ex-husband is not Lord Voldemort," Eileen spoke up for the first time. She moved forward, closer to the assembly. "I will not the father of my son slandered when you passed laws that almost nearly ended Severus's life!" 

Campbell Longbottom stood up now, sparing a glance at Augusta before he spoke "We're fighting a war, Eileen"

"So you legalize state sanctioned murder on civilians?" she countered, not flinching. She was heiress to an ancient family. She did not forget how to argue in court in her fifteen years living in Spinner's End. "That is what you are telling me, Longbottom. You allow murder and torture in Diagon Alley."

"Last night," Charlus interrupted, fixing his glasses, "was an unfortunate accident, but justified use force. A necessary risk to win against radicals."

The air in the room plummeted. Not from Tempest, but Eileen. At the center of the arctic vortex, was an enraged mother.

And a new source of magic. 

Albus turned in time to see Tom barreling out of the shadows, yew wand drawn and aiming at Charlus's head 

His presence sent the assembly into a frenzy. Mattias Selwyn shrunk in his seat, contrasting to those who stood and shouted at his intrusion. He was just hoping Tom didn't notice him. 

"Our son is not collateral damage, you son-of-a-bitch!" 

"This is the second time you raised your wand at me, Riddle!" Charlus shouted, slamming his hand down on the table in front of him "I will have you arrested and your medical license revoked!"

Tom didn't lower his wand at first until Eileen grabbed his wrist and pushed it down. 

Albus let his hand fall from his brow, watching as the whispers began. They weren’t about the wand, or the shouting, or even the allegations.

No—people were murmuring because Tom Riddle wasn’t supposed to be here.

Legally, he was a halfblood. That had been corrected a decade ago, pushed through a bill that elevated many muggle borns to halfblood status. But in their eyes—in the eyes of this room full of half-blood nobles and pureblood light families and blood-traitor reformers—he was still a muggle-born. A poor orphan from a poor, muggle orphanage. The squib’s bastard. 

They didn’t say it aloud. They never did. But their silence now was the same silence that kept him off Hogwarts boards, out of Ministry positions, away from Gringotts partnerships. 

It was the silence that whispered: you can change your blood on paper, but never in our eyes.

And this was the Light families. The Dark families, the ones who boycotted this assembly, who were even more bigoted toward muggle-borns, supported Tom. Because they needed him.

And Tom was not beating the allegations that he was Voldemort with stunts like this. And after Albus covered for Tom, he assumed the man would know how to lay low. 

"Arrest me," Tom said in eerily calm voice. "See what happens when you attempt to." 

Hysterically, Charlus pointed at Tom, declaring. "He's right there! That's Voldemort! I don't give a damn what anyone says that's Voldemort!" he looked around wildly at the assembly. "We all know Lord Prince had given Tom the reigns of his criminal organization a decade ago. Even if we don't want to talk about it because it's not polite we know the Knights of Walpurgis turned into the Death Eaters."

Adalina Meadowes stood from her seat. "I heard enough of this farce. I'm not going to sit here while baseless accusations are thrown about when our Aurors were committing real crimes last night!" Her sister nodded along with her, he expression stony and cold. 

For a brief moment, Adalina and Tom exchanged glances. For once, Tom's infidelity and his own brand of toxicity hadn't ruined a past relationship. And Adalina was paying Tom back by lending him more public defense. 

Samir's eyes flickered to Adalina. Feeling more confident, he stood as well. "And I am not going to allow my country be demonized further." He gestured to the empty seats. "Half of Wizengamot is not here today because of what was passed behind closed doors. I do not know about any of you, but I was not invited to vote on the legalization of the Unforgivables. Or the criminalization of Parseltongue." he sent a glare to Minister Jinkins and then Charlus. "I wonder why that is?" 

Several nodded along with Samir, murmuring they too had been ignored for the vote. And Albus took stock of those who agreed with Samir, and yet didn't seem radicalized to the point they would agree with Tom. 

"Maybe you were not invited," Michael Abbott, a wizard Albus's age, stated in a low voice, "because countries to the East are rooted in Dark Magics." 

The assembly dove straight into chaos. Samir was ready to lunge at Abbott, but Senior Advisor Chang stopped him. Accusations flew, Jinkins shrunk behind her podium until she disappeared, fleeing like a coward.  

Albus decided it was time to get the court under control. 

“That will be quite enough.” His voice wasn’t raised this, but the magic behind it settled the room for now. 

For the first time, Tempest looked his way, scowling. He would need to speak to her privately. But now he had to tamper the tantrums of the court. 

“We have lost control of this chamber, and of ourselves. Rupert Yaxley is dead. Young Severus nearly joined him. The Malfoy heir was struck by an Auror. Heiress Bellatrix Black was beaten bloody—in front of her sister. Sirius Black was assaulted. His thirteen-year-old brother watched. Others were Crucioed. And this court—this government—let it happen."  he repeated once more. "And yet we are bickering about what was right or wrong when members of this court go behind the rest to pass laws without honest debate."

He resisted the urge to glare at Tom when he added, "the public will not see Voldemort's actions as terrorism. He will be seen as a hero to the public. Particularly," he drew the word out, "when you keep accusing the same muggle-born. At this point Charlus, this is becoming an obsession." 

A dramatic cough, a clearing of phlegm. 

All eyes landed in the far left of the court. An elderly witch, the oldest member of this committee, set apart from the rest Wizengamot. She was a tiny thing, a woman Albus had once looked up to in the literal since when he was a boy. 

She was Matilda Weasley. Former Transfiguration Professor, former Head of Gryffindor, former Deputy Headmistress. 

And she was his great aunt. 

Next to her sat her great-niece, Ginevra Weasley. She fidgeted in her seat at the attention. The Weasleys were a massive family, with their branches taking root in other houses. But they had such little political capital, it was rather disheartening to Albus. He wasn't ashamed his mother had been a Weasley, but the name Dumbledore carried so much weight than his Pureblood side ever could. 

"May address the court?" Matilda asked in a creaky voice weathered by age. She had been old to Albus when he had entered school, but now her hair was a snow-white, and her pastel robes washed out her skin. She was almost a ghost among them 

"Of course, Aunt Matilda," Albus said with incline bow.

Her smile was tight. "Thank you," she said softly before pronouncing her voice louder and clearer. "I have lived through a many of crisis in our world. The Goblin Rebellion, Gellert Grindelwald's rise to power—twice." Her scorching blue eyes landed back on Albus, and he felt like a child under them. Only she could do that to him. 

"I have lived through Lord Severus Prince's control over the Wizarding underground," she continued, and the vampires bristled at the mention of their old head of house. "And I personally know the dangers of Parselmouths."  

 Albus glanced Tom's way, and the two locked eyes. 

And with meeting little resistance, he slipped inside Tom's mind to tell him. Matilda was your grandfather's great aunt. Whatever she says next, it is framed how she views Marvolo. 

Tom's eyes narrowed. But she's your great aunt…you said Marvolo was a distant cousin— 

Albus cut the connection off just as Matilda began her speech.

"Parselmagic is inherently Dark Magic," Matilda said, her voice soft, almost regretful. "I had taught Parselmouths in the past during my time in Hogwarts. I have seen their magic up close. It is a unique, and foreign magic. Frighteningly powerful and savage."

Albus's heart sank. Oh, he knew Matilda had nothing pleasant to say about Parselmouths, but this was abhorrent. Marvolo had been a genuine terrible human being, and Tom was hardly a saint, but to condemn all of them because of Marvolo? What of Marvolo's siblings? Morticia, Ismene, and Ominis? They hadn't deserved this condemnation. Albus scanned the court, his faith slipping from his grasps. Oh, there were those who disagreed, but most nodded along.

He didn't need to look at Tom or the Princes. They were livid, and didn't hide it at all. 

 In fact, Albus noticed none of the non-white British wizards and witches agreed with Matilda. Oh, this was dangerous. Very dangerous. 

"Legalizing the Unforgivables might seem extreme, but when faced with a threat such as the Death Eaters who is lead by Parselmouth," Matilda continued, eyes scanning the court, "it is a calculated risk we must take. This Lord Voldemort and his radical defenders must be stopped at all cost for this very reason. They defend the Parselmouth culture and precarious magic. It is the only sensible conclusion. Which is why I had casted my vote for the legalization." 

Albus lost balance, staggering back from her words. Did he hear that right? 

She voted for this? 

"You supported this?" he asked, barely above a whisper but loud enough for his voice to carry. "You signed off on state-sanctioned murder." 

"It is for the greater good of this country, Albus," she said, unwavering. "If it means to stomp out Parselmouths and their defenders, then so be it." 

She might as well have slapped him. It would hurt less. This is what they have come to now? Pureblood supremacists were advocating for further oppression of muggleborns, but this side--his side--was planning full scale genocide. 

He couldn't hear the rest of the chamber, not over the beating of his heart. He turned sharply on his heel and stormed out. He could and would not listen to anymore. He would not be apart of this sham of a government. Starting the Order had been the right call, but he feared he now had to fight two enemies. 

He stormed through the doors, opening them with the bang. A sharp presence had followed him out into the hall. 

Turning, Tom was right behind him, eyes blazing. 

"What the fuck do you mean Matilda is Marvolo's aunt?" he demanded. The doors shuttered behind him, muting Tempest's furious voice. "You said he was your third cousin." He jabbed a finger against Albus's chest. He half wondered if Tom would slap him again. 

"When did I say that?" he asked, pushing Tom's hand down. 

"When I was a child," he fired back, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Albus paused and thought back and a memory clicked into place. It had been Tom's first year and he had been asking questions about his family. 

"Ah yes," he said carefully, stroking his beard, his heart still hammering in his chest. This was actually the perfect distraction. "I had lied. For your own safety. Marvolo had been a wretched man and I didn't want you to learn about him."

"So you lied about being his first cousin? How was that for my benefit?" Tom prodded, scowling. "You do know I met him, right? I figured out his a was a wretched creature. How did that lie protect me from him then?"

"Tom, I do not have time to play your therapist for your familiar drama," Albus dismissed. It was cold, he knew, but he could not deal with another one of Tom's break downs while the whole system was breaking down around them. "I have much bigger problems than to argue with you. If you hadn't been paying attention in the last few days, the Ministry has lost any sense of reason."

Tom let out a harsh laugh. "Family drama? You are my family drama." he pointed back to the doors, lowering his voice. "My great-great aunt just declared to eradicate people like me and my son. That's the fucking drama I'm dealing with. I cannot afford to not pay attention."

The double doors opened once more and screaming could be heard from inside. Terrified and panicked screaming, and Albus could see why. 

The vampires left the chamber, and judging by the blood dripping down Tempest's face, chin and neck, she left behind a feast. 

"What did you do?" Albus demanded, shoving passed Tom. 

"I ripped out the throat of Grimsby's grandfather," she said smoothly, inspecting her ruby colored nails. They're more like claws, and they're filed to a point. "I said I wanted blood for blood."

"You do know I murdered Severus's attempted murderer," Tom pointed out, undermining her authority. 

Tempest didn't even spare him a glance. "Eileen, tell your mudblood to be quiet. You know how I loath hearing his filthy voice."

"Eileen, tell your whore aunt I could easily kill her," Tom countered with a pleasant smile on his face. 

"Can you both act your age?" Eileen snapped. She let out a staggering breath and pointed at the doors behind them. "We should leave before they send Aurors after us." 

"We do have a meeting with the Blacks," Crispin drawled, and Albus cringed how similar the ancient vampire sounded to Severus. 

It seemed Tom noticed too. "Merlin's ass it's creepy how you Princes all sound the same. And look the same." he paused before pressing. "What's the meeting about?"

Crispin closed his eyes and took several seconds to open them again as he turned his head toward Tom. "Mother, the wretched orphan is prying into our business. Do you wish for me to dispose of him?" 

Tempest clicked her tongue. "Unfortunately," she said, voice clipped, "Riddle would win--and my dear Albus would defend him."

"Against the likes of you? Yes," Albus confirmed without hesitation. He rolled on the balls of his feet, unable to stand still has his nerves continued to be jittery. "I do in fact despise every member of the Prince coven. The real blessing of Tom being Severus's father is that brilliant young man will never be accepted into you death cult."

Tom flashed a smug smile directed at Eileen. She was unimpressed. 

Tempest's eyes flashed with anger, offended. "Zoroastrianism is not a death cult."

"How you practice a respectable religion is in fact a cult," he said in a mocking tone. He never respected the Princes and their obsession with purity and creating Dementors. Because that was the end stage of vampirism. Twisted wraiths that sucked the souls out of people. The lot of them were vile and to use their ancestral faith to justify it made Albus's skin crawl. 

Tempest sneered. "Somehow, Albus, you prove yourself to be worse than mudbloods that run rampant in our society. I think we're done here. Crispin is correct, we do have a meeting to attend to." She raised her hand and snapped her fingers. 

Like petals on the wind, the three vampires vanished in a haze of red dust and out of sight. 

Tom turned to Albus, eyebrow raised. "Want to follow and make fun of the purebloods with me?" 

"Why would I do that?" Albus asked in a weary tone. "I have far more important things to do. Such as drafting battle plans against you and the Ministry." 

"No, you will go home to Manchester, put on depressing homosexual music, and drink yourself into a stupor with bad brandy," he said with a cheeky grin. "All because your ancient aunt turned out to be a genocidal maniac."

Tom offered his hand. 

Albus stared down, contemplating his choices. Brandy did seem rather pleasant, but he did know his mere presence would upset everyone at Grimmauld Place...

He took it. 

"Do explain what homosexual music is, Tom." And with a snap, they followed after the vampires. 

Orion Black would love to say he was patient man, but when his dear friend Tom showed up to his house unannounced with Albus Dumbledore, patience was virtue he could only dream of. 

Kreacher warned him the 'Mudblood and muggle lover' were across the street, and asked if he wished to spray them with warm piss, but Orion dismissed the wrinkly old house-elf before he decided to do it anyway. That's all Orion needed. Tom burning his home to the ground because Kreacher triggered one of Tom's manic episodes. 

Orion peaked behind the curtain and saw Tom and Albus across the street, just outside the anti muggle-born wards. Albus was not in his purple robes, but a multi-colored suit that was century out of date from muggle fashion. It stood out in modern London, but it didn't draw the attention like Orion's great-grandfather's fashion sense did. Tom, in contrast, wore modern day orange and brown suit without a tie and left his shirt unbuttoned at the top. It was like Tom purposely dressed as muggle to keep reminding everyone they feared a mudblood. As if Orion and his family didn't know he just dismantled half a squad of trained Aurors. 

The two were deep in their own conversation when Orion opened the door, and ushered them inside.

"I do not know why you brought him," he said with all contempt in the world for the Headmaster, "but this is not the time for your games, Tom."

Tom reached over and pinched Orion's cheek. "I disagree," he said, grinning. 

Albus slipped inside, looking around the entrance way. "When was the last time I was here? I think it was 1925," he said, humming. He went to the banister and traced the lines of the decaying wood. "It was for Phineas Nigellus Black's funeral. Irma allowed me to hold Walburga, and Pollux almost had a heart attack."

"I would keep that story to yourself, please," Orion said, voice strained. "My wife would be most upset if she found your held her." He forced himself to relax his shoulders and unclutched his hands. "Tom, you are...well, I always appreciate your company, but why is he here with you?"

He resisted the urge to facepalm when he looked to his friend. Tom took this time admire himself in the mirror hanging in the hallway, preening at his hair. "Albus is my older cousin, and suffering from dementia. It's my duty to look after him," he said turning to face Orion with a grin. "Don't you want to hear how the Wizengamot went?" 

Orion looked at Albus, who was now glaring at Tom and was rather unimpressed with the insult. "How...closely related are you two?" He knew there was some relation, Tom had mentioned it in passing before. It wasn't like Albus wasn't connected to the Blacks. Cedrella married Septumis Weasley. But Tom referring Albus as a cousin without distant is new. 

"Oh, close enough," Tom said with a shrug. "Not as close as you Blacks, however. Incest is rather revolting. The benefit of growing among muggles you learn basic things like biology."

Orion stared at him with a flat expression. "I hate you."

"I love you, too my darling Orion," he said, smiling wider. He glanced Albus's way. "See, I can love people just fine."

"I never accused you of being unable to love, I accused you of seeing love as possessive and violent," Albus argued. He turned to Orion. "Is Sirius here?"

"My son? No, he's over at Tom's cottage." Lyall's boy just Flood them he went over to see Severus, and that was the only reason why he wasn't stuck in the other room listening to the vampires at the moment. "Why?"

"No, no," Albus said with a hand wave, laughing. "I meant your grandfather. My apologies. I just want to know if I should expect a hex fired my way."

"I could always hex you," Tom offered with a certain amount of menace that sounded more like a promise than a threat. 

Oh dear Circe, he did not want these two dueling in his house! They would destroy the whole neighborhood. He needed to distract them. The only thing he could think of was have them sit in on their meeting with Tempest Prince...

"Why don't I show you to the sitting room," Orion said, putting a hand on Tom's back and directing him along. "We're discussing a possible union with Tempest's granddaughter with Regulus."

"You agreeing to this farce? Didn't you see how my marriage to Eileen nearly destroy me?" he asked, disgusted at the idea anyone would want to marry a Prince. 

"Tom, I saw you cheat on her with Rita Skeeter," Orion countered. 

They walked through the hall, and portraits of past relatives sneered down at the sight of Albus Dumbledore. They whispered and moved to other paintings to gossip of the unannounced guest. 

Albus didn't seem to care, in fact he was more upset about something else. "Rita Skeeter? Really, Tom," he said as he followed behind them. "Do you not have standards? What possible reason would you date her?"

Tom looked over his shoulder. "Rita had two perfectly good, well sized reasons on her chest."

"Heterosexuality escapes me," Albus drawled, pausing to pluck at a dead plant Druella killed with her not-so-green thumb. "Orion, I think your carnations have seen better days."

"So have I," he muttered under his breath. He left Tom's side and pushed open the doors. 

Heads turned. Walburga was standing next to their more used fireplace, dressed in her chiffon, muted purple gown. She was mid sip of her champagne. Her blue eyes flared with confusion and rage, but held her tongue. Cygrus and Druella sat together on the loveseat, still in black and in morning for Bellatrix's face after the brutal beating the Aurors had given her. To his horror, both his father, Arcturus, and Pollux were in the room sitting in the chairs opposite of his brother-in-law and sister-in-law. Oh, and with Albus in the room...great. Fantastic. Orion loved this. 

Their three guests sat on the couch, with only Eileen and Crispin turning in their seats to stare at the two unwelcomed wizards. Tempest kept her back to them, probably had already smelled them from outside. 

Walburga lowered her drink from her lips. "Orion, darling, what is going on?"

"I will tell you what's going on," Pollux snapped, leaning forward. "I am going to throw these two interlopers out of our damn home!" 

Tom and Albus turned to each other slowly, wearing matching expressions of amusement.

"Oh, that would be fun," Tom said slowly, stifling one of his coughing-induced laughs. "Pollux Black thinks he can force us out of his home." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. 

Not with a lighter, not with simple fire spell. But with a controlled, small Fiendfyre that he did wandlessly and wordlessly. 

"I would actually like to see him try," Albus said in painfully sincere voice. "I still remember giving him a Dreadful in Defense Against the Dark Arts. So if he succeeded ,in just kicking you out, I could retroactively change his grade." 

Orion felt embarrassed for Pollux, but he didn't feel bad. In fact, he wondered what his father-in-law was expecting. The shock on the old man's face and stunned silence that followed ticked on until Walburga put her drink down on the mantle. 

"Tom, as much as I enjoy your presence," she said through clenched teeth, "what are you doing here?" she didn't even acknowledge Albus. Though her eyes followed the elderly wizard as he wandered slowly around the room to look at the wall decor. 

"I wanted to spend time with my estranged wife," Tom said with a shrug. "Is that so wrong, Wally?" 

Eileen turned further in her seat to glare up at Tom. "ex-wife," she corrected.

"Actually," Tom said in a condescending tone. "You and I never got a divorce. Something I realized when I took that illegal trip to Romania to tell you about last night's events." He leaned over the back of the couch. "You just ran away from with my son. We're still married."

The disgust on Eileen's face was palpable. 

Tempest raised an elegant hand. "We will send the papers, Eileen. Do not speak to the mudblood any further. He's a waste of oxygen and space, like all mudbloods are."

"You do know I am now legally a halfblood, Tempest? My mother was a pureblood, the same most of everyone else in this room," he pointed out casually. 

Tempest turned, with a smug smile on her face. "Squibs don't count." She turned back to to Walburga. "I would say more, but your tendency to react violently whenever someone with sense speaks ill of your dead mother would derail this meeting. Walburga, continue." 

Orion slipped in between Tom and the couch, pushing him back. He wanted to tell Tom this is what he got for invading his family's home with their shared enemy, but the murderous rage in Tom's eyes stayed his tongue. He wouldn't dare antagonize Tom right after this. He was sure Tom would turn this around on him. Something about "this was second time someone insulted my mother in your house" and it would be Orion's fault, obviously. 

Thankfully, Albus pulled him back and seemed to keep Tom from snapping. It was like an owner with a rabid dog on a frayed leash. 

Walburga watched the three of them, eyes narrowed, but she did continue. "We were discussing the benefits our family will receive marrying Regulus to Sayra?"

"Regulus will have access to the Prince seat in Wizengamot if he chooses," she said without hesitation. "As long as Regulus speaks for my family's interest." 

To every pureblood in the room, that was reasonable. And even Albus would have to agree that seemed like an equal exchange. Unless something happened to Bellatrix and Sirius, Regulus's voice would be rather small in the Ministry. Regulus got power, and the Princes once again had a voice. Orion, for a moment, forgot about the intruders and was ready to make a deal right then and there. 

But there was someone in the room not raised in Wizarding Culture. Who could study Pureblood etiquette, who could embrace the laws and manipulate the system to bend to his will, but would never be one of them. A man who was a father of Prince heir. And the thing was, if Tom had been born to a royal, it would be one thing. But that wasn't the case. The ghost of poverty clung to him like a stench that would never go away. 

"I'm sorry, you would hand over your seat," Tom said, dropping his mocking and cruel tone to one of pure disbelief. "To someone who is not of your blood when Eileen has a son who still lives in Britain?" 

"You are a fool if you think I would allow a halfblood represent my family," Tempest bit out, still looking forward. "The idea makes my skin crawl." 

"He would also be used by you," Crispin added in a slow drawl. He followed his mother's actions, refusing to look back at Tom. "And you, mudblood, have too much influence already in our society. Handing the seat over to the boy would be essentially handing you a voice in Wizengamot  you do not deserve." 

The shock and offense on Tom's voice was palpable. For several seconds he couldn't form words until he spit out. "You think I would use my own child as a puppet? I don't give a damn about that. I Marked three adults in this very room as my own. I own half the seats in Wizengamot." 

Orion looked to Tom to Albus, eyes wide. 

The Headmaster didn't seem shock at all. "Fascinating. I did wonder how many of you're Death Eaters. And I think I can guess which of you have been Marked." He said this staring directly in Orion's eyes, before he turned to Cygrus on the loveseat. Then his gaze shifted to Walburga. "Oh, do not mind me. Please, continue. This is truly interesting to watch you be played by the Princes." 

Tempest sprung to her feet, magic crackling in the air. "How dare you--

"Point out that you are screwing the Blacks?" Albus said with an innocent smile and twinkle in his eye. "Tempest, the Prince seat does not compare to what your family has to offer." 

Arcturus sat forward, hands clasped together. "What is he talking about, Tempest?" he asked low voice. 

"Nothing!" She said a bit to quickly. A bit to...defensively. "You would listen to Albus Dumbledore?" 

Cygrus stood now, his hand on his wand handle. "What are you keeping from us?" 

Orion looked back at Tom and saw him share a silent conversation with Albus. A slow grin stretched across on Tom's face as he caught onto whatever game Albus was playing. 

"Shit, he's right," was all he said, chuckling. If Tom was agreeing with Albus, that meant Albus was telling the truth. 

Orion's face grew hot, and he whirled on the three vampires, drawing his wand out. "What are you keeping from us?" He moved around the couch to stand with his wife. She had her wand out, but not leveled. Her eyes were on Eileen, searching for answers on her old friend's face. 

Pollux and Arcturus were on their feet now, and the air in Grimlaud place shifted to something electric. The magic around them turned cold and bitter. Tempest's eyes were wide and her brows knitted together in a fury. 

"You want to marry your granddaughter to our son," he said, dropping his voice in a low growl, "and claim him as your own, you better start talking." 

 "Lower your wand, mortal," Tempest spoke in a low voice, an older accent creeping into her voice. Crispin and Eileen stood up as well, their wands out. 

There was a tense standstill, and the vampires were cornered. The only vampire who would be able to walk from this if it turned bloody was Eileen. Despite all of his talk, there was no way Tom would allow Eileen be killed in the fight if it came down to it. But Orion was confident with Albus and Tom in the room, they would be unscathed. 

What broke the tenson was Tom's wand holder glowing orange. The glow pulsated three times before fading. Everyone turned to the man, their attention divided between him and everyone else in the room. 

"Oh," Tom said, humming. "It seems Severus got curious and wondered into my potions lab." he said flippantly. 

Eileen head twitched, looking back at Orion only to choose to give Tom her full attention. "Our son is using your lab unsurprised? Tom, that's rather dangerous." 

"You know what's dangerous? Abandoning your child to a total stranger you know is a murderer," Tom said without missing a beat, pointing his cigarette at her. "But you did it anyway."

Albus nodded along behind Tom and when he turned to look at the Headmaster, Albus pretended the wallpaper was more interesting than the conversation. 

"That is stupid argument, you're his father," Eileen drawled. And despite being much shorter than Tom, she somehow sneered down at him. "You should leave and check on him."

"And take Albus with you," Crispin glaring at the Headmaster.  

"And leave Tempest with my friends and their family?" Tom questioned, putting his hands on his hips. "You are mad if you think after this I will leave before the three of you. I know what your family is like. I'm an outsider who was able to escape unscathed."

Orion's wand wavered before he lowered it entirely. "Actually, Tom, my son is over at your house. It might be Sirius who wandered into your lab, Tom." 

"Sirius is a smart boy," he said with hand wave. 

"He is a Gryffindor," Arcturus corrected. He turned to Orion and Walburga. "That boy is more impulsive and reckless than bright."

Tempest glanced his father's way, visibly disgusted. "You have a grandchild in Gryffindor? That is more embarrassing than one of Pollux's granddaughter running off with a mudblood."

The mention of Andromeda made Cygrus and Druella bristled. Orion put a hand on hand on Walburga's shoulder to stop her from saying something they would regret. 

"What's wrong with Gryffindor?" Albus asked with a damn twinkle in his eye. "It is certainly better than Slytherin." And with a damn innocent smile on his face, in a room full of Slytherins no less. 

"You better watch it, old man," Tom hissed out, the Parseltongue threatening to overpower his English. "Do not start." 

Eileen made a noise from the back of her throat, frustrated. She abandoned her family's side and moved around the couch to speak to Tom without a barrier. 

"Is our son in that lab?" she pressed. 

"He's fine," Tom insisted, a hint of arrogance in his voice. "As long as they don't use the portal, it's not a big deal."

That gave everyone pause. And for once, Albus Dumbledore grew serious, standing straighter, his eyes grew more calculating. 

"What portal?" Cyrgrus asked, eyeing Tom with suspicion.  

Tom was still not concerned when he answered, "oh, just a portal to the Otherworld." He said it was a normal thing to own, like a cauldron or a flying broom.

Tom's words sank into them. Tempest and Albus exchanged baffled glances. Horror grew on Eileen's face. Druella covered her mouth in shock. Pollux and Arcturus whispered to each other. Crispin was left stunned. 

"What do you mean," Walburga began to ask slowly, "you have a portal to the Otherworld? In your basement?" 

"Well, where else would I keep it, Wally?" he asked, his tone dripping with condescension. 

And then...

the wand glowed again. Three times, and then it faded, this time the color was red. 

Tom looked down at his wand holder strapped to his knee with a blank expression. 

"Well, that's not good," he said in a low voice. "That's not good at all. Actually, this is rather bad." He looked around the room and only stopped until his eyes landed on Albus. "We—we need to go my house immediately and rescue two idiot boys from the Fae. Right now."

And yet, the first ones to leave were Eileen and Walburga, apparating straight to Tom's cottage. 

Chapter Text

What was once bright sunny day had shifted to night in the span of second. Under the starlight, two boys wandered through a castle's ruins, gutted of its valuables and wealth centuries and centuries past before they were even born. The skeletal remains of the castle had long been reclaimed by moss and wild flowers and mushrooms. Tree trunks broke through the flooring and sprouted through window holes where stain glass used to be. The sound of chimes and giggling tickled the air, and the high they had been was crashing down into panic. 

"When did it became night?" Sirius asked in a hushed whisper, staring up at his constellation. It should not be this bright and intense in the night sky, but it was. It wasn't just that the stars were brighter, there was a clear line stitching them together to create the dog. 

Severus climbed over a massive tree trunk and landed right next to Sirius with a grunt. "Can we focus on finding that hill you climbed up when I told you not to." 

Sirius looked at his boyfriend, glaring as if it Severus's idea to wander around the Otherworld. Whatever had been in that healing potion was wearing off, but it was too late. They hadn't ventured far from the portal, but yet they had became lost as soon as they went up the hill and away from the fairy circle.

"You said it was this way, but instead we found this," Sirius gestured wildly to the ruins around them. 

"It had been the way back, but," Severus paused, sighing. He pushed his hair out of his face. "I think we just need to sit in one spot and wait for rescue before we get ourselves lost."

"Well that is a bright idea!" a sing-song voice cut through the stillness and echoed around them. 

The boys looked around for where the noise came from. No one emerged from the darkness of the trees or came further from the ruins' depths. Severus's heart pounded hard in his chest and he stepped closer to Sirius, bumping his shoulder. Sirius went for his hand, holding it tightly. He heard Sirius's breath hitched as seconds ticked as they waited. 

"Up here," the voice called again. There was no echo, it was just as clear and crisp as when Sirius spoke. 

They both looked up to the twisted yew tree. A figure, a man, was sitting on top of the branch among the moon-colored leaves. His eyes glowed an ethereal yellow. It was hard to make the man out, but when he grinned, his teeth shined in the dark, revealing sharp fangs. 

Severus's stomach plummeted. Last night he watched Rupert Yaxley murdered by Aurors. He was had been nearly killed. He watched his friends and former class mates beaten in the streets. Last week a snake ripped out his throat, and before that, Tobias had Crucioed him.   

And yet. 

And yet.

Those were all things he could conceive. He could understand and knew he wasn't alone to experience. But this? 

This was a Fae. 

Sirius swallowed hard and muttered, "we should go," under his breath. It was so low, Severus could barely hear it.

"Ah, but you just got here, Sirius Orion Black," the Fae said with a mocking tone. 

Sirius paled and his hands turned clammy. True horror overcame Severus. How did he knew Sirius's name? Yes, he said it but only his first! How did the Fae learn Sirius's full---

The Fae vanished. 

Severus and Sirius immediately looked for the Fae, and turned around--

Sirius yelled, stumbling back. He tripped over a tree root, falling backwards. Severus was left standing there, covering his mouth with both hands to stifle a scream.

The Fae had reappeared right behind them. 

He was a tall, wiry man with pale olive skin. who was all limbs. His hair fell around his narrow, androgynous face in a wild mane. The silver leaves and colorful flowers weaved through his mossy-green locks, and sitting on top of his head was crown of twigs and berries. the twigs wrapped around his ram horns. He wore a vest and harem pants, made out of patchwork of fabrics. 

He was beautiful, but of course he was. He was Fae. 

He tilted his head, smiling. "Well, hello, Savir and Sirius. Welcome to my domain." 

He bowed dramatically, like an actor on the stage after curtain call. 

Sirius scrambled back to his feet. In trying to sound brave, he studdered out. "Who in Merlin's name are you?" he asked, his voice cracking. 

Severus elbowed him. "Shut it!" he hissed. 

The Fae stood straighter, seemingly not offended. "My, my, why aren't you rude." the Fae shook his head, tsking at Sirius. "I knew Merlin, funny fellow. Quite the complainer," he said sarcastically. "Alwaus on my case for this or that.

He leaned back, and floated in the air. He stretched out his legs, and put his hands behind his head, sighing. "Oh, Robin, don't do that! Don't anger Morgana, Robin!. Don't mess with the Oracles, Robin! Merlin, Merlin, always had something to say, but he was never fun." 

Severus's mouth fell open as a new horror overcame him.

"Robin?" he asked despite himself. "Your name is Robin? Are you...Robin Goodfellow?" 

Robin's eyebrows shot up into his hair, and he shifted upward. He now sat in the air crossed legged. 

"Well, well, Savir, I was curious if you would know me," he said in tone that was frighteningly excited. "but you were raised 'muggle'. And I do prefer muggles over magicals. It's just sad they can't live for longer. I still to this day mourn my dearest Shakespeare. Magicals dismissed his writings as muggle nonsense." Robin rubbed his chin, humming. "But some magicals are fascinating." 

Severus just continued to stare at Robin, barely processing what was happening. How did this-this character from folk and plays know his mother had first given him the name Savir before she changed it at the hospital.

Sirius looked between the two of them. "Do you know him?" 

"He's a Puck," Severus explained, his eyes never leaving Robin. "Don't trust anything he says."

"Oh, I'm not just any old Puck," Robin said, once again in his sing song voice. He dropped down from the air, kicking up dirt. "I'm thee Puck." His eyes lit up with mischief and Severus took involuntary step back. 

"And you boys came out of Tom's portal. How fascinating," he said, walking around the two boys. "Oh, he's going to be rather upset by this. But he will have to get over it."

"You know Mr. Riddle?" Sirius asked, unphased by the fact they're talk to Robin bloody Goodfellow! 

Robin stopped behind them. Without warning, he clamped down on their shoulders and leaned in between them and forcing them apart. "Oh, I know Tom rather well." His low chuckle and smirk on his face told Severus he didn't want Robin elaborate.  "Tricky fellow, rarely have I met a mortal who can spar with me in a battle of wits. He's even won a few occasions." he then let go of Severus's shoulder and tapped his chin. "But Tom's not really a mortal "

"What does that mean?" Sirius demanded.

Robin shoved them aside, forcing them to let go of each other's hands. He walked forward, choosing to do a cartwheel as he answered. 

"Tom, was born on December, thirty-first, minutes to midnight," he said in a chipper voice. He landed on his feet. "Now, in my day, that date means nothing," he placed a hand on his chest, wounded by date for god knows what. "But to you mortals, it means everything. You gave it meaning, like you do every date." 

"That's New Year's Eve," Sirius argued. "it means that." 

"That's what I mean," he tsked. "Mortals assign importance to whatever you like, and my kind has to validate it for you. Quite the unfair system we have here."

"What are you talking about?" Severus asked, growing frustrated. "Can't you speak plainly."

Robin smiled. And then--in a flash he was gone. Severus blinked turned to his left, and yelped, stumbling backward into Sirius. The Fae reappeared right next to him, still grinning. 

"Fine," he said, with hand wave. "But that will cost you extra." he winked before sighing rather dramatically. "The Romans decided that date was the end of the Old Year, and while other cultures view it differently, this has been accepted as fact across the globe. So, my kind have flocked to this date. And having a Parselmouth of your father's caliber born on a date where the Veil between worlds is thin, they're less human and more Fae. And this man...let's just say he has the tendency to mess with the other side more than he should. Is that plain enough for you?" 

"Are you saying my father's a Changeling?" Severus asked, incredulous. "You expect me to believe that?" 

Robin shrugged. He turn his back to them, hands shoved into his pockets.  "Believe what you want, and what you want will become true." 

"What you talking about?" Sirius snapped. "Merlin, when my father told me to never mess with the Fae, he always framed it with pranks and signing contracts with them. Don't go looking for them or they will bring bad luck. Nothing about them being bloody well annoying." 

Robin stilled, and turned toward them. His jovial body language vanished. Severus could slap Sirius right now. Didn't he understand what they're dealing with? He thought purebloods understood not to mess with the Fae! But didn't Lucius's aunt keep Fae in her maze? They kept House Elves and intentionally pissed them off, and weren't they just Brownies?

Robin turned back around, his grin far more menacing than it had been. "My, my, my, aren't we arrogant. And without the magic to back it up." his voice had a sharper edge now, cold and detached. The air was filled with the scent petunias and black dahlias. 

Dread crept over Severus, knowing that his boyfriend just pushed Robin over the edge. A glance toward Sirius told him that Sirius didn't. He stared down the Fae defiantly. 

  "You know," Robin said, raising his hand, "I thoughts dogs were obedient."

He snapped his fingers. 

And Sirius Black was gone, and in his place, was a giant black dog. Not just any, a Black Shuck. The scraggly mutt whined and barked at Robin. 

Severus scrambled back, gasping. "Sirius!" he called out. He whirled around, pointing a finger at Robin. "Change him back!" 

"Change him back!" Robin mocked, taking a stepped toward Severus, but the Black Shuck barreled in between them, growling. It snarled, baring its teeth.

"Now, now, none of that," the Fae said," with a hand wave. "You people are quite dramatic. Well, you person and you dog are dramatic."

"He didn't know any better," Severus tried arguing. 

"Oh yes he does," Robin snapped back, growing more serious by the second. "All his life he was raised not to mess with my kind, and unlike muggles, he knew the consequences. It's not my fault his family gave Padfoot foolish reasons to fear me and my kind."

Sirius stopped growling and gave a whine at the word 'padfoot', whatever that meant. He looked up at Severus and barked, as if to say something. But Severus was a Parselmouth, he couldn't speak to dogs, let alone magical ones like Shucks! He reached down an patted Sirius's head, hesitant, just in case in turned out to be a real Black Shuck and Sirius wasn't just sent somewhere in the Otherworld. 

"Now, if you want to turn your boyfriend back to normal," Robin said, "I suggest you follow me. I can show you how and a way out of here." 

Severus stepped closer to Sirius, narrowing his eyes, putting a protective hand on Sirius's furry back. "Why should I trust you? You just turned him into a Black Shuck." 

Robin grinned playfully, all the menace gone from his face, but that didn't mean it wasn't below the surface. "This is a lesson for Sirius, Savir," he said with a too friendly tone. "He's rather arrogant, and he needs  a lesson in humility. I want to give it to him before he ends up in Azkaban." 

"Azkaban?" Severus repeated, just as Sirius made a questioning noise. "Why would he end up there?" 

"He could end up there due to his arrogance," Robin corrected. "Or he could not. Or he could end up dead. Truthfully, if things go the way the stars," he pointed to the Sirius constellation that was now running around in the night sky. It was hounded by ghostly figures that resembled dementors. "Being dead is the preferable fate for him. He's going to really, really anger someone who he shouldn't. I'm doing him a favor." 

"Uh-huh. I know all about fairy favors," Severus, giving Robin a critical eye. "I know better to trust you." 

Robin's eyes twinkled with mirth. "I know," he said, leaning in close. "But still, you don't have a choice." He poked Severus on the nose before vanishing with no warning. 

Severus blinked a few times, registering the Fae left. Frustrated, he stomped his foot and shouted into the void of the eerie runes. 

"How can we follow you when you disappear!" he demanded.

Robin didn't answer--not with words. Will-o'-the-wisps appeared in three distinct paths, all different colors. The orange wisps twisted down, down into the depths of the ruins, vanishing in the cave. Severus immediately dismissed that path. They're not entering a cave in the Otherworld no less! They might run foul of the The Tuatha de Danann, and while Severus was sure Tom would fight gods to bring him out of their clutches, he wasn't going to risk Sirius angering them. 

The other cluster of wisps were just that. They were a cluster of yellow wisps in a circle, floating around a tree. No real path. 

But the blue ones, the color of Sirius's eyes, illuminated a winding path into the forest. It was a trap, Severus was sure, but it was the safest choice. 

He pointed toward the path Robin was forcing them to choose. "We need to go this way. "

Sirius hurried in front of him, blocking his path. He barked a few time, gesturing a different direction all together. 

"If we disobey a fairy, it would be worse for us," he argued. "We have to follow Robin to get out of here."

Sirius whined and tilt his head, a soft growl emanating from his throat. As if asking why, in frustrated tone. 

"I don't trust him. but going against Robin is more dangerous that following him. So far," Severus paused, choosing his words carefully, "he tolerates me, I think. You not, so much. It's best if he likes at least one of us." 

Sirius let out a dramatic huff and stomped his paws, but accepted Severus's reasoning. He started following the wisps into the wood, sprinting without warning. As he chased the wisps they vanished from view, leaving Severus with only the stars in the night sky for lights. 

"Hey!" Severus called after him and ran after his idiot boyfriend-turned-dog. 

The forest leaves grew denser and denser, blanketing him in a shroud of black. He could only make out the faint glow of the wisps off in the distance, and the outline of trees. The aroma of the forest was of dead earth, a rot that tied knots in stomachs and sent cold shivers down your spine. Severus felt he was being watched. No, he was being watched, and it wasn't Robin. It was something sinister. He slowed, too scared to run blindly in the forest, but too petrified to stop moving. Paranoid of hands reaching out from the dirt and dragging him down, down, down. What if he stepped wrong, and fell into the bog?

"Sirius?" he called out, coming to a halt. The wisps vanished, and Sirius had abandoned him.

His heartbeat raced. Trapped. He was trapped, and lost deep in a prison of trees. Trapped with beasts he could not see, but they had their eyes on him, ready to devour his flesh from his bones and feast on his heart. 

There was a murmur of leaves and the crunching of sticks to his left. 

Severus froze. He stopped breathing. His body went stiff. He did not blink. 

His eyes flickered to his left, but whatever stepped on a twigs was just out of his periphery. His breath hitched, turning ever so slowly. Moonlight filtered through the silver leaves, cascading flecks of light in the dark. Nothing. 

Crunch. 

A presence, a heavy presence hovered just behind him. Hot, shallow breath tickled the back of his neck. Severus's mouth ran dry as water clouded the corners of his eyes. 

He glanced to his right and his mind went blank.

A face, a giant face. A ghostly, white face of a trollish woman was inches from his. Her blackened eyes were impossibly wide. Her grin was all teeth, rotting and yellowed and jagged. She was crouched down among the trees, still taller than Severus. Taller than Hagrid, the grounds keeper. She was wrapped in a dark cloak, her stringy gray hair framed her gaunt, withered features. 

When his mind caught up with his eyes, he knew he was staring into the depths of a Black Annis. 

The creature that haunted his nightmares when dreaming of Tobias Snape was too much for his little kid's brain. 

But he screamed, a blood curdling scream that echoed in the woods. 

He bolted.
          Behind him—laughter. Wet, wheezing, wrong.
         Sticks snapping, like bones underfoot. The wet earth tore and slurped like ripped muscle. The bog breathed with every step, like a lung clinging to oxgyn. 

Severus looked back.

She barreled after him, on all fours screeching. 

He screamed again, pumping his legs. But she was fast too, too fast, her hand reached out. Her fingers brushed against his back. 

His foot caught on a root.

He toppled to the ground, catching himself before his face hit the ground. His knees sank into the murky, green mud. He twisted around, staring into the beastly woman. She towered over him like the trees, hair blowing in the opposite direction of the leaves. She cackled with the rustling of leaves before leaning down, down, down. Her mouth wide, ready to swallow him whole--

Sirius leapt through the air, tackling the ghastly Black Annis. He pinned the creature down, snarling and barking like mad. 

And the Black Annis twisted and turned and morphed into  a much smaller figurer. A normal, human man, in purple and red robes and gold metals.

Sirius stopped growling, and shrunk away, whimpering. 

The man shoved Sirius off of him, scrambling to his feet. Severus could barely make out the man's features, but once he could, he wish he could unsee. 

It was Auror Grimbsy,  glassy-eyed and stony. Magots crawled over his face, out of his mouth and nose. He clutched his wand as the fat larva wiggled down the wood, a sharp green glow emanated from the tip. He was taller now than he had been in life. And that is what snapped Severus from his terror. 

This was a Boggart, a child Boggart. An imp. 

It had to be, because of it had been an adult Boggart, Tobias with a pistol in one hand and dead puppy in the other would've been chasing Severus through the woods. 

Getting to his feet, Severus scanned the low tree branches near by. His eyes landed on a stick thick enough to withstand magic, but skinny to enough to hold. 

He snapped it off the branch, Sirius glancing his way for a second. His ears perked up and his tail wagged at seeing the stick. 

The boggart raised its wand—pointed it straight at Sirius. That green glow flared.

“Riddikulus!” Severus shouted, a heartbeat before it could fire.

And Grimsby turned into a fat, pink pig like the ones from Animal Farm. It oinked and squealed before scampering into the twisted forest.

And the air settled. The ground was soft and grassy, they weren't a muddy bog. But a clearing, filled with soft green grass. Wild mushrooms scattered the forest floor, and clusters of forget-me-nots and belladonnas grew around them. 

And despite the mud vanishing, it still clung to Severus's clothes and stained his hands. He wiped them down his jeans, getting his breathing under control. He glanced Sirius's way, who stood at his said obediently. He wanted to be angry, he wanted to shout and kick Sirius, blame him for the boggart. Because Sirius ran off. But he didn't. Couldn't. 

He just wanted out of here, and away from Robin Goodfellow. He woke up today with Rupert's death on his mind, when he should've been giddy over having his first kiss. But now he was trapped inside a Fae infested forest, and yesterday felt like a life time ago. Fuck, there were years apart from now and since the Malfoy party. Not even a month ago, all he knew he was Severus Snape, song of Tobias and Eileen Snape. Loser kid with a hook nose, and greasy hair. Now he was a Heir of Salazar Slytherin, his father was Lord Voldemort, and ever since he met Tom, his life been in more danger to last him a life time of scars.  

"Why did you leave me?" he asked, his voice horse and tired. 

Sirius barked rapidly, confused and annoyed. As if he was arguing with Severus's accusation. 

Severus push his hair out of his face. "Are you trying to argue you didn't?" 

Sirius's tail wagged, hitting the mushrooms and flowers. Sprites crawled from their fungal homes, fists raised and shouting, but they were so small their voices were squeaks to his ears.

Severus wasn’t sure what to believe. He’d seen Sirius run—but the bog had warped space before. Maybe Sirius had been just ahead, and he’d never known.

"Let's go," he muttered, "before the sprites attack us." 

Carefully, the two stepped around the tiny village as to not crush the Fae, and followed the wisps back into the forest. They walked in silence, minutes dragging on. Severus's mind was elsewhere. He couldn't focus on what was in front of him while his mind was in the past. The boggart had been a childish fear, terrifying and yet barely grazing the surface. Severus had encountered a an adult Boggart, a Dreadling. 

They're stronger, nastier. When presented to muggles, they're paralysis demons. But they're main source of food were magicals, feasting on cores until the wizard or witch withered away into dust. He encountered one in Hogwarts, on the run from the marauders. He slipped inside an abandoned room to hide and it came toppling out of a cabinet covered in a dust. 

It had been Tobias, delirious and drunk. 

Severus had screamed, and collapsed to the ground, paralyzed with fear. He would've died if Remus Lupin hadn't backtracked down the hall and slipped inside. 

Lupin had stepped in front of Severus, the boggart transformed into a glass orb or the moon, Severus didn't remember. He had been too terrified of his father to focus on Lupin's own fears. 

Sirius bumped his head against Severus's hand, huffing. The little gesture snapped Severus out of his thoughts and brought him back to the hear and now. They reached to the end of forest to an open field of poppies and wild roses. The wisps were gone, they weren't needed. Not anymore. Up ahead past the field was a village. The glow from the camp fires and homes illuminated the field. And the night sky was now twilight, bathing everything in a deep, warm blue. Maybe it was a twenty minute walk Hopefully, if the Fae didn't drag the field on and on, distorting space making it longer than it should be. 

Sirius barked again, nudging Severus's arm. 

Caked on mud brushed against his skin, making his whole body shiver.

Severus crouched down in front of Sirius, rubbing the dirt off Sirius's face. He used his fingers to comb through the thick fur to get the larger clumps. 

"I prefer you as a human," he said softly. "Make it easier for us to talk. Even though not a month ago I'd gladly would've laughed if you fell down the magical enchanted steps at Hogwarts." 

Sirius barked, though it sounded closer to a sarcastic huff. 

"But you being a dog remind me a lot of my puppy I had as kid," Severus continued. He looked down at his torn jeans, his scraped knees still bleeding. "Her name was Robin, a pureblood Irish Wolfhound. I named her after Puck a muggle play." 

Sirius let out little whine, sensing something was off. He nudged Severus's hand with his big wet nose. 

" Puck's one of the main characters in it," he explained without thinking. He let out a short breath, smiling a little. "Mum gave me Shakespeare's entire collection for Christmas when I was six. She didn't really know what was in the plays, and maybe I was bit to young for them. But Puck had been my favorite character in all of Shakespeare's work. For my eighth birthday, she got me Robin after a neighbor's wolfhound gave birth."

Severus blinked a few times, his eyes growing wet. Yet his found smile didn't waver. "I didn't have any friends. See, I was homeschooled since I was five on the count of my teacher called the police on Tobias after I went to school with bad welts on my back."

He looked up, staring in those big blue eyes. Sirius's ears were pressed against his head in distressed. 

"I did magic when I wasn't supposed. Made Pa's whiskey bottle explode when Ma was out cleaning hotels." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and they kept spilling every little truth he kept to himself. "So when Ma got me Robin, I finally had a friend. She would follow me everywhere. To the park, to the corner store when I nicked coins from Pa for food."

His smile fell as he struggled to keep his emotions in. He would not cry. He would not. He wouldn't remind Sirius why James gave him the nickname Snivellus

"Until one day she had an accident on the couch," he murmured in a horse voice as tears flooded the corner of his eyes. 

Sirius whined more, yipping at Severus to stop. 

"And Pa...he..he, Tobias." He stumbled over his words, his throat growing hot. "An-and took his Smith & Wesson--and forced me to watch."

His chest tightened as he struggled to breathe. It was like thousands of bricks crushed his chest and he was suffocating. 

Sirius lunged at Severus, placing his paws on Severus's shoulders in attempt at a hug. Severus's shallow breaths broke into a sob. He wrapped his arms around Sirius's body, and buried his face against the thick fur of the Black Shuck. It wasn't a hysterical cry like he had last night after the riot, as the new reality he was forced to live came crashing down around him. This was silent and subdued, as he forced himself to push the bricks off his chest and breathe. 

They stayed like that, for how long, Severus didn't know until. 

"Wow," a mocking, cruel voice interrupted their moment. "I leave you kids alone for a moment, and you two turn into a mess." 

Sirius pulled away, and hurried in front of Severus, growling and frothing at the mouth. 

Severus twisted around to see Robin Goodfellow had returned. He was lazily stretched out, hands behind his head as he floated in the air. And he was smoking a cigarette? 

He scrambled to his feet, livid. "Where the fuck did you go?" he demanded. 

"Oh," Robin pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, humming with cold boredom, "you know," he said, gesturing with his hand, "around." 

"What does that mean?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chess. 

Robin looked down at them, for a moment, and smirked. He rolled around until he was on his stomach, and resting his chin on his hands. He kicked his legs, clearly enjoying being obtuse. 

"Your parents are here," he said in a sing-song voice. 

"My parents?" he repeated, unsure. "You mean both Tom and my mother?" 

"Yep! Took this," he showed off the cigarette to Severus, "from Tom. As handsome as ever." he sighed. "If only he was here for me. He and I would have so much fun~" and the fairy wiggled his brows as he gestured with fist and mouth to mimic a blow job. 

"Ew, what the fuck!" Severus shouted. "That's my father, you cunt!" Sirius gagged, opening his mouth to fake vomit. 

This apparently delighted Robin so much he laughed until he was wheezing and hacking from the cigarette smoke. Once he calmed down enough, he wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, humans are so easy to mess with." 

He came down from his invisible perch, landing on his feet with the grace of an acrobat. He flicked the light cigarette into the field without a care and grinned. "Tom and Eileen aren't alone. Your parents!" Robin leaned in Sirius's space, almost jabbing Sirius's nose with his index finger. "Are here as well!" 

Sirius snapped at Robin's finger but the Fae was quicker. 

"Testy," he said, tsking. "Tom brought a bit of a fellowship, actually. Two vampires, and Albus Dumbledore are all here looking for you two. You should feel loved." Robin stuck his finger in his mouth and pretended to gag.

"Where are they?" Severus asked, ignoring Robin's theatrics. 

"Oh, over there," the Fae said with a dismissive wave, "or over here," a grin spread across his face, "oooor!" He vanished, and his voice echoed as he said, "maybe they're~ 

A loud pop to Severus's right made the teen and Black Shuck jump. 

"Anywhere!" Robin reappeared in the air, spraying glitter and confetti all over them. 

Severus swatted the confetti away, biting back his irritation. Robin wanted a reaction, but he won't give him one. Even if the Fae is rather annoying. 

Robin pouted at Severus's indifference and landed back onto to the ground. "You're no fun, Savir," he said with a childish huff. He turned around, arms crossed in defiance. 

"You know what would be fun?" Severus said, leaning in Robin's space. "Getting us to our parents and headmaster." 

Robin tapped his chin, humming. "No, no, I don't think that would be fun. Not at all actually." 

He spun around so fast Severus couldn't react to the fairy swinging an arm over his shoulder, and pulling him close. Sirius stood straighter, growling low from the back of his throat. But Robin paid him no heed. 

"You know what would be fun?" he asked in a conspiratorial tone. "I teach you what I taught your father."

Severus's mind went to the rude gesture and his face turned beet red. He shoved the fairy off of him. "What the fuck! I'm fifteen! And I have a boyfriend!" Sirius barked as if to agree. 

Robin caught on what was on Severus's mind and waved his hands as if to calm Severus. "No, no, no! Not that. I'm a fairy, but even I have standards. Stars, mortal teenagers have one thing on their minds." 

He sighed and smoothed out his already smooth vest. "I meant magic, child. Honestly." 

"Oh! My apologies for not assuming you meant magic," Severus drawled, voice dripping with unbridled rage masked by sarcasm. "After suggested you're sleeping with my father!" 

"I didn't suggest it," Ron defended himself, "I confirmed it." 

He ignored Severus's disgusted face and Sirius's annoying barking to keep talking. "Look, Tom came to the Otherworld over ten years ago and I taught him to fly after he irritatingly outsmarted me. I," he placed his hand on his chest, and held his head up and eyes closed as if he was about to give a altruistic speech. "am offering you the same for free."

Severus and Sirius exchanged a brief glance. "You think I believe that? That you would teach me for free?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "And I can ride a broom just fine." 

Sirius let out a bark that sounded more like a laugh, and Severus silenced him with a glare. "I can, ass," he grumbled. 

"I am not talking about your silly mortal brooms," Robin said with a hand wave. "I mean flying on your own, relying on your magical core." 

"That's impossible," Severus said quickly, barely letting Robin finish his sentence. Sirius agreed with several sharp barks. 

Robin held up a finger and wagged slowly, in Severus's face. "Now, now, you're being rather rude. Do you want to turn into a raven?" he asked cheerfully. 

Severus froze. Shit. He needed to watch himself. Both he and Sirius couldn't be animals. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in, willing himself to keep calm. 

"I just...struggle to believe Tom can fly on his own," he said carefully, mellowing out his tone. 

"Hmmm," Robin hummed. He tilted his head to side to side, plotting something Severus was sure he wouldn't like...

"I know!" the Fae exclaimed. "We will ask if he can!" 

"How--

The field of flowers, the hush of the forest—gone in an instant. The ground dropped away beneath his feet. One moment he was surrounded by grass and golden light, the next he was suspended in open air, the sky around him streaked in molten hues of violet and orange. A sudden silence pressed in. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

He twisted midair, his cloak flaring like wings as he caught a glimpse of the distant earth below. His stomach dropped. He was so very high.

And it was like Robin turned on gravity. 

The world snapped back to speed and Severus plummeted with a shriek that barely had time to leave his throat. Air tore past him. His limbs flailed. There was a brief, panicked moment where he tried to angle his fall, as if that would help—and then—

Thud.

