Soft Threats, Baby!

The next apartment Evan and Barty went to was also a dump. It reeked of cigarettes, vodka, and bad decisions. Sergei Volkov had tried to run the second Evan and Barty broke in like that was ever going to work. Barty had caught him before he made it to the hallway, slamming his head against the doorframe so hard the wood cracked. Now, he was tied to a chair, nose broken, blood trickling from his split lip.

Evan twirled his gun in one hand, bored. “Alright, Sergei. Let’s make this easy. We know about the tape. We know what’s on the tape. What we don’t know is where it is.”

Sergei let out a sharp laugh, teeth stained red. “Then you don’t know shit, do you?”

Barty grinned from the couch, legs draped over the armrest. “He’s got a point.”

Evan ignored him, tilting his head at Sergei. “You’re gonna tell us everything you know, or I’m gonna start getting real creative.”

Sergei exhaled through his nose. “What kind of details?”

Barty sat up, expression sharpening. “A Potter.”

Sergei stilled.

Barty clicked his tongue. “C’mon, Sergei. You’re not stupid, right? I mean, you are strapped to a chair with my boy Rosier here holding a gun to your head, so maybe you are. But I’d like to think you’ve got at least one functioning brain cell left.”

Sergei hesitated, then muttered, “I’ve seen him.”

Barty gestured for him to continue. “Yeah? And?”

Sergei’s fingers twitched against the ropes. “He’s not like the others.”

Evan further pressed the gun against Sergei's temple. “Try harder.”

Sergei swallowed. “Most of the kids, they’re brainwashed. You can see it in their faces. But him? He’s got fire in him. Eyes like a damn cat, sharp and watching everything. And he’s quick, too. They keep him close, keep him controlled, because they’re scared of what he’ll do if they don’t.”

Evan’s grip on the gun tightened. Barty just smirked. “Sounds fun.”

“He’s still there,” Sergei added. “Hasn’t left. Not that he could.”

That was very interesting.

“Anything else?” Evan asked, voice casual.

Sergei hesitated. Then, slowly, “They’re hiring.”

Barty blinked. “Come again?”

Sergei licked his lips. “The program. It’s expanding. They need people—money launderers, transporters, suppliers. They’re putting out flyers soon. The kind only people in the know will recognize. It’ll have a number. You call, set up an interview. If they like you, you’re in. If they don’t?” He smirked. “Well. You don’t leave the room.”

Evan and Barty exchanged a glance.

“That’s convenient, we know all about things like these down we Evan?” Barty said with a hint of nostalgia in his tone.

 Evan didn't trust himself to speak, he shook his head in agreement.

Sergei huffed. “Guess you boys have a way in, huh?”

Barty grinned. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

And then, before Sergei could react, Evan pulled the trigger.

The gunshot rang out, and Sergei slumped forward, blood splattering across the floor.

Evan exhaled, slipping the gun back into his waistband.

Barty stretched with a sigh. “Well, that was productive.”

Evan kicked at the chair, watching as the body rocked slightly. “Think we should clean this up?”

Barty stared at the blood, then at the bullet hole in the wall.

“Nah,” he decided. “Fuck it.”

And with that, they stepped over the corpse and walked out holding hands.

——-

Harry never thought much about his bruises. They were just… there. A part of him, the same way his ribs stuck out more than they should, the same way his hands were always cold, never warm, the same way exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. He never flinched when he saw them in the mirror. Sometimes he and Pansy would trace over each other's bruises, and talk about how they would burn the place down if they could. It wasn't healthy, but it worked.

They didn’t matter, they never had, but some bruises were different. Some bruises stayed longer, some bruises made his breath hitch when he swallowed.

His head slammed back against the wall, the sharp crack making stars burst behind his eyes. Before he could catch his breath, Snape’s hand was already at his throat, cold fingers pressing against his skin.

Then he squeezed.

Hard.

The air left Harry’s lungs in an instant. He choked, fingers scrambling at Snape’s wrist, nails digging in, trying to pry it away, but the grip was unyielding.

“You think you’re clever, Potter?” Severus’ voice was calm, controlled. The same way someone might scold a child for dropping a glass. “You think you’re special?”

Harry kicked, but his legs felt weak. His vision blurred at the edges, his body growing heavier with every second. His lungs screamed, his nails scratched, but it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

The world started to slip away, sinking into something distant, something dark.

Snape didn’t let go.

The last thing Harry felt was the press of fingers, the crushing weight of them—

Then, nothing.

When Harry woke up, he was on the floor.

