Soft Threats, Baby!

The thing about Harry, Draco, and Pansy was that their friendship had always been something different from the world around them. Whether they were being trained to kill people, do art trades, or meet up after their training, they didn’t need to follow anyone’s rules, didn’t have to conform to any idealized version of what family should look like. Their bond didn’t require approval. It just existed. It wasn’t about power, wealth, or the darkness that tainted the world they lived in.

They are growing up together, watching each other transform in a way only those truly tangled in the criminal underworld could understand. Draco has always been the sharp, sarcastic one, the one with a cutting word always at the ready, but beneath it, there was a level of loyalty and vulnerability that few ever saw. Pansy, ever fiery, had a temper that could ignite at any second, but she was always the first to check in on them, always the one to soften the harshness when it got too much. And then there was Harry. Quiet, observant, and always too aware of the darkness around him. He was the one who kept things grounded, whose mere presence could stop things from spiraling out of control. 

But with them? Harry felt like he could breathe, like he could live with them forever and not care about the world. They laughed. They teased each other. They didn’t need to be anything other than who they were. No masks. No pretenses. It was their safe space, tucked in the corners of a world that demanded a different version of them. They could just be with each other.

That’s how they ended up sprawled across the expensive leather couch in the dimly lit living room on a Tuesday evening. Ashtrays filled with half-smoked cigarettes, polished guns laying on the coffee table, and their childhood teddy bears worn and faded surrounding them in a bizarre yet comforting circle. They’d been here before, even though they are too young to fully understand the weight of the world they’d inherit, they are just now old enough to know that it would swallow them whole if they didn’t figure out how to survive. Just three children, who vowed to never leave each other's side, sat amongst each other.

The laughter was easy. It always had been with them.

“Really Harry? I could really outrun you in a heist.” said Draco who was now biting his fingernails raising an eyebrow at Harry.

Harry leaned back against the couch, a lollipop between his fingers, smirking. “Really because I’m the one who’s been saving your ass since as long as I could remember” Harry retorted, rolling his eyes. 

Pansy, lying flat on the couch with her head tilted back, snorted. “God, this is ridiculous. You two are like two peas in a pod, I swear.”

Harry felt his grin widen at the exchange. It was so normal. So them.

“You’re just jealous,” Draco fired back, an overconfident smirk curling at his lips. “You wish you could pull off that level of dramatic flair.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, flicking her cigarette into the tray. “I’d never be that obvious. Subtlety is an art form, Malfoy. You should learn it.”

Draco leaned forward taking the lollipop and nodded. “We’re a fucking power duo.”

Pansy laughed, grabbing the half empty whiskey bottle on the side table. She tilted it and took a long swig, feeling the burn of the alcohol slide down her throat. She needed it, to feel something that wasn’t the weight of the violence and tension always hanging around them. Her eyes flicked to Harry, then back to Draco.

“You two have way too much time on your hands,” Pansy chuckled, shaking his head. “Couldn’t have come up with that stupid banter if you didn’t.”

Draco flopped back dramatically, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, ignoring the scattering of cigarette butts and drink stains. “Come on, Pansy. You wouldn’t want us any other way.”

Pansy smiled faintly, leaning over to grab another cigarette from the pack. “True. You two are insufferable without your little theatrics. But that’s what makes it fun.”

For a few minutes, the three of them just sat there, basking in the easy comfort of their friendship. For all the blood and chaos around them, they had moments like this where they could forget the violence, the threats, the uncertainty that was always lurking in their lives. They could just be with each other.

But then, the door to the room creaked open, and everything shifted in an instant.

Severus Snape stepped into the room, his dark eyes immediately locking onto Harry’s. He was a man who carried an air of quiet menace with him, his mere presence enough to freeze the air in the room. The conversation died immediately. Pansy’s smile faded, and Draco’s posture stiffened, though he kept his face carefully neutral.

Snape didn’t look at Draco or Pansy. His eyes were fixed entirely on Harry, his gaze colder than anything Harry had ever experienced. His lips curled into a sneer.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Potter?” Snape’s voice was harsh, like jagged ice scraping against stone. He took a step forward, eyes narrowing, his hand twitching as though he were ready to strike. “You cried over one kill last swap? Over someone who’s barely worth your sympathy? Weak.”