The grass caught him like a too-thin mattress, knocking the breath from his lungs in a wheezing groan. Before he could so much as move a finger, a heavy mass landed squarely on top of him.

"Get off," he hissed, muffled by fur.

Sirius barked—a startled yelp with just a hint of amusement—before rolling off with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes.

Severus  pushed himself up, aching everywhere. Nothing was broken—Robin must've softened the fall—but he was sure he would feel this in the morning. 

"Severus?" 

He blinked. That voice. He hadn't heard it in over a week, and thought he would never hear it again. 

He twisted around, and his mouth fell open slightly. 

Several feet in front of him was his mother, in a dress made out of chiffon and interacted lace. It was nicest clothes Severus seen her in—ever. With her hair washed and makeup on, she was a different woman than she had been with Tobias. Next to her was Tom, bone-shaped wand clutched in is hand. They were powerful and impossible next to eachother. And they fitted each other, both sharp, dark features. High cheekbones, and hooked noses. Tom was a little too wall, and Eileen was little too petite. Tom's cream vest over jade-colored button down, jacket discarded was contrasted next to the Pureblood Heiress that was Severus's mother. 

Severus's stomach twisted it self until he wanted to puke. He felt two things seeing his parents. A sense of nostalgia and grief for something that never happened, his birth parents standing together and waiting for him. 

And this wasn't a rescue. Robin quite literally just brought them here to ask Tom if he can fly without a broom. 

Chapter Text

A bright, sunny day clashed against the night sky off in the distance, looming over the Coill an Bhréag, or Forest of Deception. Tom feared the boys were in there, tormented by the unseelie creatures that lurked under the silvery canopy of leaves. Or worse yet, they had traveled deep into the ruins of Caisteal na Gáire, ventured into the many caves below, and disturbed the Tuatha Dé Danann lurking and waiting. Much like the Otherworldly beast trapped beneath his skull. Just being here awakened a part of Tom buried deep, deep down. Voldemort, the real Voldemort, always rose to the surface when Tom was in the Otherworld. That's why he had to find the boys, and fast, so he could get out of here.

But there was a barrier wrapped around the forest and the remnants of Caisteal na Gáire, telling Tom that's exactly where the teenagers were. He was, in fact, quite sure of it on an intellectual level, But in his week and a half of fatherhood, that stupid, treacherous thing called his heart kept overriding his brain. He desperately hoped they, specifically Severus, wouldn’t be in that forest. He wanted to believe they weren't in the forest. 

So the rescue party was barred from entering the ruins and the forest, and was forced to wander the winding, twisting path through a gnome village. A gnome village they had just liberated by killing an unseelie Hag who was feasting on the young of this tiny, overly cheerful village. Actually, it had been Albus who had slain the Hag with the bloody Sword of Gryffindor of all things. How the old man summoned that, he refused to say.

And just a few minutes after the hag was defeated, the gnomes broke out pan flutes and tiny violins as they danced and celebrated their liberation, which was disgustingly called 'Dumbledore Day'.

Could make one vomit.

They hadn’t gotten far before was halted by an ex-lover Tom had regretted for over five years. When your wife leaves you, no matter how happy you are that she's gone, going to an overpowered, deadly, arrogant Fae was not advised. Even if it was mind-blowing sex.

Particularly when the bastard decided to announce it in front of your ex-wife, her cunt great-great-great aunt, a weasel cousin, one of your best friends, his horrible wife, and your pseudo-father.

"You know, Tom," Albus said after Robin Goodfellow had vanished, "wasn't it just last night you were claiming you weren't queer?"

"Silence, old man!" he said without missing a beat. He turned to the only two people he tolerated now, Orion and Eileen. "I have a distinct worry that we were trapped in whatever game Robin decided to play the moment we entered. He and I had an argument the last time I was here, and I bet this is just some sort of petty revenge."

Eileen stared up at him, her expression stony and eyes blazing with a fire that was hotter than the Sun. She always ran cold, but Tom could always thaw her by just existing. 

"Because you had to piss off an ancient fairy, our son is in danger?" she sneered up at him. "Always a bastion of competence and intelligence, Tom Riddle. When I dropped our son off with you, I thought you had enough sense to get rid of anything dangerous in your house. 

"You gave me a day to prepare!" He snapped, throwing his hands in the air in a mad gesture before slamming them on his hips. "How the hell was I supposed to know two fifteen-year-olds would go into my lab, drink my cocaine and ecstasy laced healing potion, and then fall into a fairy portal?”

He moved around them at a frantic pace. Explain to me how I should have predicted any of this, Eileen? I fail to see how.” He motioned to the woods. “anything about this situation is my fault!"

It wasn't just Eileen who was unimpressed but Orion too. "You don't know how mixing drugs in an unmarked healing potion is your fault?" 

"You know what," Tom said, defensive, "I don't appreciate the judgement. I just had my entire outfit changed against my will by an ex, and you're on me about leaving drugs around? I'm the victim here!"

And he was! When Robin appeared before them, he took one look at Tom’s brown and orange suit—one that Tom just knew he looked very appealing in—and tutted. As if the snarky, prissy fairy could judge Tom’s immaculate taste. As if he had the right to.

Then, without warning, Robin snapped his fingers and altered Tom’s appearance. His pants and shirt were far tighter than before. All to objectify Tom! The nerve.

And now his complaints were made out to be nothing!

"You're ridiculous." Walburga hissed out. She tapped her bare wrist as if she was wearing a watch "We're on a time crunch. Our sons are missing, and-and-and being tormented by that fairy! They could be dead!"

“Wally, Wally,” Tom said, turned on a slow swivel to face her. His brow was raised and wore an exaggerated smirk. “I didn’t know you cared about your son. Here I thought you’re an abusive harpy who used Crucio to get him to obey.”

 Walburga’s face turned a blotchy red, and her eyes wrinkled with hot tears. “how dare you! You know those rumors aren’t true.”

Tom opened his mouth to push her further—because what else can he do—but a swift shove from behind stopped him.

“Will you control yourself!” Orion bellowed, almost turning a shade of purple and his whole body trembled.

Ah, maybe Tom went too far bringing up Rita Skeeter’s hit piece from last year wasn’t the kindest thing he could do. But would he apologize? No. Because she wouldn’t apologize for calling him ridiculous.

“Children,” Albus called in a condescending tone, dripping with nostalgia. “Do I need to hand out detentions again like I used to during school?” his eyes sparkled with humor to an audience that wanted him dead.

The four Slytherins all sneered at their former Headmaster, forgetting their grievances from seconds ago, rooted in their shared hatred for the wizard before them.

Eileen blinked, rolling her eyes. “What can you tell us about Robin, Tom? Is he a danger to the children?”

Tom shrugged. “He’s a fairy. If the boys are smart and don’t back talk him, they will be fine.”

“Oh, Sweet Salazar!” Walburga shrieked. “My baby is doomed!” she covered her face with both her hands and began to sob.

Orion rushed to her side, hugging her and patting her back. “There, there, Sirius is a good lad. I taught him how to deal with the Fae.”

Tom and Eileen stood back, both wearing matching disgusted expressions at the display. The two cast glances at each other, their sneers worsening.

“We have returned,” Tempest said.

Tom signed and turned.

Tempest, and her scrawny, pissant adopted son returned from examining the barrier. Her painted lips were a deep scowl.

“What did you find?” Albus asked.

 "The barrier around the forest burns your flesh if you force it open." She held up her hand, revealing her gray, ashy skin was marred by with black marks as smoke bellowed from the wounds. 

Crispin stepped in front his mother, pointing at Tom. "Mudblood! I demand you to heal her at once!”

Tom clenched his jaw as he raised his hand with a rude gesture. "Piss off." 

"Stop calling Tom a mudblood.” Eileen sounded very tired of having the same argument for hundreds of times. "He's the heir of Salazar Slytherin, that meant something to Lord Severus."

Tom looked down his ex-wife, a bit surprised at her defense. For a moment, it reminded him when it was just them against her entire horrid family in their early days of their farse of a engagement. Before things went wrong. Before they said their vows and realized they’re making the worse mistake of their lives. At least Severus came from that mistake.  

"Doesn't stop him from being a mudblood," Walburga muttered, still sniffling, but was silenced by Orion pinching her to be quiet.

"If," Albus cut in, directing their conversation to what was important. "This Goodfellow is keeping us from the forest, but we're placed here, it suggests this is our path forward."

He gestured to the bricked road that was wrapped around the forest and to a village off in the distance. This one was clouded by twilight. He rested his hand on the hilt of Gryffindor's sword that was now attached to his belt. "Maybe we can slay more ghastly beasts while we're at it. 

"You do know this isn't an adventure, right?" Tempest drawled, unbothered by her injuries. She wouldn't want mudblood healing her anyway despite her demands. 

A loud bang echoed over field, halting the celebration and causing the gnomes to scream in terror.

They drew their wands, while the three Princes unleashed their claw-like nails and fangs, and hissing like feral cats. 

But there was nothing around them that could have made that noise. Nothing— 

A scream and a series of frantic barking came from above. 

They looked up and watched in stunned horror like Severus and a dog? No a Black Shuck fell from the sky. 

Tom found his legs locked, and feet planted against his will. It wasn't Fae trickery, but the terror a father could only feel. How many times would he see Severus's life threatened?

Eileen had no hesitation. She bolted, vampirism and the will of a mother propelling her faster than she should be. And maybe she could've reached their son if the barrier hadn't shocked her. She was flung backward to the ground. The sight snapped Tom out of his shock, and he ran after her. He closed the distance by flying to her side.

Silently, he landed next to her. The two of them exchanged glances for half a second, before he helped her to her feet. 

Albus drew his wand and shouted a spell to soften the fall for both Severus and the Black Shuck. Severus hit the ground with a grunt and a thud. And the Fae dog landed on top of him. 

Severus shoved the Black Shuck off of him. 

"Severus!" Eileen called to him and hurried to the edge of the barrier. She got as close as she was allowed too. 

Tom followed, still clutching his wand as Severus scrambled to his feet. 

The boy was covered in dirt, his jeans were torn and bloody, and his cheeks were blotchy from crying? What happened in that forest? What did Robin do? 

"Mum, Dad!" he said panicked, hurrying over to them. 

Both Tom and Eileen held their hands up. "No! Stop!" Eileen shouted, her stoic voice cracking with fear. While Tom yelled. "No, stay where you are! Don't come closer!"

Severus halted, eyes wide. "Why?"

"There's a barrier," Tom explained, using his wand to demonstrate. The wand tip crackled as it touched the invisible force keeping him and Eileen from their son. "We don't want you to get shocked. 

The Black Shuck, clearly possessing no grasp of English or sign of intelligence, looked straight past Tom and Eileen and ran headlong into the barrier. It yowled in pain as it was shocked and flung several feet back.

Severus gasped. "Oh shit!" he shouted. "Sirius!" before running toward the dog. 

Tom looked down at Eileen; she looked as shocked as he felt. "Did he just call that mangy mutt Sirius?" 

 A high-pitched scream erupted from behind them. The others had followed them, and it was Walburga who let out the eardrum destroying screech. She hurried over to the barrier, but Orion launched himself at her. He wrapped his arms around her middle. Frantic, she thrashed in his arms, hitting and kicking like a wild animal. 

"Let. Me. Go!" She snarled. 

"And let you be electrocuted?" He said through clenched teeth. "The barrier burned a Vampire Lord and sent Eileen flying!”

She broke free but didn't attempt to rush through. She joined Eileen and Tom's side, getting as close as she could to her son. "What happened to him? Why is he a dog!?" She demanded, turning to Tom, as if he knew. As if he were to blame and should answer her demand.

"How should I know?" He spat out. “The children just got here!”  

"Oh! That's my cue~" 

Robin returned. He materialized between the two groups, standing confidently among powerful wizards, witches, and three wrathful vampires. His confidence was annoying on good days; today, it was infuriating.

"I know how he turned," Robin said in a sweet tune, grinning from ear to ear. "You see, little Padfoot—oops, I mean, Sirius—needed a lesson in humility. And I," he closed his eyes and placed his hand on his chest, "was the instructor." He finished with a theatrical bow.

"You turned my son into a Black Shuck!" Orion shouted, while Walburga let out a terrified shriek.

Robin, feigning nonchalance, turned and shrugged in their faces.

"That's what I just said,” his voice slippery like fresh satin. “If your wife didn't have such high-pitched vocals, maybe you could have heard me, my good sir."

Never has Orion looked so offended. He drew his wand in a swift motion, so fast Tom nearly didn’t catch it. "How dare you!"

Albus got there first, grabbing Orion's wrist and gently pushing it down. Tom slowed, halting beside Robin. "Now, now, Orion," Albus chastised, his tone that of a Headmaster dealing with unruly students. "That is no way to treat our esteemed host. Mister Goodfellow is simply overcompensating. It is why he's tormenting two teenage boys. Picking a fight with him would just highlight his deep insecurities."

Robin's cheery expression faltered, his grin falling for a fraction of a second. It was just a flicker, but Tom saw it. When the smile returned, it was all malice.

"You seem to assume quite a bit," Robin said, his tone still cheerful, but an edge of cold steel crept in.

Oh, Circe Tom thought, Albus was going to get everyone killed. 

Albus hummed, stroking his beard. "I believe, Mister Goodfellow, I have I rather good idea on who you are." He abandoned Orion's side and slowly paced around the ancient fairy. "You do what you please because it amuses you. You think your immense power means people are your playthings, and you can do whatever you wish." He cast a glare toward Tom before adding, "and you cruel, and unorthodox methods reveal a tiny, little man underneath."

Tom didn't understand why Albus would look at him during this useless monologue. Tom was none of those things. 

"I know very well how a being like you acts, Mister Goodfellow," Albus continued, pausing behind Robin, forcing the Fae to turn around to face the wizard. "I have nearly forty years of experience with people like you. Intelligent, and yet, deeply childish and arrogant. You are not unique as you believe." 

"That's a bit rude," Tom said, offended, almost shocked Albus would say that about his Deputy Headmistress. "Minerva McGonagall is arrogant, but she's not childish."

Albus's pained expression, and both Eileen and Severus slapping their foreheads told Tom that Albus wasn't talking about Minnie, but if not, he had no clue who the old man could be ranting about. 

But it didn't matter, Albus Dumbledore had effectively, and thoroughly enraged a fairy. Robin's magic didn't lash out. He didn't mock offense. He didn't shout, or damned Albus. Curse or hex him. No. It was much worse than that. He was silent, and rigid. His eyes were blank, and yet, they spoke a thousand languages of anger. His hands were loose at his side, but his shoulders were stiff, hunched ever so slightly. 

When he finally spoke, the impish malice was gone, replaced by the coldness befitting a monarch. "You have a lot of nerve, mortal."

Albus merely raised a brow, amused. "Oh, who said I was mortal?"

In a swift moment, he drew his wand, aiming it at Robin. Tom and Orion scrambled out of the way, Tom instinctively shielding Orion with his own body. His eyes found Eileen's; she and Walburga were huddled together, ready for a fight. Tom knew he would shield them both, so the boys wouldn't have to watch their mothers die. He had experienced such a pain firsthand.

But Albus turned his wand around, tip pointing at himself, and held the handle out for Robin to take.

"Take it," he said, his voice flippant, dangerously confident. "Take my wand."

Robin narrowed his eyes with suspicion but snatched the wand from Albus's grip.

For a single, silent beat, nothing happened. Then, a wave of recognition washed over Robin's face—not just shock, but a profound, covetous awe. The air around the wand seemed to hum, and his grip tightened possessively. His mouth fell open, rendered speechless by the impossible artifact in his hand.

"Really," Tempest began, her tone laced with cold judgment, "you would hand that wand over to a Fae?"

"Tom," Orion hissed under his breath, "what is going on?"

Tom's eyes didn't leave Albus when he answered, "he's proving a very unnecessary point to Robin." The point was, Albus was cursed just as Tom was by the Deathly Hallows. 

Robin was so shocked, so bewildered by what was in his hand, he gave it up without a fight. Albus took it, wearing a smug smile and twinkling blue eyes. 

"Thank you," he said, before turning around. "Eileen, Walburga, could you stand aside? Thank you." 

The women hadn't needed to be told twice. They dashed from the barrier and hurried over to Tom and Orion. Walburga ran straight to her husband's arms, while Tom dragged Eileen behind him. 

"Albus, what are you doing?" he called out. 

"I suspect while we cannot cross this shield," Albus began, but Robin cut him off, finally releasing his fury. 

"Of course, it can't!" he yelled, his echoing ever so slightly. "My magic cannot be broken by a pathetic wizard with a stolen wand!" 

"However," the Headmaster continued, as if Robin wasn't there at all, "I believe our magic can cross over threshold. And I am a Master of Transfiguration." 

He drew his hand back, and a crackling, cadmium blue orb forming around the tip. 

"Veritasforma Revela!" he shouted and sharply pointed the wand at the Black Shuck. 

And the spell whistled passed the barrier as he predicted, hitting Sirius in his fuzzy chest. He yelped and flew back with the force of the spell. Walburga gasped in horror, and Orion called out to his son. The blue light engulfed the Black Heir, covering his body. The whistling noise grew louder, and louder, and louder— 

Pop. 

The spell broke, releasing a strong rush of wind. Severus toppled backward as the intense breeze kicked up dirt, loose grass, and tiny, screeching sprites. Tom raised his arms to shield his face, while Eileen curled behind him, using his body as a shield. Orion took the brunt of the blast to protect Walburga. Only Tempest, Crispin, and Robin remained unmoved—the vampires by their nature, Robin by his sheer, palpable shock that a mere human could shatter one of his spells.

When the blast wave died, Tom lowered his arms.

Sirius sat up, his curly hair a mess. He looked at his hands, touched his face, and then he got angry.

He jumped to his bare feet. "What the fuck!" he bellowed. "You couldn't have warned me, Headmaster?" he demanded with only the arrogance a Black could muster.

"My apologies, Mr. Black," Albus said cheerfully. "But I thought you would prefer being human."

Whatever the boy was going to say was cut short by a childish, aggravated scream. Robin stomped his foot and pointed a shaking finger at Albus.

"You insignificant worm! I had plans, and you ruined them!" he accused. "Whatever trouble that boy gets into will be on your head! I've seen the future! I was warning him, but now? I hope he suffers those twelve years!" 

Orion stepped from around Tom. "Are you threatening my son!"

Robin whirled around, his glare nasty. "No. I was saving your pathetic whelp. The second he entered the portal, I saw it all. All the possibilities  if he just learned humility, but now?" he clapped his hands and shot one to the sky. "The fates are sealed. 

"Riddle!" He barked the name like a curse. "Can you fly without a broom?"

The question was so abrupt, Tom took a moment to register it.

"Of course, I can," he said, confused. "You know I can. You taught me."

Severus's deadpanned well, fuck drowned out by Sirius's yelling. "Are you fucking with me!" He pointed at the fairy. "You took us here to prove a point!"

Robin, for the first time since Albus spoke, grinned. It was malicious and nasty, nothing like his usual mirth.

"That's right, lads," he hissed. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

And they were gone.

The world was crystalized by a painful crash. Severus slammed into the meadow, the impact sucked the air out of him, replaced by the scent of crushed poppies in his lungs. The dull thud of Sirius shook the ground, a small mercy. At least his idiot boyfriend didn’t crash into him this time.

But did it matter? When his body ached with the promise of bruises, what was one more?

He groaned, rolling onto his back. He attempted to sit up but fell onto his back—a sob escaping his throat. Why him? What was the point of his existence?

The soft patter of feet approached, each step crushing more flowers with deliberate precision. Through fluttering eyelids, Severus saw that Robin's toes were filed to sharp points, just like his claws. He turned his head, looking up at the Fae with a wary gaze. The grin on Robin's face was all teeth and malice. Dumbledore really got under his skin, didn't he?

Wordlessly, Robin kicked him again in the ribs and Severus let out a shout. And Robin kicked him again.

“Stop it,” he sobbed.

"Get up." He demanded, before kicking Severus again. This time there would be a purple mark. 

Severus let out a hacking fit, biting down an undignified whine. He was burning his copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream when he was home, then he will chastise his father for fooling around with a bloody fairy!

Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort, for Circe's sake! Shouldn't he be more intelligent than indulging in petty relationships with petty, petty men?

"Stop whining, we have work to do before we reach my village," Robin said, placing his hand over his heart at the word 'my'. He tried to sound smug, and playful, but his voice was clipped and acidic. A twinge of lemon bitterness only Dumbledore could put into the mouths of arrogant men.

Sirius forced himself upright. "Your village? You own a village?" 

"Yes, my village," Robin said, stepping right on Severus's stomach as he spoke. He cared very little of Severus's wheezing and bruised ribs. Sirius flinched for Severus, looking on with concern, but now too scared to shout at or demand the Fae to leave Severus alone. 

Severus just accepted the abuse. He's suffered worse. Not the first full grown man to step on his stomach. At least Robin didn't stomp down with boots on like Tobias had when he was eleven. 

 "I," the Fae continued, "won it in a card game against the Unseelie Lord of this land. And when Lord Evander gave me the village, I left it in the competent hands of Saoirse, a plucky faun who's too plucky and too fauny."

Severus groaned as he sat up, holding the spot where Robin's foot just been a second ago. 

"What's so important about this village?" he questioned, his throat itchy from a rush of air escaping his lungs so fast. 

"They're having a party, a festival," Robin chirped, playfulness creeping into his voice once more. 

"It's not Lughnasadh yet, and the Solstice has passed," Severus pointed out, thinking of reasons why a Fae village would have a festival for. 

Robin's eyes burned with delight, and maybe with something twisted too. "Clever." he practically purred. He crouched down to Severus's level, his grin stretching wider than it should on his sharp, narrow face. "This is why I like you, Savir. You truly know how my people operate. You don't make dramatic, sweeping accusations. You aren't a cursed fool playing games, he has no right to play with folks like myself.”

Severus squeezed his eyes. He wanted to know about the festival, not hear another rant about Albus Dumbledore. He heard enough from Eileen, Tom, even Tobias, and all his Slytherin classmates. 

"Headmaster Dumbledore is cursed?" Sirius questioned. 

Robin's smile fell, and that was somehow worse. But the menace was gone from his eyes, so was the mirth, and jokes. All that was left were pools of horror that no Fae should express. 

"Very," and he as if he was speaking more to himself than them. "And worse, I didn’t know. I should know. That wand is mine, I crafted it. I plucked the Thestral hair, I chopped the wood. I forged the ring dark iron.” He was pacing now, frantic and forgotten the boys were even there. “And spun thread into silver, weaving the cloak to life. The Hallows were mine for those stupid, stupid brothers..."

Severus tilted his head to the side, confused. What was the fairy talking about?

But Sirius knew. His breath hitched in his throat and Severs turned to see his face grown ashen. His gray eyes were wide with akin to terror and disbelief. “The Hallows?” he whispered. “You created the Hallows?”

And Robin kept talking himself, muttering under his breath and pacing in a circle over and over, killing the flowers below—literally. In the wake of his path, the flowers wilted into blacken stems before drying up into ash.

“But how? They should’ve…they shouldn’t exist. Not after the Morrigan visited Ignotus…” he muttered low, so low, Severus strained to hear him.

“Who’s Ignotus?” Severus asked, forcing himself onto his feet, wincing as he did so. “The only thing I understood is the Morrigan.”

Robin halted mid-step, and he turned around. He blinked once, twice, a third time before laughing lightly. “Oh, that was nothing, nothing at all. Don’t worry about it!”

He sighed, and his whole body was relax, like he hadn’t just spiraled into a melodramatic, mental breakdown.

“Right, enough of that!” Robin clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “We have flying lessons!" he glanced over his shoulder. "Sirius, stay in the dirt or follow—I don't care." 

Sirius waited for Robin to turn away before sticking his tongue out in an act of childish rebellion. But the Fae just knew and spun around and stuck out his own tongue.

He brushed the dirt off him, disgusted by the grime from the bog. He wanted a hot shower and put this midsummer night behind him. 

But he couldn't until Robin was done with them—hopefully with them alive and not turned into candy for a hag to devour.

"How do I learn how to fly then?" he asked. "And can Sirius learn?"

"You think I would let that idiot—

"HEY!" Sirius bellowed, getting to his feet quickly

—learn my magic?" Robin finished, pacing around Severus. "Also, his magic...impressive—for a fool—

"Oh, well thank you...I think—

—but it's pathetic compared to yours, Savir," Robin purred again. He clasped his hands down on Severus's shoulders. His long, narrow fingers curled on his shoulders. 

Severus flinched at the contact. He tried to wiggle free, but Robin's grip was firm. He sent a pleading look to Sirius, but his boyfriend just gave him sympathetic eyes and a shrug. 

"You're an Ahl al-‘Hayat, a Parselmouth, your magic is much closer to mine than other humans," the Fae explained. "You're Fae-touched, like Tom. But..."

Without warning, he whipped Severus around, leaning in close. Severus cringed back had nowhere else to go but allowed the Fae inch into his personal space. "...but can you think like us? Tom mastered flight because his mind is more Fae than human too. He is unrestraint. But you?" 

He shoved Severus hard, but Sirius was right behind him to make the catch. "But you, my darling winter child, are rigid, balled up. Defensive, even. You have no self-esteem, you're loathsome," Robin rattled off, using his fingers to count every horrid thing about Severus. "And you hate yourself."

"I don't hate myself." Severus drawled in a flat tone, but his cheeks were pinker than the crushed, now dying flowers underfoot. 

"Of course, you do!" Robin insisted, laughing as if it was a joke. But there was sharp edge to the noise. Not cruelty, but pity. And pity from a Fae Lord was worse than malice. 

"Ignore him, Sev," Sirius insisted, rubbing his back in a comforting circle. "He's still bitter from Dumbledore's tongue lashing." 

Robin's face grew impassive, and his eyes never left Severus, ignoring Sirius entirely. "You're step-father had been dreadful. Made you feel worthless since you're a child, and maybe you are? It's why he used to beat you, wasn't it? And your mother? And she was neglectful, still is, and abandoned you not even a fortnight ago to live with a stranger." He recited the words as if they're practiced for a dry weather report over the radio and not the facts of  Severus's pathetic life. "Mundanes hate you for your mother's mixed-race heritage, and magicals are killing you for your father's. And" his eyes flickered to Sirius, a sneer on his lips, "wasn't it a month ago your darling boyfriend was calling you ugly? Insulting your big, hooked nose? Your greasy, stringy unwashed hair?" Robin crossed his arms over his chest, humming. "Didn't he and that other boy blamed you for a theft, slipping a library book in your bag without checking it out? Telling someone...named Filch, was it? That you're just doing what your mother's people do...only...he used that word, hadn't he? Refuses to say mudblood, but that word for travelers? Well, that's perfectly acceptable."

Severus's entire body froze in Sirius's arms. Denying wasn't an option when it was true, but the truth made breathing difficult. He stepped away from Sirius just as Sirius's hands dropped from his arms. A strangled noise emanated from Sirius's throat. His shoulders went up and his neck shrunk. He held his hands up, close to his face, gesturing wildly for Severus to understand. 

"I-I-was twelve. I didn't know any better," Sirius stumbled over his own defense, but he didn't believe the excuses. "I was just...I don't know! Severus, listen I didn't mean it like that." 

But Severus refused to look at him, because he was now that twelve-year-old boy being chastised by Filch for doing what travelers do. Severus was one fourth Roma, and that was thing people latched onto. It was either he was vampire because he was Prince, or that word because his grandmother was Romani. He wasn't just Severus. 

The silence between the two boys was the perfect wedge for Robin to slipped into. He gracefully stepped into that space, wrapping an arm around Severus's shoulder, pulling the boy close. His grin was predatory, and his eyes sparkled with sinister mischief. 

"Now, about that flying lesson," the Fae said, leading Severus away, and he let himself be directed. Trailing behind them was Sirius, his glare was pins and needles but Robin was unbothered. If anything, he reveled in Sirius's rage and guilt. The boy's hate was a balm for the brutal verbal beatdown Dumbledore had given to the Fae. 

Severus kept his eyes focused on the village. It was far off in the distance, but...maybe if he can do something to lose Robin. And maybe...attempt to Apparate?

"So, all I have to do is let go?" he questioned, his voice was monotone even to his own ears. "How exactly does my Parselmagic help me?" He needed to stall. 

"You tell me," Robin said, humming. "Has...Tom taught you Parselmagic?" There was eagerness that Severus didn't like.  

Severus narrowed his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling defensive. "Father gave me vague lessons last week on Parselmagic. It was mostly theory, but I might know more." And after Tom murdered the Prewett brothers. But Sirius didn't need to know about that part.

Robin leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Show me.”

The fairy spoke like hark that was out of tune, too giddy to contain himself. Clearly, Robin wasn't musically inclined, but he was more eager for learning about Parselmagic than he did wanting to tach Severus how magical gift of flight. Severus caught his breath before it hitched and his mouth before it twisted in a smirk. That's it! He would show Robin the spell Tom taught him. He just hoped the all knowing-Fae didn't know about the spell.

He stood at his full height, not hunch over. He threw his hawk nose in the air. "He showed me a few spells," he drawled, putting on his mother's arrogant pureblood tone. He had to time this right. If they could get just a bit closer to the village...he just got keep the Fae talking. 

"Oh! Learning magic just boosts that non-existence confidence, doesn't it, Savir?" Robin's breath was hot against Severus's ear, but he wouldn't let the Fae's games get to him. Not anymore. 

Severus stepped out Robin's grip and looked up into the Fae's eyes. They're curious, and the mirth returned in Robin, bemused by this fifteen-year-old who dared to make eye contact. But Severus saw it. The flicker of annoyance. The downtrodden smile turning into a frustrated smile. 

Oh. The all-powerful Fae couldn't break through the years of Occlumency training Mother put him through. He smirked in the face of Robin's scowl. "Encountered a roadblock, did you?" 

"Did Tom teach you that?" Robin asked

"No," Severus said simply, smirking. “My mother did—and she learned it from her mother.”

“Oh, yes…. your traveler grandmother,” Robin murmured, eyebrows knitted together.

And Severus grinned in the face of Robin’s frustrations. Robin might know facts that were whispered on the wind, but invading one’s mind was different. It wasn’t just Occlumency, it was warding his inner eye from a Keshalyi, a creature like Robin.

He looked over his shoulder, winking at Sirius. The other boy raised both brows, questioning in silence. But Severus couldn't explain anything even mentally. He doubted Sirius had the same training as he did in Occlumency, and that would blow everything in their faces. Deceiving and attacking a fairy was a dangerous sport, and Severus didn't need Quidditch player beating wildly on a broom. 

"I'll tell you what Tom taught me," he began, reciting a story he was making up. "He explained the theory behind Parselmagic in the kitchen, over fizzy drinks."

It started in the kitchen over fizzy drinks, with Tom's shirt stained with blood and them laughing over the Aurors' deaths. But he moved out to the backyard for an active demonstration, not just theory—of course, after Tom changed. 

"He told me Parselmagic is ancient magic, it knows your true intent," he said, paraphrasing. He slowly began to pick up his pace. It wasn't a sudden shift in speed. It was a gradual crawl from leisurely pace Robin sat to something brisk. 

Under the starlight, and the waning crescent of the moon, Tom took Severus outside into the backyard. Severus was elated. Just a short few days before knowing his father—his real father—he thought he would never learn Parselmagic. Something he dreamed of but never thought he would get while living with Eileen and Tobias. 

"Parselmagic is ancient, passed down by oral tradition," Tom had explained, twirling his bone-shaped wand. "It's lyrical, you need to carry a tune." 

"I can," Severus muttered, unsure of himself. Lily said he had a lovely voice, but Potter and Black said it was nails on a chalkboard. "It doesn't sound lyrical when I speak it. You...sound like you're almost singing."

Tom turned to him, and without a care, he pressed his hand to Severus's chest—over his heart. 

"Parselmagic is meant to speak with the natural rhythm of the Earth, Severus," his voice was silken, soft and smooth as he hissed. "Music speaks to the heart, and Parselmagic knows it. When you use Parselmagic, you're singing thousands of years of oral tradition across this world. You're not just tapping into your magical core, your mana pool...you're tapping into life itself. The soul of the Earth. This is why we're Ahl al-‘Hayat, People of Life."

Robin was enraptured, soaking up the droplets Severus could offer. And wasn't that a funny thing? Robin should know, shouldn't he? He seemed to know everything else—but why was that? Why can Robin do anything he does?

Severus chewed on that question, keeping it to himself until he could reunite with Father. In the meantime, he chose a spell Robin might be interested in—but not the one he would demonstrate. It wasn't time yet. He needed to be closer to the village, at least on the edge. 

If his plan worked out, he was going to Apparate himself and Sirius inside the village and send a message to Father via a snake. He just prayed to Ahura Mazda, not to god or Merlin, but his mother's god, that the risk was worth it. 

"I could show you what Tom taught me," he offered, eyes flickering to the trickster. "Maybe it will help me 'let go', be more confident to learn how to fly."

Robin whistled low and long. "Now that's a thought. Tom never showed me Parselmagic," he spoke in reverence, as the act of learning something new was more thrilling than flying. "Refuse to. Parselmouths invoked my name in the past but they never, ever let me in their secrets…much like other travelers.” He sneered, and Severus bit back a smile, knowing not to push it. “One aggravating druid from the Muirsgéal Clan centuries ago did it just duel me, but he kept his clan's magic to himself."

Severus's heart sank into the flowerbed below, burying itself under the red poppies. 

 "Muirsgéal Clan..." Sirius spoke up for the first time. "Why does that name sound familiar?" 

"It should, little starlet." The nickname was cutesy, but somehow Robin made it sound harsher than a insult. "It's the clan your Founder was born into." Robin nudged Severus with a sharp elbow. "That's the druid that kept summoning me by name to duel me—what's wrong with you?" 

The question was sharp, yet there was hint of concern for Severus. 

Severus stopped walking. He didn't answer Robin's question but was looking at Sirius with haunted eyes. 

"The Muirsgéal Clan was in the Prophet back in April," he murmured, a deep sadness washed over him. “Gideon Prewett bragged about it in the paper. He said, he said,” and his voice rose, anger overcoming the despair as he recalled the details. “He said the adults were removed from the island. And the children were taken to be reeducated by Bertram and Clara Bones. Muirsgéal’s Clan doesn’t exist anymore.”

He then remembered that very night in his shared dorm with Lucius, Garrett, Seth, and Evan, the radio on the nightstand between Lucius’s and Garrett’s bed was playing music.

Until the record scratched.

And over the radio waves, was a high-pitched voice, eerie and yet enticing.

“You destroyed our Founder’s Clan,” he whispered so sweetly, and silky smooth. It sent a chill down Severus’s spine as he laid in bed. “You did not just steal the lives of hundreds of innocent Parselmouths. You stole Salazar Slytherin’s entire legacy.”

And this embodied voice of the Dark Lord, a voice of a man Severus had yet to learn was his father, grew shrill and enraged.

“MY VENGENCE WILL BE WITHOUT MERCY! YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM ME, BERTRAM AND CLARA BONES! YOU WILL BE NOTHING BUT SMOLDERING ASH AND YOUR FAMILY’S BLOOD WILL PAINT THE STREETS OF LONDON—

And the broadcast ended there.

And Severus hadn’t, until now, realized the first time he heard Tom’s voice was through Voldemort’s filtered vocals. Long before they met, long before Eileen confessed Tom Riddle was his father.

The slow realization crept on Sirius's face until horror blossomed over him. And all he could get out was, "oh." He stood there awkwardly, until he confessed, "I hadn't realized...that...what that meant."

And that pissed Severus off. It wasn't righteous or bitter. Just raw frustration that made his magic crackle under his skin. "Of course, you wouldn't." And he didn't waste his breath lecturing Sirius. Not this time, not with the memory of Filch with a cane and a stolen book are fresh in his mind. 

The spiteful, nasty part of him wanted to abandon his boyfriend while he escaped for freedom, but he wouldn't do that. Merlin, doesn't that say everything about how his feelings for Sirius Black have changed? 

He instead turned to Robin. "You knew Salazar Slytherin?" He didn’t intend for it to come out bitter, but it did.

Robin hummed, rubbing his chin. He acted as if wasn't going to answer, pacing around the two boys. And Severus realized that indeed Robin wasn’t going to answer

He bent over, plucked up wild thyme, a cluster of yellow tiny flowers—oxlips, and violets. He avoided the abundance of poppies on purpose. He paused to arrange them in a beautiful, but rather small, bouquet. He held out the herb and flowers, pretending Sirius and Severus weren't there, or Severus even asked a question. 

"I think I need roses," he chirped playfully, and then turned to them with a soft grin. "Savir, be a darling boy, and bring rosa moschata and rosa rubiginosa for me?" 

Severus's lips pressed into a line, stifling his rage and shrugging. He looked to the ground and only saw poppies and tulips. He stepped carefully around the meadow, less he crushed the roses. He moved further from Robin, but nowhere closer to the village. It seems Severus's plan has stalled out until he found Robin his roses. 

His hair on the back of his neck stood straight as someone approached him. He whipped his head around, only to see Sirius. Robin was far from ear shot, at least Severus hoped he was. The fairy was lounging in the air again, with his bunches of flowers floating next to him.

"Did you find any?" Sirius asked, rubbing his arm and casting his eyes to the side, as if he was too ashamed to even look at Severus. 

He looked back to the ground, avoiding Sirius's face. "No. I don't even know how he found oxlips. I hadn't seen any that he didn't take already." 

Sirius crouched down next to him, scanning the bed of flowers. "What are the roses he wants? Maybe I can help." 

"He's after musk-roses and eglantine—

The realization came crashing down around Severus. He reached over and gripped Sirius's arm like a vice, a lifeline to the horrifying truth who Robin truly is. 

"That's not Robin Goodfellow," he whispered so low not even the flowers could hear him. 

'What?" Sirius was too loud, too blunt, too ignorant right now. 

Severus's grip tightened and pulled Sirius closer. "Listen to me," he hissed in Sirius's ear, "that's not Robin. I need you to trust me."

Sirius tugged on his arm, his face scrunched up in pain. "Sev, you're hurting me,"

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in before loosening his hold. 

"Sorry," he murmured, letting go. His mind was half racing of a new plan, hoping and wishing what he was about to do didn't get them killed. 

"If he’s not Robin, who is he?" Sirius asked gently, putting a comforting hand on Severus's back, rubbing circles in between his shoulder blades. 

"Have you ever heard of Midsummer Night's Dream?" he desperately needed Sirius to understand the danger they were in. 

But Sirius smirked, both amused and unsure. "Is that a Queen song?" 

Severus gawked at Sirius, nearly rendered speechless. "You know who Queen is but not William Shakespeare?" and the poppies leaned into them like they were listening in every heard he was saying. 

"Uh...that's the Muggle bloke not-Robin mentioned earlier, right?" Sirius scratched his his cheek, eyes turned upward. "That's the Muggle Prime Minister?"

"Aren't you in Muggle Studies?" he asked, incredulously. "And no, he's not the muggle Prime Minister. I told you earlier he's a play write." 

Sirius shrugged. "If you mean when I was dog, I hardly understood a word you said. I just knew you were sad. As for Muggle Studies," his smile twisted into a smirk. "Only took it because I fancied Marlene McKinnon, buuuuut~," he dragged the word out, "she fancies bints instead."

Severus slapped his forehead and dragged his hand down his face. Holy shit, were purebloods useless. "Great, brilliant actually. You're taking a class because you fancy a lesbian, how did that work out for you?" 

"I got my first kiss out of it," he said without a hint of irony. "It wasn't very good because we're thirteen and we just smashed our faces together and I bit my tongue."

He stared at Sirius for several seconds. "You're an idiot," he drawled, tone flat. He plucked two tulips, snapping them from the stems. "But maybe I shouldn't judge. I let Lily talk me into taking that ridiculous Ghoul Studies in our fourth year because it was her latest fixation and hobby. Now, we're taking field studies so we can add more insects to her collection."

"You definitely shouldn't talk, because at least I have someone to do my Muggle Studies work while Evans is bossing you around," Sirius teased, elbowing him with a wink. "You know, she went on a date with the Ravenclaw prefect last year, and brought her mini ant farm? Then cried to Marlene and Mary MacDonald when walked out?" There was humor in his eyes, like it was funny. Like it was amusing Lily was mocked by older boy because she had interests people found strange and creepy. 

Severus glared, wondering if it was domestic violence if he slapped his boyfriend of a day. "You do know she's my best friend, right? How about I laugh at the fact Potter got knocked out of the air during Quidditch Match because Seth Mulciber wacked a Quaffle into his head." 

Sirius had the gull to look offended. "That was attempted murder!" 

Severus bit his tongue to stop himself from saying he wished Seth succeeded. So instead, he shrugged and asked, "and who do you have writing your Muggle Studies papers?" 

Sirius glared, sensing Severus was thinking, but dropped the subject. "Oh, well," he paused, pushing his hair out of his face. "I had an assignment over summer break about the American muggles going to the moon. Utter rubbish, and very much not real. I had to write a report on why it wasn't real. I was feeling rather confident, and told Mr. Riddle about it when he visited. And he gave me the same look you're giving me right now. And before I knew it!" He did a swiping motion, as if he was grabbing something other than air. "He snatched my parchment away and wrote the essay for me." He flashed a smug grin. "I got top marks!"

 Severus decided to ignore everything Sirius said because the headache wasn't worth it. He instead focused his will and magic on the yellow flowers, transforming them into both distinct roses. One tulip petal flattened out, doubled in size and volume. The yellow bled into white until the only yellow that remained was in the center. The stem thinned out into something more delicate and fragile. For the other, the tulip transformed into a light-colored ink eglantine, smaller and softer flower. 

"Won't he notice?" Sirius asked, concern woven into his question. 

"He said he wanted roses, and I'm giving him roses," Severus muttered before standing up. Sirius did as well. 

"What are you planning? Be honest," Sirius pressed. 

"Yes, Savir." Robin was right behind him, hunched over into his personal space. The Fae hadn't changed in height, yet the weight of his true identity pressed down on Severus like hundreds of stones. "Be honest." 

Severus swallowed down his fear and turned around, holding up the altered roses. "I got what you asked."

Robin accepted them, holding them out with scrutinized glare. "You transfigured two tulips." He dropped them to the ground and stopped down, crushing them under heel. "They're not what I wanted." His face and body language were impassive, but that cold malice returned. His teeth were sharper. 

Severus didn't flinch from the hardened tone. "You told me to bring you musk-roses and eglantine to you," he said, taking a step forward, getting into Robin's space. "I brought you the two flowers you requested. You did not state how I found them, or if I could alter other flowers. This is a field of poppies and tulips, you presented a seemingly impossible task. It's unbecoming of a man your station to throw a fit because I succeeded through cheating to accomplish what you wanted." 

Shock flickered on Robin's face for half a second, before his toothy grin returned. He stepped back and then mockingly bowed--it was too low, too dramatic for King Oberon. His entire persona was a mockery, from the patchwork of threadbare clothing and messy, yet perfectly styled hair. It was a performance. 

"Clever, clever, figured it out did you?" Oberon stood straighter than he had been before. "I suppose I was a bit on my nose." He poked the tip of Severus's nose, and chuckled when Severus slapped his hand away. Sirius looked between them, confused and nervous. He inched closer, as if to play the attack dog but there was nothing Sirius could do against the King. 

Oberon waved his hand. "Recreate the roses for me, and I will teach you how to fly."

Severus tilted his head to the left, similar how Tom tilted his head when he was examining someone who needed to be taught a lesson. Oberon's smile flickered downward.

 "Sure," he said softly, and bent down, plucking two more tulips. Like before, he transformed them with ease, but when he stood again he didn't hand the flowers over. "Maybe I can show you the Parsel spell down Tom showed me."

 The promise of knowledge he was denied, Oberon's doubts and suspicion vanished. Curiosity was catnip to the Fae, after all.

 "The incantation takes a bit to recite, Tom can do the spell wordlessly now," he explained, giving himself a wide birth that he needed. Sirius followed him, sensing there was more going on than Severus could explain. "So my apologies if it seems tedious."

 "Nonsense!" Oberon waved his flowers around in a dismissive gesture, the violets falling off their stems. "I want to experience Parselmagic, not pretend to be impressed by a mortal who's ego is larger than mine. By the gods and stars, having Tom as a partner was exhausting. Fun! But a nightmare by another name. My queen warned me bedding him would be a mistake, and I should have listened to her." He shuddered. And Severus was learning too much about his father right now. "But please, continue, Savir. Show me." 

Severus took another step back, eyes fixated on the ground under Robin's feet. He visualized all spotted snakes scurrying beneath, within the soil--no. The sand. They were not in a meadow, but deserts of Iran and the saw-scaled vipers were chasing down fat mice. He saw them taking place of the poppies and tulips, springing forth from the dirt and latching onto Oberon, holding him in place. The flowers in his hands stirred with his magic as he held onto the image. 

           “Serpentis flora, hiss and creep,
           Awaken now from thorny sleep.
           Vines that twist and roses red,
           Turn to fangs and coil instead." 

He raised both hands up, one opened palmed the other clutching the flowers, nearly crushing the stems. He squeezed his eyes tightly, recounting the spell Tom taught him. 

           From roots below and leaves on high,
          Through veiled shadows, slither nigh.
          With deadly grace, let vipers wind,
          Among the blooms, your prey to bind.

The wind picked up, whipping around him, his hair flying wild as his magic crackled. The words tore from his throat, raw and scratchy. The scent of poppies curdled on his tongue, until iron and venom flooded his mouth.

         In branches bare and blossoms bright,
        Trade gentle bloom for venom’s bite.
        Oh, serpent souls within the green,
       Arise and claim this living scene.

The poppies and tulips and wild thyme rumbled and rustled in the wind. Several of the plants lifted off the ground, braided together in several thick strands. They turned into natural ropes—vines. Vines that weaved together as dirt and flowers clung to the

       Strike from leaves, with poisons pure,
      In coils of death, their fate secure.
      Serpentis flora, come alive—
     As thorns and fangs, no soul shall thrive.”

Severus snapped his eyes wide open just in time to see the confusion...and was that panic? on Oberon's face as the flowery ropes circled around him. 

"What is this?" he asked, looking up glaring daggers. "What did you create?

"Saw-scaled vipers." Severus squeezed his hand into a fist, shutting it tightly and releasing the magic. 

The ropy flowers withered and turned brown; the petals flattened into scales and darkened into spots. They all hissed at once before launching at King Oberon, pinning him to the ground. Oberon let out an unkinglike yelp as the venomous snakes tackled him to the ground. The snakes wouldn't hurt a being like the god-king, but they would keep him occupied. 

"What the fuck!" Sirius exclaimed, but Severus didn't stop to explain himself. 

He grabbed Sirius's hand and bolted. The two ran hand-in-hand through the meadow. As they ran the flowers blackened, wilting as Oberon's rage drained life from them. The village was so close, but so far away. But it had to be close enough for what he was going to do. 

He looked over his shoulder, sparing a glance at Sirius, only to see Oberon tearing the vipers off him one by one. 

"Brace yourself!" he ordered, turning back to the village, his eyes transfixed to a small home on the outskirts of the village. There. Next to the barrel, under the jars of floating lights. 

"What are you doing—

Severus imagined himself and Sirius at that spot, and with a pop, they vanished from the meadow. 

Chapter Text

Side-Along Apparition had given Severus the sensation, but not the control. He thought it would have been enough. His mother used Apparition almost daily, as she couldn't drive. Even Tobias used it to visit his parents in Newcastle, or when he was late for work. Many times, Severus had held onto his parents' hands and vanished with them. He knew the crushing pressure, the violent squeeze that felt like being split in two.

In his second year, Severus was curious about Apparition and went to his favorite prefect for answers Rupert Yaxley didn't shoo the curious twelve year old away, but explained thoroughly the theory and mechanics behind Apparition. He explained the the three D's. 

Destination. Determination. Deliberation.

As he and Sirius ran from the bound, infuriated Fae King, the words were a litany.

Destination. Determination. Deliberation.

His destination was just past the two houses on the outskirts of the village. He could see them, clotheslines stretched between one and the other. A barrel and a broken wagon wheel leaned against a wall just beyond them.

He was determined to get the fuck away from King Oberon and his fury.

There was no time for deliberation. Severus concentrated, grabbing Sirius, and twisted on the spot, Apparating them both out of the dying meadow.

When they reappeared from that compressed, pressurized space, Severus didn't land on his feet like his mother, or Tobias, or Tom had.

He crashed directly into the barrel, the force flinging Sirius into a thorny bush.

The barrel bent on impact, splintering into large pieces. Wood and bolts went flying, doing nothing to soften Severus's collision with the house. He hit the wooden panels with a solid thud!  He rolled onto his back, a choked sob escaping his throat. 

He pushed himself upright with a groan, wincing at the mild soreness. His heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Th-thunk. Th-thunk. Th-thunk. He thought that he should be in more pain. But he wasn't. There was a dull, throbbing sensation on his temple, but that was all. He got to his feet, and then a rush dizziness fell over him. He nearly toppled over, but caught himself on the house. He brought his left hand to his forehead, and felt wetness. 

Slowly, he pulled his hand away and his palm was coated in a glossy red liquid.. Like ink that spilt all over the countertop. his blood dripped, dripped, dripped in between his fingers and staining the grass below his feet. 

"Oh, fuck!" Sirius exclaimed. 

And Severus looked up slowly, as his left eye became blurry with red.

His boyfriend was covered in tiny red dots, and the shirt he borrowed from Severus was torn. But he wasn't hurt, no missing limbs. 

So his first Apparition was a success. 

Sort of. 

If he ignored the broken barrel and blood coating his forehead and half his face. 

Sirius looked around above them and jumped up, and snagged a linen tunic from up above. He pressed it to Severus's forehead, staining the pure white fabric instantly. 

"Shit, are you okay?" he asked, his voice tender despite his harsh language. 

"I feel fine," Severus said...and were his words slurred? They sounded slurred like that time Evan Rosier snuck three bottles of fire whiskey into the dorm last November and he experienced being drunk for the first time.  It was hard to recall what happened...in fact it was hard to remember anything. His mind was fuzzy and staticky. 

Okay, maybe Severus wasn't fine. 

"I think my head injury is severe," he murmured, legs swaying. 

"No shit," Sirius said flatly, still his eyes were fraught with concern. Maybe even fear. "We need to find our parents before Oberon does. Can you walk?"  

Severus wanted to argue, push back against Sirius's worry, but words were heavy on his tongue. He was sure he could walk, but the world was dizzy and blurry. He wanted to curl up and sleep, sleep, sleep. The lingering effects of the poppy field and the blood loss were were making him drowsy. 

But before either one could move or talk, red mist materialized in front of them. Sirius jumped back, bracing himself for a fight and Severus just stood there accepting their fate. 

And out of the mist was a sneering, disdainful Tempest Prince. And he rather it be Oberon than her. Even Sirius didn't relax. "There you are." Her accent was heavy with a lilt, having dropped the aristocratic tones of a pureblood. "Come. Follow me." 

"To where?" Sirius asked. "How did you get here? Who or what are you? how did you find us?"

Tempest left eye twitched. "I am a Vampire Lord, you simpleton. You are wasting my time. Let us go." She grabbed Severus's arm, tugging him in further into the village. But Sirius pulled her back. 

"We're not going anywhere with you until you explain yourself," he insisted. "I don't care if you're a Vampire Lord or Lord of the bitches."

Sirius just had to push, as if the past hour or so here trapped under Oberon taught him nothing. Insulting creatures that dwarfed him in power and rank just showed his arrogance. Severus, though the haze of blood dripping down his face, was terrified Tempest was going to kill Sirius right then and there. 

But Tempest did something worse. She lifted her leg and slipped off one of her flats. Sirius didn't see the danger, just watched in a confusion as she brought down the flat down hard on his shoulder. Once. Twice. Three times, while cursing him out in fast Farsi even Severus had a hard time deciphering what she was saying. 

Cringing away behind his arm in an attempt to shield himself, Sirius pleaded. "Stop it!" 

She hit him one time in the arm, breaking the flat. It snapped under the pressure and it split in half. Her breath was haggard, her hair a mess. Her fangs flashed under the fading moon and stars. She pushed her hair back out of her face and held her head up high, putting on the mask of a British pureblood once more. 

"Come along, children. The search party is this way," she said and turned on her heel, abandoning them. 

Sirius rubbed his arm, swearing under his breath. Severus didn't ask if he was okay. He knew Sirius wasn't. There was a part of him that hated Tempest, but another...the boy who was raised by a mother of the same ilk couldn't help but think Sirius deserved it. He learned from a very young age to not disrespect mother like Sirius felt entitled to disrespect the women in his family. 

 Sirius didn't complain because to complain would cause another beating. He just balanced Severus against his not-bruised shoulder, and the two trailed behind her, limping along as she weaved through the houses. Severus didn't pay attention to what was around him. His head dropped low, and his eyes closed, but something in the back of his mind told him he needed to keep his eyes open. He couldn't rest. If he closed his eyes, and let sleep take him, he wouldn't wake back up. 

The music from further in the village grew louder. Pan flutes, and bells.  Trumpets, and harps. Chanting and drums. The noises strung together into a cacophony that tickled his brain, but music felt distant. Muffled. Muffled, like the fairy lights that illuminated the paths they walked. 

Tempest led them in between two houses, where two blankets hung from a clothesline acted as a door. She pushed through the cloths and slip by—and Severus was remined of the Malfoy Manor. Of the masquerade party last week. 

He wished it was last week. 

Sirius hurried them forward, pushing through the wool blankets. Behind blankets was a well at the center of four houses. Tom was whispering low with Sirius's parents, Orion and Walburga Black. Albus Dumbledore was talking to the male vampire, one of Severus's own distant relative a further way, in front of the back door to the houses.

And where was Severus's mother?

Dumbledore was the first to turn and notice them before Sirius could call attention. His sharp eyes landed on Severus, and they morphed into a horror and shock. 

"Severus!" he called out and hurried right over. 

But he didn't reach the two boys first. 

Tom turned around sharply, his eyes going wide. There was a pop, and he was gone. And another pop, and he was shoving Sirius back, and aggressively directing Severus to a bench to sit down. Dumbledore hovered over them both, examining his forehead. He grimaced, and when Severus saw that, he knew he was was worse off than he thought. 

He spun around, finger raised at a sharp point at Tempest, who was standing with the other vampire. "You forced them to walk? In this state?" his voice laced with a fury he had at the Malfoy Party. But now wasn't because of politics, but now was on Severus's behalf. 

Where was this fury when the Marauders bullied him for four years? 

Tempest examined her nails—bored, barely caring what Albus was saying. She didn't look up either when she spoke. "Albus, darling, just because the boy is family, does not mean I will look pass his sperm donor's blight to help him."

Tom already had his wand out, in a middle of a diagnostic spell. But the spell was cut off for him to twist in his seat and fire a silent Killing curse right at the vampire. 

She and the other vampire moved out of the way hazy mist and the blast exploded through the window, shattering the glass into thousands of shards. The loud noise didn't even make Severus flinch. 

"I won't miss next time," Tom said flatly before turning back around. He resumed his diagnostic spell, frowning. "Holy shit, son,  I had custody less than two weeks and you've been on the brink of death three times." 

"If it makes you feel any better," Severus spoke in a low, emotionless drawl, "Mother had me for fifteen years and I nearly drown once." Not that was Mother's fault. She didn't predict a three year old would jump into a pond. 

"Oh, Merlin!" Eileen called from inside the house Father just partially ruined. "Do NOT tell him that story. I will not hear the end of it."

Tom whipped around around to the house and back at Severus. "Now I want to know." There was sharpness in his voice, displeased. 

But Severus ignored him. "Mother, why are you in some stranger's  house? " 

"She is a newly turned vampire," Walburga answered for Eileen. Severus attempted to turn his head toward her, catching sight of her franticly checking Sirius as she talked. Sirius and Orion trying to fight her off, but losing that battle. But Tom forced him to look straight ahead so he could heal his wound. "It's to prevent her from going into a blood frenzy—Sirius, stop fidgeting!"

"It's for your own safety, Severus" Eileen called out. "I don't want to hurt you." Oh. That was new from his mother. He never knew a time where she HADN'T wanted to hurt him. 