He gasped in a breath too fast, too sharp, and immediately regretted it. His throat burned, the bruises pulsing with each inhale. He coughed, body shuddering, hands shaking as he curled in on himself.

His vision was still blurry, his head throbbed, and Severus was gone.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there. He pressed his fingers gingerly against his neck, feeling the deep ridges left behind. His breathing was uneven, ragged. He tried to steady it, but it didn’t work.

His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the lack of air. He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes and sat in silence.

Is there something wrong with me? Is this what my parents wanted for me? The workers never told Harry what he wanted to hear, that his parents loved him, or that they cared about him. Instead they reminded him why he was there and how, saying that his life was a burden to others. 

When he thought about misery—for some reason the only image that comes to mind was himself.

His breaths were uneven, shaky, and he clenched his jaw, willing himself to not cry. But the tears were already there, burning at the edges of his vision. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, but it didn’t help. It never helped.

His hands balled into fists. He squeezed his eyes shut. Breathe. Just breathe. But no matter how much air he pulled into his lungs, it still felt like Snape’s fingers were there, pressing down, stealing it away.

The silence stretched. He curled forward, burying his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking. He hated this. He hated crying. He hated feeling weak. But his chest hurt, and his body felt too heavy, and he couldn’t stop.

Harry sat there, his knees pulled to his chest, fingers hovering over the dark, ugly marks on his throat. They were shaped like fingerprints, a perfect reminder of the way Snape’s hands had closed around his neck and squeezed until the world turned black.

His skin still felt raw, like the ghost of that grip had sunk into his bones, clinging to him no matter how many times he tried to shake it off. He swallowed, just to see if he could. It hurt.

The room was empty, but he could still feel the weight of it. The cold press of the floor against his back, the burn in his lungs, the way his fingers had scrambled at Snape’s wrist—weak, useless, powerless.

Harry had thought, in those final moments before he blacked out, this is it. And maybe that would’ve been better.

His breath hitched. He bit his lip hard, but it didn’t stop the way his chest caved in, like something had cracked deep inside of him. His throat closed up—not from pressure this time, he hated crying. His fingers curled into his sleeves, nails digging into his arms as if pain would anchor him, as if he could pull himself out of this spiral. But the memories kept coming—Snape’s sneer, the dimming light, the helplessness. 

Harry’s shoulders shook. He wanted to disappear. To melt into the wall and never move again. There was no adult to hold him, and tell him everything was gonna be okay, or whatever parents told their children when they were upset. There was no parent to care or notice if he wasn't okay. And when the bruises faded, it wouldn’t matter. Because the feeling would never leave, and he would learn to find comfort in the pain. This was The Society, you were either the shooter or the shot. There's no in-between.

The phone rang once, twice, and then clicked.

“Name,” a voice demanded, sharp and unimpressed.

“Evan Volkov,” Evan answered smoothly, picking the alias on the spot. He let the last name roll off his tongue, knowing the slight Russian influence in his accent would help sell the lie. “Twenty-eight.”

James and Barty sat beside him, both leaning in slightly to listen, their faces unreadable. Barty, however, shot James a look and mouthed something—James barely suppressed a grin.

“Reason for calling?” The voice was detached, routine.

“Looking for work,” Evan said. “Your flyer seemed interesting.”

There was a beat of silence. Faint clicking, like a keyboard, filled the background. They were looking him up.

Evan kept his expression neutral, but internally, he was pleased. They wouldn’t find anything. He had made sure of that.

“Do you consider yourself a kind person?”

A scoff.

The sound was quiet, barely there, but distinct. Evan recognized it instantly. That voice—smooth, with a slight edge, the faintest trace of an accent.

That was Harry.

Evan’s lips twitched, but he forced himself to stay composed. Barty raised his brows, having caught it too, while James made a show of staring into the phone like he was deep in thought.

“I try,” Evan finally answered.

A snort. More typing.

“What’s your previous job?”

“Freelance accountant.”

Silence again.

Evan imagined them checking databases, searching for records, coming up empty. He wished he could see their faces.

Barty tapped the table twice and pointed at James, who bit back a grin before mouthing, “They’re pissed.”

Evan allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction.

“What do you know about money laundering?”

There it was.

Evan leaned forward slightly, letting his voice drop just enough to sound casual but knowledgeable. “Depends on the method. Shell corporations are an easy front, though trade-based laundering gets the job done with less scrutiny if you know how to over or undervalue invoices. There’s layering—moving money through multiple accounts until it’s untraceable. Round-tripping’s another solid one. But if you really want to make money disappear, bulk cash smuggling is still effective, assuming you have the right connections.”

The other end was silent.

Then, a quiet mutter—inaudible, but Evan could picture them exchanging looks.