Harry could barely breathe as he felt Snape’s eyes pierce through him. The memory of what had happened earlier the killing, the blood came rushing back. The fear, the helplessness, the horror. He wanted to forget it, but now Snape was here, and all he felt was the heat of humiliation.

“Let me make this clear, Potter,” Snape’s voice grew colder, darker. “If you ever fucking cry like that again, I’ll fuck you up so hard you’ll never want to shed a fucking tear in your life. Is that clear?”

Harry nodded immediately, his heart thundering in his chest. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak. He just stared at the floor, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

Snape gave him one last glare, his eyes seething with anger, before he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, the door slamming behind him with a force that rattled the walls.

The room was silent for a long moment.

Harry sat there, his hands clenched tightly in his lap, his chest aching. He couldn’t stop the tears, couldn’t stop the sobs that started to rise in his throat. His body trembled, but he didn’t dare make a sound. The last thing he needed was Severus’ anger coming back.

Pansy was the first to react. She moved quickly, pulling him into her arms, pressing his head into her shoulder as she whispered soothing words. “It’s okay, Harry. You don’t have to listen to him. You’re not weak. You’re not.”

Draco, usually so detached, was sitting right beside them now, his hand resting against Harry’s back. His voice was softer than Harry had ever heard it before. “Don’t let him get to you, mate. He’s a dick, and he doesn’t know shit. You’re stronger than he’ll ever understand.”

Harry nodded, his sobs quieting as he clung to them. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel so alone. In that moment, with Draco’s comforting hand on his back and Pansy’s arms around him, he could breathe again.

The silence in the room was heavy, pressing down like a thick fog. The only sounds were the occasional sharp inhales from Harry, his breathing still uneven as he clung to the plushie in his lap. His fingers curled tightly around it, gripping the soft fabric like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Pansy moved first. She reached for the nearest gun on the table, her movements careful but firm as she clicked the safety back on and placed it inside one of the drawers beneath the coffee table. She didn’t say anything, but the way she handled it quick, efficiently made it clear she didn’t want those things near Harry right now. Not when he was already shaking, not when his shoulders were still trembling with silent sobs.

Draco barely moved from Harry’s side. His arm was draped over the back of the couch, his fingers tracing idle patterns against the fabric as he tried to keep things feeling normal and comfortable. He didn’t want Harry to feel like they were treating him like something fragile. That wasn’t how this worked. Harry was strong. He knew that. But even strong people had moments like this.

“Harry,” Draco’s voice was low, steady. He didn’t sound pitying, just present. “You’re okay. You hear me? That motherfucker doesn’t get to decide how you feel.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His grip tightened on the bear plushie, his breathing still shaky.

Pansy sat down on the couch beside them after putting the last of the guns away. She reached over, running her fingers through Harry’s hair, something slow and soothing. “He’s a piece of shit, Harry. And he doesn’t get to break you,” she murmured. “You know that, right?”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. He nodded, barely, but it was something.

Draco sighed, shifting slightly so he could lean against the armrest and get a better look at him. “You’re not weak for reacting to that. You’re human. Anyone else would’ve done a lot worse in your position.” His voice was softer than usual, but still carrying that sharp edge of certainty. “So don’t start thinking you have to be some unfeeling statue. You don’t.”

Harry exhaled shakily, shifting closer to them both. He curled in slightly, the plushie still held tight against his chest. It was old, worn-out, but it smelled like something familiar like home, or whatever version of it he’d managed to hold onto.

Pansy glanced toward the door, as if making sure Snape wasn’t about to reappear, before leaning back against the couch with a small sigh. “By the way, Blaise left his phone here again,” she muttered, trying to shift the conversation slightly, ease the tension in the air. “The fucker always forgets it. I swear he’d lose his own head if it wasn’t attached to his body.”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “At this point, we should just stop giving it back. See how long it takes him to realize.”