"It's the whole reason why I sent Sirius out of the house," Walburga continued, her words came out like she was clenching her teeth. "I didn't expect my son to be drugged and fall into a fairy portal, and then tortured by a Fae-creature!" and her voice turned shrill the more she spoke. 

"Wow! Wow, wow!" Sirius said, and Severus couldn't see him, but he imagined he was waving his hands around. "What do you mean drugged?" 

There was a huff from Walburga, and Orion said calmy. "Mr. Riddle laced a healing potion you took with...illegal substances. Muggle substances." 

Severus's eyes flickered to his father, just as Tom vanished the blood off his face. 

Tom pressed his wand tip to Severus's forehead. "I used to do cocaine like I smoke cigarettes—

"How the fuck do you have a nose?" Severus cut him off. He seen his father's smoking habit, how is that even possible. 

"—and I mixed cocaine in a few healing potions as an experiment," Tom finished, ignoring his question. "I also put some other cocktail of drugs in the potion. Just to see what would happen. Honestly, I'm surprised you two didn't vomit it all out. I bet Robin cleared the slurry from your blood stream."

"Why would you...do any of that?" he asked, trying to understand his father's logic.

Sirius muttered wicked under his breath as if anything Tom just admitted was wicked. There was a thud and an ow, and one of Sirius's parents must've slapped him. 

"Cocaine kept my mind focus. And it was fun." Tom chirped, sounding a bit too happy from this confession. Severus could not believe his mother abandoned him to live with some drugged-out terrorist. And somehow Tom was the better parent. "You should feel better in a second. I'm using a temporary spell to cover your blood loss until we get home. What happened to you two?" 

"Yes, an excellent question from highly questionable source," Albus said, glaring down at Tom with disproval. 
"How did you both sustain your injuries?"

"They're tortured by that Robin!" Walburga shouted, and Severus winced at the shrillness. "What a foolish question, Albus, as always!"

 And he blinked, realizing he was...fine? Actually he was totally fine now. The fuzziness was gone, and his vision was sharper, his hearing was clearer. He wasn't in a fog. 

Murderous intent flickered Tom's eyes, and for a moment they bled to a startling red. "Did Robin do this to you?"

"You mean King Oberon?" Severus corrected sharply. 

"Oh," he aid, tilting his head to the side and his eyes returned to their normal brown. He was proud, but not shocked Severus uncovered the Fae's true name. "You figured out who is then? Learned his name? Well, not that isn't his real name. But close enough." 

That left Severus with more questions. His father effectively robbed him of all the cleverness he felt because of course there was more to King Oberon, that his father will always be one step ahead. 

"King?" Orion questioned. Severus turned toward him, and saw while he was being healed, so was Sirius. And...one of his parents replaced the clothes he barrowed from Severus with Regency Era clothing. Great. Severus liked that shirt. "Why haven't you mention we were dealing with Fae King? Are you mad—that was rhetorical." he added quickly knowing Tom would say no when the answer was an objective yes. 

"Oh, I didn't think it was important he was the king of the Seelie Court," Tom said, with a shrug. Severus gaped at his father, because he truly didn't see why it wouldn't matter. 

Dumbledore stared down at Tom, expression stern like he would an unruly child—and the Headmaster had decades of practice. And all things considered, Tom was worse than a child. He was a grown man operating on logic that wasn't logical. Oberon was right, Tom was Fae-touched.

"It is not important that our adversary was King of the Seelie Court!?" The question was laced with reluctance and disbelief, an attempt to figure out a maze that was Tom's mind." 

Tom huffed, annoyed that it wasn't just Dumbledore but also Orion who were piling on him. "It wouldn't have changed anything. Robin would've still acted the way he did. But now he hurt my son, so I'll have to kill him. That's unfortunate. I like Robin. But alas," he waved his hand as if he was ready to discard a broken chair that woodworker couldn't fix. 

"He didn't do this," Severus said, pointing to his forehead. "I apparated straight into a house."

"And I got flung into a thorn bush," Sirius said, tugging at his waistcoat, glaring at his mother. 

Tom grinned, slapping his knees. "Perfect!" he stood up. "I didn't want to kill him anyway. Since we're here, we should go see what the elves are celebrating. I can stock up on elven wine finally." 

"Tom," Dumbledore said, rubbing his temple. "You want to take time to shop for wine while a god-king is enraged?"

"Yes?" Tom sneered, like it was the most foolish question ever asked him. "Have you had elven wine made from the Fae world, Albus?" 

The elderly headmaster sucked in a breath, like he wanted to yell or chastise, only to let out a weary sigh. And Severus swore he saw several gray strands in Albus's white beard turned whiter by being within close proximity to Tom.

Eileen slipped out of the house, brushing her skirt part of her dress. Severus stood without thinking, the urge to go to his mother was strong. It was like a toddler falling on the hard pavement, and scraping their knee seeking out the comfort only a mum could provide—even from one as cold as Eileen. But the rust of standing nearly made him topple over. 

Severus gasped, taking step forward, but Tom caught him first. 

And there was a rush of wind, and Eileen was on his other side. "Did you not heal him?" she asked, accusatory and biting. 

"He lost too much blood and needs replenishing potion," Tom countered, eyes narrowed. "Though, I could use necromantic healing—

"Tom!"

Dumbledore snapped, going from exasperated to furious. The fairy-lights flickered from his magical rage. There was a crackle in the air, just before a lightening strike. And Tom was the conduit begging to be shocked. 

"Necromantic healing is an abhorrent form of magic." he pointed a finger at Severus. "And you would use it one your son?" 

Severus didn't resist rolling his eyes, and looked down at his mother. Eileen wore an ugly sneer, hate evident in her now red eyes. She blinked and glanced up at him. Through looks alone, they shared a conversation through micro expressions of disgust. It wasn't the invasive conversations Tom forced him to have within his own mind, but one rooted in history and shared disdain for Albus Dumbledore. 

Tom raised his hand, it straight like he was going to slap Albus. "Don't be a mug!" He snapped bluntly, dismissively, and tumbling into his natural accent. And shockingly, Albus didn't press his moralistic point. But the argument was far from over. 

Albus's silence wasn't a victory in an argument. No, he fumed with his arms across his chest.

"If we are quite done here," Orion said, adjusting his coat, "I would like to take my wife and son home. I will import Gorgon  wine from Greece, if that will make you happy, Tom."

Tom raised his brows, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "Well, that’s quite proper, isn’t it? I’ll indulge in that. Deal."

"Lovely," Tempest said, gliding over to them. "Let us return to our world, and we can resume our...talks."

Orion and Walburga Black wore mirrored, hateful expressions. And Severus cringed, because that wasn't a married couple developing the same mannerisms. It was cousins who were nearly identical and raised together, and had two children. No wonder his father found the Black family repulsive. His eyes flickered to Sirius, and he caught gray eyes staring back. At least Sirius wasn't cursed with the Habsburg jaw...

"You think we are continuing this deal, you are sorely mistaken," Walburga said, voice dripping with condescension. "You lied to us. We're not marrying our youngest to one of your many, many granddaughters for a lesser deal. You can sell your old seat to an ignorant family."   

Tempest's nostrils flared. eyes open wide with an intense rage. She took a step forward, like a cat stalking a bird. Walburga stepped back, fear etched on her face. Beside Severus, his parents tensed. Tom inched closer, his hand gripping his wand until his knuckles were white. Eileen wrapped a protective arm around Severus, as if Tempest might attack him.

Tempest let out a screeching hiss just before she lunged at Walburga, fangs flashing. Walburga screamed. Orion instinctively pulling her back, and desperately shoving Sirius out of the raging Vampire. 

But she didn't even touch Wallburga Black. Two distinct blasts slammed into Tempest's chest—a red stunner shot from Albus, and the bright, killer green from Tom. Tempest was propelled backward through two houses like a rag doll. The sound of the destruction was muffled by the drums and enchanted harps, but piercing screams from elven maidens erupted as they fled from the shattering walls and floor boards. 

As Tempest crumpled amid the splintered wood, the other Prince apparated to her side.

Severus hadn't notice that he was leaning close to his mother for protection. 

"Holy shit!" Sirius exclaimed, holding his mother as she clutched her chest. In front of them was Orion, his wand drawn. He lowered it and turned to his wife, stroking her hair. "Is she dead?" 

Tom lowered his as well, more irritated, like he was inconvenienced. "No, she's a Vampire Lord. Unfortunately, she can't be murdered with the Killing Curse."

"I can confirm she's not dead—I'm still a normal vampire," Eileen said, letting go of Severus. She was done comforting him, which is longer than he had known since he was a small boy. "I turned yesterday. If Tom had killed her, I would be a Vampire Lord." 

Severus looked around Tom to the broken houses. A piece of a windowsill fell to the ground, just as Tempest was struggling to get up.

And Tom did the same thing, a grin slowly spreading across his face and his dark eyes shining brighter than the fairy lights. "Do you want a promotion, Eileen?"  

And Eileen's brows shot up. There was ghost of a smile, and Severus realized his mother was interested. 

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Albus said, putting his hands on his hips. "Tom, you can't murder Tempest?" 

Tom whirled around, jabbing a finger against Albus's chest. "How dare you!" his voice threatening to become shrill for a man with such a deep, smooth voice. "Accuse me of unable to kill someone! Implying she's stronger than me."

"I'm saying murder is wrong, Tom!" Albus yelled back, his composure fraying.

The words were foreign to a man who killed his own father. 'Murder is wrong'. It was a concept that prickled at the back of Tom's throat like rotting cavities. Murder was a way to solve a problem to man like Tom. The Prewett brothers were killed because they got in Tom's way. Because they're Bad Aurors. Corrupt pigs who targeted Tom's people. Parselmouths. His Death Eaters. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but Hepzibah Smith's murder was a boon for Tom and his cause. 

"It's Tempest," Tom all but snarled her name. "Would anyone miss her?" He gestured to all around him. "You wouldn't miss her. You hate her, viscerally hate her."

There was crack in Dumbledore's Greater Good armor, like he was wavering under the pressure. Surely, he wouldn't let Tom murder her. 

But Severus didn't like his great, great something aunt. The cold, cynical vampire he had met just once before in Spinner's End who threatened him. "She wants me dead." The words came tumbling out, in part hoping his father just killed her and be done with it. Who cares what that doddering old fool wanted?

Also, he wanted the perks of being the son of a Vampire Lord and Lord Voldemort. The power he would have. No one would mess with him again. Lucius constantly, and annoyingly said to anyone who crossed him "wait until my father hears about this." Severus wouldn't need to. It was clear everyone knew Tom was the Dark Lord, but polite society ignored the danger lurking, lurking, lurking under Tom's pleasant smile and handsome face. Eileen running the their family, which Severus had learned recently was a dangerous and powerful vampiric death cult and not just an exiled pureblood family. Tempest's death was a positive.

"She tried pulling a fast one over our family," Orion said, more to Tom than Dumbledore. He knew arguing with the Headmaster was pointless so he pleaded his own case against Tempest, hoping Tom will act anyway. "And I am still not sure what she was keeping from us...but..." 

His words died off as he waved his hand. Beside him, Walburga nodded vigorously. Sirius simply shrugged, not caring if she lived or died. If Orion was telling the truth, then Sirius wouldn't want a woman who crossed their family  

Eileen spoke again, her voice dripping like ice melting under the withering Sun. Her hand was on her hip, and she was examining her nails, as if expecting dirt. "Hadn't Tempest been the one to cause," she paused, holding her arm out stretched, "Ariana's...well," she flickered at Albus's way, "you know. I certainly wasn't there, wasn't even alive. But I have heard rumors she was involved."

Something died inside Albus Dumbledore. The name Ariana was worse than killing curse. 

The music outside faltered—or perhaps Severus only imagined it. The bells stilled; the harps choked mid-note. Even the floating candles dimmed, as if Dumbledore's magic suffocated the flames. Before them wasn't that annoying, moralistic sparkling-eyed Headmaster, or waring Chief Warlock yelling at the assembly members at a garden party done wrong. He was blank, impassive. A broken man who's age came calling. 

The sudden shift in Dumbledore unnerved Severus to his core. Who was Ariana? He stepped back, not wanting to to be near this new, cracked version of the Headmaster. Sirius was as equally uncomfortable. Eileen remain impassive, while Sirius's parents were left confused and curious by this 'Ariana'. 

But Tom? Tom tilted his head, smiling like a thirsty man wandering desert had found his oasis. Laughter threatening to split his mouth wide as he was about to get the permission and validation from the one person he ever begged acceptance from.  

Dumbledore turned toward Tempest, who was struggling to get back on her feet. He took a step forward, raising his wand. 

Tempest and Crispin halted, staring at Dumbledore as if they saw death himself. 

But he didn't finish them off. Instead, he tilted his wand slightly upward and without fanfare, blasted a piece of roof that was hanging by threads. The piece of wood fell—

Woosh! 

 It zipped through the air! Dumbledore caught it with a raised hand and without hesitation, he tossed it to Tom who caught it with ease.

The piece of broken roof was flat but jagged on the edges. It came to a sharp point at the end—a perfect stake. 

Severus's mouth hung open, the corners of his mouth twitch upward in delightful smile. He looked around to his mother, getting confirmation what he was seeing. She was just as shocked as he felt. Sirius, and just a moment ago, the other boy didn't care if Tempest died or not, was mortified Albus Dumbledore just produced the execution tool. 

But it was Tom, Tom, who's reaction said everything. Tom's smile shined brighter and brighter laughed. It was a cruel, nasty cackle, one laced with a smoker's cough as he wheezed and wheezed as his glee rose to a feverish pitch. Until it mingled with the chimes and flutes of the distant party. His magic, when enraged, produced a nightmarish tundra. But as he clutched the would-be stake, his joy brought in a pleasant chill to sooth from the Summer solstice heat. 

Pop!

And Tom vanished and reappeared right in front of Crispin. The vampire was a statue, too scared too resigned to flee. Tom's cackle grew manic as he shoved the stake through Crispin's chest, blacken blood staining his hand and coat. He withdrew it, only to stab Crispin, again and again and again until the vampire who once feasted on Tom's own blood without Tom's consent was dust on the wind. 

Tempest screamed, reaching a crescendo as she watched helplessly as her youngest child disintegrated into nothing. 

The concert of her screams short as Tom turned the weapon onto her, eyes bleached red. He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to look at him, so he could enjoy the light go out her eyes. He slid the stake into her cold, dead flesh, filling her heart with splinters, ending what should've been a long life short. The last thing Tempest Prince heard before wind took her was the mad laughter of Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

Oh, and the sound of Dumbledore Apparating away from the murder he facilitated. 

Chapter Text

The Bones family built their manor in Eyam, on top of the piles of dead inflicted by the bubonic plague. The bodies had still been warm as the Plague Doctors walked among the sick when construction began. Sir Gregory Bones oversaw the project, pleased to see empty space had opened for his estate. He turned a blind eye to the plague sweeping through the village. He ignored the ghosts haunting his grounds. He ignored the bones rattling in his basement, all so he could have a monument to himself.

And now the manor belonged to Bertram Bones and his wife, Clara. 

But they were not Sir Gregory. While the good knight stood in ignorance to the suffering peasants around him, Bertram and Clara were complicit. No, no, no. They were architects. 

And a new kind of Plague Doctor was perched on the roof of their manor, hunched over like a gargoyle on a Gothic castle. 

Lord Voldemort was here on a simple mission: free the Muirsgéal children housed in the basement before their bones joined the plague victims. 

It had taken Voldemort too long to find the missing children. He was under the impression the children were housed in a secret location. When he had finally, after a year of searching, found the Ógánt children, they were within some abandoned castle tower overseen by a Ministry official, Cobalt Winger.

Voldemort assumed, and maybe foolishly done so, that the Muirsgéal children were kept in a similar place. They were stored away, watched over by some sick, sadistic sanctimonious wanker on a mission bestowed upon them by God—

No, they held the prisoners—the children—in Bones’ own home. 

And he was the bigger fool for not having figured that out. 

It was only discovered because Samir and Chameli Patil visited the Bones' after Tom dealt with that Otherworld nonsense.  Rescuing his son—if he ignored he did not in fact rescue his son, and Severus did it on his own. Giving his ex-wife a title that belonged to her in the first place. 

How Abraxas explained Chameli went to the washroom and discovered a small, frail girl no older than fourteen having escaped the basement. Bláithín was her name. Could not speak for her tongue had been cut out, too old to be trusted with her own voice. Chameli acted fast, he said. Said she pushed the girl out a window, told her to hide in the bushes near the gates.

Chameli told Samir in Hindi, and they lied about having to leave early. And Samir had gone to Abraxas, and Abraxas told Tom. 

Tom went to Samir's home as Voldemort, wishing to see the girl. Only to find Samir and Chameli in hysterics because she chose to hang herself rather than live long enough for Bertram and Clara's bodies to rot. 

He assisted Samir in burying Bláithín in their backyard. She was given a bed of flowers to mark her grave. And her rescuers were marked by him.

When Voldemort was done with the Bones', their children will not have remains to bury at all. Edgar, Amelia, and Louis will not have an estate to fight over. No family heirlooms, no childhood memories. There will be nothing left, like there was nothing left of the Muirsgéal clan. 

But first...

From his perch on the roof, Voldemort saw movement weaving through the grass  on the eastern wing of the manor. It was faint, barely noticeable if it weren't for his magically enhanced goggles. He slipped his hand under the hood, turning the small notch on the side of the frames integrated into his mask. These goggles were specially made by Antonin Dolohov, an expert in alchemized engineering. Tom created the prototype and the runes, but Dolohov put it together. Made it functional, bringing Tom's vision to life. The first prototype was just red and could zoom slightly, but not enough for long-distance surveillance. 

Now, Voldemort was three clicks away from crystalline vision. But they were more than enhanced binoculars. They gave him clearest vision man can have during the night or a foggy day. 

 There was a click, and goggles zoomed in. But not close enough. Click, zoom. Click, zoom. 

The lens refocused on a massive Burmese python slithering in the flower bed. 

The same python that attacked Severus. Nagini.

Well, well. She just made his job easier. 

He hoped he didn't have to kill her now he knew her story. But if she got in his way saving the children, he would. 

Voldemort returned the goggles to normal vision before standing up. He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. He shifted into a running position before taking down the full length of the roof. With soft thuds, he was dust on the wind in the moonlight. In one fluid motion, he surged across the roof and launched himself into the night. His cloak flared as he dissolved into black smoke, pouring over the edge to manifest instantly in the python's path, blending into the deep shadows of the manor.

His landing was soft, quiet. She recoiled at first, hissing low. But when he made no sudden movements, Nagini rose off the ground, fangs flashing. 

He held his hands up, and spoke in a low breath.

 "I am not your enemy, but I will be if you do not reveal your intentions." He stepped forward toward the massive snake, wondering when the woman behind the scales would reveal herself. "Are you here to free the children, or harm them. I know what Hepzibah had made you do." 

Nagini was mid hiss, her body writhing in the grass when he spoke. She clamped her head shut and tilted her head to the side, contemplating what to do now. 

"I am free of Hepzzzzzibah'sssss bindingsssss," she hissed back. Interesting. Even as a snake, he could hear the Southeast Asian accent even as she spoke Parseltongue as a snake. He's met Parselmouth animagi who lost their accents. He would need to study that when he had free time.  

"She was murdered after you attacked that boy at the Malfoy party," he paced around her, circling her like a viper ready to strike if she gave him reason too. "You will need to explain yourself further." 

Nagini lowered her head, averting her gaze from his mask. "It took a few hourssss for her control to wane off. But I wassss....aware of everything she forccced me to do." 

In a swirl of magic, and the massive Burmese python vanished and reformed into an Indonesian woman. Up close, Voldemort could see the fine lines of aging. They were a road map of her hard life. Her black hair was streaked with gray, and frizzed from the humid summer air. She wore a boxy 20s dress with a faint snake pattern, no shoes. 

"I am not here to hurt the children," she assured, switching to English. "I wish to free them. Find repentance."

"For crimes you didn't commit?" He pressed, allowing the disgust creep in his voice. 

"It was my body that performed the actions." She clutched her hands to her chest and looked to the stars above. "I just hope Allah knows I am here to atone." 

He bristled this turned religious fast, regardless the fact she was not a Christian. "If he is like the Catholic God, you should not seek for his forgiveness. We should work to free the children. Did any of them see you?" 

She shook her head. "I was not used during their clan's massacre. I just heard Bertram and Charlus rehoming two children weeks back." 

Voldemort looked over his shoulder, up to the balcony that overlooked the estate. He knew that was the the master bedroom...the Bones would be asleep by now. 

"What are you thinking?" Nagini pressed.

He turned back to her. "I am aware my costume," he gestured in front of himself, "is not appealing to children. While I do not care if I frighten them further—my goal is safety and rescue, not comfort. Your presence may be more...suitable approaching the children." 

She crossed her arms over chest, and quirking a thin brow upward. "Astute observation." her voice dripped with cold condescension. 

Damn. Why do all these Asian women look at him like he was the most unintelligent man they met? Eileen, Lianhua, Mangala...now Nagini...

"I have a portkey," he continued, ignoring her judgment, "further in the field. It's an old Witch Weekly magazine, it will take the children to the Malfoy Manor. If you can search for the children, I will take care of the Bones'." It seemed easier to split their time between each other, honestly. And she was a Muslim, she would do better with the more peaceful side of the mission. He was offering her a gift, actually. "I already disrupted the wards on their home—which," a smirk spread under his mask, smug he could point out his his brilliance, "is why you," he reached over and poked her nose, she slapped his hand away, "could slip inside the estate." 

She puckered her lips in frustration, biting back her annoyance. "Did you check the wards on the back gates?" 

There were wards on the back gates? He hadn't even considered they would even bother. The back gates were open to the forest behind them. 

"Because," she pointed toward the direction of the back, "that is how I got in and I dismantled those wards."

"Ah, yes. Well." He refused to allow himself to be embarrassed. "We seem to be equal partners in this endeavor." He went to his pouch on his hip and pulled out a small mirror in a simple silver frame. "I carry these communication mirrors around. Take one if you find the children or come across any trouble you need assistance." 

Nagini, and in his opinion, quite rudely snatched the mirror from his hand. She transformed from her human form to the magnificent beast of a snake once more. 

"Do not ssssssslow me down." She let out another hiss before slithering through the weeds. He waited, watching to see how she got inside as a snake. 

She slid up the ivy covered wall up to a window. With her magic, she opened the window to allow her in side. If he remembered correctly based on loose conversations he had with Edgar Bones in school, that might have led to the three story library. He would need to vanish every book in that grand library and send them to the Malfoys before he burned the place to the ground. 

Once she was fully inside, he vanished in smoke. 

His goal, where he wanted to reappear in, was Bertram and Clara's bedroom. 

But he was hit with a staggering wall, a magical forcefield. It was like when he was in his twenties, having just learned how to drive from stealing a Bentley, and crashed it a year later in brick wall. 

But this crash was far more dangerous. This crash woke up Clara Bones. the castor of the wards.  

He reappeared on the roof as the lights flickered on. Shit. Shit. Shit. He forgot the Vances specialized in warding and could hide their wards from magical detection. Yes, any expert magician could, but it was a natural talent of the Vance blood line. 

Voldemort's mind raced on what to do. He could no afford Aurors to appear, not when the damn ministry legalized the Unforgivables. They could and would use lethal force on the children or Nagini. 

Well, there goes being sneaky. But he did like putting on a show, and he had two audience members fully awake to bask in his glory. He dropped down the balcony, silent as a whisper. Through the frosted glass, he could make out movement from two blurry figures. 

Voldemort summoned a shield made of dark iron. The dark metal reflected no moonlight or the warm glow from the bedroom. It was attached to his left arm, covering half upper body. He raised his arm in an uncomfortable angle, uncomfortable because of his mask. His goggles peered over the edge, allowing him see just enough. 

He shifted his body weight to give him leverage, cocking his wand hand back and ready with a Confringo on the tip. This would not be like his fight with the Aurors. 

Bertram will be easy. He was fat cat banker who worked with the goblins. He was charms expert, a defensive dueler at best. 

It was Clara that was the dangerous one. First witch and youngest Head Auror, a woman who battled with Albus Dumbledore and Leanan Malfoy against Gellert Grindlewald. While pregnant with her youngest child. 

But he was confident he could beat her. He's beaten Albus and Leanan in duels. It was only three times for them both but he still beaten them 

 He let out a breath, wishing for a cigarette before he shattered the glass his mind. he directed the shards at the one figure still in view—Clara. 

 Clara summoned had a Protego ready, taking the hit without staggering back. She countered, her blue nightgown whipping around her ankles. With blue eyes ablaze, she fired a Stupify. 

He dropped his Blasting Curse, and deflected the attack, sending the spell into the window frame. The stone shattered on impact, sending bits of stone. Oh...he wouldn't have been able to take that hit. 

The hairs of his neck prickled. From her wand tip came out a electrical bolt, hurtling toward him. Snap! 

He apparated further into the bedroom, slamming his back against an armoire. The impact rattled the doors and mirror. He gritted his teeth, but his eyes zeroed on the canopy over their king sized bed. It was the far end of the bedroom, with her standing in his way. 

He can fix that. 

"Avada Kedavra!" 

Green illumined the bedroom as the green light hurtled toward her. She gasped and dove for the daybed near the balcony. His killing curse hit the bed post, but that is what he was aiming for. He knew he couldn't hit her. She may be in her seventies, but she faster and more agile than these new breed of Aurors. The order went to the dogs after she stepped down.

The daybed spun around, at first he thought to shield her from spells. 

But no. 

Bed flew across the room, straight at him. 

He zapped across the room, avoiding the explosion of glass and wood as the bed collided with the armoire. 

Voldemort reappeared next to the fallen canopy. hissing on his lips. She was ready for another Stupify. He raised his arm, this time taking the brunt of the stunner with his shield. And then another, and another. Her attack was unrelenting, but he never stopped chanting his incantation. 

He was pushed back, His knees buckled.

"Stupify!" She called out one final powerful blast. 

And his shield dissolved. Voldemort was on his knees, kneeling at the feet of the ex-Head Auror. 

"I wondered when you would attack me and my family." Clara approached him, her resolve hard as waves crashing on the shore line. Her graying hair was wispy, her hands shook from arthritis. She was wrinkly and her bones were frail. 

Deceiving bitch, Tom thought.  

"I was ready for you since you made that threat," she continued. "Bertram has already left to contact Alastor Moody. His boys will make quick work of you after what you did Tuesday night." She used her wand to tap beak part of his mask. "I wonder who you are under there. I sense a weak man...a pathetic man who's been using Lord Severus Prince's crime syndicate. "

Voldemort tilted his head to the side, his breath labored from the assault, and kept hissing low under his breath knowing she could not hear him. 

"I do not know why Albus lied that night, but it is open secret you are Tom Riddle under that mask," she said, voice twinged with disappointment. "Maybe because in part he is upset with the Committee's actions. He was not pleased to learn Ominis Gaunt died in Ógánt attack." 

Tom Voldemort clamped down on his magic and rage, and kept chanting. But oh how he wanted to gut her for daring to bring up Ominis. 

"No matter, you will be arrested, and there will be an end to your terrorism, Riddle. You may hide behind your muggle father's name, but you are as reviled as the other Gaunts I have met," she said calmly, assuming she had won. 

He countered by enchanting her king-sized canopy bed into a miniature basilisk, just a hair smaller than Nagini. 

The beast was the shade mauve as the curtains and silk pillow cases. The pattern of the snake's body was the knitted wool blanket. Its fangs and spikes was mahogany wood of the frame. It coiled at Voldemort's feet, ready to strike. 

She stumbled backward, horror and shock etched on her face as she watched the bed she shared with her husband transform into a beast. The bed she had all three of her children in. The bed she shared fifty years with her husband. 

Voldemort rose to his feet, chuckling low. "Oh, Clara, Clara," he taunted by wagging his finger at her. "Do not mistake strategy for weakness." 

He leveled his wand at her. "Devour." 

The beast let out a deafening hiss and lunged. It chomped down on air as Clara Apparated at entrance of their bedroom. She pressed her wand tip to her throat.

"ELVES!" Her voice boomed like rolling thunder. 

Fuck. Tom did NOT want to deal with more fae magic bullshit after yesterday. 

In an instant, six distinct snaps echoed in the destroyed bedroom and house elves appeared in their rags. Old and wrinkled the elves were ready to die for the masters of the house. 

Voldemort fired a spiteful harm hex at Clara, and ugliest of the elves shield her with a protective charm. She looked on, resolute, and maybe regretful she sent the elves to their deaths. But she still took off running down the hall, placing a force field on the door. 

He retaliated with a heavy boot to the face of the hideous elf, breaking its nose and jaw at once. He fired off a silent killing curse at the elf's withering body. With his back turn toward the elves, five wandless hexes were fired at him. He vanished in the smoke, appearing behind the elves. The explosion shook the whole room, leaving a hole in the floor where the bed used to be. 

Two elves spun, both conjuring fire arrows at his head. They weaved through the air, like fishes in a stream. He leapt back, dodging and running from the assault. The other three joined, summoning their own fire arrows. The arrows were relentless, forcing him to dodge and run, Apparate and reappear in seconds, only to vanish in smoke again. The arrows didn't set anything on fire. They were more like slow moving bullets. And he was not bullet proof. 

While they attacked him, they ignored the artificial basilisk right behind them waiting for a command. 

Snap!

He landed near the closet door. "Devour!" 

A barrage of arrows fell upon him. He had Apparated, but not in time. Two arrows hit, hitting his leg and another in his shoulder, leaving blood in his wake. 

The beast lunged at the smallest elf, clamping its wooden jaw around the elf's head. The tiny Fae screamed, and kicked its little feet as it was swallowed  

"CLANKY!" One bellowed. 

And the remaining four turned their full attention on the beast. Their summoned magic missiles, bombarding the creature until it's wooden body splintered cracked under its pressure. The enchantment on the fake basilisk, and Voldemort allowed it to 'die'. 

It did its job. 

With a sickening crunch, the elf let out a gargled gasp as the wooden construct collapsed in itself, forming a skeleton. Wood struck through the elf's body. Bones snapped, eyes bulged out. There was nothing left but a bloody heap mangled in fake snake's skeletal remains. 

Now they were distracted, Voldemort wasn't forced to dodge. He slid behind two elves, aiming his wand at one's head. He wanted to Crucio the bug-eyed cunt, but he was on a time crunch. 

With fury on his lips, he shouted. "Avada Kedavra!" 

The green light reflected in its' friends' eyes. 

They turned toward him. Too late. 

He used his magic to lift them in the air, choking them with his mind. They clawed at their necks, desperate for air. He lifted his wand, blasting each one with the Killing Curse. Their tiny bodies dropped to the ground, one by one. The thuds were soft, and it was unnecessary to allow her elves to die in her place. 

Voldemort didn't waste time carefully dismantle the ward on the bedroom's door. He created a new one by blowing a hole through the wall, sending bricks over the railing and over the ballroom down below.  

He stormed through the door he created, right to the edge. He gripped the banister, peering over the edge, searching for Clara, but expectedly she was not there. The ballroom was gorgeous, he will admit. The grand opulence of Baroque architecture was showier than Malfoy's Gothic manor. Malfoy's manor, which was truly a castle despite the name—was built to oppress over impress. The wealth embedded in the castle was more subtle with silver trimmings, over gold. 

The Bones' manor was a statement of wealth while the Malfoys were just wealth personified. Tom hated both homes. He wasn't envious, he was disgusted this manor was so close to a working class village of under a thousand workers. And the ballroom reflected that. The moon reflected the fine sheen of the floor, reflecting the golden accents and decor even in the dark. On either end of the hallway outside the bedroom, were two grand staircases that wrapped around the room, the railings coated in real gold leaf. The chandelier was solid gold, dripping with crystals worth more than the money he makes as a healer. 

He zapped a strand of diamonds, before Accio-ing over to him. He examined the string of diamonds, a smile forming on his lips. Tom could turn this into a bracelet for Mangala.

Crinnnnnk!

Voldemort paused at the sound of moving metal. What was that?

Crinnnnnnnnnnk!

He turned his head to his right. Down the hall was four knights, frozen in time. Or they were frozen. Their heads turned him, and the opening where human eyes would be on a human, were glowing orange. 

Crinnnnnnnnnnnnnnk!

He turned to the left of him, and another four sets of knights turned to look at him. 

And then they moved. 

All at once, they ripped themselves from the wall imprisonment, drawing their various weapons. Some had axes, some had long swords, one had a spear, and one had unfortunately a fucking crossbow!

"Well shit," he muttered as he pocketed the strand of diamonds in his pocket.

They charged at once. The two nearest on either side of him, slammed their swords into the marble flooring. He Apparated out of the way to the stairwell descending downward.  He blasted the nearest one in the back. It staggered forward before losing balance and plummeting off the edge.  The remaining enchanted knights turned toward him. 

And ran at him, 

At full speed. And fast. 

"Oh shit!" he hissed, barely dodging a broadsword coming down on his head. 

Voldemort turned into smoke, moving along the shadows to create much needed distance. He materialized, landing his feet, sliding backward until he was near the second staircase. The squeak of his combat boots on the hard-wooden floor was deafened by metal boots running toward him. He fired Fiendfyre at the first knight that was closest toward him. The blast sent the knight into another, them crashing into the one with the crossbow, both flying backward onto the wall with a bang. But that left three charging at him now. Weren't there eight—

Like rolling thunder, the remaining two knights ran down the staircase. 

He whirled to his right, with a swishing motion. He summoned a massive wall of ice, with dense icicles jutting out. The knights took to hacking at the ice, and Voldemort had minutes before it melt. 

He turned to fallen knight, now already getting up. He blasted it with a stunner, before calling out. "Accio!" 

The sword flew through the air toward him but not before one of the three knights reached him. 

A knight brought down their battle axe hard into the floor, destroying it. Voldemort dodged, tossed his wand in the air, and caught it with his left hand. He fired a silent Incendo at it's helmet, setting it ablaze. All the while he caught the sword in his hand. 

He blocked another knight's sword with his stolen one. His arm wavered and hand shook under the stregnth of the enchanted suit. And the fact he was still recovering from the fire arrows from the damn elves. The final one thrusted its spear at his middle. 

Voldemort let out a mental shockwave of magic, sending the two backward. He hissed out an acid blast at the chest of one of the knights. The light within the helmet flickered off and on as the acid eroded the metal construct. 

He fired another acid blast, destroying the other two. 

Now he just had five...speaking of—

The knight freed his battle axe from the polished floor and swung it. 

Voldemort dodged it by Apparating back onto the upper hallway. Leaving him with the trapped knights. They swirled on their metal boots, and barreled toward him. 

He chucked the sword, and directed it with his wand. It pinned one knight into the wall through the chest, destroying the ward that kept it alive. He had a Bombardment spell on his lips when a swish through the air cut through his Plague Doctor mask, tearing off the beak. 

In a fit, Tom tore off the mask. 

"Motherfucker!" He swore, blasting the the knight running at him with acid. 

Two knights ran up on both staircases, while the knight with the crossbow aimed for Tom's head. 

Tom leveled his wand at the opulent chandelier and vanished the heavy chains holding it up.  

In a shiny, golden bomb, the chandelier landed on top of the knight before it could fire. The broken diamonds slid across the dark-stained floor, glittering like the stars above. 

In a fury, Tom stomped his foot down on the landing. His magic leaked out as an icy lake. The ice rapidly spread across the marble flooring, the brick walls, the golden railings, down the stairs, into the master bedroom. There was not an inch of the ballroom wasn't solid ice. He let out heavy breaths, gripping the banister with one hand. And enchanted knights were frozen in their places, weapons raised ready to cut him down but unable too. 

Tom waved his hand, vanishing the mask back to his cottage's basement before summoning a cigarette and his lighter. He clenched the cigarette in between his lips as he lit it.

Click. His finger slipped, nothing happened. 

Click. It didn't light. 

Click. 

Finally, it lit, and he breathed in that sweet, sweet nicotine, taking a well deserved drag. 

"Fuck." he hissed before shoving his wand in his holster. He turned to his torn mask, trembling with rage. "I spent months perfecting my mask. Bleedin' fuckin' cunts. Oh! And who bleedin' fuckin knows when Alastor Moody will show up! Bleedin' great, what I fuckin need!" 

He raised his hand and snapped his fingers, shattering the two knights into thousands of pieces. "Brilliant work," he grumbled. 

He let his cigarette hang loose as he redrew his wand. He aimed it at the ground, and wordlessly conjured a tracking spell. 

Clara's footsteps led down the stairs on his left and around the corner...was it to the library? It had to be. There was no way Bertram had Apparated out of the bedroom to collect Moody...no...Clara must have an enchanted mirror or a portrait connected to the Auror office. 

He could be wrong, but this point he had little options. If he couldn't kill Clara and Bertram now, then he will find Nagini and rescue the children. The destruction of the Bones' family did not take priority as much as he wanted to crush them for their transgressions. 

He took another hit before he put the cigarette out on the banister. 

Tom closed his eyes and pictured the window Nagini slid into, and Apparated just inside. 

With a pop, he opened his eyes and was surrounded by books. 

"Oh, Merlin!" Bertram cried out off on Tom's right. "Alastor, you must come quickly! That's him!" 

Tom stepped from out of the stacks, wand ready. Clara and Bertram were across the room, standing in front of a mirror. She fired a hex at him, and he deflected. 

"Avada Kedavra!" 

And just like upstairs in the bedroom, his goal was not to kill. The green light zipped across the room and Clara tackled her husband out of the way. The curse did what he needed it to do: shattering the enchanted mirror so Moody could not see his face—if Moody was still on the line. 

Clara sprung up, firing a nasty Stupify his way. 

But he Apparated right behind her, dodging the stunner. 

Tom wrapped his hand around her throat and pressed his wandtip to her temple. She gasped, her hands flying to claw at his, but he squeezed just enough for it to hurt. "Drop your wand, Clara." 

Bertram was still on the floor, mouth agape. "No! Don't hurt her!"

"Be silent!" Tom yelled out and he aimed his wand at her husband. "Clara, drop your wand or I will kill your husband!" The tip of his wand glowed a sickly, neon green to prove he would. 

She gasped and complied. It didn't even land. He vanished it with his mind, sending it outside. 

He smirked, but it was humorless. Petty. Cruel even. "I promised retribution for Muirsgéal Clan, my ancestor's clan, and I will have it." 

"You are the Heir of Salazar Slytherin," she wheezed. "Hepzibah Smith claimed as much but Morticia denied it when questioned."

The temperature in the library plummeted. He peered down at the witch. Morticia...as in Morticia Weasley? Why would she know anything about his heritage?

"What are you on about?" he demanded, the glow growing brighter. 

Clara attempted to look up at him, but struggled with his hand around her throat. "Morticia is Marvolo's sister." 

His rage spiked and he threw Clara down to the ground. Bertram scrambled to grab her before she toppled over. 

"Lies!" he kept his wand on them, his hand trembling. "Ismene Gaunt had been his sister, and she mothered my uncle. Neither Marvolo nor Ominis—whom you bastards murdered!—mentioned Morticia Weasley were their sister too. Ominis would have told me!"

Bertram tried to shield his wife, but she forced herself in front of him, arms stretched out. She did not shake like Tom nor nor her husband. She was stood there like her enchanted knights. Iron will to hold her up. 

"No, Marvolo had another sister, his twin—Morticia Gaunt," she said calm, her voice didn't waver. "Morticia married Garreth Weasley. I swear it."

"And I suppose if I just ask her, she would tell the truth?" he pressed. It wasn't like he could ask Ominis, now could he? No, no, he was dead with the rest of Ógánts clan. 

A sickening realization fell over Tom. If the Muirsgéal children were all dead, then both of Salazar Slytherin's legacies were dead.

Was he and Severus the only ones left? Were there any Parselmouths left in Britain? 

Ice seeped from under him. His magic did not consume the library as it did the ballroom, he didn't have the magic compacity to freeze the library

Guilt flickered in Clara's eyes, and her arms lowered just a fraction. "No...the Committee removed her tongue this past weekend." There was a pregnant pause before she added. "Morticia willingly submitted to prove her loyalty to her country."

Tom recoiled and placed a hand over his mouth. He could not die, the damn immortality curse the Gaunt ring brought him made sure of it, but the Committee could cut out his tongue. Rip out his vocals. Put bracers on him. Render him magicless. They could kill his son or any future children. 

And Morticia Weasley volunteered? She kneeled before their oppressors after they killed Ominis? Maybe she was afraid...no, no, no, no, no! Fear was no excuse for complacency! If she gave up her voice this fascist state, then she deserved it. She asked for it. She is part of the problem. She is the problem! 

Something inside him snapped. 

"Crucio!" 

The two collapsed to the floor, thrashing and withering and screaming. Clara hit the floor five time before curling in on herself like cooked shrimp. Her mouth opened wide, her scream went silent as her jaw dislocated . Crooked, broken. Her leg bones snapped and broke through her skin. Blood and bits of muscle splattered across the floor . Bertram's body twisted in bone-breaking angles until there was cracks, his spine snapping. 

Tom cut the spell off, leaving their bodies to twitch and spasm.  

What people didn't know, you could kill with Crucio. But not everyone knew the human body like Tom did to splinter and break a person. Crucio was a crude weapon many used to mental torture and nothing else. There was no art, no finesse. Before him, he turned the Bones' into a Renaissance painting. The way their corpses bend in odd angles, their faces frozen in pain and terror. 

And yet, this was not a museum of fine art. It was the murder of two despicable people, and he couldn't bask in their deaths. 

He came here for the satisfaction of avenging the Muirsgéal clan but now he was left with questions and numbness. He didn't know what to do now. He needed a minute before finding Nagini and the children. Just a moment to think about Morticia...

But the world kept spinning around him and he heard the muddled sound of nine Apparations just outside the library.

He rushed to the nearest window. Among the flowers of the Bones' garden was eight Aurors—including Alastor Moody. What utter joy. He remembered Alastor from school. T he prat was three years his senior and had held his Head Boy status over him. And when he became Auror, Alastor hounded after Tom like a beagle after a fox. Insistent that Tom was the bad guy for decades. Granted, it was true, but that wasn't the point!

But his biggest concern, but also to his utmost relief was Albus Dumbledore.

Relief because Albus's presence meant Aurors wouldn't use Unforgivables (not that would stop Tom from using them on the Aurors). Concern because there was no way he could beat both Albus and Moody at the same time. 

The nine of them stood under a series of giant bush sculptures, conversing an attack plan. Shit, shit. What was he going to do? He can't have them enter. Not now! he still needed to find the children. Maybe...

An idea hit him. 

Tom examined the sculptures, a tired smirk on his lips. The sculptures were of Sir Gregory, an inaccurate Athena, Helga Hufflepuff, and a figure that looked like St. Nicolos but Tom imagined was some sort of a fat Merlin. 

 Perfect. Enchanting those would maybe give him five minutes? Yes, sounds about right. If Albus wasn't there, maybe ten, but no. The Old Man had to show up. Was he here to save the two child abusers from his wrath? Or to rescue the children? If there was one thing he could bet on was Albus cared for children. Not when he was a child, no no no. Tom was the exception, but Albus cared about other children. 

It didn't matter why Albus was here, truthfully. Him being here was not good. 

First, a distraction from the distraction.  He aimed for the night sky, shouting: 

"Morsmordre!"

The Aurors jumped as a skull devouring a snake marred the peaceful country night, the smokey green cutting into the rich blacks and purples of the overcast clouds. 

But Albus? Did he look to the Dark Mark in the sky? No, he turned to face the manor. Toward the window. 

Tom ducked , heart pounding like drum and sweat slipping down the nape of his neck. "Shit," he hissed low, clutching his wand to his chest. 

Breathing heavily, he peered over the windowsill. The Aurors were still enamored by the Dark Mark, but Moody was yelling. Albus's back was toward Tom. He needed to get moving. Tom had to stop them from entering the house. He aimed his wand at the sculptures and muttered an incantation, bringing them to life. The bushes shifted, subtle at first. But then all four turned their heads toward the Aurors. Athena drew her sword, dropping down to the ground in front of—was that Kingsley Shacklebolt? Yes it was. He dodged the leafy blade and rolled in between her legs.

Helga blasted another Auror with floral magic, Sir Gregory attacked Alastor Moody. 

And the rotund Merlin dropped down in front of Albus, slamming his staff onto the ground, turning the ground into Devil's Snare. 

Tom sprung upright and bolted out of the library and into a narrow hallway, he pulled out the mini mirror and tapped it with his wand. 

It glowed a light blue for barely a second before Nagini answered. 

Her face swam in front of the mirror. Her cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes were puffy and red. 

"Where are you?" Tom hissed. 

"The cellar," her voice was broken on just those words. "There is a hall down from the library, the right. And then down that hall is the cellar. It took me so long to dismantle the wards—you have to come down here."

Her reflection flickered out. 

"Bloody hell, why didn't she escape already?" Tom grumbled, taking down the hall, just as she instructed. He ignored the slight limp in his run. Now adrenaline wasn't running through his veins, the house elf arrows were starting to effect him.  

At the far end, there was a stone door wide open. Now he wished he just gone in and gotten out with the children because that seemed to be the easier part of the bloody mission. Damn him and his compassion. If he wasn't so altruistic and gave Nagini the nice, peaceful quest, he wouldn't be in this mess! 

Speaking of, Nagini popped her head out of the basement door, motioning him over. "Hurry quickly." He obeyed and once he neared she gave him a once over. "What happened to your mask?" 

"Don't ask," he slipped passed her. "There are Aurors outside, I don't know how many work for the Committee. It took you the entire time I was fighting the defenses to dismantle the wards?" 

"The wards were newer, stronger," she said hurrying after him. "The children said they're placed after one escaped."

Tom paused on the steps suddenly, making Nagini crash right into him. He hardly noticed her colliding into his back or her sharp glares. His mind was on Bláithín. He didn't consider there would be wards put in place because of her escape. Or worse, murdered to cover up the escape. 

"Tom?" Nagini prodded, slender eyes fixated on him. 

He blinked and looked down at her. "How do you know who I am?"

"Not now," she said, grabbing his arm and dragging her down further in the basement. He looked back and mentally closed the door. He didn't any Aurors to find them. "There are nineteen children down here, they—

"Nineteen? There should be around fifty?" he said, voice rising. "Where did the others go to."

"I do not know," she said, stressing the word 'know'. She looked over her shoulder, her mouth in a serious frown. Whatever was down in the basement aged her. "The oldest child without their tongue cut out said the youngest of them were killed during the massacre."

Tom physically recoiled. "What kind of monster murders a baby?" he could not imagine driven to such an evil extreme as to kill a child so young.

Nagini didn't answer. Or maybe she couldn't voice her disgust because the act was incomprehensible. 

They finished the rest of the descend downstairs in silence. 

And once they were down in the basement, Tom found his stomach twisting in knots. 

Nineteen children, the oldest had to be a fifteen-year-old girl—Severus's age—the youngest was maybe four, maybe three. They were huddled together on mats and cots less comfortable than what the army provided in basic. They were dirty and their cheeks hollowed out, much like Bláithín had been in death. 

But Tom couldn't linger on the horror with the Aurors upstairs. Could he trust Albus Dumbledore to advocate the safety of the children? Dumbledore never listened to a child being abused. He would leave it up to the system, and the system was killing Parselmouths. Could he trust Moody? No, because Moody might hate the Oversight Committee, he didn't stop his Aurors to work on the Committee. 

Fundamentally, did he think Albus and Moody were what society called 'good men'? Yes, but goodness was useless when prone to complacency.  

He swept through the dungeon, because that's what this was. The children flinched, crowding together. He didn't have time to be pleasant. In Parseltongue, he pointed to Nagini. "Keep watch of the door." 

He turned to the children, some brave enough to stand and meet him. 

"Are we leaving?" A girl, no older than eight asked. "My sissy left too and she never came back." 

Tom felt a gut punch. He was not a sentimental person—but...but why did this...why did her...

Tom clamped down on the memory, shoved it the back of his mind. 

"You are all leaving here tonight. I am taking you somewhere safe," he spoke clearly with a hint of finality. 

"Where are we going?" another child, a boy maybe six or seven, walked up at him with wide, gaunt eyes. His mousy brown hair was thinner than a child his age should be. "Is Mummy there?"

How the fuck did Tom answer that? He barely knew how to comfort one of his oldest friends when bringing his dead son to him, how did he tell a child their mother was dead? A part, a large part, of him just wanted to say she was murdered. But that would cause unneeded stress for the boy. And it would hinder the escape which needed to happen right now. 

"Just somewhere safe," he assured, using a much softer tone. 

He bent over and picked up the boy, and held him with one arm. "I need seven more of you to grab a hold of me. I am Apparating us out of here." Eight children was the most he believed he Apparate at once without causing them to splinch...

But his apparitachexia was going to act up. He Apparated so much in a short amount of time already...

It didn't matter. He was not given much choice. 

Some of the children seemed hesitant, but eight brave children approached him. Bláithín's younger sister latched herself around his middle. A girl grabbed his free hand, a thirteen-year-old boy clutched him around his arm. An older girl held him on his other despite him carrying the young boy. Two of the small children wrapped him around his legs and the final girl clung to his back

"Do you want me to take two or three?" Nagini asked. 

Tom was already shaking his head. "I need you here to watch the door." He needed her to fight the Aurors while he got the children out of the basement, but he didn't want to say that out loud and frighten them. 

"Do not let go of me until I say so. Do you understand?" 

He got nods and some yeses. He didn't force them to speak. Who knew which ones could speak still. 

He sucked in a breath and Dissaparated. And successfully landed a few feet from the portkey. His stomach was fire. The only comparison he had was his brief stint in Hong Kong in the fifty-five and Lianhua convinced him and Corban to have fire chicken. 

He clamped down his urge to toss the boy in his arms and find the nearest bush and vomit. He swallowed down the stomach acid, letting out the breath he was still holding. 

He peeled away from the children so he could put the boy down, but still the clung to him. Ah...he did tell them too until he said not too.

"Alright, let go." 

His voice was strained as he ignored the burning sensation. Fuck, he hadn't felt his apparitachexia in decades. 

"Are you going back for the others?" the girl who clung to his back. She fidgeted with her threadbare dress. 

He dragged his hand down his face, grimacing. "Yes," he assured. "Do NOT move from this spot."

And he Apparated again. 

And his stomach lining tore more, but he ignored the sensation as he collected six more of the children. He ignored the acidic copper on his tongue as he choked down vomit and blood when he Apparated back to the forest then back to the basement. He ignored the fact he splinched a piece of his thigh as he and Nagini left with the remaining five children. 

He ignore it because getting the nineteen children to the Malfoy Manor was the priority. 

Tom didn't know if he hadn't taken the first eight when he did, if he hadn't pushed through his apparitachexia, they would've been caught by Auror Sturgis Podmore. That Alastor Moody was on the top of the stairs, wand clutched in his hand. Instead of the two discovering cots and changing pots, horrified on what the Bones' had been a part of, they would've found a handful of children clinging to Tom and his visible face. 

He ignored the pain when they used the portkey.

But when they landed in the Malfoy ballroom, where Leanan and Abraxas, Odette, and Lucius were waiting, Tom ignored the commotion of scared children or the Malfoys explanations of horror. 

He ignored them in favor to bolt to the nearest priceless vase in the corner. He tore out the flowers and vomited out the contents of his stomach. His dinner—roasted potatoes with couscous and beans. His lunch—hummus and vegetables. The whiskey he shared with Alphard Black this afternoon. The honey tea he had with dinner. And when he was empty of food, it was acidic water and mucus. When that wasn't enough, it was blood.

He retched and retched until he couldn't. Until he was nearly sobbing and gagging and hacking over a porcelain rim. Until he was in a black office. And hands ran down his body, his ugly useless body. Until he pissed himself, and warmth flooded his legs and his boots. 

A presence hovered behind him at some point in his puking fest, but he hardly paid them any heed. 

"You hadn't reacted that severely to your apparitachexia since you were eighteen," Leanan said, a bit distant. Her way of showing care.

Tom clutched the edges of the vase, hands trembling, legs quaking. He didn't dare move in case he needed to puke more. He closed his eyes to not see what he expelled from his body. 

"You mean when we faced Grindlewald?" he asked, voice raspy and raw. He rather not think about that. Until very recently, Grindlewald was the last time he experienced genuine terror. He didn't need the reminder. 

She didn't move to comfort him because she knew he wouldn't want comfort. "Yes, I do. You had no business joining us for that fight."

And it seemed Leanan did want to remember their time against Grindlewald. She just remembered her and Albus finding Tom. He remembered being torn open over and over again, his heart ripped out his chest cavity and watching it beat, beat, beat while he was still alive. Still breathing without a heart to pump his blood. The funny thing about immortality no one talks about is surviving impossible things and how much it hurts. Slit throat, suffocation, bleeding out. And Tom had once dreamt of being immortal, thinking the worse thing in life was death. Because he survived the other thing, so death had to be worse. But it was a curse. Immortality was a curse—

He puked again, peed again because his body couldn't die but it could fail. It was failing now. His body was a wretched, hideous thing. Broken in its perfection.  

Leanan, at hundred and six years old, got lost in her own world sometimes and kept talking. "Being so young, never completed your education," she said, remorseful. Going from dealing with the Chamber of Secrets to being forced into war. Losing your little girlfriend—

"Don't!"

His voice echoed around them, and it hurt to speak. His throat was torn open, splintering. "Don't bring up Myrtle Warren." He placed his head against the rim of the vase. It was funny being perfect in every conceivable way and still hate himself. "Please." 

The word came out pathetic and weak, not a man of forty-eight. But a boy who was sixteen who found out the Ministry conscripted muggle-borns, real or otherized, to fight in the second world war two years younger than Muggles. The please of a sixteen year old who cradled his dead girlfriend because opened the Chamber at the wrong time. It was an accident. The please of a twelve-year-old boy who thought he was finally being adopted only to be told he wasn't. It was the please of an eight year old—

"Tom?" she asked, and it was too motherly. And Tom hated her for it. He hated it because he had a mother but she was too feeble minded he had to be the adult. 

He steeled his resolve. He didn't think anymore would come out of him, he stepped back, and wiped his mouth clean. He rolled his neck, bones cracking. "No one saw me crying in my own vomit or piss myself?" Though he rather people see him lose control of his bladder than watch him cry. 

"I sent everyone out." And finally Tom turned around to face her. Leanan, like always dressed to impress as if she was going out. But her 1890s silver evening gown was wasted on a man who just ruined her Della Robbia original vases. 

She summoned a silver handkerchief and dabbed at his chin and mouth. "Abraxas wanted to stay, but I shooed him out as well. You know he cares for you greatly. Maybe too much for a married man." 

"I know," he said, eyes cast downward. "You don't think I notice how he looks at me." 

"And yet you act clueless." She tsked at him, pulling back. There was no judgement in her words. "There, all better. Dobby!" 

A snap and house elf appeared. His entire body trembled, cowering at the woman who kept Fae beasts within her maze. It didn't help the Malfoys were prone to beating their house elves, why Tom could not understand. Not when they were helpful buggers. Now, he was reminded how coldly Clara Bones sent hers to their deaths. 

 "Yes, Mistress?" his voice came out as a squeak. 

"Go fetch water and bread for Tom and bring it to my study." When the elf did not leave right way, she raised her hand, making him flinch. "What are you waiting for?" 

Dobby bobbed his head up and down. "Yes, mistress! Dobby will be getting the food right away!"

With a pop he was gone. 

"There is no need to be cruel, they are already faithful," Tom argued. In fact, being cruel to house elf was a great way to be targeted by bigger and more dangerous Fae. 

"He needs to be broken in, that is all." As she spoke, Leanan drew her wand and aimed it at Tom's chest. In a flash his Voldemort uniform (and his wet boxers) were replaced with linen trousers and a matching tunic. "I will have Hakry and Mimsy clean that right up. Darling, why don't you stay for the rest of the night?"

Tom tugged on the tunic, feeling very much the peasant dressed up by a queen. At least it was a respectable color. "I can't," he said, sighing. "I have work in the morning. My director rescheduled my hours for a morning shift at eight am." He received the letter just before Abraxas told him about Patils' story. He even had to reschedule his brunch date with Albus because of work. And he was looking forward to pestering Albus about why he lied about his relation to Marvolo. 

Actually...he glanced at Leanan, knowing she was born in 1869. Hadn't Marvolo been born that year? 

"Then stay here and I will have the elves wake you in time to get dressed and ready for work," Leanan said, grabbing his arm and leading him out of the ballroom. 

She didn't allow him to argue either as she called for Hakry, a cranky elder elf to prepare a guest room for him. She turned the conversation to something lighter, airier. Gossip about the Smiths hosting Hepzibah's funeral next week. How Helga Hufflepuff's portrait disowned them entirely from her heritage and now there were no known heirs to any Founder in politics, Tom being the obvious exception.

Her haughty laugh carried down the hall as they made their way to Leanan's personal elevator that went to her private suite inside the castle.

Tom wish he could be amused. But his mind kept wandering to what Clara said before she died. 

"Leanan," he began, his voice becoming more raspy from use and lack of water. " Morticia Weasley...she is your age? Wasn't she?"

"Yes," Leanan said, her humor dying. "Well, no, Morticia is two years older than me. Ismene was in my year, or would have been if her father let her go to Hogwarts. How Ominis was allowed, I don't know."

His jaw clenched, not wishing to think about Ominis either. "Ismene was...Morfin's mother, no?" it was an answer he already knew, Marvolo had told him all those years ago. 

She hummed, as the silver gates closed with a shudder. "Mhmm, she had been. Why are you," she turned toward him, frowning and hesitating. "What is the sudden interest in your grandfather's sisters?" 

Tom watched the walls shift and move upward. He ran his hand over his mouth, thinking on how to answer. "Clara Bones said Morticia had cut out her tongue." Leanan gasped, covering her mouth. "

Leanan went pale. Her hand went to her throat, twisting her pearls. "Oh." It was soft, heart broken even. "You know, most people don't even know she is a Gaunt...most people forgot the Gaunts are the descendants of Salazar..."

Tom sucked in a harsh breath, anger burning in the corner of his eyes. "I didn't know she was one until Clara told me." 

"But didn't Albus tell you?" She was aghast, but she still had it in her to spit out Albus's name like a curse. "He said he did." 

The elevator dinged and the gates opened with a clank. Her suite was just as opulent as everything involving the Malfoys were. Real marble, real gold. Real Greek sculptures made out of stone, crafted by artisans who adored the naked, sensual curves of women just as much as Leanan did. Well, maybe not just as much, as Leanan really did love women. If the obscene statue of a woman in between another's legs while her lover's head was thrown back in pure ecstasy was an indication. And it was right in the middle of the entrance way for all to see.

Tom just fixated on the chandelier hung in the middle of the entrance way. The pearls looked like rows of dull teeth swinging above. And he remembered he had stolen a strand of diamonds from the Bones' chandelier still within Voldemort's coat pocket.

"Could you find me a jeweler?" he asked instead of answering her. "I want to bracelet to be made for Miss Mangala Verma." 

She signed, pressing a hand to her forehead, stepping out first. "Oh, Tom. You cannot make a bracelet for a woman you're...what's the term you use instead of stalking?" 

He followed her through her collection of lesbian statues to a small hallway. If the statues were too raunchy for the lighthearted, then the pornographic paintings hung on her walls would cause a lesser person to faint. Tom could only hope to be just as lecherous and bold at her age. 

"It's called research, not stalking," he corrected. "And I believe we're courting, actually. We have talked a few times now." He looked around the hallway. "And I don't know if a woman in her hundreds with crude material on her walls should lecture anyone." 

She gasped, this time dramatic with flair. "Tom, I am a patron of the fine arts. I will not be judged for supporting artists in need." 

He eyed a new painting, one of two women in a bed of flowers. Where the flowers looked suspiciously not like flowers. "I think you're the reason why you and Albus couldn't pretend long enough to be straight to adopt me." 

Her shoulders twitched upward and she sneered up at him, somehow still looking down her nose. "You think I'm terrible, "she dragged the word out, "you should see Albus's collection." 

Tom gagged, not realizing he still had anything left in him to get out. "Oh, God please. I do not want to hear about Albus and that."

"you do not want to hear about Albus's exciting sex life?" she teased, her ruby lips were stretched into a serene, yet mocking and cold smile.  

He held his hands up, mortified. "I'm going to bed!" It came out more like shout than he attended. He turned on his heel, marching down to the spare room he used many times over the years. "Goodnight, Leanan! Have Dobby wake me up at seven." 

"But I have so many stories~" she called out. 

Tom let out frustrated yell and slammed the door on her laughter.

Chapter Text

Around seven in the morning, Severus woke up groggy and sore. It had been three days since the riot, two since the trip to the Otherworld, and he felt both in his bones. Peeling back the covers, he was finally free from the trapped quilt that kept him sweating all night. He stared at his bare legs because sometime around three am he got so hot he took off his pajama pants, and they were discarded on the bedroom floor. The bruises and scratches were gone marring his legs were long gone. If he had been a muggle, the injuries would linger and fester for days, maybe weeks.

The benefits of magic. Of having a healer for a father. 

But the Otherworld was still in the back of his mind. Robin, or Oberon he should say, hadn't shown up in their world yet...could Robin cross over? The summer solstice was weeks back, when he was still in school and life was normal. When the veil was thin. When the Fae could easily slip between the veil. 

Severus let out a tiny sigh. No point worrying if or when Robin would show up again. He couldn't live his life looking over his shoulder for misplaced items or movement in foxgloves. 

After getting dressed and a hot shower, using the shampoo and conditioner Tom insisted he used for his naturally oily scalp, he felt cleaner, less grimy. He changed into a clean shirt, an old one he dug out of a dumpster after some Rock concert in Cokesworth. It fit Severus when he was fourteen, before his second growth spurt. It was the drummer's shirt with a printed Union Jack with a X spray painted over it. The sleeves were cut, and once it was baggy. Now it was just slightly too short for his wiry frame. By next year it would be a crop top. Should he have been at the concert, not blending in with the twenty-year-olds well enough they didn't give him a damn beer? Probably not. But sleeping outside and jumping to concert to concert in Cokesworth underground scene was better than Tobias's fists and Eileen's perpetual silence. His outfit came together through torn jeans, held together by a prayer and safety pins. He would hear Tom's complaints, surely, but he hadn't demanded Severus toss his clothes out yet. 

As he reached the top of the stairs, he heard metal on porcelain coming from the kitchen—the only noise in the whole house. He wondered what Tom could be making, every dish he cooked so far was delicious, when Tom wasn't bringing home takeaway. But there was no smell in the house either, except for the faint scent of sandalwood and vanilla from essence He expertly avoided each loose board, having memorized what would make the least amount of noise. A habit Tobias beat into him years ago. It didn't matter if he was in Tom's house or not. 

Severus slipped inside the kitchen. The sun was shining through the windows, but the sheer maroon curtains were drawn, bathing the room in a dull glow. Tom cut a sharp profile on a normal day, but this morning, his shadows dragged long and heavy. His shoulders were slumped and he was hunched over two black bowls, stirring something that had no scent but had a crunch. His hair hung in his face, straight and heavy from grease. His natural curl pattern vanished in the smoke billowing from his cigarette. 

Cautious, Severus approached him. 

"Father?" 

Tom came to a slow stop and turned to him, revealing deep bags under his eyes. With one hand, he pulled his cigarette from his mouth, and with the other, he handed Severus the bowl. "Its yogurt, fig jam, granola, honey. I didn't have time to make anything else." He spoke in a dull voice, itchy with sleep and raspy from smoking. 

Severus accepted the bowl, put off by Tom's behavior. But he didn't leave to go eat in the living room. 

"Are you alright?" 

Tom stared at the wall, taking a long drag of cigarette before it was more ash than tobacco. He put it out in the grimy ashtray next to the other presumably bowl of yogurt. Ash flickered onto the counter, narrowly missing his own breakfast, but Tom didn't care. He didn't even let the smoke from the first cigarette reached for his pocket with shaky fingers and pulled out a loose fag before putting it to his lips and lighting that one too.  

That was concerning. 

Severus waited there, standing a few feet from his father, watching the man scar his lungs with a chain in between his fingers. 

Finally, Tom spoke. 

"I had a rough night," he explained. "And I got a letter from work last night to come in now, instead of later." There was a defeated sigh, and Tom glanced Severus's way. "I left a pocket mirror in my study." he said suddenly. "It's in a compact gold case, enchanted for long distance communication. Whenever you leave the house, you will bring it with you no matter the circumstances. Do you understand?"

"Okay, but—

Tom cut him off. "Go...go eat your breakfast upstairs, will you?"

Severus gripped the bowl, torn between following orders and pushing. If it had been Tobias or Mother, he would've listened. But this was Tom. It will be two weeks since he started living here come tomorrow, but Tom had shown him more care than either of them. Taken care of him after the riot, something no else would have.

Still, hesitation crept in his voice. "Are you sure? If you need to talk, I'm here to listen."

Something in Tom relaxed. It's in his shoulders falling to a more natural pose, the lines under his eyes almost vanished. His hands stopped shaking as he used his free fingers to comb through his hair. 

"In the papers," and his voice was less hoarse, steadier, "there's been stories about one of the Parselmouth clans."

"The Muirsgéals?" Severus prompted. He averted his gaze to the floor. "I read about them. In April, the Committee said the clan was dispersed, and the children were taken from the adults..."

"I found them over the night." There was a hiss—sharp inhale of grounding toxins before Tom let out a long exhale. "The children, I mean. I couldn't help the older members of the Clan. But I found the children."

"What...what did the Committee do to them, the kids?" Severus rubbed his arm out of nerves. "Are they alright?"

Tom didn't glance Severus's way, his eyes fixated intently on the wall and nothing at all at the same time. The only sounds between them was the ticking of the clock  and the chirping from the robins outside. 

"They're locked up in the basement of the Bones manor, sleeping on crowded mats, half starved," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "nineteen of them, and I know that is not half of what there should be."

Severus should stop. He wouldn't like the answer, but his need to know propelled the words out his throat. "What happened to the other kids?"

Tom hit the counter with enough force it made the spoon rattle in the bowl. Severus jumped at the sudden noise, knowing he pushed too hard. 

 "You are a  child, Severus!" He snapped., harsher than he clearly intended as a flicker of regret flashed in his eyes when Severus flinched. "The oldest girl among the girls was sixteen, do you understand?"

"I'm fifteen—

"And the oldest boy was thirteen, a child like you, only a few years younger." Tom took another drag. "You're still a kid, son. But...they won't consider you a child because you're so close to seventeen. Do you understand?"

Severus swallowed. 

He knew. It wasn't like he didn't understand Parselmouth clans were being killed off. And children were taken to be re-educated. The horror and anger was there. He seen it in the papers. It's why Mother told him to not speak Parseltongue around anyone. Until the Malfoy's party, only Lily had known. Being disconnected from the clans made it a distant problem, not something he should worry about. He used a wand, he didn't know much about Parselmouth culture. He could just not speak Parsel, and be a normal halfblood. 

But this? Tom's words slapped him in the face of the reality of his situation. It didn't matter he wasn't in a clan. He could hiss and talk to snakes. And that was enough, wasn't it?

His hand went to his throat, imaging a severing spell slicing through his tongue and stealing his voice. Death would be preferable. 

"What...what do they do to the girls?" the question came tumbling out of his mouth before his brain caught up. Because it was a stupid question. 

Tom took a sharp drag, turning his back on Severus. He used the coffee pot going off as an excuse to not answer what they both knew. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Seconds go by and Severus left the kitchen with his bowl of yogurt. The granola was already starting to soften, but he would eat it anyway. He didn't go upstairs, as Tom had ordered. He went to Tom's study to look through Malicia Gaunt's grimoire. The need to craft a spell, a curse, to protect himself was overwhelming. If anything this past week had taught him, danger hounded every corner and he would not die because he was a Heir of Salazar Slytherin. 

* * *

By noon, Severus had crafted his first curse. Not a spell as he done in the past. No, no, this was darker, despite the multi-purpose of it. 

There were two parts to his Sectumsempra 

One, it was drawn in blood. He had cut his own palm and mixed it with ink, Malicia's suggestion. The portrait had initially wanted to this with the Killing Curse but chose not to because everyone should be masters of death. But his curse was different. 

It could kill, yes, but Sectumsempra was more than a death hex. It could cut through rope, slice open an infection, cut ingredients. It was a defensive spell that could be used offensively, or for healing. The utility was intentional: Tom could cut through flesh easier as a healer if he needed it. Severus was a budding potions master. But it was only for him and Tom to use. And he suppose if Father had any more children. 

The second part it needed to be chanted in Parseltongue. 

He put Uriah Heep on full blast. He matched the vocalization to the rhythm of the chorus to Traveler in Time until Sectumsemra replaced the chorus. 

He scratched the notes down feverishly in his mother's old Sixth year potions book. He started using it to hold his spell ideas after James Potter stole his actual notebook this past February. And his first spell, Levicorpus, had spread around Hogwarts fast and Potter took the bloody credit from him. 

He can't steal this spell, now can he?

Severus was in the middle of slicing apart of an apple he was eating in the kitchen when the ward chimes to the fireplace went off. The cut wasn't clean, and he needed practice but he just couldn't wait to tell Tom of his creation. 

"I'm coming!" he called out as he grabbed a rag and wiped the counter down. 

"Take your time," Sirius's voice lofted through from the living room to the kitchen. Severus's smile blossomed across his face, feeling good about life. He just created an impressive curse and his boyfriend was here? 

Wait...weren't they going to see a movie? Was that today? 

 "Is your dad home?" Sirius then asked, wobble in his voice. 

"No, he's at work." He glanced over his shoulder just as Sirius walked in, clutching two paper bags in both hands. "What are you wearing? A bit mingy, don't you think?' he turned around and leaned on the counter, munching on the rest of his apple. "

Sirius dropped the bags on the breakfast table, giving him the most unimpressed he could muster. He was in a drab, Edwardian suit. Wizard fashion boggled Severus. It would swing between the most gaudy and frankly repulsively designed 'robes' (whatever the fuck Dumbledore wore on any given day) or boring conservative dress from several decades ago. 

Sirius looked downright miserable.

 "Mother threw out all my muggle clothes yesterday," he said, striding over until they were breaths apart. He tugged at his tie. "She said I had to look more proper. I argued Riddle allows you to dress however you want, and I got told 'Tom Riddle is a mudblood,'" He shrugged, offering a lopsided smile. "So now I'm dressed like my great-grandfather and here to bother you."

"I'm not letting you borrow any more of my clothes," Severus drawled, doing his best to pretend Sirius being so close didn't do things to him. "My mudblood father bought me an entire wardrobe and your mother already destroyed a part of it in the Otherworld."

Sirius stepped closer, his hands finding their way to Severus's hips. "But I look better in jeans, Sev~

He swallowed as heat crawled up his neck. He turned away, unable to fight the blush. "I think you'd look better without trousers altogether." 

His heart hammered in his chest wondering if he went to far in the flirting. If what he said was weird or awkward. 

But Sirius's entire face turned pink and he let out the most cutest laugh. 

"Oh, you're a bit saucy aren't you," Sirius murmured, hands tightening around Severus's middle. 

Anticipation bubbled to the surface. "Are you going to do anything about it?" 

Sirius did. He kissed Severus. It wasn't like their kiss on Tuesday night. It wasn't chaotic and filled with laughter. Or the dramatic, drugged filled kiss before they tumbled into the Otherworld. It was soft and sweet. Tender, painfully tender. It almost felt like nothing, but everything at once. 

Severus wrapped his arms around Sirius's neck, a hushed moan escaping his lips and into Sirius's mouth. It left room for Sirius's tongue to slip inside. Severus's nimble fingers tangled in Sirius's hair, tugging without thinking.

He let instincts take over and let his body do the thinking. He was pressed against the kitchen counter so hard it hurt. But he didn't care of the bruises he would have later. He just didn't want this to end. 

But their lungs forced them apart much sooner that Severus had wanted. 

They panted, lips still barely touching. They shared heavy breaths and light laughter.

Severus leaned in for another kiss, light pecks that left Sirius chasing. 

"Mmm," Sirius hummed, leaning back just enough to speak. "You taste like apples." 

Severus gave him a flat look, a bit unimpressed with his boyfriend's post-kissing commentary. "It's because I just ate apples, you utter wanker." 

Sirius gasped in fake offense and leaned back, but still kept his hands Severus's hips. "Wanker? This is verbal abuse, you know." 

Severus snorted. "Insults are verbal abuse now? I hadn't even remind you about the Black Shuck yet." 

"Hey, hey," Sirius said, pulling a hand away to poke him in the nose. "When we returned to the real world, you promised not to bring that up."

"No, I promised to not bring it up in front of others." Severus tucked a clump of Sirius's curls behind his ear. "I didn't promise to not mock you privately. You were such a good dog too." And he then patted Sirius's head like when Sirius was a dog. 

"I hate you." There was a pause. "So can I borrow your clothes or not?" 

"Yeah, fine," Severus wiggled from Sirius's grip. "Your clothes are washed from Tuesday night, anyway. Also, my father put new wards up in his Potions lab. You're banned for life." 

Sirius rested his hand on his forehead, letting out a horrified gasp. "Oh no, I'm banned from the coke fiend's drug den!" His voice wavered with laughter. "Whatever will I do."

Severus couldn't help himself and shoved Sirius. "Get out of here." 

"Alright, alright." He gave Severus another peck on the lips before leaving the kitchen to raid Severus's closet. 

Severus sighed, smiling. He felt he was full of helium and floating on air. Who knew kissing could be fun. What else could be more fun than kissing his boyfriend? There was sex—

And with that thought, he was now crashing down to reality. Oh, Merlin's arse—sex? 

Was Severus even ready for that? Is it to early to even think about that right now? Surely it must, because they just started dating. They just got over years of hating each other! But what if Sirius wanted to? Severus would have to agree, right? If he wanted to keep dating. 

Who would he even talk to about sex with? Mother gave him the talk when he was ten and that was a nightmare. Then there was Tom and that was off the table. He's not taking any kind of relationship advice from a man who was married to Eileen and followed that up with sleeping with a Fae king. 

Also, Tom be weird and talk to Sirius, threaten him. Thank Circe Severus wasn't girl.

He couldn't talk to his dormmates. They didn't know he liked boys (because he crushed on two of them.)

Severus shook his head, pushing sex out his mind because that was too much right now. He was being ridiculous, creepy even. There wasn't a chance Sirius was thinking about this. He needed to stop. 

He needed a distraction. 

His eyes wandered to the paper bags Sirius brought over. Well, Sirius was snooping through his bedroom, looking for clothes to steal, why shouldn't he do the same?

The ward chimes went off again.

Well, who could that be?

Severus abandoned the brown bags and went across the hall to the living room. The green fire flashed and out of the flames was Lily. She dusted off the ash her denim bellbottom jumpsuit. Dangling from ears were a pair of petrified scorpions, a total contrast to the sunflower headband and hand stitched floral pattern on her pant legs. 

"I hate using Floo," she said as a greeting. "It's so stuffy." 

"Hello to you too," he drawled, walking over to her. 

She smiled big and wrapped her arms around him, trapping his arms to his body. "Oh, Severus!" She planted a kiss on his cheek. "I have so much to tell you!. A lot happened this week since Malfoy's party."

Severus's mind went to the week he had and couldn't agree more. Since the last time they saw each other, Severus gotten a boyfriend, had his first kiss, went to wild block party that turned into a political rally and that turned into a riot. HewatchedRupertYaxleydie. He went to the Otherworld. Faced down all sorts of Fae and God King, oh and his mother was now a Vampire Lord. 

 But how much did he want to tell her?

 Not much, but Sirius was about to force his hand any minute now. 

"Yeah, I feel the same," he said sighing. "I got some stuff to tell you too." 

"Ihavetogofirst!" Lily's words came out rushed, too excited. "My mother got in touch with the old director of her orphanage, the same one your father was at."  

Oh, fuck, Father was going to have an aneurism, Severus thought. If there was one thing Severus had picked up its that Tom hates was the orphanage.  

"Her name is Margaret Cole, she's still alive! She's eighty, in a nursing home," she rambled, her green eyes brighter. Her smile looked like it hurt, at least to Severus. Maybe because he didn't usually smile.  "Over the phone, Mrs. Cole promised Mum she would tell her everything about her mother, her birth mother I mean." She paced around him stopping where her back was to the hallway door. "Mrs. Cole just wants your father to be there. Severus, what if...what if my mum and your dad have the same mum? Wouldn't that be something?" 

Severus thought to Merope's photograph and how...eerily similar she had been to Lily. But that didn't explain Ruth and Petunia, both with their wild curly black hair and striking gray-blue eyes. They looked closer to Most Ancient and Noble House of Black than a Gaunt-Weasley. 

"That seems farfetched, Lily," he said, maybe a bit too dismissive as her shoulders dropped and frown replaced that teethy smile. He rubbed the back of his head. "I mean...it's a bit of an odd coincidence, yeah?"

"Oh, I suppose so," she said, huffing and crossing her arms over her chest. "I just wonder what Mrs. Cole has to say is all. Mother doesn't know anything about her birth family. Grandfather and Grandmother Wright are quite lovely, but it's nice to know where you came from."

She let out a breath and her smile returned. "So what did you have to share?"

"Uh..." Severus's mind turned to mush.

Sirius waltz in at that moment, having put on his plaid trousers he left behind the other day and Severus's prized Led Zeppelin t-shirt, another stolen item from when Severus lived in Cokesworth. If Sirius ruined it, he would not be happy!

Sirius said nothing until he was right behind Lily. "Hi!" he chirped

Lily screamed and jumped, whipping around and slapping Sirius so hard he stumbled and fell on the couch. Severus clamped a hand over his mouth, mortified. 

"What the fuck, Evans!" Sirius bellowed, holding his cheek. It was already turning a shade of purple. 

"Don't sneak up on people!" She stomped her foot down, face blotchy with red. And then her brain caught up with her eyes, realizing who she just slapped. "Sirius? What you doing here?" 

"Getting fucking hit apparently!" he barked. His eyes leveled at Severus, expecting. "Well! She just hit me, kick her out!" 

"I'm not kicking Lily out of my house because you're an idiot," he said, recovering from his shock. 

Sirius was offended, properly offended. He stood in a fury, pointing to the fire place. "She hit me and as your boyfriend, I want her gone!" 

"Boyfriend!?" Lily repeated. She spun so fast, she hit Severus with her hair. "You're dating Sirius Black? Have you gone mental?" Concern flickered on her face. "You can do better than him, Severus!"  

"WHAT!" 

Sirius's voice cracked into a screech, making Lily flinch and cover her ears. "Ah! Don't be so loud, God." He stuck his tongue out at her, and she matched his energy. 

"While I agree I can do better, I am a Prince after all." Severus made sure to put on his best impression of his mother's pureblood drawl. "Sirius is not terrible." 

Sirius slumped back in the couch. With his cheeks puffed out and pink, his pout made him ten years older. It was ridiculous and cute.

Lily looked between them, concern etched on her face. She leaned close into Severus's space, forcing him to lean back. 

"What are you doing?" Severus asked, a tad weirded out. 

"I'm searching for signs of love potion." She brought her hand to his forehead as if she was checking his temperature. He slapped her hand away.

Sirius shifted on the couch, mouth open slight in disbelief. His brows scrunched up in anger. Even in his hands began to shake from the accusation. "You think," his breath went haggard, "you think I would use a love potion on him!? What kind of person do you think I am, Evans?" 

She placed her fists on her hips, glaring down at Sirius. "You and your friends have been terrible to him before we started school. I need to know if its not some prank, Black!" 

Severus placed a hand on her back to calm her down. "He didn't use a love potion on me, Lily." But he was touched she was looking out for him...however, he didn't like how suggestion made Sirius felt. "We just came to an understanding after our dance at the Malfoy party...and a lot happened..." 

"A lot." Sirius repeated, his eyes distant. Severus wondered he was back in the riot, he had to be because he could joke about the Otherworld. 

Lily seemed to catch they were talking something more than romance. The slow horror dawned on her. "Oh, goodness, were you two at that riot the Daily Prophet reported?"

Sirius didn't answer, just looked down to his boots—the boots that survived the great Walburga Black Purge. The boots still covered in powdered bombs and dried blood that blended in the black leather. 

"Yeah," Severus said, tone clipped. "We rather not talk about it in details.  Just know the Daily Prophet was probably lying. I haven't looked what they said." 

"I believe it," Lily said, not even questioning him. "That Rita Skeeter completely glossed over Aurors can use the Unforgivables. I knew her reporting was nothing but crock!" 

Severus didn't know he was worried about Lily's views on the riot until he felt relief of her support. With Lily's aversion to Dark Magic, and...admittedly reasonable distaste for the pureblood supremacists who publicly backed Lord Voldemort, she could assumed the Ministry's propaganda machine was right. 

Though he hadn't missed she only focused on Rita Skeeter, and not the Prophet as a whole. 

"It was!" Sirius jumped in, voice earnest. "It wasn't even a riot until those bloody Aurors showed up. And you know I dislike the Death Eaters. But they hadn't done anything wrong. This time."

"The ministry is just going to make them worse. Look what happened to the Boneses this morning in the papers." Lily looked between them, expecting them to agree. "The Prophet spared no details on what that...that, Voldemort did to the Boneses." she whispered the name like she shouldn't say it. 

Severus ignored her empathy for the Boneses. They deserved what they got, but arguing and explaining the details of their crimes would reveal far more than even Sirius doesn't know. Sparing a glance at his boyfriend, despite knowing the Boneses had Parselmouth children from the clan's slaughter, he was nodding along. 

Neither Lily or Sirius understood what it meant to be 'reeducated' he realized. 

So he settled on not speaking about it. He bet Mangala Verma or Orson Shacklebolt understood, and Mulcibers. People like him, who were Death Eaters, would understand.

His father certainly did. 

"Why did you say Voldemort like that?" he questioned instead, with a hint of cold judgement. 

She flinched. It was slight wince. A subtle twitch of her shoulders, her face scrunching up. "Oh, the Prophet reported credible rumors that his name is cursed. Everyone who's been highly vocal in saying his name...has died." 

"I didn't know Dumbledore was dead," Severus sneered. Lily was too bright to be this dumb. 

"No, no. no!" Sirius said, shotting from his spot on the couch. "It's true. The Prewett Brothers, Hepzibah Smith, the Boneses. And my cousin, Bellatrix, said something about the name being cursed. And she's actually a Death Eater. "

Lily eagerly nodded along. 

Severus's eye twitched. They actually believed that conspiracy? "Sirius, you've said Voldemort's name." 

Sirius pressed his hand to his chest, smirking. "My parents are Death Eaters. I'm safe." He was staring right into Severus's eyes when he said this. 

And who was Severus to pass on such an opportunity? Eileen wouldn't have taught him Occlumency and Legilimency if she didn't want him to use it. Tom certainly used Legilimency freely. Why not him? Undetected, he slipped into Sirius's mind and got the stray thought. 

Not to mention, my boyfriend's Voldemort's son...I think? I'm positive Tom Riddle is Voldemort, but I just can't prove it. But Dumbledore...said he wasn't? But he had to be. Unless he's just a random, murderous mudblood—muggle-born Mum and Dad hung around. 

Severus broke eye contact, and scoffed. "This is a ridiculous conversation. Voldemort's name is not cursed. Smith was murdered by some Indian man who's pissed off Britain magicals stole his ancestral artifacts. He isn't even a Death Eater." A partial truth. Mangala wasn't a Death Eater last week when she murdered Hepzibah Smith. "The Prewetts were killed, according to Mr. Malfoy—whom I believe—because they're terrible people. And Fabian Prewett was a racist pig." 

"You think Voldemort cares about racism?" Sirius asked, incredulously.

Severus clicked his tongue, the back of his neck growing hot with anger. "I think he cares more than the Ministry. You know, the prigs who are setting the laws attacking people like Orson Shacklebolt. Or myself." 

Sirius's argument died in his mouth and went silent. And Severus had gotten a glimpse of Sirius's thoughts: his mind was racing on the last few days, of their conversations...and James Potter and Peter Pettigrew mocking Severus's hair and nose.

Lily didn't care for the tension, planting her moral flag. "I just think there are better ways to help minorities than murder bad politicians and Aurors." Severus resisted the eye role, keeping his face impassive. She's so naive. "Or working with Pureblood supremacists. If well, you know who, actually cared he wouldn't worked with them. He only cares about his own goals, whatever they may be, I don't know." She lowered her voice, as if Voldemort would appear from the shadows....

Granted...she was in Voldemort's home. But she didn't know that!

Lily gasped quiet suddenly. "WAIT!" The outburst from her actually made Severus jump back. Sirius leaned away, giving her a strange look. 

She pointed at Sirius, furious. "You're dating Sirius, but when I told you I might like James back in March you got pissy! How is that fair?" 

"Uh...." he began, "hmmm. Huh..." 

Severus's mind went blank. He had no answer to that. 

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, dramatically bending over and clapping. "I knew it! Remus owes me five Galleons!"

Lily's cheeks turned a bright pink, making her hair redder somehow. "You bet on that!?" she screeched. 

"Of course!" he snorted like that was ridiculous statement. "Remus was so sure you liked Severus, but I didn't believe that for minute." The humor in his eyes turned contemplative. He rubbed his chin with one hand, putting his hand on his hip. "Well, no, it's more like I didn't want to believe it I felt Severus was mine."

"Charming," Severus sneered, this time actually rolling his eyes. "Lily did have a crush on me—

—but he then came out to me and I dropped that," Lily explained easily. "I rather be supportive over being jealous."

Sirius snapped his fingers. "James and Peter bet you were gay...which in hindsight was probably homophobic." 

Severus scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. Of course on top of everything else, James Potter hated queers. This is why he wasn't out at school. He did not trust Dumbledore, even though the Headmaster was gay himself apparently, to prevent any homophobic attacks toward him. The old bastard hardly cared about the racism he faced. This is why Mother had sat him down at the kitchen table and held up the dictionary to point to the word evil and then Dumbledore's portrait when he was little.  To prepare him for when he attended school.

 "And you wonder why," he said in a slow, condescending tone that would put Mother to shame. "I do not support your crush on Potter, Lily." 

"Uhg! You're in impossible, Sev! You're dating his best friend, James will find out soon, you know," she argued. "Unless Sirius's going to sneak around behind James's back."

And Severus hadn't thought of that either. He did wonder how Potter would handle them dating. He hoped their bond was strong enough...

Would he willing to take James's abuse for Sirius?

"I'm not even sneaking around my parents," Sirius said, puffing his chest out. But his bravado deflated. "Mr. Riddle already told my dad and Dad gave me a lecture about it." He sighed and his entire body hunched over in defeat. "Not that I want to, but if we break up, I have to tell Dad so we can skip country immediately after and flee from Mr. Riddle." Severus snorted at that one. Orion Black's loyalty was practical. 

"People are rather terrified of your father, aren't they?" Lily asked, and Severus saw her the wheels turning in her head. He didn't have to use Legilimency to know she was on a dangerous path. 

"It's because he's a suspected Parselmouth and there's fearmongering we're all evil," he said easily, but Lily looked at him skeptically. 

He needed a distraction. 

And the first distraction that came to mind was a plan he would regret. "If it means so much to you two...why don't we...inform Potter. Now. Hang out with him." The words barely escaped his throat through clenched teeth. 

Lily's face lit up. "Really?" And maybe it was worth the pain to make her happy. 

"Yes..." he said, sighing as she latched onto him in a back-breaking hug. He patted her head, annoyed with himself that this was the only 

"Oh, that's brilliant!" Sirius bounced over to the fire place. He grabbed a Floo powder bag on the mantel. "We can Floo James right now—

"Wow, wow!" Severus pried Lily off of him and hurried over to Sirius, grabbing his wrist. "You cannot open a Floo channel between the Potter's manor to my father's cottage."

Sirius ripped his wrist free. "And why not?" 

"It should be okay, Severus," Lily said earnestly. "Unless there's wards on the Potter manor..." 

Severus looked between the two. He wasn't offended, no he was baffled by the sheer ignorance. Apparently, his boyfriend and best friend were idiots. 

He grabbed the statue of Medusa off the mantel and held it up to Sirius's face. "You want to connect the house of two Parselmouths," he waved the statue around, "to the head of the Parselmouth Oversight Committee?" 

It clicked for them both and the horror fell on Sirius and Lily. She covered her mouth, he looked away in shame. The silence dragged on a bit too long for Severus's liking.

 Thank Merlin he was a Slytherin. Apparently, common sense was elusive for Gryffindors. Which was mildly infuriating. Lily and Sirius were not unintelligent; they're both in the top five students in their year along with him. But they're clueless at the same time. 

"Look." He put the statue back. "You two Floo to The Leaky Cauldron, use one of the fireplaces there to call Potter." 

"Oh!" Lily clapped her hands together, perking up. "That's brilliant, Severus." 

"What about you?" Sirius asked.

"I have to clean up in my father's study." A lie, because he had already cleaned up his mess. 

What he was going to do is use the enchanted mirror Tom gave him he was heading out. After the week Severus had, if he left without warning, Tom might assume the worse. He also wanted to know if the name Voldemort name curse was true...

Lily and Sirius left, both giddy with excitement. Lily in particular was optimistic this was the end of the feud. Severus didn't have high hopes. Would Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew still mess with him now Sirius was his boyfriend? Maybe Pettigrew, that rat. But Lupin? He never truly joined in eagerly. 

James Potter? 

Severus didn't hold his breath. But he wanted this to work with Sirius. He learned from Tobias he didn't deserve much. He needed this to work. 

He left to the study, the compact mirror was still on the desk. He had left it untouched as he worked on Sectumsemra. He slipped onto the chair. He picked up the mirror; it fit snuggly in his hand. The silver body was smooth and finely polished, cool to the touch. 

He flipped the lid and inside was dark green cushion with the Slytherin insignia hand stitched in the fabric. He ran his finger over the bumps, enjoying the silky thread on velvet. The mirror itself was just a standard mirror. 

But the enchantment hummed, and all it needed was his magic to bring it to life. 

But first—was that a pimple? 

He tilted his head to the side, and there was a white bump the bridge of his nose. Oh, fuck, he let his boyfriend see that? Sirius had perfect skin, not once had a blemish. 

All through his third year, Severus was downing anti-pimple potions until he got a stomach ache and was banned from brewing them. He cleared up for the most part during his fourth year, but that third year was brutal. Potter and Sirius had made sure of. He couldn't meet with Potter with this and have Sirius remember he was actually ugly. 

His stomach twisted in knots as he grabbed his wand and aimed it at the offensive skin irritation. He zapped it. 

And it was gone...until tomorrow and his skin will be more irritated, but he can just ask Tom to help...

When his father was Tobias, Severus could blame his ugliness on him because Eileen was quite pretty. But his father wasn't Tobias Snape. 

It was Tom Riddle. 

And objectively, Tom was a handsome man. So handsome, a woman could look pass Tom stalking her. So handsome, Tom wooed a fairy God-King. 

He shook his head of his thoughts and tapped the mirror three times. The mirror glowed a faint green for a few seconds before Tom answered. His face replaced Severus's, their chins and lips nearly aligned. Their hook noses almost the same size. His cheekbones were just a bit sharper than Severus's. 

Tom was in true-green robes lined with golden accented, with a white, sleeveless coat over. Severus never been to St. Mungo's, but their uniforms were impressive

"Perfect timing, I just got on lunch." Tom said, looking much better than he had this morning. Though, his voice wavered with a yawn. "You're in my office. Is it fair to assume you are not in mortal danger?" 

"Correct," he said sharply. "I just called to tell you I am heading out. I figured if I hadn't and you returned and I was missing, you would react irrationally." 

"Severus, I am the most rational man on the planet," he said, no hint of sarcasm. "I would have responded in a way a father should." 

There was a woman out of view who muttered bollocks, her voice sounding oddly familiar, but Severus couldn't place it. 

Tom glared in the direction of the voice. "Fuck off, Poppy." 

Poppy? Severus didn't know why it shocked him, he knew the school's mediwitch worked at St. Mungo's during the summer to keep busy, but he just didn't expect her to work with Tom. Light foot steps approached Tom. In a thick, green dress and white apron that mimicked her Hogwarts unform, Madame Pomfrey came into view. 

"Hello, dearie!" She exclaimed, waving ecstatically. "Please, excuse my language. How is summer break so far?"

"Uh...alright, I suppose. A tad eventful," Severus said, unsure what to say, but uneventful was definitely an understatement. 

"Oh I can imagine," she said, shooting a critical eye at Tom. "Having him as a father. But you know, it all makes sense. I was mediwitch when he was a boy at school and you always reminded me of him. Now I know why!"

"No one asked your opinion," Tom snapped, and shoved her out of frame. It wasn't rough, it was almost playful. "Christ—Merlin," he coughed to cover up the very muggle phrase, "leave my office so I can talk in private." 

"Fine, fine!" It sounded like Pomfrey lifted her arms up and brought them down against her dress. "But this conversation is not over, Riddle." 

Her heels clicked on the polished floor and the door clicked. 

"What was that about?" Severus asked once she was gone. 

Tom bit into a sandwich that looked like it was just cheese, arugula, and thick cuts of tomatoes. He chewed and chewed, then swallowed. "Poppy walked in on me kissing Mangala Verma and is not happy about that."

Severus squirmed in his chair, not sure he wanted to know more but his curiosity got to him. "Is it because she's half your age or because you're stalking her?" 

"Hmmm Poppy didn't even mention Mangala's age. She was too focused on the fact Manny's my patient," he answered before taking another bite of his sandwich. 

Severus's mouth dropped open. Does his father know how gross that is? "What do you mean you're making out with your patient? Father, that's just plain wrong." 

"She's also my girlfriend," he corrected, unashamed. 

"Stalking a woman doesn't make her you're girlfriend, Father!" 

Tom waved his hand, dismissive. "Severus, when you're older and after you have one failed divorce under your belt, you will understand."

"I don't think I will," he said, feeling immense regret calling his father. This is why he can't go to Tom for relationship advice. 

"Oh." Tom picked up a tea cup, sipped obnoxiously on whatever he was drinking before putting it back down. "I suppose you wouldn't experience a divorce. You are a homosexual, after all. And I highly doubt gay marriage will be legal for magicals in your life time." 

Severus dropped his head to the desk, the resounding thump rattled his brain. Why did his father have to be so brilliant but so out of touch of reality.

"While you're here, how do you feel about Chinese takeout?" Tom asked. "I want tofu lo mein and spring rolls. What would you like?" 

He lifted his head, his eyes hollowed out, sighing. "I don't know. Sweet and sour chicken and chips, maybe?" 

Tom made a face at the idea of buying meat but didn't try to argue. "Be back by 6 pm. I do not want my money wasted." 

Yes, Father," Severus muttered and then he remembered what else he wanted to talk about. "Hey, before Lily came over. She mentioned a few things."

Tom had just taken a bite out of an apple at that moment. His left brow raised upward, hiding under her curled parted bangs, giving Severus an expected look for him to keep going. 

"She mentioned the Daily Prophet and a curse?" 

Tom rolled his eyes and adjusted in his seat, almost thrashing in it. He shook his head as he held up one finger and chewed aggressively. 

And when he swallowed, out came the heaviest Cockney accent Severus heard from Tom so far. "A bunch of bollocks that's what it is. There ain't a curse, if I want to kill someone, I would do it myself." And he reached out of Severus's view and only to grab for his silver lighter and pack of Winstons. There was a click and his cigarette came to life. "These bleedin' cunts will make up shit to make me look bad." 

"No one would guess you're from East End, Father." Severus deadpanned. 

"Fuck off." And Tom didn't help his case. "I'm not going to be sassed by a Notherner." Severus couldn't hide his laughter, which seemed to anger Tom more. "Why would I curse my other name? A waste of bleedin' time. You have better sense to ask that shit." 

"I was just curious, shit. Anyway," he decided to move on, still chuckling. "She also mentioned her mother got in touch with someone called Mrs. Cole...?" 

Tom's rage fell into something unreadable. He looked away from the mirror, and Severus wondered he made a mistake even bringing it up. 

"She's still alive?" he muttered more to himself than ask Severus a genuine question. He took in a long drag before letting out in a hiss. "Tell your little mudblood friend I will...get in contact with her mother when I can. Her mother's name was Ruth?" 

Severus bit his tongue on correcting Tom. "Yeah, Father. You met her last week." 

Tom glared, pointing at the mirror. "Don't get smart, son. It was Ruth Wright, correct?" 

"Before she got married to Paul." his father was acting weird. More than usual. His eyes flickered to the old photograph of Tom and Merope. "Hey, uhm. I can't help but notice Lily looks like your mother..."

"A coincidence, nothing more." Tom's voice was so final, Severus didn't dare to question him. "Where will you be going?"

"I'm just spending time with Lily and Sirius in Diagon Alley," he said, shrugging, omitting James Potter. "I think we're going to spend time in Muggle London, however."

"Alright, alright, just bring the mirror, I need to finish my lunch I have...five minutes left before I need to prep for surgery. Oh shit. Theresnotesinthedrawerbesafe!" And there was click and Tom vanished from view. 

Severus stood, pocketing the compact mirror before opening the drawer below. Like Tom said, there were notes bundled together, maybe ten or twelve pounds. He took them off the clip, flipped through them and realized their were all William Shakespeare sterling notes. 

The top note winked right at him. 

"Robin?" he asked in a hushed voice. 

And he received no answer. His mind was playing tricks. He slipped the money in his front pocket, and grabbed the bag of Galleons and shoved it in the other. With a snap, he summoned a torn up jean vest he had since he was twelve. He fished it out of the dumpster, already customized with faded white Anarchy symbol on the back. It was trash, worn out, none of the buttons didn't match. Severus made it his own by connecting chains to the pockets. By stitching the Slytherin emblem to the right breast pocket. By letting Lily doodle beetles on the bottom. By sewing lace and plaid patches over the holes. 

He thought it made him look wicked. 

Severus slipped on the vest over his Queen t-shirt and placed his wand inside the inner right panel.

Feeling somewhat confident, he hurried out Tom's office to the fireplace. 

He grabbed a fist full Floo powder. "Leaky Cauldron!"

Out of green flames, Severus went from the overly quiet cottage to the bustling explosive sounds of the inn. Forks scraping plates, patrons shuffling in chairs, loud chatter from a happy family in the corner. Two loud drunks singing the Hogwarts song—both off key. Tom the Barkeep was arguing with a waitress. 

And in front of the fireplace sat a man and woman. The woman looked to be older than Severus's parents and yet still stunning in 20s day dress. She was, if Severus had to guess, from South East region of Asia, like the Philippians or Indonesia. Her companion was a much older man—was that Aberforth Dumbledore? 

The two turned his way. 

Aberforth was a mountain of a man, a contrast to his older brother. He was easily a head taller than Tom. Only person Severus knew who was staller was the Grounds Keeper, Hagrid. And did that even count? Hagrid was a suspected half-giant. Of course, he would be taller. 

They both turned to him, and Aberforth's eyes lit up even if the rest of his face was impassive and hidden under his beard. 

"Well, well, isn't it Severus Snape," his voice gruffer but was so close to the Headmaster, it sent Severus on edge. 

"Hello, Mr. Dumbledore." He offered a wave. "What are you doing out of Hog's Head?"

"I have a life outside my job, lad," the older wizard said, huffing—his idea of a laugh. He gestured for Severus to come closer.

Severus glanced around the busy inn. He found Lily in the crowd easily. He was always searching out her face in a crowd. She, Sirius, and a very irritated James Potter were waiting by the entrance to muggle London. Did Severus feel some guilt making Lily and Sirius wait long? Sure, but it didn't out weigh the need to be petty toward Potter. 

He waved with a not-so-innocent smile as he approached Aberforth's table. 

The pub owner looked over his shoulder, glaring at the three before turning back to Severus. "Lad, you're too smart to be caught up with them. They all been marked by my brother." He spoke in a low tone as if its a conspiracy. 

"Marked how?" Severus asked. He didn't know Dumbledore was branding people. He thought only his father would be crazy enough to do that. 

"Albus has plans to recruit kids, like those kids," he hissed in such a harsh whisper. "I just know it. You need to keep you're head or he will go after you too." 

"You cannot seriously believe that Albus wants to recruit teenagers to his Order," the woman said, sneering over her cup of tea. Severus had to agree. That seemed farfetched. Not even Tom or Eileen would think that, and there aren't two people who hated Dumbledore than his parents. 

"And you don't know my brother like I do, Nagini," he insisted. 

"You're paranoid," she said smoothly. "I might not know Albus as well, but I have met him many times, Abe. He is not going to create an army of children to fight Voldemort—or should I say You-Know-Who." She made another disgusted expression. "Another conspiracy. I swear the general public is clueless about magic as they are on politics." 

"Uh, it was nice seeing you Mr. Dumbledore," Severus cut in before he was suckered into hearing an adult argument. 

Aberforth waved him off without a goodbye. As Severus walked away, he heard the beginnings of a rant. 

"I bet Voldemort is bashing his skull over the severe misunderstanding of magical theory. He's a utter genius, a narcissistic bugger, but a genius—

Severus didn't catch the rest of it, but now he was quite sure Aberforth Dumbledore knew exactly who Voldemort was. 

He got in arm's reach before Sirius latched onto him and pulled him close. "Are you crazy?" 

"You know," Severus drawled, "that is exactly what Aberforth said." 

Potter pointed, and quite obviously, at the woman sitting at Aberforth. Subtly was another skillset Gryffindors lacked. "That lady is the one who attacked you at Malfoy's party." 

Severus looked over his shoulder. The woman was staring right back at them. If he was closer, he could prove this with a simple glance. But his Legilimency wasn't that powerful. Not yet. 

"She does not look like a massive snake," he said, because no one told him the snake was an Animagus. 

"She can turn into a cobra," Sirius said. "We all watched her turn into her human self. Dumbledore called her Nagini." 

'"I think she was a Burmese Python not a cobra," Lily corrected. She held up a finger. "You see Burmese Pythons have more oval patterns and they're the largest snake on the planet, whereas—

"No one cares about the differences in snakes, Evans." Sirius's tone was bordering on cruel and Lily deflated. 

Severus didn't hesitate to shove Sirius. Not hard, but enough to send a message. "I care." He just got a glare in return. "Anyway, so she's an Animagus. better question is why is she talking to Aberforth Dumbledore?"

"Now that I don't care about," Potter said. He was looking around the inn, paranoid about someone or something. "Let's get out of here. Father will blow a cauldron if he finds out about this." 

Severus held his tongue. What did that mean?

"Why?" Lily asked, either ignoring or missing the cues her crush wanted to leave now and not answer questions. 

He sighed, and ran his hand in his hair. "His father punched my father in the face—hasn't shut up about him since then," he dragged his words out slow, as if Lily couldn't understand him anyway. Fuck, why was Potter always so condescending and why didn't Lily see it? "Father wouldn't be pleased I'm now hanging out with Snape."

"The feeling is mutual from my father about you," he said, moving around the three of them. Sirius hurried right to his side and swung his arm around Severus's shoulder, causing him to blush.   

"We should go back to Soho, there was new food stands and restaurants we hadn't tried," he said. "That's what is in the bags I left on your kitchen table. All the stuff you bought on Tuesday." 

"Oh, I forgot about that," Severus murmured. He hadn't even bought much. A few band tees, an album. Most were gifts for Lily he needed to give her. 

As the exit out of Diagon Alley shifted and opened up, Potter chimed up. "Before Snape showed up, I thought you're pulling a fast one. But everything is clicking in place." 

Sirius pulled away, stopping in his tracks and turning around at his best friend. "What's that supposed to mean." 

"You spent four years not shutting up about him and getting pissy anytime I decided to prank Snape without you," he answered, shoving his hands in his pristine, brown slacks.  "Also Remus totally ratted you out and threatened to hex me and Peter to play nice."

"Wow," Severus drawled, giving his boyfriend an unimpressed glare, "how romantic." 

"I think so," Sirius teased but paused and asked. "Wait, Remus told you? Why?" 

"Because he's a good friend, I suppose," Potter said, sighing. 

"I think it's sweet Remus is looking out for you and your relationship," Lily chimed in. "And we can move on from the last four years of...disagreements." 

Severus gave her a sharp look. Disagreements? But he didn't correct her. He needed to stay his tongue and play nice. If he acts out now, Potter will convince Sirius to break up and they will go back to the way things were. Only, now Sirius has ammo if that did happen. Like what happened to his dog or Sirius was his first kiss. 

"Yeah, like a clean slate!" Sirius was far too hopeful. 

The thing is, James and Severus were so different. With his housemates, Severus stood out so nastily he looped back around in being accepted. Lucius, Evan, Seth, or Garrett would not wear modern muggle clothing. The 1920s had only just slipped through the cracks of fashion, but intentionally seeking out modern muggle aesthetics? Never. 

But Potter did, and what did he choose? Uppity, posh clothes. It screamed old money slumming with the poors, despite the Potters were NOT old money. 

Sirius went out of his way to admire punk, at least. There was something common there, they're both outsiders in their own way. 

"Yeah, a clean slate," and Severus turned away and his stomach lurched. 

A torn National Front poster was at the entrance into Diagon Alley. The Immigrants Go Home were still visible, but burned by magical marks. 

"I've been to Soho a few times, always with my sister and parents!" Lily said, excited, holding her hands together. "Let's go to one of those fancy cafes. Cokesworth has nothing what London has." 

Severus ignored the conversation, tuning them out to look for more NF posters or graffiti.

"Lead the way, mate, you're the London native," Potter said, shoving Sirius playfully. 

Oh, there was a Keep Britain White sign, half torn off but still there. Severus looked down at his bare arms. And he's been getting more Sun now it's summer. He didn't get as dark as his mother—before she turned into a Vampire that is—but his sallow tones deepened to healthy olive. 

Lily hooked her arm with his and smiled brightly. "Let's go!"

He looked up and Sirius and James were out of the alleyway. 

"Did our dates just ditch us?" he asked, annoyed. 

"They're best friends, like we're best friends." How she saw the good in everyone, he didn't understand. He was dating Sirius and he just struggled to trust him. 

But Sirius and James hadn't gone far. They stood just around the corner. The two other boys pried Lily and Severus from each other. James swung his arm around Lily's shoulder, grinning like he won a prize and Lily's face was so red, her hair was put to ashamed. Sirius tried to do the same to Severus, and maybe he would've let it happen. 

But the National Front posts put him in a state of hyper awareness. 

Severus slipped out of Sirius's arm. The other boy gave him a funny look. "I don't want to get gay bashed," he whispered low.

"What?" Sirius asked, tilting his head to the side, the question almost being drowned out by Potter's obnoxious laugh at something Lily said. 

Severus suck in a harsh breath, barely letting it out through clenched teeth. How does he explain gay bashing to a Pureblood who lived in a isolated community that treated homosexuality as a thing polite society didn't touch. Were there archaic laws entrenched in the Ministry? Of course. Homosexuality was still illegal because the Statute of Secrecy was set long after the Crown made it illegal. But no one was gay bashed in Diagon Alley because being queer was so taboo to even want to attack someone meant you were going to acknowledge homosexuality. Until this week, Severus didn't even know Albus Dumbledore was gay. That is how little it was talked about.

And he only knew that because Tom outed Dumbledore casually. 

"Look, we just got be careful among muggles. I don't want to be stabbed by some mugger because they found out we're queer," he said. 

"I think you're paranoid," Sirius said, but didn't attempt to touch him. "We were just out in about the city holding hands and and you didn't care then." 

"Because I was foolish," he said pointedly. "I just got a reminder its not safe."

They came to a stop at the cross walk. 

Potter looked over his shoulder. "What's not safe?" 

"Being me," he said pointing at his face. "Did any of you notice the anti immigrant posters down the alley?" 

"Were there?" Lily asked, glancing back at the crosswalk sign, keeping an eye when they needed to move. 

"Why should you worry, you're not an immigrant," Potter said, scoffing. But his tone almost sounded helpful. Almost. Like his better nature was struggling with his disdain for Severus. 

But I look it, Severus wanted to say but decided to not bother. He did trust if he did get slurs hurled at him, they—even Potter, wouldn't let that happen. Especially after Sirius had learned personally what those words meant. But they didn't see what he saw, not even Lily. She cringed when her mother called Eileen a 'Paki' good naturedly, thinking that was the correct term. She hexed Potter and Sirius for mocking his Roma grandmother. 

They just didn't understand the looks. The stop and searches. The unwanted glares in shops. 

He only felt validation in Grimmauld Place's sitting room when Mangala, Clarissa, Orson, and Rupert stood up for him in the face of Sybil's soft bigotry. 

"You need to relax, Sev," Sirius said. "I think the last few days have you on high alert."

Severus sighed, deflating a bit. He let it drop. 

They crossed the street and Sirius openly told them their adventure in the Otherworld, keeping a low voice in case muggles were  eavesdropping. But this was London, everyone and anyone minded their own business. Lily and Potter were in enraptured in the story. Sirius omitted parts, like the story of Robin. Severus was grateful for that at least. He also kept the murder of Tempest and Crispin to himself, but mentioned Eileen was now Vampire Lord.  

"Okay was he really King Oberon from Midsummer Night Dream?" Lily prodded, shooting them skeptical 

Sirius shrugged, because he didn't know. 

"Yes, it was him," Severus confirmed. "He didn't particularly hide it." 

Sirius elbowed him, while playful, it was at an angle that hurt. "If weren't for Sev, we wouldn't have gotten free. He used this crazy Parsel spell." 

"Parselmagic is pretty dangerous, isn't it?" Potter asked, and Severus couldn't tell if this was leading to a joke. "At least that's what I heard."

"Your father isn't a good source on Parselmouths." Severus tried his best to keep from snipping. 

"That's not who told me about Parselmagic," Potter corrected. He rested his hands against head, stretching enough to pop his bones. "My great-grandfather was a Parselmouth according to Grandpa Monty." 

It was like the world shifted beneath Severus's feet. They just halted in front of an alleyway. People passed by, whacking them in the shoulders as they passed on by. When Lily was hit, Severus grabbed her by the arm and drag her out of the way, with Potter and Sirius hurrying to catch up. 

She rubbed her shoulder, glaring at the spot for half second before turning to Potter. "Your family has Parselmouths? Why is your dad started the Oversight Committee with a group of Italian wizards."

"I know," Potter said unflinching, not seeing the irony. "My great-grandfather Felix did what he could to kill the dark magic in our bloodline. Ceardach clan wanted him to marry a woman from a Greek clan, but married Nana Delacour instead. Having a mother who was full Veela meant none of his children would be Parselmouth which my grandfather isn't."

Severus wondered if Tom knew about any of this. He had to. And Potter just admitted it, as if it wasn't the most insane shit about the Oversight Committee. "Your great-grandfather committed self-eugenics through selective breeding."

Sirius gave Potter a weary expression. "That sounds fucked, mate, not going to lie. It's the opposite of my family of marrying within the family to keep things pure, but just as terrible" 

"I don't agree with the Committee or my father, you know that. I just know Parselmagic is dark magic and Felix did what he could to keep our family from being tainted by it,"  he argued, and he didn't see the contradiction. 

Severus wanted to bash his head against the wall. "I am not tainted for doing something the comes naturally." 

Potter grew frustrated, making his hair messier. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant, for us Potters personally. Our magical cores aligned more light. We can't do inherently dark magic and Parselmouths naturally have dark cores. It killed Felix's twin sister doing Parselmagic." 

That gave Severus pause. He didn't know it was true about Parselmouths leaning toward dark magic. His did, but how much was the fact his father and his mother both had dark cores over him being a Parselmouths? "I do have an infinity for dark magic..." 

"exactly!" Potter said. "Just...Father might be taking this whole Committee too far." 

"Might?" Lily asked, not taking an inch. "The Committee is killing people. It makes Death Eaters look sane and they're just a bunch of blood supremacists being leashed by a crazy guy in a mask." 

Potter's arrogance crack and crumble. And for the first time, Severus was seeing James for the first time. James was shortest in their group and when he deflated his height difference just made him smaller than he actually was. "I know...I just don't know what to do with my father." 