That earned a tiny, almost imperceptible exhale from Harry somewhere between a breath and the ghost of a laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Pansy smirked, nudging Harry lightly with her shoulder. “That’s what I’m saying. He’s an idiot, but he’s our idiot.”

Draco reached over, ruffling Harry’s already messy hair. “And you,” he added, his voice light but firm, “are stuck with us. So you better start breathing properly again, Potter.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, the tension in his chest easing slightly. The fear was still there, lingering at the edges, but with Draco's steady presence, Pansy’s warmth didn't feel so unbearable.

A couple hours later.

The lounge was still warm, the kind of warmth that made limbs heavy and thoughts slow. The three of them were draped across the massive leather couch, tangled in a mess of expensive blankets. The glow from the fireplace cast long shadows across the floor, flickering against the glass of half empty whiskey tumblers and a silver ashtray cluttered with cigarette butts. Even though they were eight, it did not feel like it.

Harry was already asleep after the aftermath of what happened, curled into the space between Draco and Pansy, his breathing soft and even. He looked younger like this, his sharp edges dulled by exhaustion. His dark hair was a mess against the cushions, lashes casting shadows over high cheekbones. The oversized hoodie that belongs to Draco, judging by the scent of cologne clinging to it, swallowed his frame, the sleeves bunched around his thin wrists. His fingers curled around the plushie he refused to admit he still needed.

Pansy wasn’t asleep. Neither was Draco.

They were too used to listening.

The voices carried in from the next room, low and measured, the kind of tone used when discussing things that weren’t meant to be overheard. Snape, Bullstrode, Gaunt,  weren’t exactly careful about keeping their conversations private, assuming anyone in the house either already knew or had enough sense to keep their mouths shut.

But they weren’t just anyone.

Pansy’s nails idly traced the edge of the couch as she listened, its weight familiar against her palm. She didn’t look at Draco, but she could feel the way he tensed beside her, his breathing slow and deliberate.

“Lestrange wants the package picked up in Vegas,” Severus was saying, his voice as cold as ever. “The exchange happens in two nights.”

Gaunt scoffed. “And we’re just supposed to trust these bastards to hand it over clean?”

“She hand picked them for this. That’s all you need to know.” A pause. Then, Severus’s voice dropped just slightly, as if saying the next part aloud left a bad taste in his mouth. “And the children are coming to watch.”

Pansy and Draco shared a glance.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

Harry stirred slightly at the sound, his brows pulling together for the briefest moment before settling again. Pansy reached over, smoothing his hair back, fingers brushing against the scar on his forehead. He didn’t wake.

“What?” Bullstrode’s voice carried a note of amusement. “What, we are planning field trips now?”

Severus exhaled sharply. “Orders from, Silas Riddle ”

That was all that needed to be said.

Draco shifted slightly, pressing his palm against his temple. “Vegas,” he murmured. “Malvoris Lestrange, of all people. This’ll be a fucking mess. I swear to god pansy.”

Pansy hummed in agreement. “And we’re going to be right in the middle of it.”

Neither of them said anything else.

They just laid there in the dim light, listening as the conversation continued in the next room, pretending they weren’t already running through every possible outcome in their minds.

The bar was one of those places that didn’t exist unless you knew where to find it. Tucked between a shuttered pawn shop and a laundromat with machines older than sin, the entrance was a single unmarked door, its paint peeling at the edges. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the dim lighting doing little to hide the men who sat in dark corners, murmuring in hushed voices over expensive whiskey and smuggled cigars.

Barty and Evan had been here before.

They weren’t here for business though, like they used to be. Not tonight.

Evan had suggested it first, something about laying low, something about needing a drink. Barty didn’t need much convincing.

They sat at the bar, coats still on, their presence unnoticed or at least ignored. Barty drummed his fingers against the counter, his expression lazy with a smile to Evan as he observed his features, but Evan knew better. Barty never truly relaxed in places like this. He liked the adrenaline, thrived in it, but he was always aware.

Evan, for his part, sipped at his drink, letting the burn settle in his throat as he absently listened to the conversations around them. It was instinct at this point that years of survival had taught him that people said the most when they didn’t think anyone was listening.