"I get it. I don't agree with my parents either," Sirius said, patting James on the shoulder. 

 Severus couldn't relate. His father was Lord Voldemort. And while Voldemort was brutal, he was just and actually gave a damn about the health of their community.

But the mood has bee soured, partially because of him. "Let's forget about it and go. I'm starved." That was not lie. "Do any of you know what's it like to live with a militant vegetarian?" 

"Is he really that bad?" Lily asked, also dropping the subject too. 

"You should hear Mr. Riddle rant about the muggles and nucular power and coal mining," Sirius jumped in. "I known the bloke since I could remember."

The conversation shifted from Parselmouths to a story about how Tom dragged all five of the Black cousins to a muggle protest out of spite toward their parents. Severus was more concerned than actually enjoyed the story. It sounded like his father kidnapped the cousins, but he didn't make the suggestion as Sirius looked back on the memory fondly. However, he was going to grill Tom about it when he got home. 

When they reached Soho and the markets, the discussion on magic, about the war died on their lips. Lily dragged James from up and down the shops, with Sirius and Severus trailing behind. They just been down these streets on Tuesday and the rush to do everything and see everything together wasn't there. 

The four of them squeezed inside Bar Italia, ordering espressos and gelato to the backdrop of fast talking Italians arguing over football. The grainy, black and white television that had a football game on enthralled both Sirius and James, and Severus wondered when was the first time a pureblood wizard or witch ever saw the telly.

It wasn't all fun. At least for Lily. the cramped space and loud chatter drove her out before she was finished, overstimulated by the noise. Severus followed her instantly to a flower shop. Minutes later, their dates figured out they had been missing. 

They walked the crowded Berwick Street market. And in a moment where Severus forgot who James was, and James forgot their animosity, James elbowed him in the arm and pointed at a Persian food stand. It was a hole-in-the-wall eatery. No chairs, no tables. Just order and go. 

Severus ordered in Farsi, maybe it was a flex on his multilingual skills, maybe it was because without his mother he didn't have anyone to speak Farsi with. But he ordered in Farsi and the elderly man's excitement at hearing his native tongue, Severus was gifted four pieces of free pistachio baghlava. 

When he bit into the baghlava, and he was reminded of his mother's. Eileen was not a cook at all. She was a pureblood heiress, why would she learn how to cook? But what little she did know was enough for Severus when she did cook theirfoods. When was the last time he had her baghlava? Four years ago when he got his Hogwarts letter and they celebrated with jeweled rice, fesenjan, and baghlava. This reminded of that bright spot in Spinner's End. The flaky pastry melted in his mouth, the pistachios and rose water overwhelmed his tongue with flavored nostalgia. It wasn't too sweet and more savory and rich, yet light and airy. The crunch was just right, and the floral taste was perfect with the lamb kababs 

Lily, Sirius, James, they all loved it. But Severus went back for a box to share with his father. And getting the baghlava made him happy he could share his mother's culture so freely. 

But the happiness was tainted. 

In the periphery, he saw men in bomber jackets and combat boots with shaved heads. They were in groups of threes or fours or fives. The only thing preventing the slow creep of terror as there was always counter groups pushing the bastards out of Soho. 

And his proximity to three white kids was shield, and they didn't even know it. If he stepped away, down the wrong alley, he wouldn't be safe. His height wouldn't do anything for him except give him the long legs to run. 

He kept it to himself, knowing it wouldn't do much good to talk about it. He would just vocalize the danger, make it more real. Ruin the mood. 

Around five, is when they made their way back to Diagon Alley. James purchased a ridiculously large—and frankly ugly stuffed doe for Lily. She adored it, and even got the plush critter a enamel spider pin for it to wear. 

"So I got us tickets to see a movie in couple weeks," Sirius said excitedly. "You better appreciate it because I went to a muggle theater dressed as a up tight pureblood heir." 

"What movie are you dragging me to?" Severus would be lying if he wasn't concerned. Sirius might appreciate muggle culture, but he was utterly clueless. He should've been there to make sure Sirius hadn't gotten something boring. 

Sirius shrugged. "I don't know. The ticket lady said it was a musical. Whatever that means." 

Fucking kill me, Severus pleaded to whoever was listening. He would've slapped his forehead, but he was balancing the box of baghlava and a novel called Carrie on top. 

"You're taking your boyfriend to see an opera, that's what it means, you utter prat," James said, shoving Sirius, and he was shoved back.

"Not all musicals are operas," Lily corrected, flinching away from their antics. "I bet it will be fun, Severus." 

"I'm sure," he drawled. They came to the entrance. He sent an expected look at the two idiot Marauders who were both still pushing each other. "Well?"

"Well what?" Sirius asked, dumbfounded. 

"Lily's a lady and I'm a Princewith my hands are full. One of you open the bloody entrance," he said, sneering at the both of them. 

"You can't pull the Prince title whenever you want," Sirius argued. 

"I can because I am no longer disowned for being a halfblood and my mother is a Lord now." He attempted to mimic the pureblood drawl, but after speaking Farsi—really his first language despite Tobias's complaints, his accent had more of lilt and was crisp to the touch. It made his voice more monotone and blunt. "So open the entrance. 

"Pushy, pushy," James said before tapping the right bricks. 

They shifted to create a hole for them to step through. The alley leading to Leaky Cauldron looked as it did when they left, but hidden behind the cluster of bricks at the entrance was something...

It was like the corner of the alley's eye.

Severus leaned his head in, but didn't walk forward, and got a glimpse of a parchment with dried ink. 

No one else notice. 

James playfully bowed at Lily. "Ladies first," he said.

"Oh, that is so reductive, Potter," but her voice was teasing as she laughed. "You need to learn what feminism is." And she stepped through the bricks. 

Her smile fell. She let out a horrified gasped, and her hand went to mouth, covering it. She held onto the doe just a bit tighter. 

Severus slipped passed Sirius and James to see what was beyond the bricks. 

And he nearly dropped the box and book. 

Right at the entrance was a fresh poster, the size of a window really. In intense inks of red and gold stood Perseus standing on the broken body of Medusa, sword in one hand the other holding up her head. Medusa's face was frozen in a snarl. She was illustrated in sliver and green, a startling declaration the war was divided by house lines. 

Above Perseus, in bold typography was BE BOLD! 

And under Medusa sat SLAY THE SNAKE!

Severus turned away from the poster to Sirius and Potter. His boyfriend was stunned into inaction, frozen like he just witnessed Rupert being murdered in front of them again. 

But Potter? Potter looked at the ground, at his feet. He didn't even seem shocked by the image. 

"Come on, Severus," Lily said sharply, grabbing his arm. "We're leaving." 

And Severus let her drag him away. If she didn't, he would draw his wand and test out Sectumsempra on the poster...and using a Parsel spell out in the open was dangerous. But it was a temptation to teardown the propaganda. 

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle liked his job as a healer. Was it his first choice of occupation? No, his first choice was becoming Defense Against the Dark Arts—one he was denied because apparently, according to Albus Dumbledore, 'murdering one or two classmates and framing another' would make him a bad teacher. What a farce. Myrtle's death was an accident. Nott deserved it. And how was he supposed to know the authorities and Dippet would believe an Acromantula could petrify? He was as shocked as Hagrid they bought that lie. Hardly his fault. 

But Dumbledore denied him a choice but opened another when he said Tom couldn't be a healer.

Tom, as always, proved him wrong. He wasn't just a healer; he was a Senior Thaumaturgist of the Curse Containment & Malediction Ward. Between his formal education at Primore University and his less than legal time at Cambridge, where he Imperioed his way through neuroscience and molecular biology degrees, Tom was an exceptional healer. He broke the ceiling for muggle-borns to get into higher positions in St. Mungo's. 

Why Tom's career as a healer proved how much of a better person he was compared to Dumbledore. So, while the Old Man barred him from his dream job, Tom found a new niche that served him well...

But even at a job he adored, Dumbledore tainted it. 

Tom entered St. Mungo's clean-shaven and with three cups of espresso fueling his body and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He wore his standard gray under shirt and black slacks, and over it was his white coat with gold and green trim with the St. Mungo's coat of arms stitched to the front. His black shoes were polished to a fine sheen they showed his reflection. Attached to his medic belt was three emergency healing potions clasped to the back and a small hip bag that carried a thin, medical grimoire, his wand, and his carton of Winston. 

On the first floor was the reception office for the entire hospital. The clinical white and sterile scent had once given Tom comfort. Comfort knowing he deserved to be here. Only ward that caused him any sort of distress was the Trauma & Psychological Healing Ward, which was on this floor. It was too similar to the asylum Merope had been forced into. 

But after Albus had forcibly institutionalized in the L'Hôpital Mémorial de Juliette Delacour, France's St. Mungo's equivalent, St. Mungo's has become a prison. It been two years since he left Mémorial but he still recalled the force medication, the indignity of a straitjacket. Being treated as a child at forty-six was the worst part of the whole ordeal. 

Damn Dumbledore. Damn him for ruining even his career. He did it on purpose. He couldn't stand Tom proving him wrong, so he made Tom uncomfortable at work. 

Sure, Dumbledore claimed it was because Tom had a slight "mental breakdown" and trashed Hog's Head and choked out Aberforth in a fit of justified rage.  But Aberforth could never mind his own business. 

He shook his head and pulled his cigarette out of his mouth. He put it out on the bottom of his shoe before he flickered it in the waste bin next to the door. The reception was empty because it was seven-forty and they hadn't opened for visitors or check-ins yet. Certain departments were open all hours of the night, but visitation was strictly between eight to five pm. He wondered if the scorch marks throughout the reception were because a patient from the psych ward escaped. 

He weaved through the chairs, his footsteps were light. Yet they made enough sound to pull the receptionist at the front desk from her Witch Weekly reading. 

She looked up, her face morphing from boredom to delighted as Tom approached the desk. 

"Healer Riddle!" Marigold Oakwood 

He offered her an easy smile. Miss Marigold Oakwood was a cute witch well into her thirties, with her round, heart-shaped face and curvy body. Her afro was pinned back into a puff ball bun, held together by an enchanted butterfly clip that flapped its wings every few minutes. The green wings matched her muted, and ugly uniform all receptionists were forced to wear. It was particularly egregious on Marigold, in his opinion, as the color dulled her lovely skin tone. The first time he saw her outside work he hardly recognized her. Her hair accessories were her way to personalize her work attire because the boxy robes were that drab.  

He propped his head up by his hands as he leaned over the desk. "How is my favorite receptionist?" 

She giggled. "Oh, please, we both know you say that to all the witches." 

"That is not true," he said, faking offense. It was true, he did say it to all the receptionists (at least the women at the desk) but it was also true she was his favorite. "You know you're quite special to me, Miss Marigold." He winked, earning more giggling fits. 

Marigold had been a Ravenclaw, top of her class in her year. She had many career choices after graduation. But she was quite content finding intellectual pursuits through chess and writing hard science-fiction, publishing under a false muggle persona. 

Also, she was the only coworker he's slept with semi regularly. He couldn't help it. He was addicted to thick, soft thighs around his face. Unfortunately, that came to an end when she started a serious relationship with a Jamaican wizard Isaac Jordan. 

"You're terrible," she waved him off. "You better go upstairs. Your ward is still packed full of that nasty riot." 

He was expecting that. The curse Aurors used was a hard curse to break, making healing difficult. He supposed the other Thaumaturgists would struggle to break the anti-healing curses because the long hay was the 'Light' way and were afraid of Ministry backlash. Tom had no such fear. 

"What are your thoughts on that nasty riot, Miss Marigold?" he asked, sounding nonchalance but eager to know what the public felt. And Marigold was the perfect face of the general public. Bright, curious, empathetic, but didn't like talking about politics, despite politics ruling her life as black British woman. 

Marigold clasped a hand over her heart, her eyes doe-like in their sincerity. "Oh, that was just a shame. My mother lives in Diagon Alley and said it was just a block party until the Aurors showed up. She watched the whole thing from her storefront window. Did you know the Aurors aimed their wands right at children right when they arrived?" 

Tom didn't know that. "Fascinating." he said. "You know, I don't know if you heard, but I have a son. He's fifteen." 

"Since when?" she asked, and there was a flicker of concern. She leaned in and whispered, horrified. "Oh Merlin...did you kidnap a child??" 

He leaned back, offended. "Miss Marigold, you think I would kidnap a child?" 

"...yes?" she answered unsure. "You have..." she lifted her hand to her neck to mimic a slicing motion, "that guy a few years back." 

Oh, that was another reason why Marigold was his favorite. She could keep a secret. It helped the guy was a total nonce, so she wasn't too upset Tom murdered him. "He deserved it. And that is very different from kidnapping Miss Marigold," he explained. At least he thought so. "No, no, you see fifteen years ago my ex-wife left me while pregnant. She recently abandoned him into my care."

"Really?" She sounded skeptical. "You don't seem like the father type." 

Tom's eye twitched. Why did everyone say that about him? "Well, I am, and my son was at the riot, you know." 

Her eyes widen a fraction, gasping. "Oh, was he hurt?" 

"They're superficial injuries, but I think the damage done was to his psyche," he tapped his temple. "The boy who had died was a few years older than my son, same house. Rupert had been Head Boy when Severus—that's his name—was a third year. But he will overcome the grief." And channel it into rage, he added in his head. 

"That's terrible. And you're close to Yaxleys aren't you?" she asked. "How are you feeling?" 

Tom didn't know how to answer that. He watched Rupert grow up like he had many children of his inner circle. He was closer to some than the others, and Rupert was one of them.

But how did he feel? 

Logically, he should be heartbroken, and when he delivered Rupert's body to his parents and watched a man he knew since boyhood collapse, he felt something. Empathy was elusive to him. He struggled to feel it, or even grasp it. 

"It hurt," he said simply, settling on what was easy to say. 

Marigold nodded. "If you need anything, I am here to talk." 

"That is a generous offer," he said, but something he wouldn't take. He liked her well enough, but she could never understand him. "But what I need is before I go upstairs who will I be seeing today? I was supposed to come in at 1.30 pm for surgery but I got rescheduled. Obviously." He motioned to himself. 

"Your surgery with Reynolds has been moved up to two," she said, her tone switching to purely professional now. Her chair slid across the floor to the other side of the desk. She flipped through clip boards, grabbing one. "Reynolds wrote a letter complaining about pain in his stomach getting worse but he wants to enjoy lunch." 

 A withering old wizard by the name of Cornelian Reynolds had botched an rune experiment so bad he required surgery to get the rune shards our of his knees and stomach. If magic would be used then shards would turn into mini explosives. 

Tom had wanted to do the surgery this past Sunday, but Reynolds refused. Something about not missing the Great European Kelpie races that were being held on Wednesday and Thursday. He knew little about the sport; he was not a fan of the exploitation of endanger magical creatures for entertainment. He just knew the Bernard took his wife and twins to see it every year. If it was up to Tom, he would let the old fuck die for wasting his time. Reynolds could have gotten the surgery on Sunday but noooo. That would make too much sense. 

But alas, Tom must remember his oath. 

Marigold slid the clipboard over the desk. "You will be taking over Healer Grimblehawk's patients. Your first patient for the day is Rosier."

Tom glanced at the times and names. 

1.  Rosier, Adrien  
2. Trelawney, Sybill 
3. Shacklebolt, Orson 
4. Lestrange, Rudolphus
5. Lestrange, Rabastan

And six was...

"Ah Miss Verma," he murmured under his breath. When he left with Rupert's body, he did want to check on her. She was unconscious with her face in the gravel 

"Tom," Marigold said, tipping the clip down so he was forced to look at her. She glaring at him suspiciously. "Is that 'Miss Verma' a personal friend?" 

"No." the lie was automatic. He didn't have a choice because something something he was caught making out with a patient five years ago and apparently that was an ethics violation. It wasn't his fault Alphard Black was attractive, particularly half naked and injured. Nothing but an Imperio could fix to prevent his firing, but it still left a permanent, well known mark on his record. "I am a fan of her articles." 

Marigold sighed, knowing he was lying but knowing she had no proof. "Poppy will debrief you upstairs." 

Tom gave Marigold a two finger salute. "I will see you around lunch time unless my day goes to shit." As in it took longer to break the Auror curses than he expected and would rush into surgery on cigarettes and burnt coffee. 

"Actually, my fiancé and I are going to get Chinese for lunch. Isn't that so sweet?" She said. "It's this new Chinatown called Golden Palace." 

"It sounds like every British Chinese food, Marigold." he sneered. It wasn't that he disliked takeout but what was the point? "Weren't they all the same?"

"They specialize in vegetarian dishes, Healer Riddle," she said, a bit cheeky. 

Tom's right brow quirked up in interest. "Oh?" hmm...it has been awhile he had Chinese. Wait? Did he count Lianhua's cooking? He should because it was actually traditional and not 'Chinese' Restaurant run by Vietnamese immigrants with American influences and greasy chips. 

But the grease was the best part, a thought came from the back of his mind. It sounded like him, only in his mid twenties and still had the energy to eat whatever he rubbish he found. 

"I must go meet with Poppy before she throws one of her fits," he said and walked down the hall, deciding takeaway was acceptable after a long shift. 

The elevator was for staff only, only accessible through a hand print on rune slab at the elevator doors. He tugged off his glove and pressed down on the cool stone. The rock lit up to magenta to green. And the elevator, which was on the fifth floor, started to move.  

The elevator was near the Trauma & Psychological Healing Ward, and it made him want to vomit out his yogurt from this morning. And thinking about vomiting made him think of the violent sickness he after Bones' mission. Stomach acid and breakfast crawled up his throat and he pressed his fist to his mouth. He squeezes his eyes, willing the sensation away. 

Dinged! 

The elevator reached his floor and the doors slid for him to get on. 

He took in a breath and letting it out, wishing for a cigarette but didn't want to deal with Poppy's bitching. He once smoked over a patient during surgery to remove a curse object inside someone's stomach, and Poppy still hadn't let that go. 

He slipped inside the elevator as the doors closed on him. He pushed the fourth-floor button. On his way up, his mind kept wandering to the Bones, to Clara specifically. She had him running around her damn mansion, taking abuse from her elves and enchanted knights. There were times she would have won if she hadn't let up on those stunners. 

He needed a magical boost. Something permanent.

There were many rituals he could perform, but his mind went instantly to one: the Serpent's Coil. 

It was a Parselmouth ritual he learned from the Ógánts, one their elder, Oisín taught him personally. There were three participants: The Vessel of gifted mana, The Conduit or the sacrifice, and The Watcher. 

The Conduit was not killed, but they did give up a part of themselves for the Vessel...

Tom's eyes drifted to the list in his hands, his eyes zeroing on Rabastan Lestrange. Not because Tom wanted Rabastan for the ritual, but Rab's partner would do just nicely. 

If Rab and his partner agreed. 

The elevator dinned again and opened it on his floor. He walked past magimedics, politely saying hello as he passed. They used to be exclusively called mediwitches, in fact only women could become magimedics, but witches took to Diagon Alley and protested in the 1890s. If he recalled, the witch who led the charge was Kendra Dumbledore, Albus's mother. The last Dumbledore to be worth a damn and who actually fought for something. How a woman like that raised Albus and Aberforth was beyond Tom's comprehension. 

On his way down to his office, he passed the patient rooms. Half were empty, the others were still occupied by his people. He should've gone to work yesterday, and that had been his plan until Abraxas relayed the Patil story about the missing children. 

As he walked to the hall, a magimed stopped him.

"Riddle," Ursula said, voice raspier than his, a mix of her Brooklyn accent and chronic smoking habit—one worse than hid. "Poppy's in yer office already. She's testy so don't push it."

 Ursula Monkwood was a no-nonsense witch from across the pond who transferred to England seven years ago. She was foul-mouthed, rude, pragmatic, street smart. A woman after his own heart if she hadn't turned out to be lesbian. 

A shame. Tom had fantasized about them ruling the world together within the first week of meeting her. And yes, he did 'research' her for a month but dropped it once he discovered her sexuality. He was gentleman after all. 

"First, I'm offended you think I need to be warned to not test her." He ignored her nasty glare. "What exactly has gotten Poppy out of sorts?" 

Monkwood crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a sharp look. "Riddle, ya did not hide your obsession for one of yer patients well. Ya 'ave a collage of that Mangala woman—who's half yer age—in yer office. On yer desk no less!" 

"Would you believe me to say we're in....a," he motioned with his hand, "in a relationship." 

"Ya don't do relationships." 

"That's not true." He insisted. "I was married."

She scoffed. "Fifteen years ago!"

"And we had a child together," he added, grinning. 

Monkwood looked up at him, stunned into silence. The dread on her face fell into horrified acceptance. She held up her hands, shaking her head. "I ain't touchin' that one. I gotta go an' bring that Rosier kid his pain relief potion." 

He watched her leave, muttering in disbelief some woman let him impregnate her. The nerve! Why did everyone act that way when they found out he had a son? If they knew Eileen or Tobias, they would know Tom was the best parent Severus has. He settled Monkwood was simply jealous that she wasn't attracted to men and couldn't be with Tom. 

He understood her plight. He was quite handsome. 

Tom reached his office at the far corner of the hall. He didn't get a chance to open the door because Poppy swung the door with enough force it bounced on impact. 

"Tom." She hissed, holding up the collage of Mangala he created over months. "What is this? You know she's one of your patients, right." 

Poppy Pomfrey was seventy-five, had eleven grandchildren from her three children but nothing about her was a grandmotherly. She was quite frightening when she wanted to be. Maybe the fear came from the fact she was mediwitch of Hogwarts when he was eleven and she used to patch up hexes the purebloods used to fire his way during school. 

He cleared his throat, choking down the childish terror and took the collage. "Would you believe me if I said she is the love of my life." 

Poppy took off her magimed cap, covering her and wiped her forehead. "Why do you do this to me?" She replaced her cap and then put her hands on her hips. "I can't let you treat her, Tom."

"So you will let her suffer until Monday when Healer Grimblehawk is back?" he countered. That wouldn't do. He doesn't even know what the Aurors had done, outside of glimpses when he slipped into Severus's memory. 

"I have no choice!" she said. "I cannot trust you with your patients anymore. This is a clear violation of ethics. And undoubtedly you will make her uncomfortable." 

"Poppy, Poppy," he leaned against the door frame, wearing a lazy smirk. "Why don't you simply ask her, hmmm? You think I would take advantage of my position as a healer to do something amoral to a young woman in my care—

"Yes." she said bluntly. Well, that was rude, he thought. "Tom, you're exceptional healer and I trust you in that much, but you also proved to do what pleases you."

"I was assigned to her because Grimblehawk had a family emergency," he said, slipping by Poppy to put the collage back. He sat down in his dark brown leather, wing-back chair before setting the collage aside. "I did not start this collage once she became my patient. We have been cordial for the last few days before the riot, but it is nothing more. I am simply a fan of her articles. If she feels uncomfortable with me healing her because of our connection, we will hold her over the weekend until Grimblehawk can heal her." 

Poppy deflated, as if arguing with him was a chore. "Fine, fine. I will ask her." she sighed and summoned a clipboard for both him and her. "Your first patient is Adrien Rosier. He was Crucioed for under for three seconds. He was hit with a nightmare hex. On top of that, his injuries were placed under a Permanent hex."

Tom flipped through the notes Grimblehawk left him. "Monkwood is giving him a cocktail of pain relief potions." He looked up at her. "I see he's been resistant to treatment."

"Healer Grimblehawk tried everything and his injuries have become worse," she explained. "Every counter curse he performed has just made it worse. Last night, he refused any treatment outside of pain relief until you could look int him."

He went back to the chart and noticed Grimblehawk had made a serious oversight in his treatment. "Poppy, you've treated what? Two or three generations of Rosiers." 

"Four to be precise, some I treated since birth I was one of Lauren's midwives, gave birth to Evan and Pandora." She held her head up high, taking pride in her extensive career. 

Tom nodded slowly. "And you know that the Rosiers have a congenital core sensitivity." 

"Of, course." she sounded unsure, not that she didn't know. She knew the Rosier family were born with weaken magical cores. She just didn't know where Tom was getting at. 

"Healer Grimblehawk ignored Adrien's family condition," he said, glancing down at the prescribed treatment Grimblehawk administered. "He saw Adrien had low amount of injuries and used core-stimulants to fight the suppression hex, which I know is standard practice." He sat the clipboard down. "The problem is core-stimulants—

—are dangerous to weaken magical cores!" Poppy finished, horrified. She flipped through Adrien's clipboard. "How did we miss this?"

Tom pushed back out of his chair and walked over to his shelf of potions. He pressed his finger to the edge and traced along the lines, stopping at the sage-based healing potion. The potion was an earthy green, not the standard blood red. "You had an over dozen patients .overcrowding the room." He grabbed the narrow neck of the bottle. "Can you retrieve me vial of yarrow extract and bring it to Adrien's room?" 

"Yes, of course Healer Riddle," she said with a quick nod before hurrying out them room. 

Tom strolled after her, his pace casual. Like a verbal tick, he began to sing as he always did when the halls were empty. It started with a whistle and the melody found him, accompanied with a memory of a radio and Emery Scamander pulling his soured arse off the picnic blanket into a slow dance. "Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine? My darling dear. love you all the time. I'm just a fool, fool in love with you..."

What Tom hadn't notice, because he had never noticed when she was watching him, was that Mangala Verma had hobbled out of her bed to peer through the door window. She cracked the door open to better listen to his singing. 

She swore to herself. Why did he have a great singing voice? His normal speaking voice wasn't enough? He had to have sexy vocals too? What the hell was that? It was soft, but theatrical and filled with emotions she doubted he even understood. And it was wonderful. Damn him, damn him, damn him! 

She limped back to bed and flopped down, wincing at her sore back. She glared at the ceiling, blaming the gray tiles above for her suffering. 

Mangala hated Tom because he killed the Aurors when they should've been hers to kill. Oh, maybe she should say Voldemort. 

Or You-Know-Who. 

What a fucking joke. 

The bigger joke was her. 

She had been relieved her healer was that old man with more nose hairs than hair on his head. Grimblehawk was not the best curse breaker. In fact, he wasn't doing much to break the Permanent Hex on her and she still had tremors from the Crucios she sustained from Tuesday. Her body ached everywhere. Her wrist was broken. Her knees were bruised. Her lip was bloody. And her migraines were intense from the Mantra she performed. Summoning Kali took a lot out of her, and her magic could only heal her so much with this hex placed on her to make the injuries long lasting.

But she would take the patience Grimblehawk because she didn't want Tom to heal her. 

Not because she doubted his skills. 

But because...

...she had an unfortunate preference, or maybe it was a fetish, for healers in uniforms. 

And Tom would pick up on that immediately. Maybe the ethics violation of making out with his patients will stop him from being flirty and charming? 

Right? Right. He would be professional. She would just need to contain herself. But she really wanted to tear off his clothes and get to what she wanted for an entire year while he was too chicken shit to do anything. 

She pushed herself upright in bed and reached for the Daily Prophet next to her bed. Hepzibah's murder was replaced with the Bones' murder from this morning on the front page. Voldemort personally sought out and killed the highly decorated Clara Bones and her husband, Bertram. Their manor was destroyed, the house elves massacred. 

They had it coming, no doubt. 

The only mention of Hepzibah was her funeral was today and continue to page 3 for more details. Kumar wasn't mentioned by name but there was mentions of their father and mother appealing to the courts to give Kumar a trial. So far they refused. She hoped they didn't. A trial could mean the discovery that Tom had tampered with Kumar's memories and he was innocent. 

The whole point was to frame Kumar, get him away from Jiya. Not that her sister-in-law was relieved by Kumar's arrest. She was ungrateful for Mangala's help over the years since, actually. 

Jiya blamed Mangala, not because she figured out Mangala was the true murderer. Because Mangala had radicalized her precious husband. The precious husband who beat and demeaned her for six years while both their families turned a blind eye. Mangala didn't. She defended Jiya from cruel words, she got in between her own brother's fists. 

Jiya had not ONCE visited her in the hospital in the last two days. Oh, Mangala had visitors, friends who weren't as  injured as her, like Xenophilius Lovegood (who was on the run) and Clarissa Mulciber (her half-brother was a lawyer and pulled stings). And more concerning was Auror Alastor Moody. The man was frightening in his simmering rage as he demanded an explanation for her Hindu-based magic. Healer Grimblehawk had allowed Moody to yell at her for forty-minutes straight in said Interrogation. She was in tears by the time Magimed Pomfrey barged in the room and screamed at him to leave. 

According to Clarissa as of yesterday, there were still scorch marks where Pomfrey and Moody got into a near duel in the visitor lounge. 

And in between that Jiya hadn't come either yesterday or Wednesday. Mangala hadn't seen Jiya since Monday. She had transferred Kumar's Galleons into pounds and is living out of the Four Seasons while they both wait for Mangala's parents to arrive on Sunday. 

Mangala glanced to the window in her room and wondered if there was anti-jumping hexes on the building. 

She did not want to deal with her parents. 

There was click from the door. 

She snapped her head to her right so hard she got whiplash. 

But the person who entered wasn't Tom and his sexy voice. It was Magimed Pomfrey. 

"Hello, dearie," she said, with a vial of green healing potion in one hand and a clipboard in the other. The door closed on its own. "How are you feeling?" 

Mangala offered a small smile, setting the paper aside. "I am well, Poppy. My tremors aren't lasting as long and they haven't happened since breakfast at seven." 

"That's good to hear." The stool from across the room slid over for her to sit at Mangala's bedside. She sat the potion down. "I have a question for you and a few concerns. What I am about to show you might be disturbing."

She turned her clipboard around and there was a collage of photographs of Mangala. 

Somewhere photographs taken for Witch Weekly, some were candid shots on the streets or parties they both attended. 

"Oh my god!" She snatched the collage, glaring at one particular photo. "He took a photograph of me in that dress while I was sick. I look disgusting." 

Back in April, Mangala caught a pixie cold after it spread among Bellatrix's crew after a very wild party. Honestly, Mangala was lucky that was all she caught. Rumor was gonorrhea was the other sickness being passed around from that night. The rumor came from Bellatrix who just cackled like mad, declaring this is why she will only have sex with her 'beloved' Orson. Three days later, Mangala was bedridden and hating life. It should have lasted for a week, but mysteriously, magically, some talented healer was leaving care packages on her balcony. 

On the forth day, she was well enough to get groceries and she wore a boxy, floral monstrosity one of her elderly neighbors made her as a present. She would have tossed it if it wasn't made out of love. 

In the photo Tom took—because what other idiot would make this and leave it at work—was of her in the dress in a dirty sweater with her hair pulled up in a rat-nest, grease ball of a bun. 

"I understand this might be off putting," Poppy began. 

"Oh, no," Mangala cut her off. "I'm not disturbed by this. He's been stalking me for a year. I'm just annoyed that he's taken a year to do anything about it. The first time we talked was at the Malfoy party, which was last week! Has he always been pathetic with women?" 

Poppy's mouth opened and then closed, then opened again. 

Only to close one more time. 

Mangala continued, not caring for an answer she knew. "He has to be because he's been divorced, I heard his ex fiancé broke up with after three years, and he somehow fumbled his relationship with Adalina Meadowes who is a bombshell."  And that wasn't to mention Tom had no stable relationship since his ex-wife left him, as far as Mangala knew. 

"You're not...concerned that your healer has been stalking you?" Poppy asked slowly. 

"Not really," she shrugged. "Also helps he's hot."

Poppy slapped a hand over her face, sighing loudly. "Oh, Merlin." She signed again before standing up. "I came to ask you would be uncomfortable with him treating you and if you wanted him reported..."

Mangala was already shaking her head. "I'm neither uncomfortable nor want to report him." She paused then added. "If I slap him would that cause issues?" 

"Why would you slap him?" Poppy's voice rose to a high pitch, laced with concern. "Miss Verma, I think you are underestimating how volatile he is." 

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Have you met him? He's going to say something that will make me WANT to slap him." 

Poppy couldn't argue and just stumbled over instructions for Mangala's potion before leaving, forgetting the collage. 

Tom had Adrien Rosier healed in under thirty minutes. And thank Merlin, Circe, God whoever Tom had to thank. Much like Bernard, Adrien was more annoying than likable. When he started going off about using his father's, Marcel, passed director position to get Grimblehawk fired, Tom sent the mousy prick out. 

But Adrien hadn't left the hospital.

Through the daft idiot, Tom learned Bellatrix was confined in the psych ward and Adrien went down to visit her. 

He moved onto Sybill Trelawney next.

Tom wasn't burdened with morals. But there was something that twisted his fury when he learned Aurors Crucioed a tiny, harmless woman who spent hospital days braiding flowers in her hair. She wasn't even a threat. Mangala at least, in Tom's pragmatic mind, was a threat. Sybill was a delicate doll. 

With that said, she was a fraud. If the Aurors tortured her being a fraud, he might understand.

There was no way she was a seer like the rumors claim. Tom was going to enforce no underage drinking because Severus had to be drunk off his ass to think she predicted anything. 

As soon as Tom entered Sybill's room, she didn't say hello or any greeting. No, she said a vague 'prophecy' and expected 

"Your twin will come in five years time." 

She spoke in an airy, ditzy voice that grated his nerves.  He decided to ignore her while treating her, giving her short answers, half listening to her whining. If that was her idea of a 'prediction' she wasn't worth his time.  

But he did not ignore Xenophilius. Now, that young man was fascinating. He was a Hufflepuff (disgusting) but he had the balls of Gryffindor. He was being hunted by Aurors for spreading copies of Tom's own manifesto, yet chose to visit his girlfriend and friends in the hospital? 

When he left the two so Sybill could change out her hospital gown, Tom had slipped in a Medusa coin in Xenophilius's pocket. 

Now he was onto the next room: Orson Shacklebolt. 

A real seer. 

Tom approached Orson's room, glancing in the room and noticed Orson was not alone. 

Antonin Dolohov sat in the visitor chair next to Orson's bed. 

Now that is an interesting combination. He didn't know they knew eachother. Orson was an interesting wizard. Moved to Britain at ten to escape Papa Doc's brutal rule in Haiti with his father, mother, and younger brother. And because he was from the Caribbean, he cared very little about house politics. Orson somehow won Bellatrix over, despite Bella's deep hatred for Gryffindors and blood purity. Oh and her fanatic crush on Tom. And this wasn't some fling, they have been together since Orson's final year in Hogwarts, and Bella's sixth. That was a solid eight years.

They would be married if Andromeda hadn't run off with a mudblood, thus putting pressure on Bellatrix to break up and marry a "nice" white pureblood man. 

If Cygnus and Druella pushed away a powerful seer like Orson away with their racism, Tom was going to kill them. String them up with ropes in the middle of Diagon Alley. Hex them so the birds only shit on their corpses.

Tom would not suffer Sybill as his sole seer just because the Blacks wanted to extend their bigotry. He also couldn't be made a hypocrite. How could he look in the eyes of his exes, which were many, and say he accepts race-based hatred. He can excuse discrimination against mudbloods, but when his own ex-wife and son were brown...

No, no, he should push Bella to marry Orson, and they can have little seer babies, and he will be Grandpa Tom Riddle. 

He opened the door; a pleasing smile plastered on his face. "Excuse me for the interruption."

Antonin stood out of his chair so fast he nearly knocked it back. Orson gave him a weird look. 

"My Lord!" 

Tom swore and slammed the door shut. "What did I tell you about saying that in public?" He should never have told Antonin his identity. But the twenty-one-year-old wheedled it out of him when he was drunk and now he had his second biggest sycophant outing his secret. Bellatrix was naturally number one on this list. 

"We're not in public," Antonin said, tilting his head like a sad puppy. 

"Uh," Orson began raising a finger, "you do know I didn't know he was Voldemort, right?" He then looked on the in table were the Daily Prophet sat. "Or maybe I should say 'You-Know-Who?'" 

Tom glared at the both of them. "Can you two be quiet and not talk about this while I am at work." he pointed at Antonin. "You out. Now." 

"Yes, my Lord." Antonin said, bowing. He hurried around Orson's bed. 

Tom stopped him by pressing a hand to Antonin's shoulder. "Wait, two questions. Why are you here? And why are you wearing a thick oversized sweater in summer?" 

"I'm visiting my friends, my Lord," he chirped, but his voice rose in a higher pitch. He coughed and crossed his arms over his chest, but not in a standard posture. It was him doing his best to cover his breasts despite wearing a big sweater that hid everything. "I just feel comfortable in it." 

"Uh-huh." Tom didn't believe him, but didn't care enough to question him. "Go over to Rab's. I need to speak with you two." 

"Of course, my Lord." 

"Stop calling me that!" he snapped, but Antonin was already out the door. 

Tom turned to Orson, clipboard in hand. "You're telling me you didn't know until right now." 

Orson hummed, acting as if he was clueless. Then, a beat, and he shook his head. "Nah, I knew the entire time. Bellatrix told me a week after you attack the Longbottoms. She treats you like muggle girls treat the Beatles. I'd be threatened, you know, if you weren't obvious about stalking Mangala."

Tom pointed at him with the clipboard. "It's not stalking, its called courting." Because now he knew Mangala had been aware for awhile, that meant they were dating actually. But from a distance. Sort of. It made sense to Tom at least. 

Orson did not agree with his view, but Tom was the genius here! 

He sat down on in the chair, flipping through his charts. "Your legs were hit with an explosive spell. Several silent hexes." He pulled out his carton of cigarettes and slipped out one, using magic to light it. "Those Aurors fucked you up." he said before taking a drag. 

Orson cringed from the smoke. "Your bedside manner is atrocious." 

He pulled back the blanket, his legs covered in bandages. The burn marks were still fresh and deep. Some were irritated with pus. It was disgusting, it looked painful. Tom seen worse.  "Grimblehawk said I won't be able to walk after the Permanent Hex subsides enough for him to heal me." 

"Grimblehawk is a fucking idiot," Tom said bluntly. "Frankly, I think he's purposely not giving any of you proper treatment out of revenge. His older sister is an Auror...or was. I did just have a maggot-infested snake eat her." 

Orson covered his mouth with his fist, as if he was going to hurl. "Oh fuck," he gagged. "That was the most disgusting spell I ever seen." 

Tom grinned, it was all teeth and menace. "Thank you. I like to be creative."

He pushed himself out of the chair, conjuring an ashtray that floated by his head. He took a drag off his cigarette before flick the ash in the tray, leaving it there. He drew his wand, running a diagnostic spell. 

"Uhm," Orson hesitated, his gaze flickering away from Tom. "I want to say thank you...for my brother." 

Tom kept his expression neutral, but inside he was smiling like the Cheshire Cat. While he had many ways to entice Orson into the Death Eaters. The ministry had been attacking Orson's cultural practices and Tom was the one fighting for him to practice his magic freely. Aurors have been harassing him and his friends. An Auror murdered one just this week. Tom got rid of Fabien Prewett, a man Orson despised. He could hold that fact alone over Orson's head, manipulate him into joining his ranks. 

But at the end of the day, these reasons were predicated on ideology and vendettas. 

To ensure loyalty, true and absolute loyalty, he needed Orson feel like there was something worth losing. 

Tom turned his head, his grin vicious. "It sounds like you owe me a blood debt." 

Sharp realization slammed into Orson. His entire body tense, his fists clutched at the bedding like a lifeline that could do nothing for him. His eyes darted to Tom's wand to his left arm, to his legs to the door. Horror gave way to acceptance within seconds. His shoulders dropped. 

"I suppose I do," his deep voice sounded meek, almost docile. "And what do you want in return?" 

Tom cut the diagnostic spell short. He will heal Orson after he got what he wanted. "Give me your arm." 

When it was all done, Orson hadn't cried once during the branding spell. Some followers vomited and fainted from the intensity of the spell. But Orson gritted his teeth and accepted the pain. After that, Tom had him healed within minutes. Orson's injuries were better than they looked, proving Grimblehawk was tasking his sister out on the rioters. Not that he cared. Tom didn't regret murdering his coworker's sibling. She shouldn't have attacked his people.

Tom stepped out of Orson's room to allow him to dress in privacy, allowing the younger man a moment to reflect what happened. 

He summoned Rodolphus and Rabastan's charts. He flipped through them, weighing which brother to heal first, settling on Rab. He knew the boys since they're young. If Tom went to Rodolphus first, the stubborn prick would refuse treatment until his baby brother was taken care of. 

He might as well not waste both their time. 

Tom dismissed the older brother's charts and went to Rabastan's room. 

Tom slipped inside unannounced. He had been so quiet, Rabastan and Antonin hadn't even noticed him enter, despite waiting for his arrival. He watched them for a moment. It was a rare moment where he could study the youngest members of his following. Rabastan had his mother's auburn hair, thick and curly, but his father's brow and jaw. And Tom remembered Rab as a boy, he had been a small thing. He and Rudolphus would follow Tom around the Lestrange mansion in France whenever he visited their parents. It had been natural they would take the mark as soon as Tom created the Death Eaters, both Armand and Sloan were in his inner circle after all. 

They were doting parents. He supposed they were quite good parents in comparison to the other aristocratic pureblood families. 

They were just clueless about their youngest son's preferences in partners. 

And Tom only knew because Antonin told him. 

Antonin was one of Tom's most fanatical members. He was devout to the cause and reverent to the Voldemort persona, but before Tom took on the mask, he had been loyal. 

The Dolovohs disowned him years ago when he discarded his femininity and traded in for masculinity. Tom personally couldn't understand why Antonin would want to be a man, he personally would think being a woman would be better. But what did he know? He just saw the potential and the power in Antonin's eyes. He saw the ambition hindered by society stepping a boot on Antonin's neck. 

As the young men talked, lost in their own world, Tom thought about when he met Antonin. 

It was '72, before Tom was institutionalized. It was the anniversary of the first time he had opened the Chamber of Secrets, and Tom was not in any sort of mood. He was stalking Knockturn Alley, itching for a reason for a fight. 

And he found it when a group of men were dragging out a kicking and clawing Antonin out of the pub. Stumbling upon a violent, brutal beating (or maybe Tom just hoped it had only been a planned beating), a boy who was barely eighteen was enough of a reason. 

When Tom saved Antonin, he secured one of the most loyal followers. He was actually the first non-inner circle member to be marked. 

Tom looked over his shoulder, brows quirked upward. They still didn't notice him. They had the social awareness of drunk sloths. 

"You can't keep binding yourself as tightly as you want," Rab said in a concern tone. His hand was over Antonin's, squeezing them gently. 

"I know, I know," he said, looking down at his offended chest. "But just want them flat."

Tom narrowed his eyes. Oh, Antonin lied to him. He wasn't a visitor; he was a patient. He knew there was a reason for the jumper.

He turned around, clearing his throat, making them jump. "Antonin," he said smoothly, and decided to interject. 

Both were shocked they hadn't seen him enter. Rab sat straighter in bed, and Antonin even stood at attention. 

"My Lord," he began but Tom held his hand. 

"I just told you in Orson's room not to address me that. When I'm in these robes, call me Healer Riddle, please." he said, exasperated. Antonin was worse than Bellatrix, truly. "And will you sit down." 

"Of course, my Lord, my apologies," he said, obeying only one of Tom's orders.  

Tom contemplated beating Antonin until he got it through his thick skull, but the young man was so devout he'd still call Tom 'Lord' while being beaten. It was almost cute, like an abused dog begging for treats but never receiving any. 

"Right," he said, decided to just ignore the 'my Lord' comments unless a magimed came in. "Antonin, you didn't tell me you were admitted. What's this about binding your chest too tightly? Again?" 

Antonin looked to the ground, ashamed he hadn't listened. "I just...I just wanted to be...I don't know." 

Tom tilted his head to the side, examining one of his more valued followers. "Antonin, does this have to do with what Gideon Prewett said?"

Rab looked to Tom then his boyfriend. "Gideon? Wait, you were there last week?" 

Antonin nodded, his expression grave. "I joined our Lord and four others to get rid of the Prewett brothers."

"That's where you went in the middle of the night? I didn't even know you had been summoned," Rab said, then looked to Tom. The young man's face twisted in anger, looking more like his mother with that expression. "What did Gideon say?"

Tom laid the clipboard with Rabastan's medical records on the small table. He flipped through the contents, spotting what curse the Aurors had used. A simple, but effective one that caused injuries to last longer than they should. It seemed to be the common tactic Aurors used. 

He didn't answer, and neither did Antonin, much to Rab's annoyance. He sat there in growing frustration but didn't push either. 

Tom moved to the other side of the bed and ran a diagnostic spell.

"Gideon, was rather cruel toward your partner," he began as he weaved a counter curse against the Auror's. "He accused Antonin of not being man enough, and that he was playing pretend." 

Rab let out an offended gasp. He whipped his head back at his partner, infuriated. "What?" he said, aghast. "he said that to you?" 

Antonin nodded slowly. "He did. I know he was trying to get under my skin..."

"And you allowed him," Tom said firmly, a bit disappointed. Antonin didn't need affirmation from Aurors. He had them, the Death Eaters. And almost everyone under Tom did in fact treat Antonin as the man he was. Partially because Tom would kill them if they disrespected Antonin’s manhood, and partially because Antonin's own nasty temper. 

 He looked back at Rab. "He and I took turns Crucioing Prewett. You should be proud of your boyfriend, Rab. He's a skilled duelist."

"Of course, I'm proud," Rab said with urgency. "I know if Antonin had been at the riot, we would've been better off." 

Antonin looked up finally, smiling just a little. "Thank you, my Lord," he sighed a little, "I know they're dead, but I'm still livid Fabian raided Orson's shop so many times."

Tom glanced his way, his eyes narrowed and his lips set in a stern frown. "They're dead, Antonin. Two, pathetic bigoted insects were crushed last week, and you should be proud you took part, just as your partner is in you. Not wallowing in the past. Instead of replaying Gideon's untrue remarks, you should remember his screams."

He paused and then added, "and I must say, I'm glad you weren't at the riot. It's bad enough given what they did to Mangala, Orson, and Rupert. You'd be on a ship to Azkaban if you were with the others."

"But I could've saved Rupert," Antonin insisted, a bit fervently. "If I hadn't been in the hospital--

"And if I hadn't torched those dummies, sent a message that night, then the party wouldn't have happened," Tom cut him off. "The man responsible for Rupert's murder is dead. You are targeted enough by the Ministry. You being there would've put you more in danger. And Rabastan could've lost his boyfriend and his best friend in the same night. You did nothing wrong for not being at the riot."

Rab clenched his jaw, his face twisting up hard as if to stop himself from crying. Tom's words weren't meant for comfort, but to instill caution in his more useful followers. Antonin was young, but powerful and gifted. He didn't want Antonin to end up dead because Aurors and the greater society feared him for the wrong reasons. 

Antonin looked away, clutching at his trousers. "I just...just can't believe he's gone."

Tom moved from the diagnostic spell to remove the curse so Rab could go home with Antonin today. 

"The Ministry will face retribution for what they done," he promised. "But we must remain strong. Killing Grimsby was just treating the symptom. It wasn't the cure our society needed." He jerked his hand to the left then the right, creating a pattern in the air. On Rab's chest, runes hovered just as they had on Orson and Rodulphus. 

 "I will be the cure for our society, that I promise," he murmured, focusing on the spell.. "When this was all over, I will be Minister, and bring this country out of it's dark ages." 

Antonin and Rab looked up at him with devotion and hope in their eyes. And as the runes did their work, the bruises and broken bones Rab has suffered for the last few days, vanished. 

He lifted his hand and clenched his fist, bones cracked from lack of use. "Thank you...Healer Riddle. 

Tom pocketed his wand and offered a warm smile. "Do not mention it. I am just doing my job." 

"My Lo—Healer Riddle," Antonin corrected, though he struggled. "When I was leaving Orson's room, you said you wish to speak to me and Rab?" 

Rab looked between them, frowning with a curious look in his eyes. 

Tom raised a brow. "Ah yes, that," he said, walking around the bed, humming. 

As he stood over the couple, he thought of how to phrase this question. Antonin was in fact Tom's best choice for the ritual. Their cores matched rather well. There were handful of men who matched Tom's core, and those he could guessed matched him. Albus and Severus obviously matched Tom's core, he didn't even need to see it. But they weren't even option. That stray little thought nearly made him vomit and contemplate suicide. Thankfully, he kept a stoic expression on his face. 

The other two who matched his core were Alphard and Corban. They would be compatible, but Tom knew them too well. There was history, specifically sexual history. He knew their bodies, even if it had been years. He couldn't dominate them the way the ritual required either. Not when Alphard once seen him cry when they were twelve, or Corban had taught him how to speak with a proper accent. 

It would also be tacky to ask Corban to partake in a ritual when he was planning a funeral for his child and his wife just gave birth to another. Tom may not care for societal norms, but that was just disturbing even for him. 

There was also Rudolphus Lestrange. While he knew their cores were compatible, Tom could not in good conscience sleep with the young man he known as a babe. Not to mention Tom had, at one point, was frequently in Armand and Sloan's bed. He was not about to use the son of his past lovers for a sex ritual. 

No, it had to be Antonin. 

The two waited patiently for him to continue.

"I have a request, Antonin," he said simply, as if he was about to ask the younger man to baby sit a dog. "I require...your assistance for a ritual..."  

Antonin shifted in his seat, sitting on the edge, and hands clasped together in a prayer. "Anything, My Lord. What is it?" 

"You can tell me no or if your partner is uncomfortable with this, I will not pursue further," he said carefully. Rab's eyes flicker with understanding, but Antonin was too focus on pleasing Tom to understand where this was going. "Before I explain the goal of this ritual, I must inform you it involves us having intercourse."

They were both shocked, but neither were upset. 

Comically, Antonin's eyes left Tom's face and traveled to Tom's crotch before turning to Rab and whisper in his ear. Rab whispered back. And while Tom couldn't hear either of what they're saying but he heard excitement in both of their voices. 

When they finally turned their attention back on him, Antonin grabbed Rab's hand. "My Lord, what exactly do you need this ritual for?" 

"It's to enhance my magic, deepen my mana pool," he explained in a clinical tone. He wanted to make sure this was not for his sexual gratification. Antonin was attractive, which Tom had no problem admitting. But Antonin wasn't his type.

Well, okay. Tom didn't have type physically. He liked anyone who be willing to stab or hex him. But that wasn't the point. 

"Surely your mana pool is rather...big," Rab said, now his eyes were on Tom's crotch, though he looked a bit nervous. 

"It is," he said flippantly, leaving it up to the two younger men on what he meant. "But there is a war coming our way, and I need the enhancement. Antonin, you could give me that enhancement. I will only siphon a small portion of your core. Nothing too drastic, and it will replenish. In time."

“It's not a permanent loss of magic?" Antonin questioned. "Because that's our only concern." 

Rab nodded along, agreeing. "I know there's rituals that need intimacy, and I'm honored you would choose my boyfriend." And Antonin nodded too, a bit more eagerly. "But if you're taking a part of his magic, it could be dangerous." 

Tom relaxed, not having realized he was stiffer than normal. Oh, so that was the concern? He should've expected two purebloods from the right kind of family to support his cause instead of doubting them. He grabbed the clipboard and turned his back to them.

"While I am taking part of your magic, it will replenish," he said, not even facing them anymore. He hurriedly jotted notes for the paperwork he would need to do after Rab was discharged. "In say...four or five months. So, if you accept," his eyes flickered to Antonin, "you will be assisting the war effort, receive intense pleasure while doing so, with little sacrifice on your part."

He heard them whisper some more just as he finished up the notes he needed. 

He glanced back at them, waiting for an answer. 

Antonin gave Rab a gentle squeeze and the two shared a look of determination before he said, "I will gladly offer myself for the cause, my Lord." 

Tom finished his notes and lowered the clipboard in front of him. "Excellent, Antonin. I will summon you when the time is ready. And as for you, Rabastan, you are free to leave. Just sign out at the front desk downstairs." He headed for the door. "A magimed will stop by and escort you out once you're done changing. I will see you both fairly soon." 

And with that, he left to go see Rodolphus.

Tom stood outside Mangala's door. He checked his watch, the black leather band was threadbare, worn out from poor craftsmanship and cheap materials. It was a gift from his mother when he was sixteen, before the Ministry sent him and other underage mudbloods off to war to weed them out of magical society. He thought he had lost it in Germany but against all odds he was reunited with the watch. She crudely etched 'love you' on the inside, making the leather itchy at times, especially now when it was tight against his wrist. When he stopped being severely malnourished—a byproduct of being a vegetarian while living in poverty and living off war rations—and filled out his tall frame with muscle and much needed fat, the watch didn't fit as comfortably as it used too. He supposed he could remove the watch and place it on a new band and repurpose the current one. Attach it to a personal grimoire.

But there was something about feeling the words 'love you' that brought comfort. 

The clock was off a few minutes and he wouldn't use magic to alter it at all. 

It was now 12:05 pm, but the clock read 12:13. 

He had plenty of time between now and Reynolds's surgery. He was grateful it bumped up to two o'clock. He can heal Mangala (and maybe do...other things), visit Bellatrix down in the psych ward, and eat his curated lunch the hospital house-elves prepared to his liking. 

What a productive day he has had so far. He rescued nineteen children, murdered two people and six house elves, made nutritious breakfast for his son, effectively recruited two bright young men in his cause, healed several people, and he was going into a surgery. 

He deserved a break.

Tom decided he would get Chinese takeout instead of cooking. He worked hard today, starting right around midnight. 

Happy with his future dinner plans, Tom knocked on Mangala's door but didn't wait for any response. 

Mangala was in her bed, flipping through magazines out of boredom. Her hair was a mess, she wore no makeup, and looked like just one more inconvenience would ruin her day. Fortunately, Tom lived on being an inconvenience. 

"Hello Miss Verma," he said in a sing-song voice, grinning like he would never smile again. "How are you feeling today?" 

She turned slowly toward him, her eyes roaming over his body. She didn't bother pretending she wasn't, but the action was lazy and lingering. 

And her face twisted in disgust once she made eye contact. 

"What do you think?" she snapped, returning to her magazine. 

Tom closed the door, humming. He flipped through his clip board, noting her injuries. Several stunners, Crucio, several hexes...the Aurors were aggressive with her. He made note that out of the two he seen today, Orson and Mangala received the more cruel punishments during the riots. While he was angered by the targeted, brutalization it was also a reaffirmation of Tom's choices in recruitment. The Aurors attacked them, in part, because they feared othered magical practices. A fear Tom could weaponize against the Ministry. 

The Ministry and the sycophantic populace feared the Parselmouths so much they were killing them. That proved the Parselmouth supremacy

He looked up from the clip board, striding over to her bed. He loomed over and yet, despite her stature, she did not seem small under his shadow. 

Still, he sat down so he didn't feel opposing. 

"There is no need to be hostile with me, Miss Verma." His tone slippery like fine silk. "I like to think we are past that."

"Can you just heal me?" she asked. "I have things to do. I got to prepare for my family's visit."

Tom raised a brow. "Ah that makes sense. Your parents would want to check on you after the riot, naturally." 

She snorted, an undignified sound. "Please, they coming to check on Jiya and protest Kumar's arrest. He's their precious baby boy, can do no wrong because he's the oldest son." She sighed, leaning against the plump pillows the hospital provides. "They only care about the riot to the extent to use it politically."

"Do no wrong?" Tom repeated in disbelief. "Surely, after his arrest and the public perception he is a murderer, they would accept his flaws."

She turned her head, expression both resigned and flat. "Tell me, truthfully, if your son grew up to be abusive toward his wife, how would you respond?" 

"My son is a homosexual," he answered. "And if he entered an abusive relationship, I would simply blame his mother because she’s the one who influenced him to be like that." 

"Be serious." she said, rolling his eyes. "And you shouldn't out your son to random people."

Tom didn't know why she cared. "Why? There is nothing to be ashamed of." Severus was bright, talented at dueling and, most important, was his son. And….him being homophobic in general might be a tad hypocritical given his proclivities. Not that he was a queer. Sleeping with men didn’t mean anything.

She was expecting an answer.

"I suppose, if Severus, was the perpetrator of domestic violence, I would beat his arse until he acted right. But I just can't imagine him in the scenario he would. My ex-wife did not have a happy second marriage. Severus wouldn't inflict what his stepfather had done to his mother to another person." He said, with a hand wave.