Just hushed murmurs and whispering and then

“…Silas Riddle .”

The name caught his attention before he even processed the context.

Evan didn’t react.

Neither did Barty.

But he knew Barty had heard it, too.

They kept their movements casual, their focus still on their drinks, but their ears were sharp, tuned into the conversation happening just a few stools away.

“You’re joking.” A man scoffed, his voice low but laced with something that could have been unease. “That bastard is dead. We made sure of it. How could he have a child?”

A second voice, calmer but just as serious, replied, “Dead men don’t have children. And yet here we are.”

Barty’s fingers twitched against the rim of his glass.

Evan didn’t dare look at him.

Instead, he let himself glance sideways just enough to see the men speaking. They were older, dressed in tailored suits that looked out of place in a bar like this. Their presence wasn’t accidental. Bodyguards stood at the entrance, men built like walls, their expressions unreadable but their hands suspiciously close to the concealed weapons at their waists.

A planned meeting.

A name that wasn’t supposed to be spoken.

Silas Riddle.

“Lestranges have her,” the second man continued. “She’s been raised in secret, prepared to take back everything her father lost.”

A third voice, quieter but no less deadly, spoke. “Everyone is fucked. Who were the fuckers that killed Tom?”

A pause. Then, “It was a Rosier. Evan Rosier, and that Crouch boy.”

Evan exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with careful precision.

Beside him, Barty tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips, but his sharp, calculating eyes told a different story.

This wasn’t just a rumor.

This was a problem.

And it was only a matter of time before that problem found them.

Evan was still staring at his drink when Barty let out a low whistle, shaking his head with something between amusement and disbelief.

“Well, shit,” Barty muttered, swirling the last of his whiskey in his glass before knocking it back in one go. “I thought we killed that bastard.”

Evan exhaled sharply through his nose. “We did.”

Barty set his glass down with a little too much force, the sound barely noticeable over the hum of the bar. “Then who the fuck is Silas Riddle?”

Evan didn’t answer immediately. His mind was working through every piece of information they had, every scrap of knowledge about Tom Riddle and his empire. Riddle, they put him in the ground silent, calculated, never leaving loose ends. He had ruled the criminal world like a god, untouchable, unkillable. Until they proved otherwise.

But a son?

That wasn’t just a loose end. That was a goddamn landmine.

“You think Lestrange has been hiding him this whole time?” Evan finally asked, keeping his voice low.

Barty scoffed. “That psychotic bitch? Yeah. Wouldn’t put it past her.”

Evan hummed in agreement. Lestrange had been loyal to Riddle in a way that was almost religious. She would have burned the world down for him if he asked. Of course, she’d keep his legacy alive if she could.

“You hear what they said, though?” Barty continued, his tone taking on that lazy, amused quality he got when he was actually annoyed. “They’re talking about him like he’s the second coming of Christ.”

Evan tilted his head slightly, listening as the men continued their conversation.

“The Society won’t be able to ignore him for much longer.”

There it was again.

The Society.

Evan and Barty exchanged a glance.

“What the fuck is the Society?” Barty muttered.

Evan shook his head slightly. “No clue.”

“You think it was associated with Regulus?”

“If it was, we’d know about it.”

Barty hummed in agreement but didn’t look convinced. “You ever notice how these fuckers love being cryptic? It’s like they want us to be confused.”

Evan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Riddle’s dead. Now we’ve got some unknown group whispering his kid’s name in the shadows and acting like he’s about to rise from the ashes.”

Barty grinned, but it was all teeth. “Kind of poetic, isn’t it?”

Evan didn’t return the smile.

Barty leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That this isn’t our fucking problem?”

“That this is about to become our fucking problem.”

If Silas Riddle was half the problem his father had been, they were fucked.

Evan finally took a sip of his drink, setting it down with a quiet clink. “So what do we do?”

Barty didn’t hesitate. “We end it.” His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass. “For good this time.”

Evan watched him for a long moment before nodding. He lifted his glass.

“For Regulus.”

Barty clinked his against Evan’s, his smirk sharp and humorless.

“For Regulus.”

They drank, sealing the decision with whiskey and quiet rage.