Mangala turned her head back at the ceiling, her mouth twisted downward. "What happened between Kumar and Jiya is their business, not no one else's. Getting in the way means you get beat too by Kumar, and everyone around you says that's what happens when you stick your nose in someone else's marriage." 

"Your family sounds pleasant," he stated evenly. But his hands clutched the clipboard, threatening to snap it in half. How dare anyone laid their hands on his Mangala. He did not care if it was her own brother. Kumar was better off with the dementors. 

"Very." She let out sigh again. "Right. Do you think you can stop the tremors? They're annoying."

Tom let out a hiss. Ice kept into his voice, and the air chilled as frost crawled across the floor beneath his feet. "You've been experiencing tremors this entire time?" 

She blinked. 

"Isn't that common being put under Crucio?" 

"No, it is not common unless you were under a collective fifteen seconds and not properly used." Tom slammed the clip down and drew his wand, flicking it to cast the diagnostic spell. "The problem is Crucio has not been properly studied. It's the equivalent of electric shock therapy if not used correctly. And my soon-to-be dead coworker is showing his incompetence that he didn't even bother treating the tremors. This explains the added sweet marjoram to your healing potions." 

"There is a correct way to cast the torture spell?" she asked, skeptical.

"Yes, there is," he said, examining the diagnostic. "When I use it to prove a point, I focalize the pain to a specific part of the body, attacking a centralized cluster of nerves. If I want to break someone, I target their brain. The Aurors, who have not studied neuroscience such as me, crudely attack the entire body. They have no finesse in their spellwork." 

"You studied neuroscience?" she asked, incredulously. 

His left brow raised upward, hiding under his curls. "Is that so hard to believe, Miss Verma?"

Her expression said she did. "Why would you need to study that?" 

"Just told you, love. To better inflict pain." He broke the diagnostic spell. "I am going to perform a Parsel healing spell. It's the most effective way to cure oneself of the aftereffects of a Crucio...any other elements you might have. Do keep this to yourself, love." 

Her lips quirked upward. "I plan to run to the presses," she snarked, her voice edging on teasing.  

Tom returned the smirk with one of his own before clearing his throat. He racked his brain for a song to match the melody for this chant. When Ominis had taught him this spell he used the melody from a song composed by the late great violinist Sebastian Sallow as a reference point. 

Tom looked at Mangala and Blue Moon wiggled into his brain, deciding for him. 

He sucked in his breath and let it out slowly. He tapped his foot on 4/4th beats and hummed the tune to follow the rhythm. He heard the tapping keys of the piano and the plucked strings. He could visualize the trumpets behind him. All the while Mangala watched, eyes curious and questioning. 

And he began. The chants came out in low hisses, soft that caressed the shape of his tongue. The room darkened and rumbled; shadows grew along the walls until they were in pitch blackness. A chill permeated around them. It was not the bitter, frostbite cold his rage produced but the cool breeze blown in by the ocean. The kind of wind that brought in the scent of rain, just before a storm hit. 

  He pressed his wand tip to his chest, drawing out his magical core. A silver-gold light bloomed his chest cavity, illuminating them in the dark. The essence of his magical core was ribbons of black and sickly green that bled into shimmery gold. 

He weaved his wand and free hand in the air, conducting the ribbons like an orchestra. They flowed around his hands, his body, around her. Mangala watched in wonder, sitting upright and clutching at the knitted blanket. All the while he chanted and chanted, singing a song that prickled at the edges of the Otherworld. The magic swelling into a feverish pitch 

At the final hiss, he directed the ribbons at Mangala's chest, the spell slamming into her. 

Her expression of wonder gave way to shock. She let out a yelp as the ribbons vanished into nothing. 

And the room returned to normal.

She blinked, staring at her hands. Her eyes came to life, alert for the first time since he entered. 

"Oh my!" She said, squeezing her hands into fists, testing out how easier it was without the ache that consumed her body the last few days. 

Tom stumbled and slumped in the chair. He waved his hand. "Don't mention it." 

Now more than ever he needed that ritual with Antonin. He ignored the fact he expanded much of his core this morning dealing with the Bones’. He should not feel drained after this spell. 

Mangala threw back the covers and slid out of the bed. 

And without warning, or any indication she was going to do so, she crawled onto Tom's lap, straddling him. She grabbed his cheeks and pulled him in for a kiss, taking advantage of his mouth being agape from shock. Her lips were chapped, yet still soft. Her tongue slipped inside his mouth and she tasted of Earl Grey tea and lavender. 

That perked him up. 

Once the shock gave way, he remembered he had hands. He wrapped his one arm around her back, pulling her closer. His other hand went to her hair, his fingers tangled up in brown curls. Her own arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers playing with his hair. Their tongues grazed against each other.

She broke away for a breath.

Tom wasn't ready to lose the taste of her. He roughly grabbed fist full of her hair and tugged her head back, exposing her bare neck. She gasped as his lips planted against her neck, licking and biting at the spot below her jaw. She rocked against him, pressing down against his hardening dick. 

He hummed out a groan, murmuring against her skin. "Fuuuuck."

She let out a low chuckle against his ear. "Funny, that's what I want you to do to me." 

He leaned back, eyes blazing. "Be careful what you're asking of me, love." 

Mangala bit her bottom lip, her eyes hooded with want. "Is that a threat?" she asked, dragging her hand up and down his chest. 

And the door swung open. 

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Tom!" 

Poppy was standing there; arms cross over her chest. Mangala let out a squeak and crawled off Tom's lap, almost falling onto her backside. She adjusted her hospital gown, while he crossed his legs to hide his shame. He could feel blotches of red coloring his neck and cheeks as Mangala gathered a stack of folded up clothes near her private washroom. She hurried inside, slamming the door. 

Poppy glared after before turning her critical gaze on Tom. 

"Really? Again?" she barked out. 

Tom shifted in his seat, hating how he felt fifteen again. This was not the first time Poppy walked in on him in an intimate moment. Back then she was Madam Pomfrey, and it was well past curfew. He was abusing his Prefect privileges and snuck Myrtle Warren into the library. She complained how she had never kissed a boy before, and Tom had already kissed Eileen in their fourth year. So he obliged.  The kiss had escalated to the point of his hand awkwardly found its way under her skirt and her fumbling to undo his belt by the time Madam Pomfrey caught them. 

He coughed into his fist and looked up at her. "Madam Pomfrey—eh, Poppy," he corrected, and she looked utterly unimpressed, probably remembering the same thing. "I feel you should not judge me. See, I seen you kiss your husband on duty."

Her eyes flashed, and Tom instinctively cringed away, lest she hit him like she had when he was unruly, hormonal teenager. 

"That is different. I have not once kissed Grant while he was patient under the hospital's care!" she snapped. "Merlin, what is wrong with you?" 

Tom looked at his nails, seemingly bored. "Nothing, I'm perfect." 

She let out a frustrated yell, spinning on her heel and stormed out. Tom took that meant he won the argument. 

He stood, brushing the front of his healer coat, his erection effectively killed by the interruption. Maybe he should be grateful. He was fully ready to fuck Mangala on the bed with his trousers around his ankles and her hospital gown torn and discarded on the floor. But that would not be romantic at all, and Mangala deserved better; something more special than a unceremonious quick fuck. It would've been undignified.  

He walked over to the washroom door, ready to knock, when Mangala swung the door right into his face. 

"Oh shit!" She shouted, regret evident in her tone. 

Tom closed the door while rubbing his nose. "Well, that was inconvenient." His magic healed the throbbing ache and hid himself from the forming black eye. "No harm done."

Once she saw he was fine, Mangala's demeanor changed. She put her hand on her hip and jabbed his chest with her finger. "That's what you get for standing in front of the door like a creep." 

He swatted her hand away. "I just came to tell you you've been discharged." He took a quick look at her outfit; a golden-yellow dress with an brown peasant shirt underneath. The dress was impossibly short, with the only thing saving her from exposure was the opaque orange tights. "How do you bend over?" 

"I don't." She looked around her room, eyes landing on platform-heeled boots that matched her dress. She snapped her fingers and magicked them on her feet. In an instant, she was up to his chin in height. "And if I'm in public around muggles, boys will trip over their feet to help me."

Tom hummed, motioning to the door. "The perks of being young and attractive, I suppose." 

On their way out, Mangala outstretched her hand to the bed and her wand and an orange purse slipped out from under her bed. She slipped her wand in and swung the bag across her body. 

"If you wore a longer dress, you might have pockets," he said, closing the door behind them. They were alone in the floor, for now at least. "As it is, a pickpocket will just nick your purse and you'll lose your wand." 

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. "Oh, spare me. I grew up in Jaipur, you think London scares me?" She turned to face him. "I've been living in Brixton for a year, yeah? I can handle myself."

Tom tilted his head to the side, an amused and condescending smirk was on his lips. "I'm sure all the Brixton pick pocketers run in the opposite direction when they see a woman," he raised his hand and pinched the air, "of your stature." 

Flustered, she shoved him as hard as she could. He didn't even budge. "Oy, fuck off! You know I'm actually the tallest woman in my family!"

"Uh-huh." He had another insult ready, but the rush of foot steps from down the hall cut him off. 

The person was running up the stairs at a concerning speed. Tom and Mangala exchanged glances before he took off running down the hall. She was behind him, though she couldn't keep up in her platformed boots and with his long legs. 

The doors burst open with a shuddering bang. 

Adrien appeared and Tom came to a halt just before he collided into the younger man. His eyes were frantic and glossy, his blonde curls a mess. He was panting hard and his cheeks were pink, as if he had ran all five stories. 

"Mr. Riddle," gasp, "my sister," pant, "lost it!" 

Mangala went to Adrien's side, rubbing his back. "Breathe, take your time."

Adrien was shaking his head, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out. 

"How exactly did Druella 'lose it'?" Though in his opinion, Tom assumed she did when she married into the Black family. 

"Druella and Cygnus are downstairs talking to a mind healer," he said, breathing easier. "We're all down there arguing with them, get them to stop."

"Arguing what?" Tom pressed, his irritation growing.

"They're going to give Bella a lobotomy! You have to stop them!" he pleaded.

The floor beneath Tom's feet was ripped from under him. A lobotomy? They wouldn't dare, that was unthinkable. Bellatrix was twenty-four, an adult. She wasn't the most unstable, but to strip her of anatomy...surely this was a horrible joke? A prank. Druella and Cygnus would not be that cruel.

But Adrien was not joking. He looked terrified for a niece that was older than him. 

The mere suggestion rendered Tom in a catatonic state, his mind hallowed out and gutted of everything around him except the word: lobotomy. Lobotomy. Lobotomy. Lobotomy. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but the doctors ordered a lobotomy."

"She insisted the snakes were whispering to her."

"She said you were a wizard and could prove magic was real."

"We had no choice."

Choice. Choice. Choice. Choices? What was the point of choices when your mind was cracked and your prefrontal cortex was served? 

Mangala looked between Adrien and Tom, her movements rapid. She reached up and snapped her fingers in his face three times. "Tom!" she bellowed. "Did you hear him? We must go now!" 

He shook his head, forcing his mind on the now. 

"Follow me." he barked and turned on his heel, right straight to the employee only elevator. And they obeyed. 

Within a room in the Trauma & Psychological Healing Ward, Bellatrix Black was screaming and howling like a wild animal. Bound in antimagic wrappings, she thrashed around, desperate to get out. She twisted her body to gnaw on the bindings, filling her mouth with woven linen and the coppery tang from biting her tongue. 

But no one could hear her.

Her padded room was sealed with a silencing charm, standard practice for the psych ward. Healer Vance was in the back office, finalizing the paperwork with a sobbing Drualla Black. Her mournful sobs filtered through walls, spilling out into the halls. They mingled with shouting. 

Orson's muffled voice carried into visitor area. 

Heads turned to the closed door to the psych ward. Marigold was out from behind the desk; wand clutched in her hand paralyzed with uncertainty. Should she contact security? Aurors? Should she check on what was wrong herself? 

But she didn't need make a choice. The elevator door dinned, and out came Healer Riddle, Adrien Rosier, and a woman Marigold only seen in Witch Weekly. 

"Tom!" She exclaimed, and relief rushed over. 

He glanced at the door but didn't stop to stare. "Marigold," he approached her, putting a firm hand on her arm and directing her back to the reception desk. "Report to security I want the removal of Cygnus and Druella Black and report to Director Bulstrode I wand to discuss a prudent concern." 

"Of course," she said, just happy to have a senior staff member handle this for her. 

Tom didn't wait. He swung the door open and stormed into the psych ward, Mangala and Adrien on his heels. He strode with purpose, his bone-white wand was already in his hand and a Stupefy on the tip. 

Around the corner, the situation had turned into a circus and Cygnus was the ringleader. Sybill was sobbing hysterically against her boyfriend's chest, the Lestrange brothers just stood there, too shocked by the events. 

Antonin was pacing like a caged animal behind Orson, ready to commit a crime or two to break Bellatrix out.  

"You have no right to do this!" Orson shouted. He used his height and youth to back Cygnus up against the wall. "She is an adult, a grown woman!"

Cygnus side stepped around him, adjusting his waistcoat, pretending to be unbothered. "Now you see here. I will not have someone like you to interfere with my family. I have tolerated this farce relationship with my daughter for long enough."

Orson's expression hardened and retreated inward, making himself smaller. Xenophilius pulled away from Sybill and moved off from the wall, drawing his wand. Beside Tom, Mangala vibrated with rage. There was tremor below her feet cracking the ice below Tom's feet, followed by the acidic scent of rotting fruit. 

Antonin stopped in his tracks. "You're not going to have a daughter!" he snarled. "What you're doing is wrong! Bella needs medication not her brain tampered with muggle science! What kind of blood traitor are you?"

"How dare you accuse a member of the Black family as being a blood traitor." Cygnus peered down his nose, sneering at Antonin like he was bird crap on the sidewalk. "You know nothing, you wretch. You are a confused young woman masquerading as a man. Maybe if your parents had truly cared for your well-being, they would have done the hard choice my wife and I are making right now."

Antonin lunged at Cygnus but was held back. It took both Lestrange brothers to restrain him. 

For Tom, he heard enough. He raised his wand blasted Cygnus with a nasty Stupify, sending the eldest son of Pollux and Irma Black though Healer Vance's door. 

The door snapped into pieces, reminding Tom the bed-Basilisk he created this moringing out Clara's bed. Maybe he should turn the door into the same monster and devour Druella and Cygnus both. 

Vance yelled, Druella screamed, rushing to her unconscious husband's side. 

Tom ignored everyone and stormed over, his magic crackling with each step.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Vance bellowed, walking around Cygnus's prone body. "Merlin's name, Tom, this is rather dramatic. 

Tom took in his fellow healer. Clement Vance had always been well dressed in finely tailored robes. Today, the man was disheveled, exhausted. His robes were even dirty and ill fitting. Fair enough. Tom had just murdered his youngest sister twelve hours ago. 

He cleared his throat and chose to embellish the truth. "Cygnus had just used a very specific American slur for people like Orson Shacklebolt," he said easily. Behind him, Orson's mouth was agape for the mere suggestion. But Tom wasn't done yet. "And when Antonin Dolohov defended Orson for the racial attack, Cygnus used a knockback-hex on him. Why if the Lestrange brothers hadn't caught him, he would've flown through the wall. I couldn't wait for security." 

Antonin and Rab exchanged glances. Xenophilius and Rodolphus glanced at one another, unsure what Tom was doing. Mangala stepped forward, making her voice clear and loud. "It's all true, we all witnessed it!" 

Clement looked down at Cygnus and Druella, a bit dazed. 

"That's not true!" Druella said, her eyes burning with rage. And then in a moment of weakness, she forgot who she was talking to. Who she belonged to. Whose mark she wore on her skin. "He's a filthy mudblood! And liar!"

The silence followed by the word mudblood was deafening. The waiting room went still.

Alright. Tom tolerated the Blacks for long enough. After work he was going to remind them of who owned their family. 

Clement stepped back from her in revulsion. "Now see here, Mrs. Black, I will not have that language in my hospital and directed at my colleague no less." He turned to Tom, and innocently chose to make eye contact with Tom, allowing him to slip inside. 

Clara is dead. Dead. Dead. No she was murdered. The manor was destroyed, Sir Gregory's legacy was left in ruins. I should be home, not here agreeing to a lobotomy. Clara's dead. Why did he even agree to such an operation. Bellatrix was of age...this is all wrong. Clara. Is. Dead. 

Footsteps approached them. Director Bulstrode rounded the corner with two security officers flanking her. She was a short, stout of a woman. Shorter than Mangala. But what she lacked in height she made up for in nastiness and viciousness. She clutched her ashwood wand in her hand as her cloak swept across the floor, pushing through the crowd that gathered in front of Bellatrix's door. 

"What is the meaning of this?" Each word clipped and punctuated with a wheeze. 

Tom glared back at Druella before turning to the director. "Druella and her husband strong-armed Healer Vance to perform a lobotomy on their eldest daughter." He lowered his voice, speaking in fake concern. "I believe they used Clara Vance's death."

Tom's mini pack of Death Eaters all exchanged looks of utter disbelief. Adrien whispered something in Rodolphus's ear, maybe a bit too loud because the security guards looked back at them. Orson elbowed Adrien in the ribs to silence him. 

 Bulstrode paid then no heed. "Is that true?" She asked Clement, disgust was clear in her voice.

 Druella tapped Cygnus's cheek, trying to wake him up. He blinked a few times, clearly dazed. "No, it's not true!" 

"Yes, it is," Clement said, solemn, stepping around Tom. Druella looked betrayed. "I have been treating Miss Bellatrix for nine years now, giving her medicines, testing to see what worked. I knew if I just up her dosage she would be fine...but they had caught me at an unfortunate time." He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his sweater vest only to put them back on.

Tom stepped over Cygnus, giving him a kick with his back heel, making Cygnus grunt. Tom ignored him. He slipped his arm around Clement and patted him on the shoulder with his other hand. Performing comfort came easy to Tom. He just mimicked the monsters who done it to him when he was a boy.

"Clement, my friend," he said with the utmost understanding, "you should not be here. You're grieving." 

He directed elderly wizard to Bellatrix's room, the crowd scattering to give him and Clement space. Even the director moved deferred to him, buying into his performance. Truly, there was only one person here didn't believe him at all, and that was Druella, and woman he knew since he was twelve.  

"You know who else is grieving? Bella," he murmured. "Just this week, Rupert Yaxley had perished right in front of her."

 His voice promised compassion, but it was just thousands of needles prickling at the back of Clement's neck. Maybe the elderly wizard knew, deep down knew his sister's murderer was touching him in a half hug and manipulating him. But grief kept the truth from Clement. 

"Everyone grieves differently," he continued. "Some cry, some scream. Some find comfort in their work. Why is Bella's so invalid her parents punish her for it? To me, this seems unfair to treat her as a hysterical woman who needs her frontal lobe destroyed in a barbaric practice muggles have moved away from." 

Clement nodded slowly, frowning. "I agree. I cannot, in good conscience, perform the lobotomy." 

He pulled away from Tom, taking a few steps to stand over Druella and Cygnus, who were now sitting upright. "I especially will not serve the likes of you. To use such vulgar language against such a bright young lad—I have never thought you would sink so low. The Black family has truly fallen. You might be the next Weasleys."

Cygnus's lost expression almost made Tom feel better. Almost. But it did nothing to quell his hatred. 

"My husband said nothing of the sort!" Druella pleaded desperately but no one cared.  

"Said what?" Cygnus demanded, trying to push himself upward, but tumbled backward. 

Clement's contempt rolled off him in waves. "Do not play ignorant, Cygnus. You know what you had said."

 Bulstrode’s eyes narrowed in confusion. Clement looked around, his eyes landing on Orson for a long moment, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Orson, for his part, pretended to be devastated as best his could when he’s struggling not to laugh. Clement bent over and whispered the lie Tom had weaved for Clement. 

Bulstrode let a shocked yell, leaping back, covering her wide-open mouth.  Orson couldn't take it anymore and turned his back to laugh silently in his fist. 

"I was shocked as you," Tom added, mimicking their offense. "This is why they want to give their daughter a lobotomy."

Cygnus struggled, but with Druella's help, he finally got to his feet. "What is going on? I demand answers!" 

"You will demand nothing!" Bulstrode shouted. She turned to the two security guards. "Escort these two out of my hospital. Now."  

The security guards, two stocky blokes, approached Cygnus and Druella. They grabbed them roughly by the arms, dragging them down the hall. 

"Unhand me! Do you know who I am!" Cygnus demanded, hitting the guard in the chest repeatedly, but it was ineffective to get him loose.  

The security officer handling Druella was far gentler, having let go of her arm and just pushed her along. She pulled out a laced handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. 

The small group of twenty-year-olds watched on with sweet satisfaction. Mangala and Antonin were smug, the two brothers high fived each other. Sybill was just relieved Bella wouldn't have to go through the ruthless operation.  

Adrien patted Orson's shoulder. "Keep an eye out on Bella. I need to tell my brother and father what happened here before...Drualla does." 

"Tell Bernard I said hello," Tom said in a sing-song voice.

Adrien gave a two-finger salute and vanished with a loud pop. 

Bulstrode nodded once to herself, feeling better to get rid of such trashy behavior. She was going to spread the news around how the Black family, at least on Pollux's side, as fallen. Alphard knowingly worked a muggle job with muggles. Cygnus used American vulgarity in place of healing and sanctuary. He had no control over his daughters, one he had forced into a psych ward, the other became pregnant at Hogwarts. Unwed, at that. And did Cygnus help his eighteen-year-old daughter? Was there compassion? An ounce of kindness? No, he kicked her out of the house and allowed his equally awful sister to burn her off the family tree. Bulstrode would not be happy if her own daughter was with child from a mudblood, but to disown? 

But if Cygnus and Druella were that far gone they're acting like it was 1700s toward their other daughter's island boyfriend...

She shuddered. 

Yes, high society must know at once. 

"Healer Vance, I want you to release Miss Black immediately," she ordered. "And then you go home. Please." 

Clement inclined his head, "of course, Gertrude," he said. "Let me collect her paperwork." 

"Maybe I should go into her room?" Orson suggested, rubbing his arm and glancing at her door with concern in his eyes. "She might be volatile." 

Clement nodded, clearing his throat. "Yes, that might be...true. I will get the key." He turned on his heel and headed to his office. His broken door reformed in a shimmery red light as he approached it. 

"Sybill and I will go in with you, she might feel more comfortable with a woman present, " Mangala offered, though she didn't leave anyone choice in the matter. 

"Excellent," Bulstrode said, clapping her hands together. "Healer Riddle, with me. I wish to have a word with you." 

Tom didn't argue and simply followed. He was on top of the world right now and already plotting how to remind the Black family who were their master. 

And this incident solidified his choice: next week he will publicly execute Selwyn. He had been indecisive on the matter after the riot, but it seems some in his inner circle or adjacent to the circle did not take him seriously. He would kill Selwyn and make sure Cygnus and Druella had front row seats as a warning.

He was so caught up in his plots and schemes, he hadn't noticed they were on the elevator until the door closed shut. They rode in silence for two floors before Bulstrode said anything. 

"For Merlin's sake, Riddle, keep it in your trousers," she said with withering sigh. "I'd hate to fire You-Know-Who for sleeping with one of his patients." 

Tom raised a brow and turned to her. "Is that what they're calling me now?" 

Chapter Text

"Okay, listen to this, Severus." 

"I rather eat glass," he drawled. 

"Oh, stop being so morose!" 

It was Sunday, and Lily was over after mass in her best, floral dress and lounging in his bed while Severus was relegated to the floor with a half empty bag of crisps next to him. Periodically, she reached down and grabbed a few and munch on them while getting crumbs everywhere. If they didn't have magic, he would've kicked her out by now. 

"Horoscopes are a load of crock," he grumbled, flipping through his copy of the Quibbler. He landed on an article titled "Finding love when Gnomish Wobblewinks Curse You" by Xenophilius. "I think the owner of the Quibbler drops acid." 

"Before she graduated, Sybill  Trelawney told me and Marlene psychedelics expand your mind," she said, leaning over the edge of the bed. 

He scrunched his nose up in disgust. "She told two first years to take drugs? You know, I had my first conversation with her last week. Said she studied with Romani fortune tellers." he flipped through the pages, landing on something more political. Less psychotic than the previous piece Xenophilius wrote. This one was written by...Mangala Verma, of all people. "Huh, I didn't know she wrote for the Quibbler."

"Oh! I love her stuff in Witch Weekly, well most of it," she said, sighing. "She's too pro Death Eater sometimes. But I love her reporting on how backwards women's roles are in the Wizarding world—like that! The fact its called the Wizarding world. Not Witching, and the extreme importance of motherhood. Like all we're here for is to produce babies!"

Severus closed his magazine before Lily saw the article's content was about how Voldemort was necessary for the future of magical kind. "I met her too, at Grimmauld Place. She was hanging out with Bellatrix Black and that sort." 

"And that's where she loses me," Lily sneered. "Sirius told me all about his cousin. She's a total fanatic. How can an Asian woman spend time with the likes of Bellatrix?" 

"Considering the Light side wants India to become a colony again," Severus grumbled, but he shook his head. Tom had told him all about that Ministry meeting after the riot, sparing no details on what the Wizengamot members had said. 

"Alright, what does the horoscopes say?" Severus asked, pivoting from politics. He didn't want to argue about magical world with a mu—No. Muggleborn. He wasn't going to argue with a muggleborn who refused to to learn about magical world.

Lily smoothed the magazine page out on the edge of the bed. 

"Well, I'm Aquarius. Jan 30th. And James... unfortunately, we know his birthday is March 27th because he sent a singing telegram to the Great Hall last year to announce it. So he’s an Aries." She traced the chart with a finger, her brow furrowing. "Here it is. 'The Water Bearer and the Ram.' It says... 'A combustible union. Air feeds Fire, creating a blaze that can burn down cities or light up the dark.'" 

Severus made a noise in the back of his throat. "Burning down cities sounds about right for Potter."

 Lily ignored him, reading on. "'The Ram is ruled by Mars, the God of War. He is impulsive, aggressive, and sees love as a conquest to be won.'" She paused, biting her lip. "Well, that’s uncomfortably accurate. He does treat me like a Snitch he hasn’t caught yet. Oh...but he's so-so URG!" 

She rolled onto her back, pressing the magazine to her face and screaming into the pages.

Severus just watched her, judging her because this was pathetic. "Your taste in men is rubbish."

She flung the magazine off, smacking it against his bed. "And you like Sirius Black. Is there much of a difference?" 

Severus opened his mouth to argue there was only to remember James's own mother was a Black and promptly closed it. 

There was a light knock on the door.

Tom stood in the gap of Severus's bedroom in his lounging clothes, hair a curly mess and deep bags under his eyes. It was clear he just woke up after four hours of a fourteen hour shift at hospital and looked like death warmed over. Lily shrunk, flashing an apologetic smile with a little wave. 

Tom waved back  "Why are we screaming at...what hour is it?" he asked, yawning. 

"It's two in the afternoon," Severus answered. "Did we wake you?" 

"No," he grunted. "What are you two doing?" 

"We're reading our horoscopes and compatibility," she answered, holding up her teen magazine. "Do you believe in zodiac signs?" 

Cigarette carton was already in Tom's hands before she finished her question. He tapped one fag out with his palm. "Yes, but only for myself. I am the perfect Capricorn." he placed the butt in between his lips. "Did you know statistically, there are more Capricorns sorted into Slytherin?"

"That's not true," Severus said. how the hell could his father believe this junk? "That's a ridiculous claim, something straight out of the Quibbler." 

"It is true, look into it instead of being a smartarse," Tom said before lighting the cigarette with just his magic. 

"Severus, you're a Capricorn," Lily pointed out and 

Tom raised his brows. "Oh? You know, your mother hadn't told me your birthday. Quite like her." 

"It doesn't matter." Severus tore opened the Quibbler, landing on a page about the Great Goblin Conspiracy: How Antisemitism spread to Wizarding Kind? Underneath the header there was a line that summed the article up for Severus. 

"Thirty years after his defeat, we must ask our selves, was Grindelwald right about the infestation?" 

He stared at the moving picture goose stepping Nazis and portrait of Gellert Grindelwald before promptly closing the magazine.

That was enough Quibbler for one day, thank you very much.

"It's January 9th, Mr. Riddle," Lily answered while Severus was having a crisis on his bedroom floor. 

Flashing a smug smile, Tom raised his cigarette like one would raise a wine glass for cheers. "And that proved my point, thank you Ms. Evans. I let you two...talk about star signs and cute boys." Severus gagged on nothing but the air around him. "I will be downstairs. If you need anything, please, do not ask. Toodeloo~" 

As he was closing the door, Lily sprung off the bed and hurried over. Leaning back, he glared down at her with open disgust for her energy when he was dead tired on his feet. 

"Wait! Mr. Riddle," she said in a rushed. "My mother was asking about you. She wanted to know when you were coming over? She really needs to talk to you." 

Tom took a drag, turning away from her face to blow smoke out until the hall. For a moment, he looked a bad as he had Friday morning after the Bones massacre. It was gone before his discomfort settled over his features. 

"I got busy last week, and I will be busier this week," he paused, taking a drag. "I have Rupert Yaxley's funeral to attend to. His mother is from Hong Kong and their funerals last longer than ours in the West. I will be heavily involved in the ceremonies." 

Lily glanced over her shoulder, far too empathetic than what Severus deserved. And she looked up at Tom with the same expression. "I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Riddle. I had no idea you were close with the Yaxleys."

"Very close," he admitted. "Corban and I known each other since I was a first year, and him a second year. We're fast...well, I suppose friends."

"How did you two become friends, it must've been rather difficult in Slytherin as a muggleborn," Lily prodded, hands behind her back as she swayed back and forth on her heels. It would almost be insensitive if she wasn't so sincere.

"It was. But after you kick the shit out of a few purebloods, they learn to not fuck with you," he said, shrugging. "And I was from East End  and none of those prissy twits knew how to fight, so I usually won."

Lily was scandalized,  clutching at the collar of her peasant dress. "Mr. Riddle, that's hardly proper behavior." 

"When you're fighting for survival what's proper shouldn't be your concern, Ms. Evans." he glanced at his watch, making a face. "Fuck. I need to drink a bottle of poison to get out of my shift at work." he grumbled and turned away from the door. 

Lily waited until his footsteps grew distant and the door to the kitchen opened. 

"Oh my, Severus," she muttered under her breath, a faint blush on her cheeks. "I think your father is rather...intense..." 

Severus grabbed his pillow off the bed and threw it at her. "What the fuck, Lily!" 

She jumped out of the way. "I'm sorry! He's just dangerous and handsome!" 

"I reiterate, your taste in men is rubbish! He's nearly fifty," he added, his ears burned redder than her hair, he was sure of it. "God, what the fuck is wrong with you!"

"You can like my dad if you want," she offered, defensive.  

"Oh yeah, that's a fair trade. I give you Tom Riddle, and all you have to offer is Paul "come look at my bunions" Evans." He snatched her Teen Witch Weekly magazine and flipped through it. He came to full body spread of some Quidditch Player named Nikolai Krum. "If you're going to like an older guy, what about him?" 

She shifted her shoulders, lips puckered. "He is pretty cute." 

Severus flipped the magazine around, getting a better look at Nikolai. "He is rather hot, isn't he? Though if I'm going for a Chaser, Seth looks better." 

"Seth? As in Seth Mulciber?" she sneered, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Oh, here we go, Severus thought. "Are you still upset about what happened back in March?" 

"You mean when he flipped Mary MacDonald's skirt up? Like some sort of pervert?" she fired back. "Of course, I am! He's gross! If you don't like James and Sirius's pranks, then you shouldn't like what Seth did to her." 

Severus threw the magazine onto the floor and stood. "Now wait a minute, that's not a fair comparison. What Seth did was one time thing. He never did anything like that since. Sirius and Potter had been harassing me for four years straight up until very recently." 

"It doesn't matter if it happened once or multiple times," Lily argued, stomping her foot. "What he did was wrong."

"It was a bit of a laugh, that's all." He didn't get why she was so caught up in this. 

But that was the wrong thing to say. 

Lily stormed over and snatched Witch Weekly off the floor and flew out his bedroom door. It happened so fast, she was half way down the stairs before he realized she was leaving. 

"Lily!" he called after her, running down the stairs. He whirled into the living room, clutching the doorframe to stop himself from falling over from the momentum. 

She was already at the fireplace. She grabbed hand full of Floo powder off the mantel. 

"Wait, Lily, don't—

and in a ball of green fire, she stepped through the fireplace and vanished in the flames. 

"Go," he finished, sighing. He leaned against the entrance way, replaying the conversation in his head and what went wrong so quickly. Was the Mary situation that big of a deal?

Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

"What was that about?" Tom asked, standing in the kitchen. 

"We had a bit of a row," he admitted. 

Tom gave him a flat look. "Oh really? I hadn't noticed." he paused and gestured for Severus to continue. 

"My friend Seth Mulciber," he began, "pulled a prank on one of Lily's dormmates this past year at school, and I think she's blowing it out of proportion." 

"What kind of prank Edward's son pull?" Tom asked, his expression unreadable.

He shrugged. "He just used magic to flip up her skirt, is all. For a joke."

Tom tilted his head to the side, his brows furrowed together in a frightening scowl. "I was unaware you find sexual assault funny, son." his voice was deadly cold and chill ran up Severus's spine. 

"That's not...it's not like he held her down," he tried to argue, but his voice was weak to his own ears. 

"How would you feel if someone did that to your mother?" Tom countered. 

And...how would Severus feel? He shifted to one foot to another, growing uncomfortable with this whole conversation. "I...don't know." 

"So you would be okay if a man flipped up your mother's dress or skirt?" he took a drag off his cigarette. "I hate Eileen but I would fucking kill a man if he laid his hands on her or used magic on her that way. 

He exhaled smoke out his nose." And if I find out one of my lot did that to an enemy? I'd flay them."  He licked his lips. "I suppose I will I have to talk to Edward about his son's behavior because I don't hire would-be rapists to work for me." 

 He pointed at Severus, the burning cherry of his cigarette inches from Severus's face. "You fix this. You write the girl an apology, and you make sure she accepts it. I won't have my son acting like a common thug. Go on then. Move." he shooed with his hand and closed the door on Severus's face. 

Lockjawed, he nodded and hurried up the stairs to hastily write his letter. Never had it occurred to him it was beyond a simple joke. Shame clouded his mind as he stormed into his room, closing it harder than he attended too. 

That night, Severus tossed and turned, his pillows never reaching perfect cool temperature. His hair itched his face. Around four am, he contemplated hacking his long locks just to get some sleep. Lily hadn't responded back, despite having hours to reply. What if she didn't want to be friends after his stupid mistake. He hadn't considered what Seth had done was anything mother than a dumb joke that the girls took seriously. 

Around five, he gave up on sleeping but sleep took his restless body anyway. 

He woke up briefly, maybe, because he was quite sure his father opened his door and then closed it. 

Or maybe he dreamt that too?

When he did finally wake up, it was past one and he heard arguing downstairs. 

He needed to talk to someone who reads dreams because the one he had, he was at Hogwarts but it wasn't really Hogwarts being chased by a horde of inferi had to mean something. Especially the part he shoved both Sirius and Lily into the pit of flesh eating monsters all wearing Auror robes and Death Eater disguises. 

And why was Lucius wearing a Spanish flamenco dress during their escape? 

Maybe Severus didn't want to know the meaning of his dream. 

A several minutes later, Severus came downstairs in fresh clothes and his face washed. The noise plaguing Tom's cottage was both new and familiar. Familiar because he knew the sound of his mother in an argument. New because she was arguing in Farsi which she only reserved for Iranian immigrants in Cokesworth. 

But Tom was speaking in Farsi, nearly flawlessly. His natural Londoner accent crept through the words but he held his own. 

Severus heard the sneer in his mother's voice. "That is the most idiotic thing I heard you say, and I had the displeasure of hearing your version of sex-talk." 

The need to vomit was overwhelming. Why couldn't he have normal parents?  

"I had the displeasure of going down on you—

"OH MY GOD!" Severus bellowed as he hurried down the stairs to stop the rest of the conversation. 

He pushed open the kitchen door where his parents stood in the middle of it, giving him judgmental glares, as if he was the  dramatic one. 

"It is one in the afternoon and you are now just getting up?" Eileen asked, tapping her manicured nail on her watch. 

The contrast between Cokesworth Eileen Snape and Vampire Lord Eileen Prince was too much for Severus to process. She was still in black, of course. Princes were to primarily wear black out in public, though children and teenagers had more leeway. It was the tailored clothes, the fact she was dripping in gold and jewels. It was the fact she wore a bandana covered in Boteh patterns. In Cokesworth, she wore old dresses and black skirts and blouses. 

Tom scoffed at her. "Severus is fifteen, fifteen-year-olds are allowed to sleep in, Eileen."

"It's lazy." she snapped. "I did not raise him that way." 

Severus sighed and moved around them, going to the pantry to find something to eat. Hmmm, did they still have that sugary American cereal he pestered Tom to buy? 

"Well, you can't complain how I let him live when you abandoned him." Tom's expression was cold, yet smug, like he won the argument. 

Eileen countered him with a nasty insult. "Maybe the nearly fifty-year-old man who is sleeping with a woman half his age should keep his opinions to himself." 

Severus whipped his head around, disgusted. "Mother!" 

Nose scrunched up in irritation, she turned slowly toward him. He could see the slipper flying at any moment. "Who. are. you. yelling. at?" each word deliberate and slow. 

"Son, don't disrespect your mother," Tom chastised only to say, "and can you stop being a bitch for five seconds? Merlin, you're the most unlikable cunt in Europe." 

"And you are a vulgar mudblood who will never escape his East End orphanage" she said, flipping her hair off her shoulder. 

Tom looked ready to draw his wand, so Severus stepped in like he always stepped in when Tobias used to beat her too hard. Now he had to save her from pissing off the most dangerous wizard of their life time. "Mother, what are you doing here?" 

Uncaring about Tom's anger, maybe because she didn't fear him like she feared Tobias, she turned her full attention on Severus. 

"I am here to ask your father when he plans to present you as his heir to his Death Eaters," she said as if she hadn't just shattered his world. "Your father said he wasn't planning to at all." 

Severus looked between them. "When I asked you to give me the Dark Mark, you said Mother would kill you if you did." 

"I was under the impression the bitch would be against making you a child soldier, but apparently my expectations for her were too high. I should have them lowered in the pits of hell." He snapped. 

Eileen she raised a brow. "He needs his position among the Inner Circle secured, and without question. 

"He's just a boy!" Tom gestured to Severus. "You might as well recruit him yourself the way you're talking." 

Severus put the box of colorful dyed-cereal down. "But I want to fight. I want to get involved." he insisted. "I've been targeted for being a Parselmouth already. I was in the riot. I defeated King Oberon—if the Ministry is murdering us for speaking Parseltongue, then I want to be a Death Eater." 

Eileen looked up, her expression smug and pointed. "There you go. He's already involved." 

Tom's jaw was tight, but not as tight as balled up fists. Like always when he couldn't control his temper, the room dropped a few degrees and suddenly, the sunny day outside didn't matter. 

"You are so lucky you're the mother of my son or I..." he stopped himself as his eyes—his bright, murderous red eyes—flickered to Severus. He sucked in a harsh breath  and pressed his fist to his mouth, as if to stop himself from screaming. 

He took a moment to calm himself and in that moment. Severus despised his mother. She might be arguing for what he wanted, and Severus wasn't ungrateful. 

But the fact she left Tom for Tobias? A man who had no restraint, who was violent and used to beat them around the house, baffled Severus. And if she had wanted to leave, why couldn't she have just left him with Tom when he was a baby? 

Eileen argued with Tom in a way she hadn't with Tobias. 

Tom calmed down, and the temperature went back to normal. He turned to Severus, pointing at him. 

"Tomorrow night I will present you to the Inner Circle, but you will not get the Dark Mark," he now faced Eileen, "and I am not making him a Death Eater. After he graduates, naturally he will be at my side. But I am not going to have him on missions at fifteen." He fixated them both with a glare. "Do you understand?" 

"Yes, Father,." Severus clamped down on the giddiness in his voice. "I just want to know what's going on. I saw a poster in Diagon Alley. It said Be Bold, Slay the Snake. It was about Parselmouths, about us." 

"Is there a reason why you haven't killed Charlus Potter?" Eileen asked, glancing Tom's way and unaffected by his burst of anger. 

"Because it's not strategic," Tom condescended. "I only ever see him in public surrounded by multiple people. I don't know where his house is.  He might be under the Fidelius Charm or have used blood magic to conceal his home. And he might have started the Committee, it is a multi-country organization. Killing him doesn't stop the machine." 

Severus glanced at the cereal box, thinking. "I think I might know how to access the Potter home..."

Something in the kitchen shifted. He couldn't name what his words have done to his parents, but their full undivided attention was on him. 

Tom crossed his arms over his chest. He tilted his head to the side, examining Severus with a critical eye. 

Eileen was all judgement. "How?" 

"On Friday, I hung out with Lily and Sirius, and James Potter joined us," he explained, licking his lips to produce saliva. He hadn't eaten anything yet. Or drank anything either. He was feeling it too. His head and chest hurt. "Sirius was going to connect our Floo network with the Potters." 

"Is that boy an idiot?" Eileen asked, looking at Tom, but he was still staring at Severus.

"Sirius is not very bright," he murmured and moved around her, keeping his eyes on their son. He collected a tomato, three eggs, spinach leaves, and feta. 

Severus didn't pay Tom much attention as he began to cook. "I had to tell Sirius that he couldn't. It would be a bad idea." 

"Obviously, there are two Parselmouths here!" Eileen's fangs grew. "Is he trying to get you killed?" She shook her head, her lips puckered together. "I do not approve you...dating Sirius. Tom, what are your thoughts." 

Tom was standing over a skillet heat up as he used his magic to chop veggies and stir and the egg scramble in a wooden bowl. He glanced over his shoulder. "I already told him my opinion on Sirius." 

"Can we focus on what I'm trying to say over who I'm dating?" Severus's cheeks were turning pink. This was just embarrassing. He hadn't even planned to tell Mother he was gay! 

"And what are you trying to say?" she said, each word was laced with pure condescension. 

"I'm saying if Sirius can connect to the Potters through Floo Network, then he knows where they live," he said, gesturing wildly with his arms. "I can find out." 

Hssssssssss!

His words were punctuated by the spinach leaves hitting the olive oil. Tom pushed the spinach around slow and deliberate. He shared a unreadable look with Eileen. And they're having a conversation mentally, Severus just knew it. Whatever was said ended quickly with Tom's temper spiking once again. 

"Go eat a bulb of garlic." He hissed before turning back to the food. He put the tomatoes in next, then the eggs.

Eileen just glared at his back for a moment before turning to Severus. "I am not oppose you using Legillimency on your little boyfriend, but do you know how...violating that is?" 

"He knows where Charlus Potter lives, I'm sure he will understand I did it for survival," he countered. "If I can get Charlus's location, that's one step to weakening our enemies." 

"You mean to spy?" Tom asked as a soft pop echoed in the kitchen as the plate appeared next to him, floating in the air. 

"I can do it too. I slip into people's minds all the time," Severus insisted. "that's how I can help but I won't be fighting. And I can brew any potion needed." 

Tom turned the burner off with a click and the bowl of feta cheese floated in the air, and fluffy crumbles fell like clumps of snow. 

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, son," he pointed at Severus the spatula. "I don't need a Potioneer." Severus rolled his eyes. "Keep your attitude in check, but I'm an expert brewer."

"Maybe you do need Severus to brew your potions." There was a nasty sneer on her angled face. "Given what happened last week..."

"And I told you several times last week wasn't my fault," Tom snapped, raving his spatula around. "Maybe if you raised him right he wouldn't have drank unmarked potions." 

"Or maybe you shouldn't infuse illegal substances in your potions, Father," Severus drawled, perfectly mimicking Mother's tone. 

Tom looked utterly disgusted by the both of them. "Don't condescend me in Pureblood." He scraped the eggs onto the plate and handed it to Severus. "Here, eat. I am going to make arrangements with Leanan to take you to get fitted for robes for tomorrow. If you are going to be presented, you will dress as such." 

The food was simple, but the smell wonderful. "Thank you, Dad," he said, grabbing a fork. 

All Father did was grumble and shooed him out of the kitchen. Severus happily obliged, leaving his parents to continue to argue. 

Chapter Text

What Tom missed about his twenties was his energy. He hadn't needed a cocktail of potions and five cups of black coffee to stay awake. He could recall when he was twenty-two, hyped up on bennies and gin and staying awake for three days, he was on top of the world. He had a woman on each arm, spending Father Dearest's pounds. He was untouchable. He survived Grindlewald. He survived the war. He survived St. Michael's Group Home. He survived the church. He survived.  It was his party right. It was right to experiment and live the life he wanted.

Tom could stay awake as he wanted. 

He was immortal. Why would he need sleep? He wouldn't die from not sleeping. Sure, on day three or four or five, shadows would move. Whispers were heard. A dead body or two would show up in his flat after he crashed too hard. 

But he had the energy of a god. 

Now, Tom was forty-eight, and not hitting eight hours made him feel like shit. 

He didn't look it, though. No, he refused to go out in public. 

"Tom, you're shaking," Eileen drawled the moment they landed right outside the Malfoy gates. 

He already had a cigarette in between his lips and his lighter in hand. The damn thing took too long to start. He needed a new one, but he refused to give up the lighter that had served him since he was nine. 

Nine? Merlin, he would be forty-nine in a few months, and he would have it for forty years. Forty years. 

Never had he felt his age until this moment while he stared at this tiny silver box. 

"Tom?" Eileen's voice was more prodding than a thousand needles in his skull. 

"What?" he snapped. 

Under her wide-rimmed hat, she wore glasses so he couldn't see her judgmental, bored eyes. They're red now, of course. But he wouldn't miss them when they're on their son. To have Eileen's eyes stare out of Tom's face was unnerving. 

"Father, Mother cannot enter the Malfoy Manor unless someone invites her in," Severus said slowly, like he, Tom Riddle, was too unintelligent to understand. "She is a vampire now, after all." 

Oh, dear God. Was it horrible? That he understood why Tobias beat both of them. Probably, most definitely. If Tom were a worse man, he would do it himself. The Princes were one of the most insufferable pureblood families in Europe, and Eileen raised their halfblood brat to exemplify all the worst traits. 

"Eileen, I hate you and the fact that you raised our son to be a cunt, you know that?" he snapped, his nerves fraying on the edges. "I haven't had enough sleep to deal with either of you right now." 

Mother and son exchanged looks of disdain. Tom needed to leave before he became a terrible father and murder his ex-wife.  He strolled through the front gates, opening for him without him even needing to lift a hand. The front doors did the same. 

In the grand entrance, he looked up at the wrapping staircases, polished to a fine sheen. "Dobby!" his voice rang out. 

A soft pop, and the house elf appeared, trembling with fear. "Master Riddle, sir! Dobby gives Master Riddle anything," the words almost came out rushed. "Mistress Leanan said Dobby must assist Master Riddle like a Malfoy." 

"Bring Abraxas here, I require his services, thank you," he said, examining the newest statue in the entrance. It was a golden Chronos, naturally carrying a peacock. Sculpted to perfection. 

Last week, it was Hera and a bountiful bowl of fruit. 

"Yes, Master Riddle, sir! I will fetch Master Malfoy right away, sir!" With a pop, the skittish creature was gone. 

Tom conjured a hand mirror, a plain thing he had lying about in his house, but perfect for checking his hair whenever he needed it. 

His curls were sad, maybe because he hadn't washed his hair properly since Thursday afternoon and relied on magic to keep him clean. Ugh, disgusting. He loved magic, he did, but he did not want to be one of those magicals who used it to mask basic hygiene. He knew what it was like not to have a proper bath. Why did he do this to himself? 

No matter. Tom will bathe tomorrow. Properly, with steel wool to scrub the layer of dead skin he ignored for too long. 

He used his fingers to comb through his side part, thankful for the Gaunts to have full, luxurious, thick hair. If his father were any indication, he would've been balding by now. 

"Ah, Tom," Abraxas's crisp voice rang out. 

He looked up, mirror vanishing with his cigarette, and a genuine smile stretched across his face. 

They're the same age, sure, but something about Abraxas brought out Tom's youth. He glided down the stairs on the left in a justacorps, heavily embroidered with gold thread. He shaved his beard, and with it his age. Abraxas always looked better without his silver-blond beard. His snake cane clicked against the marble. 

Tom met him at the stairs, one arm stretched. "Abraxas, my friend," he said, "how are you?" 

Abraxas accepted the loose hug and planted discreet kisses on either side of Tom's cheeks. 

He stepped back, gripping his cane-wand with both hands tightly. 

"Tolerably well, I daresay," he sighed, rather dramatically for a man who never worked a day in his life. "The Ministry has proven quite vexing of late. The entire weekend was consumed by tiresome meetings with my peers. I found myself in a...spirited debate with the Duke of Somerset, during which wands may have been brandished."

Tom raised a brow. "You dueled Dearborn?"

"Indeed, however, Norman prevented us from exchanging curses," he said, bored with the conversation before it began. "It is good of you to come when you did. Everyone is already here. Including Corban."

"Corban's here?" Tom said, frowning. "He should be home with his wife and daughters, not with us." 

Abraxas sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widened just a fraction. He clicked his tongue. "Tom, you had not heard the news?" 

"I have been busy the last few days—

And a painful, terrible thought attacked his mind. Lianhua! 

Lianhua was fifty and near the end of her term. That combination was already dangerous, and with the war, she was already stressed. But after Rupert was murdered—

Tom grabbed Abraxas's arm, rougher than he needed to. "Did something happen to Lianhua? The baby?" 

Abraxas placed a hand over his and squeezed it. "She gave birth to a very healthy daughter on Friday and went into labor earlier. They are both healthy, but...her mother and sisters kicked Corban out of the house. His presence was too," he let go of motion with his hand.

"Overbearing?" Tom guessed, relaxed. "He just lost his only son, his eldest. I imagine he's rather overprotective." 

"He would not even allow her to relieve herself in the bathroom without him hovering," Abraxas added pointedly. "Odette is with her and the family, to assist where she can."

Tom rubbed his mouth with two fingers, looking for the cigarette he already discarded. "Eileen's outside with the boy. I will need you to invite her in. But I need a favor to ask." 

"Anything, Tom," he breathed. "You know I will do anything for you."

His smile threatened to stretch into a smirk. Oh, he knew. Having someone so devoted to every word he uttered itched against his brain. He needed Abraxas, especially when his time with Mangala earlier had been interrupted before he could finish.

Tom closed the distance, deliberately encroaching on Abraxas’s personal space. He draped an arm over the banister, settling into a lean that was equal parts languid and sharp. With a subtle shift of his weight, he cocked his hip, sweeping his coat back to expose the clean line of his silhouette. 

Abraxas's throat bobbed up and down. His eyes swept over Tom once, as if this was the first time they'd ever met, not when they were eleven-year-old boys forced into a dorm. 

"I require your assistance in a ritual tomorrow," he murmured in a silken tone. His tongue darted over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and Abraxas watched. "I will need your...dungeon. I suggest you send Odette and Lucius out." 

He swallowed. "What kind of ritual?" 

A chuckle escaped Tom's lips, reaching out to brush back a lock of silver-blond hair. There was a shiver under his thumb as he pressed it against Abraxas's jawline. 

"One of the carnal variety," he said, a soft smile playing on his lips. "I need you to...watch."

Abraxas's grip on his cane tightened. "Watch?" he asked, confused. 

"I will be lying with Antonin, and I need a witness." Tom dragged his hand down his chest, massaging gently. There was a layer of velvet and silk between his hand and Abraxas's nipple, yet he pressed down to elicit excitement. "I trust you."

Abraxas's breath grew labored under the attention. His breeches, as thin as they were, did not hide anything from Tom's imagination. How easy would it be for Tom to slip his hands under the waistband and finish Abraxas off before anyone noticed their absences? 

"You know, Tom, you do not need to use Antonin, he...is rather inexperienced," he said, avoiding making eye contact.

That wouldn't do. 

Tom snatched Abraxas's jaw and forced him to face forward. "And pray tell, who has more experience, hmm?" He lowered his lips to the other's ear. "Are you offering, my friend?" 

Abraxas stepped back in a fluid motion. He smoothed out the front of his coat, and the buttons came together to hide his growing shame. "I will make preparations for whatever you need, Tom."

Tom stepped back, adjusting his suit jacket, as if nothing happened. "Excellent. I will be over in the morning. I need to see if I am in a closed relationship with Mangala; if so, I will need to cancel my plans." 

"Oh...you," he struggled to find his voice. "You finally confessed to her?" 

"She already knew," Tom said. "But I just met her parents and everyone else in her family. It was quite mortifying. I'm older than her mother, Abraxas." 

He turned sharply around, eyes narrowed. "Well, that is what you get for sleeping with a woman half our age," he spat out and stormed over to the double doors.

Tom was left stunned. What was with the attitude? 

Abraxas pushed open the doors with a shuddering bang. Ah, maybe Tom went too far. He shrugged it off. Abraxas will get over it. He always did. 

"Eileen, you have my permission to enter," he called out. He stepped back and spared a glance at Tom, expression tight. "Orion informed me how you secured Eileen's seat as head of the Prince Coven. I assume we are no longer working with Sanguini?"

Tom made a face. "Hmm, let's see, my ex-wife and mother of my son, or a depressed homosexual who picked the most on-the-nose name he could imagine," he said, approaching the door. "I didn't even want to work with him, but Leanan insisted. She still thinks it's a way to sway Slughorn over to our cause." 

"If your name were Cuthbert Everhard, would you not change your name?" Abraxas hissed out just as Eileen and Severus approached them. "Eileen, you look darling as always. You certainly look better. 

Eileen's nose scrunched up in disgust, but the disgust was for Tom. Ah...she must smell Abraxas's arousal. Hmmm.

Tom hadn't thought it through. 

"It is a pleasure, Abraxas." She sneered at Tom as she offered a dainty hand for Abraxas. 

Graciously, Abraxas leaned over and kissed the top of Eileen's hand as he closed the doors using magic. 

Severus slipped past the adults. "You want Slughorn to work for you? Slughorn? He's been using the same useless, incorrect textbook since the 1860s. You know I have to correct the instructions?" 

"He was our Head of House too." Teenagers were dramatic animals, he thought. "We are well aware of his faults, but he has his uses." 

"Like what?" Severus asked in disbelief. "I only got an invite to his Slug Club this upcoming year because of Lucius. He invited Lily and Sirius with no problem, but I had to argue for it." 

"Oh, Severus, do not take it personally," Abraxas said, voice so sincere that Tom knew something painful was coming. "Horace was concerned about the fact that your mother was considered a blood traitor and ran off with a mudblood. Now, Eileen," he turned to her, "having risen from squalor and your true father is now known, you will receive the proper treatment."

If Eileen's jaw were any tighter, her teeth would break. "Thank you for reminding me of my disownment, Abraxas."

"You are quite welcome," he said, a bit too cheerful. If Tom hadn't known Abraxas for as long as he had, one could think he was cheeky, but no, he was out of touch. 

"We should not keep the others waiting," Tom said, taking the lead up the stairs as if he owned the place. And maybe he did, considering Leanan and Abraxas were both wrapped around his finger.

Abraxas hurried up the stairs to walk at his side, their...disagreement already forgotten. "I am hosting the others in the drawing room." 

"Which one?" Severus deadpanned behind them. 

He looked over his shoulder, sneering. "Tom, I always excused Severus's hoodlum appearance because of Eileen's setback in life." He ignored the incredibly crude gesture thrown his way by the Vampire Lord. "But should you allow your son to wear Muggle rags?" 

Tom looked back at Severus's torn jeans and graphic t-shirts, standing out in the opulence that was the Malfoy Manor. Did he hate the ripped jeans? Yes. It was impractical and common. Disrespectful, even. He thought, at first, the torn jeans were a sign of Eileen's poverty and neglect. How did he know? Because when he bought those pair two weeks ago, they were perfectly held together. No, it was a fashion statement. 

And in a way, Tom could...tolerate Muggle youth tearing their jeans in the face of stuffy conservatives. 

Severus waited in silence for judgment, for Tom to agree with Abraxas.

But he wouldn't satisfy them by being predictable. 

"My son can wear whatever he wants," he said coolly. "I am not in the business to control his life." He didn't need to because Severus's life was already his. As long as Severus never leaves his side, he doesn't need to control what he wears. 

"Thank you, Dad," Severus said, perking up, holding his head a just bit higher. 

Abraxas was less than pleased with Tom, he could tell, but held his tongue.

They entered the main drawing room, which was larger than Tom's entire cottage. When he first saw it, he was fourteen, and Leanan brought him to the Manor to stay for the rest of the summer after he slaughtered his father's family and Marvolo...and the gardener. And maybe there was a maid or a butler who died that night, too. Tom couldn't remember. It was all a bit hazy after his father slammed the door on his and Mother's faces. 

He remembered the room being a mockery of his poverty. He never felt envious of wealth. He wanted to burn it all down. And he attempted to in a fit, starting with the sixteenth-century curtains, all the while the Portrait of King Thanatos Malfoy screamed obscenities at him. Until Tom turned his wand on the dead King and permanently silenced the portrait. 

Ah, fun times. 

Before Abraxas even opened the doors, the silence was deafening. 

It was mid-afternoon, yet the room was bathed in icy blue, giving the illusion of twilight. From the heavy drapery Tom tried to destroy as a child, to the blush carpet. Accents of emerald were almost black under the dull lighting. If it were winter, the fireplace would be roaring, bleaching out the room. 

The only noise was Leanan's dainty spoon hitting her teacup. 

Tom strolled past Abraxas and stalked through the room. He ignored everyone, Norman, Edward, Bernard, Orion, and even Leanan. Normally, he would flock to her like a moth to a streetlamp, or she would greet him at the door like a mother would a son. 

But she stayed lounging in her chaise, and Tom went straight to Corban. 

Corban was a mess. He hadn't shaved, and there were more gray hairs than last week, when Tom brought Rupert's body home. His clothes were disheveled. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, and even the collar was stained. The stench of whiskey lingered in the fabric of his clothes and sweat. 

Tom ignored it all. He clamped a hand on Corban's shoulder. They shared a look, one maybe too cold and one withering and numb. And what should he say in this situation? Are you alright? What a pedestrian thing to say in a situation that Corban was in. 

And the empathy so many accused him of not having alluded to him now. Yet, he was compelled to check on Corban to see if...if he was alright. 

He was cruel, too. Because on the hand giving Corban comfort was the Gaunt ring. The Resurrection Stone sat atop the gold band, ready to use. And he could have used it on Rupert, bringing him to life. But Tom was selfish. Before he learned he had a son, he would have raised Rupert in Diagon Alley's square. But the power was now solely for Severus, and he could only use it once a year. 

Did Tom feel guilt? No. Tom rarely experienced guilt, and when he did, it was rare. When he wasn't there to save Merope. When he couldn't save Ominis. When he murdered Myrtle Warren. 

No one needed to know the power Tom coveted to his chest. 

Corban reached up and patted his hand over Tom's, over the Gaunt ring. "I'm alright." 

Tom retracted his touch and finally acknowledged the others in the room. Leanan placed her teacup down and stood. 

"Tom, Darling, how have you been since I last saw you?" she said, her hand outstretched for him to take. 

He accepted, bowing to kiss it. I want to die, was the answer on his tongue, but he said. "Oh, you know, I'm well. You?" 

She sighed, dragging a hand through her hair, yet not a single strand was out of place.  "Terrible, Darling. I had a disagreement with my dearest Rolanda over politics. She has joined Albus's new Order." Her fingers went to her pink pearls around her throat. "And here I thought I could convince her to join us. But alas, I think Albus brainwashed my adorable Beater against me," she sighed again as if her world was falling apart when everyone in the room knew Hooch would never end her and Leanan's relationship. 

Just now, their domestic squabbles would be done on the battlefield. 

Edward moved around her chaise and got closer. "You should get back at him by brainwashing one of his many lovers." 

Severus stifled a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, and the adults all spared him a glance. 

"Oh please, Edward," Leanan scoffed at the suggestion, "if I want to hurt Albus, I will just remind him of his disastrous relationship he had as a young man."

"I have photographs," Eileen added, pulling her glasses off. The room was dull enough for her eyes. As she pocketed them, she paced slowly, examining a lamp she remembered from her girlhood—it had been her great-something grandfather's after all. "I used them to blackmail Albus when he found out Severus was a Parselmouth." 

"You did what?" Severus asked, scandalized. "Why would you do that?" 

"Because if your father got wind, he would have kidnapped you," she said easily. 

And everyone, including Severus, nodded or inclined their heads in agreement. Traitors, all of them. Yes, Tom would have, but they weren't supposed to think it! 

"If we're done insulting me," Tom began, but Orion had the gall, the gall to interrupt him! 

"Actually," Orion said with force and anger, stepping away from the fireplace and getting into Tom's space. The audacity! "You and I must share words—you broke into my home and threatened and attacked Cygnus!" 

"I was under the impression mudblood-er." Bernard began, but the murderous glare Tom threw his way stopped him in his tracks. He decided to drink from his glass of red wine instead. 

Tom shattered it with his mind, sending the liquid over Bernard's pale dress robes. 

Everyone flinched, and Corban was startled out of his numbness. 

"I got rid of the anti-mudblood wards on the house, as I promised I would if your family continued to push me," he said, turning his glare on Orion. "Cygnus nearly had Bellatrix lobotomized. And I didn't threaten him. We had a conversation." After he Crucioed Cygnus.

"You tortured him." Orion's tone threatened to break into a harsh yell. 

"Well deserved," Norman argued, placing himself between Tom and Orion. "Cygnus tried destroying his own daughter's mind with Muggle science. Outdated muggle science. That's repulsive." 

A smile stretched across Tom's face, smug that Norman immediately took his side. As everyone should. 

"Do you think I am pleased with what he tried to do with my niece?" Orion argued. "It's the fact Tom had already humiliated Cygnus publicly; everything else was unnecessary." 

Edward was shaking head. "No, no, no. I am not going to ignore how Cygnus and Druella have been treating Orson Shacklebolt. Like he is some muggle-born when the Shacklebolts are a strong pureblood family." He held up his hand to emphasize his cool, brown skin. "So my assumption is that this is the only reason why they treat Orson a certain way." 

"But Tom made vulgar claims, and now the rest of my family has to deal with the fallout." Orion would not budge on this. 

"I am not apologizing," Tom said, pointing. "Cygnus knew I've been eying to recruit Orson for a year now, and I will not have powerful wizards and witches be driven from my movement because you can't keep your bigoted family in line." 

He stepped back, looking around at each member of his inner circle, including his ex-wife, because she needed to hear this, too. "I do not care about your blood supremacy. My mere existence proves all of you wrong, and that is enough for me. But anything else is petty and damaging to our movement." 

For a moment, no one spoke. Orion simmered in his rage but did not back down. He met Tom's eyes, showing little fear. And that is why Tom kept Orion around and hadn't annihilated half the Black family, even if his disdain grew by the day. 

"You do not need to lecture me on the topic," Edward said, voice stiff. 

"Nor me," Eileen drawled. Her usually tawny skin tone had grown grayish since she was bitten, but that hadn't erased the decades of abuse she suffered being one of the few, if not the only, half-Romani woman to attend Hogwarts. In Slytherin no less. 

Tom adjusted his coat and brushed off his shoulders, as if the whole conversation had been an inconvenience. And it was. It was a distraction from why he called them together. 

The Muirsgéal Children. But first, he needed to break the news to Leanan that she would not be joining them in Greece, which was fine by him. Eileen, in her infuriating way, given him an excuse. 

"If the tantrums have been thrown," he said dismissively, turning his attention to Leanan. "There has been a change of plans. Eileen and I had a discussion before we arrived here." he spared his ex a glance, indicating for her to continue. 

She gestured to Severus. "He will be at tomorrow night's meeting." 

Severus stood straighter, head held high, sneering down his nose at the Lords of houses who were more than half his age—fathers of his peers, fathers of his dormmates. But the arrogance wasn't misplaced or born from nothing. The woman who gave birth to him instilled that superiority into him long before he knew he was an heir of Salazar Slytherin. That arrogance Tom hadn't seen when he first met the boy but now it was clear as day. Eileen raised a pureblood supremacist in a halfblood's body. 

There was a shift in the room that had everyone in a chokehold. Shock was the dominant emotion, but it wasn't just shock; there was horror and a mix of betrayal as well. And all eyes were on Tom, despite Eileen's suggestion, despite his own objections. But he refused to have his decisions questioned. 

Corban croaked, standing to his full height, which meant there was someone in the room staring down at Tom. And that just pissed him off. 

"He's too young. He's just a boy, Tom," he said, slurring on his words. "You cannot put him through this." 

"He's also my son, and I agree with Eileen," he didn't, "that he needs to be presented now so when he does take the Mark, everyone will accept him within the Inner Circle at my side." 

Norman held his hands up defensively. "Tom, I understand what you're trying to do. But we should keep school children out of the war." 

"Excuse me, Mr. Avery," Severus spoke up, his tone biting and combative. He was trying to sound grown, but it just highlighted how young he truly was. "But I'm already in the war. If the wrong person finds out I'm a Parselmouth, I will be killed." 

Corban looked away, sucking in a harsh breath. 

"That is not going to happen," Tom said, holding his hand out to calm Severus. He could not have his child yell at his Inner Circle members, even if he understood the ire. 

But Severus wasn't calming down. "It already happened! James Potter knows I'm a Parselmouth." 

If announcing that Severus would be presented at a Death Eater meeting was a landmine, then that was a bomb dropping on the Malfoy Manor. In one sense, some of Tom's lieutenants crumbled. 

"James Potter? Charlus's boy?" Abraxas, in a panic, lost his composure. "How did this happen?"

"The Committee will come for our sons!" Bernard shouted. "They've been sharing a dorm for four years—Eileen, how could you let this happen?"

Eileen's fangs flashed in the dull light of the drawing room. "Your son is perfectly safe, Bernard! Severus!" her high-pitched, shrill voice stabbed needles in Tom's tired skull. "How did this happen?" she asked, laying the blame on the boy. "I told you not to tell anyone outside of Lily!" 

He shrank back, eyes wide at the chaos he caused. He rubbed his bony arm, averting his gaze. "I-I-I don't," but he couldn't finish with all the adults talking over each other. 

"Why must all our meetings devolve into panicked shouting?" Leanan spoke above their shouting, but went ignored. She tutted, muttering how they hadn't changed since their school days. 

Norman whirled on Orion, jabbing a finger against his chest. "This is your fault, Orion!"

SMACK! Orion slapped Norman's hand down with more force. "What do you mean it's my fault?" 

"Your son is friends with Charlus's son." Corban crowded Orion, glaring down at the much shorter man. Despite getting into Tom's face a moment ago, now Orion showed genuine concern. "We all know how your boy has tormented Eileen's for the last four years."

Tom turned a calculating eye on Orion, but there was too much going on. Too much noise. Too much—

Abraxas and Bernard were concerned about Lucius and Evan. Edward stepped between Orion, Norman, and Corban, urging them all to calm down. Eileen was speaking rapid Farsi, and Tom was running on fumes to tolerate any of it. 

"SILENCE!" He roared. 

He ignored them and whipped around on his heel and stormed over to Severus. His son took a step back, fear flashing on his face. He didn't care. He needed action, not coddling. 

Tom grabbed Severus's arm, not hard enough to hurt, but rough sufficient that Severus was tense under his grasp. 

"Son," he leaned down in Severus's space, keeping his voice gentle. "How did Potter's boy find out?"

Severus relaxed, sighing in relief. "It happened at the Malfoy party, when I was attacked by that giant snake. I was trying to use Parselmouth to urge it not to attack Dorcas Meadowes." 

Leanan gasped. "Nagini!" 

Tom looked back at her. "Hepzibah Smith's the cause." 

"Excuse me," Eileen said, waving her hand, her bracelets clanking together. "Yes, who is Nagini? What does he mean, a giant snake attacked him?" 

"I suppose I should introduce myself." 

They all turned to the entranceway. Nagini stood in the threshold, dressed in one of Leanan's many, many custom dresses. This one was a bit on the nose with the hand-painted snake wrapping around the delicate silk. 

She certainly looked better than the last time Tom had seen her. 

Eileen moved around the furniture to get closer to Severus, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him back. It was almost comical, given that Eileen was under five feet tall and Severus was a gangly teenager nearing six feet. She kept her red eyes on Nagini as she walked further into the room. 

The men in the room looked away, not trusting their lingering eyes and the uncomfortable reality of seeing Hepzibah's sex slave in person. Corban in particular struggled. Lianhua and Nagini looked nothing alike; one was a pureblood heiress from Hong Kong, the other was a Muslim from Indonesia. But the shared features of his wife and daughters were enough for Corban to sit back down. 

Leanan glided in between the men and came to Nagini's side. 

"I should make formal introductions, dear," she said coolly. "Everyone, this is Nagini. She is a Maledictus. We met in...what year was it?" she asked. 

"1927," Nagini said simply. 

"Yes! 1927, when all of you were in nappies," she grinned, though it fell to add, "well, not Severus, obviously." 

"Obviously," Tom repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. "And how do you two know each other?" 

"She was part of Albus's first resistance against Gellert Grindelwald," she explained. 

And Nagini violently flinched at the name. She pulled away from Leanan's touch and walked over to a spare chair against the wall. "I would rather not discuss that time, if you do not mind." 

Tom had many questions, but held his tongue. That was a question for Leanan for another day. "Is that all?" 

Leanan watched her for a moment before continuing. "Well, no, we met specifically because of Aurelius Dumbledore." 

Nagini sighed, covering her face in both hands. 

"Who is Aurelius Dumbledore, dearest aunt?" Abraxas asked, tugging on his coat sleeves. 

"He had been Abeforth's son, dearest nephew," she said, matching his tone. 

Tom looked over his shoulder at Norman, and the two shared disgusted expressions. Norman asked what he wanted to. "What kind of woman would willingly sleep with Aberforth Dumbledore?" 

"Same kind of person who would sleep with Albus," Tom said, reaching for his pack of smokes and his lighter. He went too long without smoking. 

"Wait!" Severus said, snapping his fingers. "That's why you were having lunch with the Headmaster's brother on Friday." 

Nagini looked up, nodding. "Yes, we were close after Aurelius had passed away." 

"You two already met." It should have been a question, but coming from Eileen, it was a cold statement. 

"Not really, Aberforth just pulled me over to their table and warned me to stay away from Dumbledore because he thinks he will recruit children," he explained, shrugging. "But why would he recruit me even if he was? He knows who my real father is."

"That's exactly why he would recruit you—to get to me," Tom said, exhaled sharply. Smoke billowed out of his mouth, dancing in the streams of sunlight. "I suggest you listen to Aberforth." 

Eileen patted Severus's arm. "This is why I used his chocolate frog card and pointed to the word evil in the dictionary to prepare you for Hogwarts. So you would know not to fall for his manipulations." 

Severus nodded solemnly, as if what Eileen had said was normal. 

To Tom, that was the most psychotic bits of parenting he heard. He could not be the only one who thought that. He looked around the room, and was vindicated that the others agreed with him. Edward and Bernard shared glances, both disturbed. Corban muttered low under his breath what the fuck. Leanan stirred her tea faster, bewildered. 

"Eileen, what...why," Norman began but his brain stopped functioning and he closed his mouth. 

She slowly blinked, sneered at the others. "Did you not warn your children about the Headmaster, Norman?" 

"Warn? What you did was bleedin' mental." Tom's accent slipped, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. "What the—" he threw his hands up and gestured wildly with both as to dismiss  her. He took a harsh drag and flicked ash onto the carpet. 

"Tom, please," Abraxas whined, drawing his wand and aiming at the ash. 

Tom didn't care. "Let's focus on why we're here. The Muirsgéal children. Have they been fed? cleaned up? Where are they now?" 

Leanan took a dry sip of her tea. "Dobby!" she billowed, and the house elf popped into the room, shaking violently. She shoved the teacup and serving plate into his trembling hands. He didn't leave, and waited for more instructions. His bug, round eyes darted around the room, too afraid to look at a wizard or witch. "I have given them the third floor. Some of the more younger children are taking naps as we speak. That is all I know."

Alright, why did Tom waste time talking to a Malfoy about child care. He had been the one to teach Abraxas how to change a nappy and Abraxas STILL left the rearing to a Squib nanny and two house elves. He should know better. 

She paused and looked down at Dobby. "You may leave." 

"No!" Tom cut her off, holding his hand up. "Dobby, stay." 

Dobby's eyes welled up with tears as his trembling grew worse. Should he listen to his mistress? Or the Dark Lord? Or maybe he should ram his head against the brick wall. 

Leanan sighed. "Stay, you useless, hideous creature," she kicked Dobby, causing the elf to yelp, before drifting back to her chaise. 

Nagini watched the exchange and frowned, but said nothing. 

"For fuck's sake, that wasn't necessary, Leanan." Tom snapped, but she waved him off. He decided it wasn't worth his time to argue with a stubborn old woman. He continued before one of the purebloods rambled on how it was just a house elf. "Dobby, have you been the one to take care of the children?" 

"Oh, yes, Mister Riddle, Dobby and Mistress Nagini," he said, clutching the teacup. He was going to break it.

Tom vanished the set out of the elf's hands with a hand wave. "What are the state of the children?" 

"They are faring well, as much as they can. They have night terrors, but are playing." Nagini offered a tiny smile before it fell "But the older children that had their...tongues removed..." 

Severus made a strangled choking noise, his hand over his throat. 

"Dobby is making juices, Mister Riddle!" the elf said with pride. 

"And I awoken the littlest of the children just now," Nagini said. "I told them we will be leaving to a much safer place." 

He clapped his hands together and brought them down to point at her. "Excellent." He turned on his heel, his smile strained with annoyance. "Bernard, my friend. Have you redeemed yourself from last week?" 

Bernard sighed, making a disgruntled face. "Tom, please." 

"Are you still upset he wore the wrong shade of green?" Severus piped up. 

Tom looked back for just a second before turning to Bernard. "See, even my son knows your incompetence." He pointedly ignored Corban's muttering I swear to Merlin, Tom. "But no, Severus, this has nothing to do with Bernard's terrible fashion choices. I gave him the simple order," he paced now, using his presence to shove Edward and Orion away all so he could isolate Bernard. "And he failed said order. I wanted nine names for Jenkin's replacement, and he gave me five."

"You should kill him." Severus deadpanned in a tone only a Prince could. 

To everyone else in the room, it was unsettling for a fifteen to joke for such thing. But it wasn't for his parents. Not for Eileen, not for Tom. 

He gestured to Severus. "See, he already knows how to handle business. Isn't he natural?" 

Bernard squeezed his eyes together, exasperated without an ounce of fear. "I will have three more names for you tomorrow at the full meeting."  

"Oh, eight now, but still not nine," Tom blew smoke in Bernard's direction. He coughed and waved the smoke away. "But we will discuss this tomorrow. Today, do you have the portkey? Is it set to Pindus Mountains to the Medesicaste sanctuary?" 

"Yes, it is all set. No one will be able to trace our journey to Greece," Bernard insisted, holding his head up high. He was smug, and Tom would allow him to bask in the smugness. 

"Fantastic work," he praised. "Where is it?" 

Bernard paused. "Where was what?" 

"The portkey," Tom said, his smile growing tight. The others remained silent. 

"Oh, its back in the  Department of Magical Transportation!" Bernard said as if that's where the portkey should be. 

Tom blinked. He blinked again and looked at Corban, then Norman for confirmation he heard that correctly. Judging by their expressions, yes he did hear Bernard correctly. 

"How," Eileen's clipped tone cut through the tension as she weaved through the room, "can Tom use the Portkey if its at the  Department of Magical Transportation, Rosier?" 

"Well," Bernard swallowed. "I suppose...we would just go to the Ministry." 

"Just go to the Ministry," Tom repeated, his voice dangerously low, the words blurring together at the edges. "With nineteen terrified children. Nineteen missin' kids..."

He circled Bernard, his movements heavy, lacking his usual grace. The fag hung loose from his lip, ash dropping onto his suit, unnoticed. He rubbed a hand down his face, dragging the skin, before snapping his eyes back to Rosier.

"You want me—Tom Riddle—to walk into the bleedin' Ministry with nineteen stolen kids? Because Dumbledore's already on my back?"

He loomed over the man. Right now, with under ten hours of sleep, Tom wasn't the Heir of Salazar Slytherin. He wasn't the Dark Lord, enemy of Albus Dumbledore. He wasn't the respected curse-breaker. Voldemort, right now, was dead. In the ground. He didn't exist. 

All was left was the Whitechapel bloke named Tom Riddle, the boy who learned his power from a London gangster named Birdie Calloway. And Calloway would've shot Bernard in the fuckin' head for the sheer idiocy. 

But Tom was too tired to even beat him senseless. 

"Are you takin' the piss, Bernard? I haven't slept in three days. I’ve cleaned up your messes. I’ve fought Aurors. And now you tell me the Portkey is at the fuckin' Ministry?"

Bernard was back up against the wall. "I-I-I—"

"You-you-you!" Tom mocked, harsh and guttural. He grabbed him by the collar, with raw, tired desperation. "Do one! Get out of my sight before I lay you out properly! And get the damn Portkey!"

Tom threw him at the fireplace. Bernard tripped over his feet, but caught himself on the mantle before he fell into the ash. Frantic, he grabbed the sack of Floo powder. He grabbed a handful and threw it down. Green flames shot out, and he vanished. where? Tom hoped it was the Transportation Department, but how foolish Bernard was, it could be anywhere. 

He took a final drag before tossing his cigarette in after him. He spun on his heel, eyes blazing red. If his magic made the room frigid, he hadn't noticed. 

"Do not interrupt me. If any of you do, unless you are my flesh and blood or the mother of my son, I will Crucio you until you are a twitching, drooling mess." It was...a partial threat. Leanan and Nagini most definitely safe from his wrath. Norman and Corban were safe, unless they were particularly obtuse. 

Orion, Abraxas, and Edward were not. 

And everyone in the room knew this.

"Leanan, you are going to help Eileen and Severus. I already wrote to Heather Thristleberry, she should be expecting you already. You will be fitting Severus in his Death Eater robes." No one voiced their complaints this time, not wishing to test his anger. Though Nagini didn't seem to happy hearing a teenager was getting robes. 

Leanan nodded once. "Of course, darling," she glanced back at Severus, making a face. "Maybe we should have him borrow one of Lucius's clothes." 

"Or maybe, Leanan dear," he hissed out with strained politeness, "you use your eyes. If you did, you would notice Abraxas passed down his vertically challenged genes onto Lucius whereas I gifted Severus long legs." Severus nodded along. 

Abraxas blustered under the insult, muttering to Orion that 'I am of average height'. 

Leanan's smile was tight as a garrote. "Tom, darling, I suggest you watch your tone before I embarrass you in a duel." she moved around the room to Eileen and Severus. "I would positively hate to remind everyone here that I am the only person in this room who has beaten Albus and Aberforth in a duel. Wandless. At the same time." Each word held a promise Tom did not want to deal with at the moment. 

Severus's eyes widen and looked up at her. "You did?" 

With a haughty laugh, Leanan placed her hands on both Eileen and Severus's shoulders. "Oh, I will tell you all about it." 

"Here we go," Eileen said, exhausted, having heard the story hundreds of times. 

"Eileen, sweetheart, please, allow an old woman to bask in her glory days." With a loud pop, she Apparated out of the room, taking Mother and Severus with her. 

On her departure, the temperature settled down to a cool breeze. Tom sucked in a breath and let it out. He needed that. Someone to keep him in check. Might as well be the only person in the room who could scare him shitless. 

He turned to Orion and Abraxas, both relaxed knowing Leanan's brand of humility. 

"When Bernard returns, I need the three of you to make the rounds at the Ministry," he said, the fire in his voice died. But not the irritation. Bernard's foolishness could raise flags when he returned to the Ministry through proper channels if anyone caught him now. 

"What are we looking for Tom?" Orion said, adjusted his waistcoat just so he could keep his hands busy. 

"I want to know if our enemies are going to pass anymore secret laws," he began to explain. 

"That is what we have been working on all weekend," Abraxas argued, taking a step forward. "I did not nearly get into a duel with Dearborn over the weekend for that be dismissed."

Tom held a hand up to silence him. "Between Hepzibah's funeral at the end of the week and me killing Clara and Bertram, the light faction were in a lull over the weekend. Today, they will be fired up. Tomorrow, you report back to me." 

He turned to Nagini, leaving no room for arguments from either man. "Norman will work with us to transport the children."

Norman sent Nagini an easy smile. "I run a primary school with my wife."

"He's also my lawyer," Tom deadpanned before adding, "along with these two." He gestured between Corban and Norman. "In case I get arrested for," and he lazily raised his hands and air quoted, "murder and torture—

"And stalking," Norman cut in, grinning like he made the funniest joke. 

Unimpressed, Nagini rolled her eyes so far they could have fallen out of their sockets

Tom ignored them both. His fuse was short and he was running out of fuel to stay focus. He raised a finger to Corban, snapping his fingers to get his brain to work. 

"When's the last time you had a good amount of sleep, Tom?" Corban asked, shoving his hands in his coat pocket.

"I do not need to sleep," he said, sneering. "Now shut up and let me think." He wasn't at the point of hearing hallucinations. He was fine. Yes, his mind was fuzzy. Focusing was a chore, but he was fine! "Do you want to join us?" 

He grimaced and cast his eyes aside. "I don't think...I can work with children. Not after," he sucked in a breath between his teeth and clamped down whatever emotion bubbling up to the surface. 

Tom didn't pressed. "Understood. Orion, you will join us, Corban go with Abraxas and Bernard." The taller man inclined his head, accepting the new mission. Orion had no arguments either. Tom caught direct eye contact and got the stray thought.

Thank, Merlin, if I spent another nine hours listening to the Old Guard bitch, Walburga would find me swinging in the attic. 

"What if that fool Weasley tries sending his condolences?" Abraxas asked, holding his head up high. 

What now? Must Tom solve all the social interactions between his followers and the general public? "What are you talking about?"

Orion leaned forward, just slightly, "Weasley blathered at us about his upmost condolences for," he was tight-lipped and gestured to Corban, who just grunted. "And compared Rupert's murder to you taking care of his wife's brothers." 

"I think we should do something about him," Abraxas suggested.  

"Do what to whom? Arthur?" Tom asked. "Are you having a laugh? We are not killing Arthur Weasley. He has two toddlers and fucks around with rubber ducks and enchanted phone boxes. Why are we having this conversation." 

"But he's a blood traitor," Norman said with such sincerity, it was almost comical. 

"I don't give a fuck," he said quickly, his temper spiking. "Okay, Edward I had a mission for you but if I do not get a fucking nap in, I will start breaking bones. I will tell you tomorrow at our meeting." The man relaxed, visibly grateful he didn't have to go on a mission today.

There was no complaints about Tom sleeping for a short time. "Why don't I have Dobby," Abraxas stepped aside and motioned to a door. The elf hid behind it when Tom started screaming, "escort you to a guest room. He will wake you when Bernard successfully retrieves the portkey." 

Dobby peered around the door, and let out a pathetic whimper.

A heavy hand was on Tom's shoulder but that is not where hand stayed. The hand reached down, down, down into his mind where he was thirteen and the Midland summer nights were hot and not long enough. Where a hand, a large hand, in the middle of sleeping was a danger. His body reacted on instinct before he even woke up. It was the crushing weight of bricks on his chest, his muscles stiffening all at once, waiting for some man to slip in next to him—

His eyes flew open. 

And he was upright, hand wrapped around a throat of someone long dead. It took a fraction of a second, maybe too long, for him to realize if he was still a boy, not just one hand of his could wrap fully around a throat. 

Another second until he realized he was choking the life out of Norman Avery. And yet, he saw Norman, gasping and clawing at his iron grip, and did not let go. His eyes could work. He could see that he was choking out of his oldest friends. His brain knew who it was. What he was doing. 

But he didn't let go. He couldn't. 

"Tom! Tom!" Orion hurried into the room, tearing Norman free. 

Stumbling back, Norman gasped wildly for oxygen. His face went from purple to red. 

Tom swallowed down on nothing. His mouth was as dry as a viper’s bite, tasting of the Midlands dust he thought he'd outrun.

No, he did outrun. He was not there anymore. He was not in Grindlewald's experimental table. He was not in the church. He was not in Wool's. He was not in the Second Girl's lavatory, cradling the dead body of Myrtle—

He buried the memories deep within his mind, like he had buried his diary in the Chamber. 

"Merlin, Tom, you about killed me," Norman said, finally gotten enough air in his system. 

Tom glared up at him. "That's what you get for shaking me awake. You should know better." his cheeks flushed and he glanced to the night stand. His tie and jacket were draped over, along with his Gaunt Ring and wore down watch. he scowled at his own things because they offended him. "I am...sorry for your neck." 

"An apology from Tom Riddle, and it is not even Yule. Must be a miracle," Orion said dryly. 

Tom summoned his wand from his coat jacket and leveled a quick, silent Stupify. And if Orion Black wasn't a quick duelist and able to deflect the spell, he would've been sent through the wall. 

"Now you're being childish," Norman said, sighing. "Bernard brought the Portkey, and Nagini gathered the children in the ballroom. We are just waiting for you." 

Tom rubbed the sleep from his eye. "What time is it?" The sun streamed through the curtains still, so it couldn't have been too late. 

"A quarter past four," Orion supplied.

Tom stood and stretched. His back cracked and popped, making him grimace. 

"Alright, we need to make this trip quick," he said grabbing his suit-jacket. "I have a date at nine that I am not missing."

Norman tapped his chin in thought. "If we're going to be in Greece, we could visit The Apollo & Aconite for dinner after we successfully relocate the children to a safe haven," he suggested. Tom tilted his head to the side, his brows raised slightly. 

"They do have a variety of vegetarian dishes," he said, humming. He tapped Orion on the chest playfully. "And you owe me Gorgon wine." 

Norman glanced at Orion, and the Black heir just waved his hand. "Tom and I had an unfortunate adventure in the Otherworld because someone has a portal in their basement."

"And when I wanted to get elven wine, I was talked out of it and now Orion owes me," Tom finished, grinning. 

"Why do you..." Norman stopped himself from asking and shook his head. "The less I know about what you get up to in your spare time the better." 

Tom hooked his holster around his leg an belt, securing his yew wand in its spot. "I think Albus is upset with me after that adventure in the Otherworld. He is not responding to any of my letters. Even the ones where I call him pejoratives for being a homosexual. Usually referring him to a pixie would elicit a five page response." 

"When isn't he upset with you?" Norman asked, heading out the door. "Why are you even in contact with him? We are at war." 

Orion followed. "Dumbledore and Tom are cousins. Apparently."  

Tom was the last one out, but despite that, he led the way to the ballroom. 

"Years ago, he told me he was my grandmother's cousin, didn't say a name. I never asked," he explained. "Never looked into it. Why would I? She was a Weasley, my power hadn't come from her. Marvolo had the raw power, but none of the talent and intelligence to harness Salazar's magic in his veins. That's all I needed to know."

"You know, Tom, I can look pass the muggle father, and I will not insult your squib mother," Norman said, ignoring Orion muttering because we do not want to die. "But a Weasley? That is the most disgusting thing about your heritage." 

"Yes, I'm disgusted to but listen to this. Albus lied. He was Marvolo's first cousin," he confessed.

Norman's eyes found Orion's. They went still on the landing, forcing a halt in their track down the stairs. They shared a silent conversation between them, locking Tom out. But he knew what they're thinking. Did Albus Dumbledore, the face of Gryffindor, have Slytherin blood? 

Tom couldn't dispel their fears.

"His mother had been a Weasley, that is a well known fact," he stated, "and Percival Dumbledore comes from a long line of halfbloods who, until Percival, not once married into any pureblood family. So my assumption is...it is still through the Weasley family."

"Maybe your great-grandfather married a Weasley girl?" Orion suggested. "My father's cousin married Septimius. It does happen." 

"That is not," Tom said, sucking in breath for letting it out. "Albus hadn't just lied. He kept the identity of a family member from me: Morticia Weasley had once been Morticia Gaunt. She's Marvolo twin. That is why I have been sending letters over the weekend to Albus, but he had not respond back. I think he realized allowing me to kill Tempest Prince gave me a powerful ally in Eileen." 

"And now he's ignoring you? That's rather absurd," Norman said. "He never ignores you. He is always in your and by association, our business." 

"That is why I am waiting for his replies." Tom moved over to the massive window and looked out to the massive maze below. From here, he could see the symmetrical rose the maze created. To think, down there were Fae trapped and used as zoo. "This is quite serious, particularly it seems the persecution of Parselmouths stems from the fact the older generation of Weasleys loathed Marvolo." 

"Unfortunately, any records on the Gaunts are scarce after the turn of last century," Orion said, stroking his beard. "I am aware of the Slytherin vaults, however, I do not believe there is anything in them."

"There isn't." Tom balled his hands into fists, leaving indents in his flesh. "The only coin in there is what I put in there myself."

He relaxed his hands and sighed. "But no matter. It is a concern for another day. We have work to be done."

The walk to the ballroom was short, but crossing the threshold felt like entering a different world. The stained glass cast long, colored shadows across the floor, painting the survivors in shades of bruised purple and sickbed green.

The ballroom was filled with the soft, somber chatter of children. But the way they moved, the way they spoke, they might as well be ghosts. Or orphans in Wool's. Orion and Norman shifted uncomfortably. They were used to children who ran and screamed; they didn't know how to look at children who had learned that making a sound could mean death. To Tom, however, the sight was familiar. His hand twitched, instinctively reaching for the silver case he kept close.

The air tasted like Wool's after the influenza swept through. It tasted like the weeks when young children were struck with Polio. Tom had been spared; he had never once been sick. It was his magic, no doubt. But he remembered what it was like to be a witness.  

His hands went to his trousers' pocket, grabbing for his anchor. He pulled out a cigarette and his lighter. The sharp clink and the flare of the flame grounded him. But didn't stop the memories from flooding in. 

He recalled one girl through the haze of the first drag—Martha... or was it Margret? Oh, it had been so long and it didn't matter now. She had been a few years younger than him, and everyone in Wool's liked her. Happy, always helpful in chores. He couldn't place her name, but he knew her face. He knew her skin had once been rosy and peachy, only for it to turn ashen. Her ringlet blonde curls framed her apple green-colored eyes. She...had been...a friend? No, not his. 

He had no friends. 

He had Ruth, and she had been Ruth's friend if toddlers could form friendships. 

Tom held the smoke in his lungs, letting the burn chase away the phantoms. He shoved the onslaught of unwanted memories back behind cobwebs. 

He needed to focus on the now. Death had warmed over and settled in the living bones of nineteen children. Nineteen orphans. Tom exhaled a long, thin plume of grey escaped his lips. 

He hated them. He hated them because they were him only they had a family before the Ministry murdered the Muirsgéal. So that hate turned to pity. But pity wouldn't make them strong. That was the lesson he learned. 

Striding over to the children, some noticed and turned toward him. They looked up at him in awe. He humored them with smiles, and greetings but didn't stop to talk.

Nagini sat amidst them, braiding the hair of Bláithín's sister. She hadn't even looked his way yet. 

"One moment, I am just managing Éadaoin's curls," she said. 

"Oh, take your time, it is not like we are on a time table," he said, blasé. 

The patter of feet approached him and he turned to see a seven-year-old boy at his side. The child, small and sickly, stood custom made leather shoes and finely stitched clothes fit for a pureblood heir. And now Tom actually examined the children, they were all in fine silks and linen. The perks of being refugees inside the Malfoy Manor, he supposed. 

"Yes, hello," he said, removing his cigarette out of his mouth. He vanished the lit cigarette so he would not breathe smoke in the boy's face. 

The boy held a piece of parchment behind his back as long as his chest. His toes curled inward, and he fidgeted on the spot. 

Tom decided to be kind and crouch down to be eye level for the child. "My name is Tom, what is yours?"  He decided to speak their natural tongue to ease the child out of his nerves. 

"Uhmmm," the boy hummed, his cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. "I'm Cillian." 

"What a lovely name, Cillian," he said, offering a smile. "Do you have something to share with me?" 

Cillian slowly withdrew the parchment from behind his back and flipped it over. On it, was a scribbly drawing done in crayon. Tom was in the middle holding hands with Nagini and Cillian both. A chain of the other eighteen children was formed on a grassy hill. Leanan, Abraxas, Odette, and Lucius were crammed in the sky with Dobby on the other side. It was messy, a tad hideous, and the snakes blended into the grass. 

But it was sweet. Cute even. And for a split second, he wondered if it would be odd to adopt Cillian, but decided he was in no position to raise a small child. He worked terrible hours at the hospital. He was running a paramilitary group to over the government. And in his off hours, he was babysitting his idiotic followers. He was just too busy. 

"Oh, this is quite brilliant, Cillian," he said, accepting the drawing. "You are a talented artist." 

Cillian beamed at the praise. "Thank you!" he chirped. "I like drawing!" 

"I can see that," he said, glancing at the drawing more time. "I'm going to send this back to my house and have it framed." he vanished the drawing to where it would be waiting for him. "I will make sure Kyra Desmos is aware and she provides you more crayons." 

Cillian tilted his head. "Who's that?" he asked. 

Tom looked around, and noticed he garnered a curious crowd of children. He sighed before standing. 

"Nagini, how much are they aware of?" he asked. 

Her onyx-colored eyes flickered up at him. "I informed them they are going somewhere safe. Far from here." 

A girl around Severus's age stood now. She clutched at her dress, her fingers turning red from how hard she twisted them in the fabric, but her voice was steady. 

"We haven't been told much, Mister Riddle," she explained, "except we're leaving today." 

He combed through his hair with his fingers. "I see." he cleared his throat and projected his voice so it carried over the chatter. "I am taking you to Greece. Clan Ophiuchus will be taking all of you in. Mother Kyra Desmos is their elder. She is a good woman and her clan will keep you safe from the Committee." 

He scanned the room for questions and the children had none. Some were silent because they couldn't voice their curious thoughts or their fears. His eyes landed on a boy, about thirteen. He sat in the middle of the group, looking dour. And he had every right to be: the Committee had removed his tongue. 

There were flashes in the boy's mind. An cold table made out of iron, a man...older, stout, mousy-colored hair. And sharply familiar.

Grimblehawk. 

Healer Grimblehawk was on the Committee. His own colleague at St. Mungo's was moonlighting as a eugenicist on Parselmouths. 

Tom turned away, staring at nothing, clamping down the explosive rage his magic threatened to unleash. He could not, would not scare the children. It would hinder his plans to get the children out of Britain and safely to Greece. 

He schooled his face in a terrifying calm, his smile strained. "All of you know Nagini, but if you have not been introduced, this is Norman Avery and Lord Orion Black. They will help Ms. Nagini and myself to ferry you all to your new home."

Norman actually waved and looked comfortable with this many children, Orion was just bored. The men of the Black family did nothing when it came to child rearing. But he was still better than having an emotional Corban and pompous Abraxas. 

 Tom turned back to the oldest girl with a tongue. "Does that sound acceptable?" 

"Yes, Mr. Riddle," she mumbled. She lifted her head, and made eye contact. And Tom slipped inside her mind for an instant, only to close that channel immediately. 

He didn't need to see anymore. He should have guessed a tiny, pretty young girl would attract the worse of men. Still, that split second was enough. He saw the man who raised her ankle-length dress as she was pinned against a tree. He saw the messiness of the act. He saw the man's face, and knew it instantly.

Benjy Fenwick, too idiotic to be an Auror so he joined the armed forces of the Committee. Fenwick wasn't always a Committee member. He was a halfblood from a long line of halfbloods that might as well be purebloods. He once had been Dearborn's assistant, fired for unknown reasons. And maybe Tom just learned why. Men in their late thirties don't just start committing those kinds of crimes without a sordid history. 

Tom filed the name away, his smile now hurting. "I want all of you prepare to leave. No more hair braiding, Nagini," he added without sparing the woman a glance. 

He needed to get away from the children. Walking over to Orion and Norman, his hands shook violently. His hands found his pockets. He attempted to keep his face impassive, neutral. How the Princes trained themselves, but his rage was on his sleeves.

What he wanted was a fag but if he had to waste a new cigarette he would strangle someone for real. 

"Where's the portkey?" he asked, voice tight. 

"So...about that," Norman said slowly. "I did want to warn you before we got here." 

"Are you about to inform that I will need to add Bernard to my growing list of people I need to kill?" Tom asked. He said it sarcastically, but he did hope they knew he wasn't joking. 

Judging how Norman paled and Orion rolled his eyes, they knew. 

"Tom, you cannot murder Bernard, but you might need to teach him a lesson." Orion grabbed Tom's arm and pulled him further to the in the ballroom. 

Tom allowed him to be dragged to...a rock? No, it had hair. 

Was that a doll's head in the middle of the floor? 

Sure enough, as they neared, they saw a baby doll's head staring up at them in lifeless apple-green eyes. Her cheeks were painted in a forever blush some children lost. Her straw colored hair framed her creepy face, a mockery of real baby hair. 

"What the fuck am I looking at?" he asked in a harsh whisper.

"Bernard thought it would comfort the children to use a baby doll," Norman explained, glancing over his shoulder. "The smallest child screamed bloody murder when Bernard set it down." 

Tom followed his line of vision and landed on an eight-year-old boy holding a three-year-old. They both had auburn hair, but to Tom he saw a boy with dark brown hair heavy with grease. He had not learned his hair naturally curled into healthy waves. The girl he held had untamable black curls and startling blue eyes. They were not in a ballroom in pristine linen, but gray, tattered cotton and cheap wool in a dingy orphanage. The boy clung to the girl, his hold a death grip because her new parents were on the other side of the door signing adoption papers. 

Tom tore himself from the history he buried and back at the doll, just as Nagini was approaching them. 

"Does Bernard know that these are survivors of a massacre?" he asked, snapping at the wrong men because the right man wasn't there to be Crucioed. "Did he think this through at all?" 

"I have an alternative," she said. "It requires the use of the Malfoy's tapestries."

All four turned to the nearest window. Reaching twenty-and-five feet in the air, the windows were draped in heavy brocatelle, threaded in gleaming-silver. Of course, the embroidered patterns was faint green snakes wrapped in pink florals. The drapery were bunched together to let the Sun in, held together by forest-green ropes.

Perfect for what Tom assumed Nagini meant. She was Muslim after all. Magic carpets were perfect. 

"We might need to reschedule that dinner," Norman said, catching on quickly. 

"Is it safe?" Orion asked. "Won't the children fall off." 

"Prophet Solomon used them to move his courts," Nagini said, lips thinned out in a scowl. "I would not suggest such a thing if Allah wouldn't bless our travels."

Norman began to nod only to stop and turned sharply. "Who?" 

Tom bit out a sigh. "Get some culture and read the Qur'an." 

He simply shrugged, making noncommittal noise. "I barely read the Bible, why would I read another person's Holy Book?" 

"So you don't sound ignorant," he fired back. 

"Or maybe you lot should practice the Old Rites like proper British wizards." Orion sneered, lip curled in disgust. 

Nagini was seconds away from turning into her python form and ripping Orion's throat out, but Tom stepped in to defend her. "Oh yes, how proper. How very British to practice Greek paganism." 

"You have a statue of Medusa on your altar and use her imagery," he countered. "You have a statue of Asclepius in your home." 

Tom's left eye twitch. "Its called propaganda, Orion, and symbolism and good luck charms. I don't actually pray to a statue of Medusa. The only god I need is myself, thank you very much." He ended the conversation by addressing Nagini. "How long will it take you to transform the tapestry?" 

She sent final spite-filled glare at Orion before answering. "Ten, fifteen minutes. Nothing longer. Will Leanan be upset?" 

"No, she will just use it as excuse to redecorate," Tom answered. "Norman, Orion, pull the tapestry."  

Orion did not complain, which is why he wasn't shocked when the Black heir raised his hands and clapped three times. "Kreacher!" he called out. 

A pop and the old, ugly house-elf appeared. "Master called for Kreacher to help the Mudblood? Why must Master defile Kreacher with Mudblood's presence?" 

Tom turned his entire body toward Orion, gesturing to the elf silently. 

"He's old, Tom, but loyal." he tried to defend but the old elf would not be quiet. 

"At least the Mudblood's gypsy son is not here—

Tom snapped his fingers and silenced the house-elf. Kreacher tugged at his lips, but they were sealed shut. He stomped his large feet, and shook his fist at the 'Mudblood' that would dare silence a pureblood's servant. The children went quiet, sensing something went wrong with the adults. But Tom kept his composure. He did not explode into a fury. He did not draw his wand and torture Orion. He did not kill Kreacher for the nasty word. Oh, but he wanted to. His magic lash out in waves, as ice crept across the ground. But he was good. He controlled himself. Norman took no chances and pulled Nagini away from Tom. Orion grew whiter than the the marble floor beneath his feet. Death was in his eyes, no doubt expecting a Crucio. 

But Tom was not merciful. It was better to allow Orion to live in fear of retaliation than lashing out now. He still needed Orion, after all. Needed him because Orion was his friend.

And they had nineteen witnesses. The children did not need to see their savior snap and murder a man. 

"Dobby!" he called and the younger elf appeared right next to Kreacher. 

"Yes, Master Riddle sir!" Dobby said, far too cheerful for Tom's rotten mood. 

"Seeing how Master Avery and Master Black are too incompetent to remove a fucking tapestry, you will assist  Kreacher here," he said, his voice higher than usual, icier than usual, "and tear down the tapestry so Miss Nagini can use it." 

Dobby chewed on his nails, glancing the giant curtains and the snarling, grouchy elf next to him. "Won't Mistress be mad at Dobby?" he squeaked out. 

Tom probably looked like a crazy person. No doubt his eyes were wide and manic. And red. His smile stretched out to show all his teeth. But that logical side, that side of him that knew how to mask was shattered and all societal norms were not in the forefront of his mind. 

"Are the Malfoys here?" He asked. 

"No?" Dobby squeaked out, shrinking away. 

"Correct. So do what I ask or I will burn the Manor down." Tom turned to Orion, who seemed to be deeply uncomfortable with whatever he was doing with his face. "Tell your elf if he refers to my son as such I will slaughter your entire family, sparing only Bellatrix, Narcissa, and your sons." 

Orion nodded once, schooling his face as best he could. "Kreacher, you heard him. You are forbidden to speak such words about the Dark Lord's son." 

The elf was granted his voice back, only to sneer disdainfully at Tom like he was a dead rat found in the attic. "Of course, Master, Kreacher will not badmouth the Mudblood's half breed brat no more. If the good Sirius was still alive and saw how the family grovels over a mudblood." he shook his head.

Dobby was ready to faint, petrified Tom would snap and kill them both. He grabbed Kreacher's wrist and apparated before the elderly elf could say anymore. 

Tom whirled on his heel, ignoring Orion entirely. Norman was using his entire body to shield Nagini, but she wasn't nearly as terrified as the two men who've known him since Hogwarts. 

"I will be back in twenty-five minutes," he said, tone clipped. 

Norman relaxed enough to not look like he was seconds away from pissing himself. "Where to?" 

"To kill Augustus Farrell." And Tom didn't explain further, Apparating away on the spot. 

Orion let out an staggering breath, choking on nothing. "Merlin, I thought I was going to die." 

"You still might," Norman said, adjusting his tweed jacket just so his hands could say busy. "What does he want with Farrell?"

Nagini looked between the two men. "Who is he? Is he important?" 

"No, he's not important at all. He's just an old wizard who worked in the Department of Housing Management," he answered, shrugging. "He means nothing. But I suppose its better Tom takes his anger out on someone insignificant over someone with importance." He spared a worried glance at Orion. 

Norman did not voice what they were both thinking: Tom was going to be the downfall of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

Tom missed the logistics of getting nineteen children on the tapestry or assuring that, no they will not fall off. But he arrived back in time with Leanan throwing one of her fits outside. 

He reentered the Malfoy grounds, Apparating on the back terrace that overlooked the garden. In his hand was a bright red apple.   Down below, the children were gathered on the tapestry. Orion was directing Kreacher and Dobby, what Tom couldn't tell from where he stood. Norman was chasing Cillian around, the boy finally laughing and smiling as a child his age should be. If Tom had to guess, the boy was refusing to stay in one spot. Most of the children were just happier outside, their white, loose clothing whipping around their legs as they chased each other and ignored Leanan yelling. 

He couldn't make a word out in her rant, but he didn't need to hear her to know she was complaining about her bloody curtains being stained by the grass. 

He brought the delicious red apple to his lips, biting down. With a crunch, he munched on stolen fruit. He nicked it from Farrell's home, straight out of the wicker basket on the counter. Actually, he had stolen that too, sending it back to his house. Farrell wouldn't need it and his children or niece wouldn’t miss it. 

For good measure, Tom sent the Dark Mark over the house. Intimidation tactic. Killing a random, gropey old man and tying it to Voldemort will send just enough fear to not be questioned. 

He scanned the group, spotted Eileen and Severus under a tree for shade and Apparated right next to them. 

Severus flinched but hardly reacted at all. Eileen didn't even turn her head. Leanan stopped yelling at Nagini, irritation staining her lovely face. 

"Did you tell her to do this?" she snapped. 

Tom held his finger as he chewed, taking his time to savor the crispness. 

"It was our only option," Nagini insisted. "As I explained, Bernard Rosier made mistake and I improvised."

"Just buy a new pair," Severus sneered, gesturing to the tapestry. "Or use magic if they're dirty like a normal person." 

The noise that escaped Leanan's throat was inhuman. She clutched at her frilly collar, gasping. "My word! Eileen, correct your son like you had done at the shop." 

Eileen lowered her sunglasses just enough to peer over the frames. "No." She pushed them back, ignoring Leanan's offended yelling. She turned to Tom, craning her neck to look him in the eyes. "We met your little girlfriend while shopping," she drawled. 

He swallowed. "Little? She's taller than you," he said, but paused. He did the mental math, and remembered Mangala was only 5'1. "Not by much but she's definitely taller than you." He took another bite. 

"And her mother is our age with a sister Severus's age, do you know that, Tom?" she continued, cold judgment rolling off of her. 

"It is rather perverted, Father," Severus drawled as well. 

"I am not taking criticism when you're dating that man's idiot son." He pointed at Orion.

Orion, who stripped out of his suit coat, as he stood over the house elves working in the sun to place the children's luggage, turned around. He sighed, exhausted. 

"Tom! You know Sirius is in the top ten of his year in most of his subjects," he said. 

His son muttered under his breath, a smug smile on his lips, "and I'm in top three in all my subjects, if not number one." 

Tom dropped his hand low for Severus slap it in a smooth motion. Even Eileen had a tiny smirk on her face. 

"Yes, yes, very lovely, now about my tapestry!" Leanan screeched, stomping her foot down. "I have to get an entirely new  set. Do you know how inconvenient that is? I have to draw new plans for the entire ballroom now and I had not wanted to redecorate until the first of August in preparations for Abraxas's birthday. Now, I have to redecorate early or, decorate twice in one season and waste my time." 

She huffed, crossed her arm across her chest as she rested the other on top. She stood in silence as children trampled on her custom tapestry, Dobby spilling a tray of tiny cut sandwiches, Norman rolling on the ground as he pretended to fight a group of small boys. 

Leanan let out a pained sob. "Why must you make my life difficult? Have I not done enough for you, Tom?" she asked, glaring over her shoulder. 

Tom stared at her, expression blank. "You left me in orphanage, during the Blitz, because the Ministry said you couldn't adopt me." And as a Malfoy, she could have fought the Ministry. 

"And what does that have to do with my tapestry, Tom?" she asked, lips pursed together. "Hmmm? Exactly. Nothing. Excuse me, I have to make arrangements for painters, artisans! Ah, why must I work so hard?" 

"What do you want me to do with the tapestry when I'm done?" Nagini asked, left eye twitching. 

"Keep it, burn it. Throw it away! I do not care anymore. In fact, rob me of the whole set," she made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat and popped! out of the garden. 

Tom was decidedly  not hungry anymore and tossed the apple over his shoulder. It fell with a thud. 

"How long do we have?" he asked Nagini. 

"The elves are gathering food. We should arrive in Greece in under two hours," she said, rubbing her arm. "I...I do not know how long I can stay as a human." 

Orion approached them, taking Leanan's spot. "Are you animagus?" 

She shook her head and it clicked for Tom. 

"You're a Maledictus!" He said, snapping his fingers. "Ah, it making sense now." She looked down at her feet, ashamed. Why, he hadn't a clue. There was nothing to be ashamed of over a medical condition. 

"Yes, that is exactly what I am," she confessed. "I am cursed to becoming a beast." 

"I wouldn't say a Burmese Python is a beast," Tom argued. He saw the questioning looks on Eileen, Severus, and Orion's faces so he elaborated. "Parselmouths from Asian countries, specifically West, South, and Southeast can be effected by a curse. They become snakes permanently. It can effect men, but most Maledictus are women." 

"And I am one of those women," she lamented, her shoulders deflated. In this bright, summer day, Nagini was about to collapsed in on herself. "I will transform right before we leave as to not frighten the little ones. They have not seen a snake as large as I, no matter how much they have been raised around serpents." 

As she walked away toward one of the older girls to instruct them on gathering the preteens. Norman overheard her and snapped into instructor mode, getting the younger children to settle down. 

"Tom," Eileen said, her voice edging into panic. 

She had a death grip on Severus's arm. His eyes were impossibly wide, mouth agape. His olive skin, now golden by the Sun, grew ashen, almost sallow. 

"Yes?" he asked, unsure where this reaction would come from. 

Severus looked up at him. "Can I become Maledictus?" 

What a silly question. "Why would you become one?" 

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to ask because Eileen went from terrified to pissed off. "Are you dense? Look at our son!"

"For Merlin's sake, Tom," Orion cut in, gesturing at them. "Eileen's Asian, her family is from Iran. Her mother had been Romani, which are from India." 

Tom made an unintelligent noise as he stared long and hard at his very Asian son. "Oh, shit."

"Oh, shit," Severus mocked, growing angry. "You're the one who has a fetish for Asian women, but I'm the one who has to suffer." Eileen nodded along right behind him. 

"Do not be absurd." Tom's neck grew hot and blotchy. Why was he the bad guy because he found non-white women attractive? If anything, that proved he was good, not a racist. "I believe there would be signs by now." 

"You believe?" Eileen put her hands on her hips. "But you don't know." 

Tom reached for a loose cigarette and his lighter. "What do you want me to say? I do not know if he can become a Maledictus. I only learned of them briefly in the fifties." 

Now that was even worse to confess. 

"So," she clicked her tongue, "you knew about this blood disease that effects Asian descendant Parselmouths and didn't mention this when we're floating the idea of having a child together?" 

"In my defense, I only suggested we should have children so you would agree to sleep with me." The words tumbled out of his mouth before his brain could stop them. 

Severus was left utterly disgusted. "Oh, what the fuck, Dad." he stormed over to Nagini to help her with getting the last of the arrangements figured out. Eileen was ready to rip Tom's throat but Orion grabbed her shoulders and steered her away, shaking his head. 

And now Tom was left alone, wondering if he had children with Mangala there would be a possibility of the curse.  

Chapter Text

12, June, 1974

Mangala had been in Brixton for several months, and life could be better. Did she miss India? Yes, did she miss the warmth, and the food, and her people? Yes. She could've lived in Southhall and be surrounded by home. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Living in Southhall means Father and Mother could send spies. They could send her uncles or cousins to drag her back him in Jaipur. Her bastard brother could show outside her door, draw out his wand and knock her out, and she would wake up in her bed in her parents' house. 

 But Brixton brought her something Southhall couldn't. Freedom. 

She could dress how she wanted. She could talk to whom she wanted. She wouldn't have to look over her shoulder as she passed each Auntie or Uncle and wondered if Baba sent them to bring her home. 

And Brixton wasn't Jaipur, but Electric Avenue was buzzing with the same liveliness she knew back home. The thumping bassline of a reggae track hit her first, a physical vibration that worked its way up from the cobblestones. She adjusted her miniskirt, tugging it down just a hair as she moved through the bustling crowd. She weaved through shoppers who halted at stands, mindful of her woven basket swung over her shoulder. It was like a dance between her and the crowd, and she was walking on her own beat.  The air was thick and alive—heavy with the mix of jerk spice from a smoking drum grill, the sweet scent of overripe mangoes, and the gritty perfume of the city. She sidestepped a stack of yam crates; her Gogo boots splashed in a puddle. But the dirty street water didn't cling to her boots, the waterproof charm working overtime. Vendors called out in a mix of sharp Cockney and lilting Patois, their voices weaving into the music. 

She kept her eyes forward, pretending she didn't notice him—Tom Riddle—following her. 

He weaved through the streets as easily she did. 

She stopped at a mango stand, going through the motions of being polite, and smiling brightly and the elderly Jamaican man selling them. She barely registered what she said, or what the seller said. Something, something about how she was too pretty to have no man at her side. And if he was forty years younger, she'd be in trouble. She laughed playfully, asking how his wife feel about that. He whistled low, saying he fears his wife would use her slippers on him, but Mangala was worth it. 

All the while 'her man' had stopped at the newspaper stand. He took paper, and leaned against wall, pretending to read. He did this nearly daily. Same habit, different wall. Same cigarette in between those lips, different paper clutched by those nimble, long fingers.  

It was silly, she thought as she paid and said goodbye to Mr. Javis. 

Why won't Tom just ask her out? Talk to her? She thought after last night surely he would. How obvious it was she knew he was on her flat's patio, watching her through the glass door. As she laid bare for him to see as her hands glided down her body, playing with herself. 

That was for him, and he hasn't done a damn thing about it. 

What an idiot. 

But she will not be the first one to break contact. She was not going to be like the women—and some men if the rumors about Abraxas Malfoy were true—that fall over Tom Riddle. She couldn't be that desperate over a Englishman. Living in London was one thing, but that was a bridge too far. 

As she stopped to flip through hand bags at outdoor stall, Tom stopped a few feet from her to look at ties, shooting glances at her. 

Should she be concern by the stalking? Yes, if it was a different man. But Tom was harmless—to her. As far as she could tell, this was Tom's bizarre way to court her. What a silly, silly, idiot. It was almost cute how a man twice her age shot her lost puppy-eyes, as if he was trying assess if she was the dangerous one and will hurt him. 

7 July, 1975

What started out with Mangala writing to Tom on Sunday requesting his presence so they could plan their heist over coffee turned into them on the couch, her back against his chest as he fingered her with his nimble, long fingers. 

It was her fault how she ended up in this position. 

Her period was around the corner, and toys weren't cutting it. 

She finally had her flat to herself after her sister-in-law Jiya moved to the hotel her parents (and younger sister, uncle and his wife, their four sons, and Nani) rented. So she felt free for the first time in weeks and weeks of Kumar and Jiya staying with her, Kumar's suffocating presence was removed for good in her life. Unless her parents find a way to get him out Azkaban.

She just needed attention. And Tom was happy to oblige 

And there was something about the way Tom looked while dead on his feet tired after a fourteen hour shift, still in his scrubs with a faint shadow of a beard after two days of neglect that did it for her. 

She didn't even let the man speak before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in for hungry kiss, moaning as he gripped her hips and shoving her roughly against the wall. 

And now her apartment was filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and gasping breaths, and sound of his fingers expertly fucking her. Her dress was hiked up to her hips, and her panties hung loosely around her right ankle as she propped her leg on the coffee table. He was still in his scrubs, his hardened cock pressed against her rear.  His free hand massaged her right breast, switching between teasing and pinching her nipple. His mouth was on her neck and jawline, nipping on sensitive skin.

Her gasps grew shorter, breathier, tighter until she wasn't making any noise at all. Heat rushed her face, white spots flickered in her vision as she arched off of him. His fingers worked faster, and deeper, slipping in a third and fourth. Sliding in and out, switching from penetrating to teasing her clit. His other hand moved to her cup her cheek, turning her face for a kiss.

Her lips barely made contact as her whole body tensed and she let out a high-pitched moan, as liquid gushed from her, staining her couch and his pants legs. There was sudden wetness from behind as he came with low groan.

And they were left breathing heavy, as the blood rushed through her as the high of her orgasm wore off. 

Tom wiped his hand on the back of her couch unceremoniously. 

There is pregnant pause before either one spoke. 

"This is the most unproductive heist plan I've been a part of," he said, with a twinge of sarcasm. "But the most interesting."

She twisted her body, while doing her best to cover herself. "Is that all you have to say?"

He raised a brow, and with dead-serious expression, said, "you're welcome."

Her cheeks were heated for different reasons. "You arsehole." She slapped him across the face. 

He didn't even flinch. In fact, he smirked lazily up at her. "Oh, now we're getting into foreplay."

She bit back a frustrated noise from the back of her throat. Why did she do this to herself? She should've grabbed her strap-on and apparated to Clarissa Mulciber's flat in Diagon Alley if she was this hung up. She scrambled off of him, nearly falling over her coffee table as she stepped on her own soaked panties. He sat up, but she caught herself before toppling over and onto her face. She bent over and slipped her panties off, a bit disgusted of the aftermath of their tryst. She vanished it to the dirty hamper in her bathroom.  

"I'm going to clean up, and change, then I'll be back," she forced her voice to be even and firm. 

"I'm going home to change then," Tom said, pressing a fist to his mouth to stop his yawn. "Make sure my teenager hasn't done anything reckless in the last fourteen hours."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "He's fifteen. He doesn't need his father to hover over him.

He tilted his head to the side. "Just last week he was in riot and nearly died. And then the next day he fell into a magical portal with his idiot boyfriend, and before all that, he nearly died at Malfoy's party. He's lucky I'm not a controlling man or he wouldn't be allowed outside."

"Magical portal? To where?" She pressed, deciding to let Tom think he wasn't a control freak. 

Tom waved his clean hand as he stood, dismissing her. "Long story, too complicated. I'll be back in twenty minutes. If I don't, it's because I passed out for twelve hours."

She hummed. "If you do, I'll just go to your house and wake you up." Her smile was sharp, all teeth. 

His eyes flashed. "Word of advice," he said, digging in his pocket for cigarette. And somehow with his scruffy 5'o clock shadow and fag hanging from his lips, he was more haggard and hotter than he was a moment ago. She hated him for it. "Don't wake up a war vet from a deep sleep." 

And with that warning, he apparated to his house. And leaving smoke behind. 

Two hours later he returned, more alert and cleaner shaven Apparently, his twelve hour crash nearly happened, but was interrupted by his forgotten alarm clock. Now, they sat across from each other at her tiny kitchen table with plate of croissants between them and two mugs filled with chai. 

He changed out his scrubs to a simple olive green, collared shirt tucked into brown slacks. She got out of her very comfortable but now ruined flowy bohemian dress into an outfit that unintentionally matched him. She wore a olive green collared shirt too, only with avocado-colored stripes and long sleeves. And tucked into a mini brown skirt. 

She blamed him. Somehow, he knew what she was going to change into and coordinated. Was it irrational? Maybe. Were many Westerners wearing brown and green color combinations? Yes, but that didn't matter!

He didn't comment on it but instead looked over the stolen manor plans she nicked from the Department of Housing Management. Now, it wasn’t a painful experience. She had to flirt with some greasy, balding seventy-five-year-old wizard who hadn't touched a woman since his mother stop breast-feeding him. He was older than her own father, and the wizard had no problem groping her. 

She ignored the fact that Tom was only four years younger than her father. 

"Are you sure this is correct?" Tom asked, eyes flickering up at her. "I've been to the Smith Manor, and it's not five stories tall."

"It has to be because if not, I need you to murder a very handsy old man in the DoHM at the Ministry," she said sarcastically. A joke.  

He clicked his tongue. "Handsy old man? You mean Augustus Farrell?" she nodded. "Alright."

She sat straighter. "What do you mean by that?" 

But he didn't answer. He turned the plans around, as if flipping the house upside down would change it. 

"If this is correct, then our best option is to use the basement. But be warned, it will be crowded down there." he sat the map down. "The first Hepzibah, who thankfully died nearly three decades ago so will not meet any resistance there, was a hoarder. Her house smelt of cat piss and mold. It was revolting. I doubt her family cleaned up the basement." 

"How did she die?" she asked, leaning on the table. 

Tom glanced up briefly, smirking. Oh no. He was about to confess to another crime. "I killed her." then his smirk turned downward. "I used to work for Burke at his shop. He sent me there to appraise items. I was never shy mentioning my mother—thankfully the broader society forgot the Gaunts were Pasrelmouths and descendants of Salazar Slytherin or me and my son would be severely fucked right now. But admitting my mother was a squib from a disgraced pureblood family has been...a challenge that being a simple mudblood doesn't bring."

"And I'm guessing the first Hepzibah something akin to Pollux Black said?" she questioned, taking a sip of her chai. She still remembered how Tom's magic twisted Grimmauld place, freezing the air around them. 

"She did, and my mother had just died two months prior," Tom confessed. "I... was admittedly not of sound mind when she passed. I might have...burned a building or two to the ground.  Massacred a church." The flippancy should've scared her, but Mangala felt an empathetic pang for the man across from her. "So, when that bitch Hepzibah insulted Merope for being a squib, I stabbed her repeatedly and stole the items Burke wanted to purchase." He took a bite of a croissant. "I heard her ghost haunts the Manor, so if that's true, we might have a vengeful spirit on our hands. Also," he paused, "her cats ate her body."

Mangala spat our her chai back into her mug at the 'cats ate her body' part. She wiped her mouth. "You know how to weave a story over food. Did you see anything Indian there?" 

He went silent for a moment, thinking. "I did..." he said slowly, as he pieced together his memories. "There was a statue. A mini one of..."he paused, squeezing his eyes and snapping his fingers. "Oh, damn. What's the attractive, dominant goddess who sticks out her tongue while stepping on man?"

Mangala bit back her annoyance. "Kali?" she said through clenched teeth. 

"Yes, that one. Now that is a woman," he said. 

"She's not for your sick fantasies, Tom." she said, putting force into her words. 

But did he catch on he was treading on a thin rope? No. Of course not. He leaned over the table, resting his elbow while flashing a sleazy smile. "Right, right...however, if you ever want to step on me—preferably in stilettos. I'm very much into that."

She refrained from saying she knows he would because of his deep-seated mummy issues. But he just admitted to stabbing a woman in a blind rage because she insulted his mother, which she Not that she thought he would do that to her. If he wanted to hurt her, he would've done it by now. But she didn't want to derail their plans to babysit an emotionally stunted man because she correctly identified the origin for his fetish for domination.

"Can we focus?" she asked, instead. And he inclined his head to indicate he was done with his poor flirting. "So she had a murti Kali. My great-great grandmother had her murti had been stolen. Did you see anything else? Swords? Necklaces? Grimoire written in Sanskirt? Made out of elephant hide and held together by ivory?" 

"She had two Indian swords, khandas?" he questioned, and once she noted he continued. "They're hanging over the fireplace. She didn't have any Indian jewelry as far as I am aware, nor did I see anything about a grimoire. But I was only in two rooms, most of it was stolen West African artifacts. The Smith home was time capsule when Britain still practiced chattel slavery. There was tattered flag of the Royal African Company strung up on the wall of their living room." he then paused and added. "You know the Smiths were the ones who gave the Shacklebolts their names?"

Mangala physically recoiled. She shoved her tea back, because if she took another sip she might be sick. "What the fuck!" She made a face. "Why do they still have that? Shouldn't it be burned?"

"You have to understand," Tom said slowly, stirring his tea and staring at the ripples. "Most of elders in the wizarding community in Britain were in their prime at the height of the English empire. The oldest member of Wizengamot is Matilda Weasley. And she was born when the United States gained independence. She still calls them the thirteen colonies. This mind set is held on to many in the Ministry, and purebloods in general. They're just old."

"Okay, and that makes Smiths better?" she questioned. 

"I'm just providing context for the Smiths," he said with a hum, leaning back in his chair. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with magic before he put it in between his lips. He took a drag, inhaling it, before exhaling. She scrunched her nose. She was going to need to quit if they're going to become serious. “They’re stuck in time. All of them. The issue is the Ministry came into existence when most wizards are stuck with 17th century mindsets. Modern politics for a dead world view." 

"And...you have the modern world view to correct them?" she asked, pushing where this was going. 

He grinned. It wasn't flirty, or delightfully manic. But sinister, and predatory. "The magical community in Britain are all Imperial conservatives who cling to pseudo capitalist thought. I, however," he placed a hand over his heart, "am I strict follower of Vladimir Lenin and Leon Trotsky."

"You do know that most of you inner circle is filled with Imperialists?" she said, unimpressed. 

He conjured an ashtray to flick his cigarette into. "And I'm using them to fund my revolution. They're useful idiots who know backing me will cause their downfall, but support me because the alternative is a quiet death. Liberation is better than suffocation."

"And what about the liberation you advocated for in your manifesto?" Mangala wouldn't let him slide. She didn't care if the stuffy purebloods like Cygnus Black or Matilda Weasley were given a bone or died in Ton's revolution. She wanted to know he if can make do on his promise on free magical practices and destruction of the Statute of Secrecy. 

The Statute of Secrecy destroyed her country's culture. Now there were muggles in India who should know better about magic killing women for being witches. And it was the European Statute that did this, along with the spread of Christianity.

He didn't answer, remained silent and the ticking of the clock over head filled the quietness between them. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And for once, he was the most serious she had ever seen him. "A genocide is being acted upon my people," he said, after a moment. "Liberation is the only way I can survive. They made my existence illegal; therefore, I will make theirs moot. Do you understand, Miss Verma?" 

A slow smile stretched across her face. She understood perfectly. 

She picked up her mug and held it up. "To the New World Order." And Tom grabbed his own, clanking it with hers.

She half expected him to leave soon after they finalized their plans. They would sneak through the basement day of Hepzibah's funeral on this Friday (the Smiths finally gave up trying to bury her on Hogwarts grounds. Albus Dumbledore would not budge on the issue, according to that racist bitch Rita Skeeter in her fawning article Hepzibah's life, claiming "she did magic the right way.")

But he hadn't left. He lingered at the door, hand on the handle. His knuckles turning white as he gripped it tightly. 

What got her was where his eyes lingered. They didn't focus downward at her chest like most men did. Or her full hips, which he loved to grab. Or even her lips, wanting to kiss her. 

His eyes bore into hers, like they're rare gems ready to be collected.

And like this morning, she was the reason why they would end back on the couch. She bit her lip, and cast sidelong glance over her shoulder in the middle of his goodbye. 

And he let go of the doorhandle, and grabbed her hand...and led her to own bedroom. 

They didn't even close the door behind them, nor bother close the blinds. The sun illuminated her bed as he tore off his belt, and she tugged up his shirt, revealing abs she didn't know were there. Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Was he carved from marble? He was more in shape than men her age. There was faint layer of fat that just did enough to make his muscles well defined. Whispers of black hair trailed down from his belly that vanished under his pants. Flat moles scattered across his chest, and she wanted to map the shape of like constellations in sky. In trance, she traced the ridged scar on his upper abdomen, just below his pecs.

He dropped his shirt to the floor, looming over her. "Do you like what you see, Miss Verma?" he practically purred out, stepping into her space. 

She looked up at him, eyes blown wide open with want. Or maybe more. Maybe she needed him carnally, more than she had ever needed anyone else.

"How did you get this?" She wouldn't admit she needed him, however. No, that would be tacky. 

He grabbed her wrist and brought her fingers to his mouth. Butterfly kisses fluttered against the pads of her fingers, laying claim to her identity. 

The anticipation and intimacy were killing her. This morning on her couch was her norm. Fast pace, tearing at clothes and flesh for only pleasure. It was fun and wild, but she was missing something. 

And what she was missing was the most dangerous man in Britain tenderly kissing her fingers, holding her hand so gently like he was holding delicate lace. 

"When I lived in Southwark in my mid-thirties, I had a run in with a witch hunter," he murmured, "disgruntled muggle sibling of a mudblood, wanted to gut me.... typical Southwark behavior."

She let out a huff of laughter. "You've lived a dangerous life, Mr. Riddle."

He moved, grabbing her hips and lifting her up. A gasp escaped her throat at the sudden movement as he laid her down on the bed,. Hovering above her, Tom tucked a curl behind her ear. "It's the only life I know. Are you ready for that?"

The question was test, or maybe it was his way of asking her out? Did he want it to be official? Heartbeats grew rapid, pounding, pounding, pounding. against her chest cavity as her body was flushed with heat. Did he want her as his girlfriend? Do nearly fifty year old men have girlfriends or lovers? The gap between their experiences was cavernous, and suddenly, she was unsure. Doubtful she could fulfil his wants and needs. This was a man who had been married, engaged twice, been with many women and men. She was twenty-five and never had had a serious relationship, just flings. And when he was her age, she was learning how to form complex sentences. 

And even now, her voice was lodged in her throat, swollen by fear and nerves. 

He was waiting for an answer, his hand was on her hip while the other stroked her hair so gently. Pushing back against her resolve, she cupped his face with her hands. Words were cheap, and the rent was due so she kissed intently. 

And Tom devoured her.

The tenderness he showed a moment ago was gone. While his teeth played on her lips, his hands feverishly tore at her skirt, yanking the offending piece of clothing off her body. She pushed upward and they lost contact when she took off her sweater. He was on her bra before the sweater was over her head. Nimble fingers with two decades worth of practice undid the hooks with ease. She tossed the sweater to the ground, and he took off her bra. 

His mouth was on her neck. And while her mind was still trying to figure out how to get him out of his trousers, one of his hands were down her soaked cotton panties and the other was massaging her right breast, teasing her hardened nipple. 

Mangala was left in a between liminal space where she didn't know what to do with her hands. When she had sex with anyone else, she was taking care her partner's needs. She never near-cumming with just two fingers rubbing her wetness. But her body trembled and clenched for him.  Her breaths came out as shuddering gasping whines. Her fist went to her mouth, her teeth sunk into her curled, index finger. 

"Please," the word came out a whimper, "I need-I need..."

Kisses trailed upward to her ear, until his lips were pressed against her ear. "What do you need, darling?"

His damn voice. His silken smooth, deep voice unraveled and she convulsed against his fingers. They persisted, thrusting against the bundle of nerves between her thighs through her second orgasm of the day. 

Tom pulled away, but kept his hand down her panties as he fumbled to find something his right pants pocket. He pulled out a silver lighter, gum, a loose cigarette.

A shiny wrapper with a distinct outline on it. 

She couldn't handle anymore of his playing, and frantically tore his hand out. Her thighs shook as they squeezed together, soaking though the cotton of her panties and the sheets below. 

There was pause, and he just gave her a funny look. 

"Do you...you want to stop?" he asked, as if he couldn't read her. 

She was already shaking her head before he finished. Wrapping an arm around his neck, she pulled him for a burst of kisses. His hands slid down her back, sending a shiver up her spine. His fingers were rough from a hard life she wanted in.  

Her other hand traveled to down below, gripping his hard cock through his trousers. He groaned against her lips, bucking into her palm. His girth and length was just the right size to fit but hurt. She needed him. 

"Let me go down on you." It came out desperate, and Mangala will be embarrassed later how desperate she wanted him in his mouth.

Tom kissed the corner of her mouth. "I don't enjoy receiving oral," he murmured.

That gave Mangala pause. 

What man turned down head? Especially a dominant one like Riddle? 

The question was on her lips but all thoughts went out of her head because he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her down backward. Her panties were ripped off—wait, she liked those!—and spread her legs wide for him. 

A staggering moan escaped her as he wasted no time to lower his tongue in her center, lapping up like a thirsty street dog. 

Mangala laid there for him, twitching and moaning. Stray thoughts floated in and out, things she needed to do for work. Their heist, what was happening with dinner. It wasn't because he bored her, but because if she didn't she would cum to fast and she wanted to chase the sensation of him as along as she could. 

But he put an end to her pleasure and she whimpered at the lost contact. He slipped off the bed and undid the button of his trousers. He shoved his slacks and underwear down, falling with a thud. 

His cock throbbed and twitched as the cool air of her apartment hit it. Her mouth watered at the sight. The bush at his base was enticing, she wanted to bury her nose just so he could hit her throat—why wouldn't he let her suck him off?

But Tom never allowed her a moment of contemplation. He grabbed her waist, forcibly turning her body to toward him. Her arse nearly hung over the edge of the bed. She was more exposed now than she had been when his face was in-between her thighs. 

"eeep!" the noise escape her mouth, turning into a laugh. It came out naturally, a way to release tension. 

"Adorable, " he murmured, grinning as he loomed over her. Bending over, he prompted himself above her. "You are a beauty, Manny."

Mangala found her cheeks flushed. Did she, on some level know she was pretty and attractive? Yes, and she had people tell her that. But the way Tom's gaze held reverence for her, worshipped her essence, there was no room left for doubt. 

She pulled him down for a sensual kiss that left her drunk. Her hands roamed his down his back as his grip on her hip left delightful bruises. 

And he was beautiful too, with his pink, plump lips, his angled  cheek bones and strong jaw. The way his curly hair, black and thick, fell over just perfectly. 

But it was his eyes. His eyes that were sunken in and gaunt, that held the years of starvation he suffered but also the ambition to climb out of the pit he was born into left her stunned. Legged-locked, even. It was like diving into pools of brown jasper, with flecks of gold and green. How can a man like him have such a grounding eyes when his head was in the clouds?

And she didn't care. She didn't care about his delusions and his danger, she wanted his power and security it brought. She admired his ambition and intelligence. She loved his terrible humor and-and—

oh no—

was she—?

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The thought died before it began. 

He jerked away from her, glaring at her bedroom door out into the hallway. "What the fuck!?" 

Mangala sat up, turning to the where the sound came from. "That better not be my landlord, I paid him in advance." If that bastard robbed her of the dick she wanted for a year, she will kill him. Or have Tom kill him. 

The fist against her door pounded harder. 

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Oh, Sweetie!" A woman's voice carried through the heavy wooden door, and layers of brick. And there was another knock on the door. "Sweetie, are you home~?" 

And that intoxicating, wanton want vanished. It sobered up and shriveled into a hard rock in the pit of her stomach where it died. Fear replaced her lust and it had her in a chokehold. 

Tom slowly withdrew his fingers and sat back from her. "Manny," his voice was tight in a low whisper. "Who is that?"

"My mother," she squeaked out, still frozen with fear on her bed. 

"Move out Meera!" Came a boisterous man's voice, booming and laced with laughter. "let me do it!" And there was a sudden bang. And it wasn't from knocking. 

Her father blasted the door down.

"Oh god," she half-sobbed, half whispered. 

She threw herself off her bed, still naked and drenched in sweat. As dozen voices flooded her apartment, she slammed her door shut hard. But her family covered the noise. Her little sister exclaimed loudly how hideous the view was. Her uncle with her aunt spoke in rapid hindi. All four of her cousins were shuffling around in her kitchen, teacups clinking with metal spoons and they poured themselves chai she left on the stove. Her nani complained about her feet hurt, and there were too many stairs in the apartment. 

  Mangala turned down, gripping her hair with both hands and staring at the discarded clothes on the floor but not at anything at all at She hardly noticed Tom scrambling to put his pants back on.

"Rajesh! You broke her door!" Meera called out, her voice closer to the entrance way. 

Her mother's voice snapped her out of her trance. Mangala snapped her fingers and vanished her clothes into the hamper next to the bathroom. She made a mad dash to her dresser to get clean knickers. Not one made of seductive lace, but solid, unsexy cotton that were lightly stained from past periods. She pulled it up and cringed because she trapped the moisture in between her legs. 

"We can fix the door, woman," Raj said, and Mangala didn't have to see her father to know he was waving her off. "Now, where is she? This is the right place, is it not, Jiya?"

Once on, she hurried round Tom—who was still on his damn shirt's buttons!—and flung her closet door opened.

"It's definingly the right place, Uncle," her cousin Arjun cut in, his voice smooth and slippery. "And she's not alone. Two mugs are on kitchen table." he said that last bit a too loud, too judgmental. 

And the chattering stopped. 

Fuckfuckfuckfuck! The tears formed in the corners of her eyes as she swallowed down the terror and panic. 

She swore under her breath, and cleared her throat to force pleasantness into her voice. "I'm here, Baba! I just need to change!" she looked over her shoulder, eyes blazing with panicked rage. "Get your fucking belt on." she hissed before diving into her closet. 

"I'm working on it, woman!" he whisper-shouted at her as he still fumbled to button his shirt. 

She grabbed the nearest anarkali suit. A jeweled tone red that was unflattering to her curves, making her boxy.  She threw it over her head and slipped her arms inside. 

"Sweetie." Mangala's mother made her pause out of sheer terror, one leg in her pants, the other still bare. That tone, that frightening stern tone before Meera would break out the switch instilled a deep fear within Mangala that she couldn't explain. She hadn't heard it since she was sixteen. "Sweetie, why is there a pair of men's loafers at your front door?" 

"She has a lover," Jiya answered, her voice icy. "He attacked Kumar that night of the party!" 

Tom looked up from looping his belt, his mouth open in offense. "That bitch," he muttered. 

Mangala pressed her index to her lips as she reached for the door.

Just as her mother opened the door, clutching Tom's shoes in one hand. There was no switch, but two pairs of shoes and that was worse. 

Meera Verma was in a purple and gold sari, hair tight in a braid that hung down her back. Mangala was staring into a mirror, one with harsh lines under her eyes, fairer skin, and childbearing hips. Her mother had been a knock-out when she was Mangala's age, and still was, but the scowl and cold judgmental eyes marred her beauty. 

Meera's eyes landed on Tom and slowly her mouth fell open as shock and rage over came her. She looked between Tom and Mangala. And then to the messy bed...

and the condom. 

Oh, God. The condom. It was unwrapped but the stench in the room was not. The smell of sex filled the room and on her...and on  Tom. This was a nightmare. 

But one she would pretend she wasn't having. 

Mangala forced a smile. "Mama!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms around her mum's neck, kissing her cheek. 

Meera accepted the hug, patting her daughter's back with one hand, too stunned to do anything else. Too mortified to even give a full hug in return. 

As she pulled away from her mother, her eyes drew to the door. And her fifteen-year-old sister stood at the entrance, mouth agape. For a whole year, Mangala envisioned Vasanti seeing her bedroom and western decorations and sneering. 

But how can anyone focus on the decor when Tom Riddle in his white, English glory, stood there with a awkward wave. 

Vasanti spun around on her heel and declared it to the rest of the family. "Mangala is seeing a white man!" she shouted in Hindi.

And a bomb went off in Mangala's family. Anger and disgust spilled out of their mouths, and flooded Mangala's ears. Threats were made, and that was what scared her the most. Her family couldn't hurt Tom, and Tom wouldn't take their threats out on her. But Tom didn't take disrespect well at all.

Tom cleared his throat and approached Mangala and Meera, and he pointed to his shoes that she still held. "I should go," he said pointing to them. 

Wordlessly, Meera handed the sleek, black loafers over to Tom and turned on her heel and stormed out of Mangala's bedroom. Mangala followed dutifully behind, while Tom struggled to slip on his shoes. 

Mangala ignored her father's disbelief and hurried right to him, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug that was far warmer than the one with her mother. "Baba!" she exclaimed, and he hugged her back. But she could feel his eyes over her head to the bedroom doorframe. Mostly because he had to look up at Tom. 

She pulled back from Baba; her smile strained and didn't reach her eyes. She pushed to be higher pitch, sweeter and nicer than her natural husky, deep voice. "Baba, how is your stay in London? It's lovely, isn't it?" 

He  looked down at her, his thick, graying beard hiding his lips. His turban was the same shade of red as her suit, contrasting to his cream-colored kurta. With a heavy hand, he pressed down on her shoulder. "London is rather interesting—Sweetie, who is your guest." 

Mangala glanced back at Tom, who stood awkwardly at the threshold between her bedroom and living room. His hand was pressed to his mouth, chewing on his thumbnail. He wanted to smoke, she realized, but out of respect of her family, he didn't. 

For a man like Tom Riddle, that was closest she was going to get consideration from him. 

Her mother and Nani stood close together, staring up at Tom, both wearing shocked expressions. It was comical to have Nani, a woman standing at 4'9 on good days next to a man who was 6'4 when he slouched. Tom was hunched even more than normal, attempting to not stand out, but it just highlighted how he towered over Mangala's family. 

"Baba," she swallowed, and moved away from her father to Tom's side. Her uncle's eyes flashed with revulsion, like just betrayed the family when she touched Tom's arm. "This is...Tom Riddle...my friend. He's a Senior Thaumaturgist at St. Mungo's." she blurted out without thinking, then added. "We met at the hospital when I was writing a story on curse breaking." 

He looked down at her, raised right brow. 

And then a sharp, sudden intrusion entered her skull. And his voice echoed like they were her thoughts. That is the most Indian thing you could've come up with. 

She broke eye contact and pretended his invasion didn't bother her. 

"Oooo! A Senior Thaumaturgist, you say?" Nani said, practically cooing with delight. She looked Tom up and down with a twinkle in her eye. "A very tall friend at that. At least he's not a poor friend."

Mangala wanted the floor to open up and swallow her into a black hole. Tom's expression was impassive, impossible to read but the offense was there. She knew he was an orphan and where in London he was from. 

"Mother!" Meera hissed in mortification, but Nani waved her off uncaring. 

Mangala forced herself to speak when she wanted to do was run and hide in her bedroom. "Tom, this is my mother, Meera, my nani, Chandra." 

He smiled down at them, keeping it friendly as possible. It was uncanny how he morphed to a mild-mannered, unassuming man for her mother and grandmother. "It is my pleasure," he said, voice smooth as pressed silk. He took Meera's hand bowed ever so slightly. "Looking at you two, I can see where Mangala gets it from."

And with that, Meera and Nani turned their hands, both biting back laughter. No, giggles. At least Tom could win over the women in Mangala's family, she supposed. But he just made the men bristle. Uncle held her aunt closer, glaring harder. 

She moved on, gesturing to Baba. "Tom, this is my father," she began. 

And Baba stepped into Tom's space, holding his hand out. "Rajesh Verma," he said, sternly. 

Tom clasped his hand firmly, and the two stared at each other, sizing one up. When would this be over? Mangala wasn't even dating Tom, and she was forced to introduce him as such.

With nothing else was said, Mangala forced herself in between them and directed Tom to her sister, who sat on the coffee table next to her aunt. "Tom, this is my baby sister, Vasanti." She waved her hand, mimicking Tom's awkward one from the bedroom. "My uncle Rama, and my auntie, Priya." Rama made no move to shake hands with him. His jaw was set in a scowl, and Priya was clicking her tongue in disproval. 

"And these are my cousins," she gestured to the four huddled in the kitchen. "Ajurn," he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Tom the hardest. "Ishvar, Mahavir , and," and her youngest cousin slipped between her brothers, and hurried over to her side to give her a hug. The first hug she received from family that wasn't stiff. He was twelve now, after all. He didn't understand what was happening as much as he liked to think. "This is Ravi!" She said, showing her baby cousin off to Tom with a smile that reached her eyes. 

Until Priya pulled him back. Her face was set with stone. Ravi looked up at his mother, confused.  

And Tom's eyebrows furrowed together, looking upset on her behalf.

Mangala ignored the stinging sensation in the back of her throat, and continued. "And you remember Jiya, my sister-in-law." 

 Jiya stared at Tom like he ruined her life. She was dressed head-to-toe in all white. Kumar wasn't dead, but that wouldn't stop her from mourning him like he was. It made Mangala sick Jiya acted this way after Kumar treated her so badly. 

"I remember," Tom said with pleasant tone. He clapped his hands together. "Well, it was nice meeting all of you, but I best be going." 

And he took half a step before Baba stopped Tom with a firm hand on Tom's chest. 

Tom looked down at the hand before silently giving Mangala a warning glance, eyes flicking a dangerous red. 

Fear jolted through her body. She hurried over to them, "Baba," she explained forcing a laugh. She gripped his wrist and forced it downward. "Baba, Tom is a busy man." 

"Yes, very busy, aren't we all busy men?" Baba said, his jovial tone was laced with anger. "But he can stay a few minutes, no?" 

"How old are you?" Arjun asked, blunt and to the point. 

Tom hesitated. He looked anywhere but Mangala's family. He in particular avoided Baba's scrutinizing gaze. They both knew how old they were, but maybe, meeting her parents, seeing the fine lines on Baba and Meera's faces, the ones that were on his own face, he finally realized how severe their age gap was. 

He shuffled his feet, rubbed the back of his neck, thinking the best way to answer, but there was no good way for a forty-eight-year-old-man to tell a man in his early fifties he was dating the man's twenty-five-year-old daughter. Not even Tom Riddle was deluded enough to think he'd be exempt from a father's rage. 

 "I will be," he dragged the words out, sighing, "forty-nine in December."

 Mangals's shoulders went up, and her stomach clenched. To hear it out loud was visceral. Old men and young women were a common thread throughout history but Mangala was supposed to be better—a feminist. 

But he was so handsome...

Across the room, the information rippled in the air. Baba's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open, looking at Mangala, then Tom, and finally at Meera. He grabbed her shoulder, and gently pulled her back, as gently as he could. She let him. Mahavir snorted into his stolen cup of chai. Rama was livid, like he was about to do something foolish. Vasanti covered her mouth with both hands, shocked. 

"That is four months older than me," Meera said, aghast and clutching at her sari. 

"A man your age should be married, no?" Rama asked through barely clenched teeth. "Or did you make my niece a mistress?" 

"Uncle!" Mangala shouted, nostrils flaring. "How could you say that?" She looked to Baba and then her mother, and there was silence and shame. Her bottom lip trembled, but she would not cry. Crying would just be weaponized against her. "I'm not some mistress. We're not even in a serious relationship." She ignored Tom's pout. 

"So you're just sleeping around?" Rama asked, sneering at her as if she was dirty rain water and mud clogging up a drain, threatening to dirty up his white shoes. "You're a slut now, is that it?"

The words stun, but she couldn't let the hurt cloud her. Not when Tom's wand hand twitched like he was about draw it and send her uncle through the wall. 

Baba held his hand up, finally stepping in. "Rama, not now."

"We just found a man older than your wife in your daughter's bedroom," Rama said, voice dripping with disdain. And he switched to Hindi. "And he doesn't even come from a proper magical family. Riddle? That is not a British aristocrat name. She was arranged to marry Mohan Sisodia and threw away a good match of high status to whore herself to some common Englishman."

If any of her family was going to come to her defense, they couldn't when the temperature dropped to below freezing and a vortex of magic swirled around Tom and Mangala. It wasn't visible, but it was felt deep in her bones. Rajesh took two steps back. Vasanti scrambled off the coffee table and moved across the room to Mangala's pet snake's cage. The baby serpent had buried deep into the plotted soil to hide from Tom's wrath. Ravi buried his face in Priya's chest, frightened by the raw power emanating from Tom. Jyia looked like she was ready to flee the apartment altogether. Rama backed away, eyes wide with fear, and Arjun stepped in front of his two others brothers, putting on a brave face. 

Tom slowly turned to face Rama, his lips thinned into a narrow line with murder in his eyes and death curse on his lips. 

Meera and Nani grabbed Mangala's arm, tugging her back from Tom. But Mangala yanked her arm free, glaring defiantly at them before she latched herself Tom. 

"No, nonono, please. Tom, please don't do anything rash," she pleaded, keeping her tone as even as she could to hide her fear. "He's my uncle."

Tom relaxed under her touch and voice He took in a sharp breath, and exhaled slowly. He rolled shoulders, cracking stiff bones. He lifted one finger, eyes never leaving Rama.

 "First, you ignorant, pathetic excuse of  a man," Tom seethed out, speaking flawless Hindi with the slightest accent. "I am fluent in seventeen languages that includes Punjabi and Tamil. A warning in case you think you can speak about me without me knowing." 

"Second, if you ever speak about Mangala that way in front me, my punishment will be severe," he continued in near growl,  advancing on Rama, though Mangala tried to hold him back. "Do not ever call her such things. Don't even think it. I can read minds, you ignorant fuck. If I catch wind you insulted what's mine I will gut you and leave you to the crows to feast on." She gagged, mortified he said that to her uncle.

Rama shrunk away. Baba, however, was torn between horror...and respect? 

 But Tom was not done. He held up a third finger. "I am a Ahl al-‘Hayat, and one of the most powerful practitioners in existence." He switched to English. "I am the Heir of Salazar Slytherin. And finally," he brought his pinky up, looking around the room, giving a critical eye toward the grown men in the room. "What kind of men sit around allow their relative beat his wife? Shameful."

With that, he swirled on his heel, returning his entire attention on Mangala. She didn't flinch when he entered her mind, allowing him this time.

 My apologies for scaring the boy.

Her baby cousin was now hiding behind his mother, clutching at her dress. Mangala didn't accept the apology. This day was exhausting for sorries or forgiveness. 

He then bent over, lips against her ear. "I will come by later tonight at nine. I have overstayed my welcome and forgot I have a guest waiting at my house." And with a snap, he Apparated, leaving her in the center of the mess he made. 

After the chaos Tom had left in his wake, Mangala excused herself to freshen up. As in she took a ten-minute shower to scrub herself clean and find a more comfortable outfit. She was stuck to something shapeless, nearly impossible when both her hips and breasts were full and plump. But a boxy tank top under a kurta made from linen tissue fabric was modern, fresh. Breathable. The muted green and pink of her kurta suit complemented her skin, an intentional choice because she knew the comments were coming. 

They always came. 

Since moving to Britain, Mangala stopped hiding from the Sun and using those shameful creams her aunt forced upon her. Winter in Britain made her paler than those creams ever did anyway. 

Bangles and matching earrings were a must or all the Aunties will hear about how under dress she was. 

When she was done, Baba complained about how long she took, comparing Mangala to Meera and how Meera was late getting ready for Vasanti's birth. And that started an argument everyone in the family had heard a thousands of time but everyone said the same thing at the same pauses. Arjun lambasted his father for knocking over the vase as they rushed around to help Meera. Rama grew defensive and hot, arguing the same points she always had. 

And it was comforting how easily life slipped back into place. 

Lunch was an affair of avoidance. 

Mangala brought her family to a nearby Jamaican restaurant to avoid the Aunties in Southhall. Their conversations avoided Tom. They avoided the possible chance of Kumar being locked up forever, saying when instead of if. They avoided the riot from last week. They avoided Nana's worsening mental condition and why he was left behind on this trip with Meera's sisters. They avoided any mentions of Tara and Ananya, as they always do. 

And Mangala...she also avoided worrying about the National Front members standing across the street, mean mugging any person of color near them. 

But what they hadn't avoided was the lunch itself. The Jamaican rice and beans were spiced differently yet flavors were familiar and nostalgic. The roasted callaloo salad was bright and green, flavored with orange peppers and garlic. It reminded Mangala of palak, and Baba ordered seconds. Jamaican vegetable patties weren't samosas, but they were warm and buttery and filled with sweet potatoes, beans, carrots, and peas, they might as well be cousins. 

It was a nice lunch, a comfortable one. 

A breather for tonight's dinner because they're going to Southhall and be among their people. Mangala knew that would end the relative peace with her family. 

After lunch, the women and the men of the Verma family split. The men went to a small Quidditch match between the Montrose Magpies and Wimbourne Wasps. Mangala couldn't be happier when Baba said they only had enough tickets for himself, Rama, and her cousins. She found Quidditch to be one of the most mind-numbing sports to ever invented. Oh, it sure was the most popular for the magical community across the globe because what options did they have as a global community? Not much, especially if magicals didn't want to hide who they were. Not much because the Statute of Secrecy coalesces Quidditch into the standard what magic is and magic is Eurocentric. That's why magic carpets have been deemed "too slow" for the sport despite they're still run on one thing: magic. 

 But Mangala rather watch paint dry than be subjugated to people flying around on wood and straw for an hour while on team member is the only member on the team that matters. 

Especially after her first assignment for Witch Weekly after she moved to England a year ago. Mangala was just so content of having a job and not be reliant on Baba's money anymore, she was ecstatic to take any writing assignment. But spending weeks writing a fluff piece on the Holyhead Harpies. Hours of watching them practice. Hours of listening to Captain Elowen Fairfax explain plays and strategy when it came down to who had the latest racing broom. Hours of faking sexual tension with the Harpies seeker, Isolde Iverton, just so she wouldn't be bored out of her mind, only to find out Isolde had a girlfriend already. Hours of hearing the history of Quidditch their chaser,  Bronwen Blythe. Mind numbing history that she wished she could Obliviate out of her mind—

Only for them to lose. 

It was a sad day for feminism and a sad waste of her talents as a writer.  

If she never had to see Quidditch again, Mangala would be a happy woman. 

"Oh, Sweetie! Come look at this dress!" 

Mangala was ripped from her own mind and back at the Twilfitt and Tattings. For the last several minutes she was flipping through clutch bags, not actually looking and lost in thought. 

"Huh?" she said, looking over her shoulder. 

Her mother was waving her hand eustatically, but her face was annoyed and stern. As if she couldn't believe that she would have to repeat herself to her daughter in her twenties. "Come here! 

A soft sigh escaped Mangala, but she obeyed. 

Vasanti and Jiya were among a cluster of shiny even gowns. Vasanti held one up against her body while Jiya held out the end. 

It was Victorian style gown, dyed indigo with silver bead work. The tiny puff sleeves hung off the shoulders and sheer. For muggles, it was vintage. For magical Britain it was the height of fashion. 

"What do you think?" Meera asked in a low whisper, only to switch to Hindi. "It's for your sister's birthday next year. I'm going to alter it, attach chiffon fabric, add some jewels."

Mangala took one look at the dress and her sister's hopeful, smiling face and shook her head. "No, no, that's all wrong for Vasanti! She has such lovely warm brown skin," she insisted. "That blue clashes, makes her dull."

Jiya made a face. "She's right."

Vasanti pulled the dress from Jiya, clutching it to her chest. "Nooo! I want this one!" She wiggled her shoulders. "It's dark and mysterious." 

Mangala looked around, and spotted dark emerald on the rack. She tugged the dress off the hanger and held it up for them all to see.  "This will complement you better. And see! The beads are silver-gold, those are just silver. Gold is always better." Which was just a fact. 

Vasanti looked between the dress in her arms and the one Mangala held up. For split second she didn't know what to choose but she thrusted the velvet gown in Jiya's arms and snatched the one offered as an alternative. "Oh! This one is silk! And look at the lace. Mama, I want this one."

"Okay, okay, we get this one," Meera said, sighing dramatically. She opened her clutched bag, revealing the Galleons Baba gave her before they parted ways. It was enough to buy half the store if they wanted. "Is that what all the British witches wear these days? Back when I was your age, they wore these dresses with ruffles with a pointed bodice and sleeves that went to their elbows. And s straight cut over there," she closed her bag and gestured on top of her breasts to mimic the neckline. "The style change feels so drastic..."

"You should see what the muggles wear." Jiya said with a sneer, turning a judgmental smirk on Mangala. "Or your daughter's closet."

"Oh yes, because my miniskirts and tied blouses are such a scandal." Mangala rolled her eyes back to Meera. "We need to visit the ice cream parlor. It's this adorable Italian shop."

Meera's brows shot up under her bangs. "Oooh, Italian." But her tone changed as she turned a critical eye on Jiya. She pointed at her, her jaw tight. "And you are to mind your own business. What Mangala wears is her concern. Remember who is the beti and who is the bahu."

Jiya's face crumbled and she bowed her head, not saying a word. Mangala would never deny a moment of pettiness and smiled in her sister-in-law's humiliation. It felt so good after the crap Jiya put her through. 

But Meera wasn't done and turned on Mangala. "Even if it is Western."

And Mangala deflated. Of course, it would only last so long... 

Whatever awkwardness was averted by the bell at the front ringing. The crisp aristocratic voice filled the store. 

"Darling, Severus, this is utmost importance," the all too smooth voice of Leanan Malfoy. "You need tailored clothes."

Mangala liked to think she was above gossip and being nosey, but she wasn't. And she would like to blame its because she spent a year working for Witch Weekly she became a gossip, but no. Its who she was. It was also who her mother and sister were too. 

The four them moved from the racks of clothes to see who had entered. 

Sure enough, it was the Malfoy Heiress, dressed in an elegant, powdered blue pantsuit. The style of the suit was more the 1890s, with the tail of the waistcoat dragging on the mirrored floor just slightly. It was cut in a way to flatten out her chest and hide her hips, make her more androgynous. And standing out of place of the high-end wizarding shop was Tom's son, Severus. His torn jeans and muggle-band shirt must be a front to everything Leanan stood for, but if she was bothered, she didn't express it. 

The door opened again, and the air in the Twilfitt and Tattings shifted. 

A woman no taller than Mangala followed after them. Dress in mostly all black, the woman wore sunglasses and a wide rim hat, obscuring her face from the sun. The only bits of color she wore was the wore a cashmere shawl that was draped over her shoulder tucked neatly in a gold belt. Her gold and red bangles and thick necklace glittered under the candlelight of the store. 

And while there was a slight reflection of everyone on the mirrored floor, there was none for the woman standing next to Severus. 

Oh, shit. 

Was that a Vampire Lord? 

It had to be, but that was nothing compared to Mangala's next thought. Was that Tom's ex wife!? 

"And I do not understand why, when I was just in here for dress robes last week," Severus drawled. 

"Because your father," the woman spat out the word like a curse, "got you nothing representing the Prince family and only focused on Slytherin colors."

"It is our house colors, Mother. Or did you forget?" Severus dropped smooth accent that mimicked the Aristocratic purebloods and his real accent came out. It was a mix of Northern and a sharp lilt. Clipped, almost. As if he wanted to speak Farsi, but still chose English. 

Eileen Prince turned to her son, and before Mangala could blink, slapped him on the arm. Harder than she intended given she was a Vampire. 

Severus winced, clasping his hand over the soon-to-be bruise. 

She didn't care, pointing a manicured finger at Severus, nostrils flaring. "Just because your father has, for some reason, allowed you to speak with him in a certain kind of way, does not mean you can speak to me that way." He shrunk away, but there was still defiance in his eyes.

"Eileen, Eileen," Leanan stepped in, voice placating. "Severus, did you not notice we are not the only ones in the store today. You two are making a scene." 

Mother and son seemed to realize they gathered an audience of six nosey Indian women. Priya and Nani had popped their heads from their little aisle of rolls of fabric. 

Mangala brushed the front of kurta as she approached Lady Malfoy. She met Leanan twice, once for work where she interviewed the matriarch for Witch Weekly, the most prestigious job Mangala had done so far. And at the Malfoy party couple Fridays back. For that reason alone, not greeting Leanan would be social suicide for her.

"Lady Malfoy, it's a pleasure to meet you again," she said, holding her hand out.

Leanan graciously accepted with a sweet but false smile on her face. Not because she was upset, but Mangala just didn't think the good lady genuinely happy. She was too rich and too conniving to be in a good mood.  Mangala expected a firm handshake just like when they had their interview. However, this time was dainty and airy. 

"Miss Verma! What a pleasant surprise," she said with a overly sweet tone. "I must say you are quite lovely. What brings you to  Twilfitt and Tattings?" 

Mangala ignored the layered condescension in Leanan's voice. Every Malfoy she has met talked down to everyone who existed. The only reason why Malfoys weren't on her shit list of British aristocrats because they're more French than not and colonized the Brit pureblood nobles like the Brits did her people.

Mangala looked back to see her mother was right behind her while Vasanti and Jiya stayed back. "We're here to pick out my younger sister's birthday dress for next year." 

She almost stumbled over her words to quickly introduce her mother, rushing to get this rather awkward greeting over with. Leanan was getting bored, tapping her feet, the false smile dropping. 

"This is my mother, Meera," she said, putting her arms around her mother for a briefest moments. 

"It is so nice to meet you," Meera took over, grabbing Leanan's hand without warning. "And this is my own mother, Chandra, and my sister-in-law, Priya." She gestured to their right, Leanan's left. She then motioned behind her and Mangala. "And my youngest child, Vasanti and daughter-in-law, Jiya." 

Leanan's eyes swept across the room, and they grew calculating. Analytical. And her mask dropped and a snake appeared. "I do not want to assume, but you are visiting Britain because your son's arrest, correct?" 

Meera recoiled. For her to be publicly reminded by stranger that her eldest and only son was a criminal was just shameful. 

So Mangala took over. 

"Yes, my family is meeting with the Ministry to get him expedited back home." Mangala just hoped Tom's mind manipulation skills worked as well as he boasted.

"And when is this meeting?" Leanan pressed. 

"Four weeks," Meera said, sighing. "He will be in prison for three weeks until the trial."

Leanan was already shaking her head. "No, no, absolutely not. That will not do. Over a month in Azkaban without a trial? I will arrange for the court date for next week." 

Mangala was taken a back from the offer. Meera was too, suspicious even. 

"Why would you do such a thing?" she asked, eyes narrowed. "My son allegedly murdered one of your own."

Leanan laughed, with all the charm of a woman who saw herself queen. And maybe she was the closest to a queen magical Brits had. 

"Darling, Hepzibah Smith was not one of my own, she was rival. A charlatan," Leanan said, pulling a small cloth from her breast pocket. "I hated her. Your son did me an enormous favor for me and my side of the war. Making sure Kumar faces a light sentence is the least I could do." 

Meera was mortified by how casually murder was discussed as a favor. In public no less. Mangala should've warned how cutthroat the British elite were. 

Leanan didn't seem to notice. 

"Where are my manners," she said. "Let me introduce to you Lady Eileen Prince, of the Prince coven," Her arms moved in a dramatic sweeping motion. 

Eileen inclined her head, did not offer her hand, did not lower her glasses. Just stared under dark shades. "And this is my son, Severus." 

"I already met Mangala," he murmured but a sharp head turn from Eileen and he fell silent. 

Leanan looked between him and Mangala, her expression curious. "Now how did you meet a writer of Witch Weekly...unless...? Oh!" She snapped her fingers. "Tom, yes. Tom must've introduced you two."

And Mangala felt the weight of not just the five pair of eyes on her, but six when included Eileen. And Priya was going to rat her out to Uncle Rama about the second they find out Eileen was Tom's ex-wife. His Asian ex-wife. 

Not just Asian, half Roma. She could see the comments about being the replacement, the fetish option. 

"Tom?" Nani said, her voice a bit too cheerful for Mangala's crisis. "Isn't that the name of the 'friend' we met? The healer?" 

"Tom is a common name, Mother," Meera corrected, but it was hard to miss Mangala hunching over and covering her face with her hand. 

"That is true," Eileen spoke, voice clipped, "but it is also the name of my ex-husband and the father of my son." And she lowered her glasses, revealing blood-red eyes. "And you are his type when he he's not sleeping around with perky blonds."

Mangala wanted to die. What if she AKed herself right now? What if she just died, dropped dead, combust, jump off a building? 

"Ew, Mother," Severus muttered. "I rather not hear about Father that way."

"Ex-wife?" Priya repeated, aghast at the same time. 

Meera put her hands on her hips, scowling up at Mangala. "And he has a son your sister's age, Sweetie! And you are with this man?" 

Mangala wondered how hard she had to bash her head in against the floor to crack her skull? Hard? Hard enough to not hear this nonsense?

"I would not dismiss Tom as a partner," Eileen said, though her words were covered by Severus's disgusted oh my god, fucking kill me before stormed away to another part of the store. 

She lifted her leg and slipped off her ballet flat, and turned to where Severus stormed off. Mangala flinched on instinct as Eileen threw the shoe as hard as she could. 

Thud! 

"Ow!" Severus yelled behind a rack of men's wear. 

And the shoe flew back to her hand. 

For a moment, Meera and Nani forgot their horror and Priya her cold, silent judgement and all three were just impressed. 

Leanan was not. "Eileen, Darling, that is particularly disgusting! People's dirty shoes touch this floor, carrying who knows what from off the street, and you're just placing your bare feet on the floor." 

She pointed her shoe at Leanan. "This is how you properly discipline a child, Leanan. Especially one who's been indulged to speak however he pleases from his disrespectful father."

"Funny, Father says that about you!" Severus called out. 

Eileen's red eyes held murder in them. "Excuse me. It was nice to meet you all." 

She didn't put her slipper back on and swiftly made it toward Severus's location. There was an audible 'oh shit' from the boy followed by the sounds of soles slapping against bare skin and grunts. 

Leanan was scandalized. "My word. To do that in public," she said with a huff. "I must find Madame Thristleberry, excuse me." She pressed smoothed out the front of her suit before gliding through the Verma women to the back of the back of the store which was employee only.

After panicked apologies of keeping Lady Malfoy waiting for more than five minutes, Thristleberry ignored Mangala and her family. It didn't matter they were in the store first. Thristleberry tripped over herself to cater Leanan first and ignore the six Indian women. It was blatant and expected, and they would have waited in silence. Leanan was a Malfoy, she expects special treatment, and said nothing as Thristleberry pretended she didn't see Vasanti and Jiya clutch their dresses, and Priya holding a roll of peachy chiffon ready to be cut. 

Mangala wanted to just loudly proclaim they were leaving and taking Baba's money with them, but Meera had already planted her feet and determined to prove a point. 

As Thristleberry showed Leanan rolls of fabric for these special robes for Severus, the boy the robes were for was shooed to stand out of the way. Something about I dressed your father at your age, I will dress you too from the Malfoy  Heiress.

Severus kept shooting Mangala and her family looks, more irritated by the minute. He wanted to speak, but seemed unsure what to say. Eileen was content to watch, though it was hard to to 

"What of this velvet?" Thristleberry came out of the stacks of fabric, holding a dark red. It was almost black, but still not true black. 

Leanan hummed, tapping her chin. "I am not sure..." she looked over her shoulder. "Eileen, dear, your thoughts."

Eileen took off her glasses entirely instead of answering right away. Thristleberry took a step back, swallowing down on the harsh air the Vampire created. 

"My thoughts are why is my time being wasted?" Eileen asked, slipping off her hat and handing it to her son, revealing her stark black hair was in a tight braid she shoved underneath. It fell over her shoulder. Tied around her head was a bandana, also black like her entire outfit. 

Thristleberry clutched the fabric to her chest, nervous. "Wha-what?' 

"My son is a Prince—we wear black in public and you bring me red?" she asked. "Even in muggle clothing, my son wears nearly exclusively black." It was true. The only color on Severus now was the Rolling Stones logo on his shirt. Even his jeans were dyed black. "So why do you insist on presenting any and all colors my family have not worn since we left Persia?"

"I-I well…I thought because his father—

"I was under the impression Tom informed you what these robes are for?" Eileen grew more irritated. 

Thristleberry looked like she was ready to cry. Her whole body trembled on the weight of Eileen's stare. "He-well, yes, Ma'am—

"And you suggest Gryffindor colors?" She sneered. "Enough of this. Go tend to the women who were here first and I will look."

"But the Dark Lord said—

Eileen's fangs flashed as she hissed.  "Do not use my ex-husband's authority against me!" 

Thristleberry shrunk and whimpered. 

Mangala was transfixed on Eileen, a mix of weariness and respect. But that respect didn't outweigh the defensiveness she felt. Eileen didn't just frighten Thristleberry, but her family too. Vasanti in particular, crowded behind Mangala and Meera, clutching her dress as a shield. Nani clutched her sari and muttered a prayer to Vishnu. Meera shot worried glances at Mangala, and whispering under her breath, "Tom is a Dark Lord?" 

Eileen ignored the whimpering and turned to Leanan. "This zpathetic whelp is the only seamstress under Tom?"

Leanan examined her nails. "Should I arrange him for a new one?" She asked casually, bored with the dramatics. 

Mangala blanched. Were they suggesting killing a woman because she was mildly incompetent at picking fabrics? 

Thristleberry let out a sob. "No! Nonono! That will not be necessary! I just-his letter made it clear I tend to Leanan above all else-and I—

"Octavia," Eileen's voice was poisoned honey, "who is here? Hmm? Tom or me?"

"You-you are, Ma'am," she stuttered.