Another voice picked up. More controlled, a little sharper. “Meet us tomorrow. Eight p.m. Address is being sent now.”

“Who am I speaking to?” Evan asked, leaning back lazily.

A pause. Then—

“Harry.”

No last name.

Evan smirked. “See you then, Harry.”

The line went dead.

Evan let out a slow breath, tossing the phone onto the table.

Barty grinned. “Oh, they hate you.”

James laughed under his breath. “You think they bought it?”

Evan rolled his chair back slightly, stretching his arms above his head. “They didn’t find anything on me, so yeah. They bought it.”

Barty leaned in. “Did you hear him scoff?”

Evan smirked. “Hard to miss.”

James ran a hand through his hair, eyes shining with something between amusement anxiety, and anticipation. “Tomorrow’s gonna be fun.” with no enthusiasm. 

—--

The phone rang again. Three rings until someone picked up

“Name.”

Barty smirked at the voice on the other end. Cold. Uninterested. And definitely young.

“Barty Evans. Twenty-five.”

A giggle.

Barty grinned wider. “Something funny?”

More typing. He could hear the soft clicking of a keyboard in the background, efficient and quick. A faint murmur, another voice, but not clear enough to make out.

“Reason for calling?”

“Job looked interesting. Figured I’d give it a go.”

A beat. Then—

“Do you consider yourself a kind person?”

Barty let out a short laugh. “Depends on the day.”

No reaction. More typing.

From across the table, Evan raised an eyebrow, mouthing, he’s looking you up.

They wouldn’t find anything either. That was half the fun.

“What’s your previous job?”

“Security,” Barty answered smoothly. “Private firms, mostly. Protecting clients, keeping information locked up tight, that kind of thing. Good at breaking into places too, if that’s more your speed.”

The typing slowed.

Then—

“What do you know about encryption?”

Barty leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Depends. We talking simple ciphers, complex cryptographic algorithms, or just breaking into some poor sod’s email?”

A pause. A faint shift, as if someone had leaned in closer to the mic.

“You’re familiar with penetration testing?”

“Wouldn’t be much of a security expert if I wasn’t.”

Something about the way Harry went silent made Barty smirk. He could picture him—staring at the screen, running checks, trying to dig up dirt that didn’t exist.

Evan tapped the table, his expression sharp as he listened closely.

Then, a new voice.

A little smoother, more refined. Draco.

“Ты уверен, что он не врёт?” Are you sure he’s not lying?

Evan didn’t react outwardly, but he understood.

Harry exhaled sharply. “Ещё ничего не нашёл.” Haven’t found anything yet.

Evan and Barty exchanged a glance. Interesting.

“You Russian?” Barty asked, all casual, like he hadn’t just clocked a whole conversation.

A pause.

Then—flat, unimpressed—

“Clearly.”

Barty laughed. “Figured. Just wanted to hear you say it.”

A soft, irritated exhale. Then, briskly—

“Twelve p.m. Day after tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

But Barty wasn’t done. “No more questions? Seems like a short interview.”

A beat of silence.

“Do you have more answers?”

Barty smirked. “Maybe. But I’ve got questions too.”

Harry didn’t respond.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Silence.

“Come on, you’re asking me all this stuff. Seems only fair.”

Another pause. Then, clipped—

“No.”

Barty blinked. “No, you won’t answer, or no, you don’t have a favorite color?”

“No.”

Evan suppressed a chuckle, shaking his head.

Barty pressed on. “Alright, what about music? You a jazz guy? Rock? Classical? Maybe you’ve got a secret soft spot for pop—”

“Do you think this is a joke?” Harry cut in, voice sharp.

Barty grinned. “Little bit, yeah.”

There was a sound, like someone else had shifted, then a new voice—spoke.

“Потеря времени,” he muttered. Waste of time.

Barty let the silence sit for a second before finally—

“I’ll see you.”

Click.

Barty tossed the phone onto the table with a laugh. “Oh, he really hates me.”

James chuckled. “You were harassing him.”

“Abusing my position,” Barty corrected. “And I’ll do it again.”

Evan smirked. “He did not like that Russian question.”

“No, he did not,” Barty agreed. Then, stretching his arms behind his head.

James moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, chopping onions with practiced efficiency while a pot simmered on the stove. The rich scent of garlic and herbs filled the air, cutting through the tension that had settled over the room since Barty hung up the phone.

Evan sat at the table with a tray of orange muffins, scrolling through his laptop, still searching for traces of Silas Riddle online, even though they all knew that it was impossible to find. Barty lounged on the couch, one arm slung over the back, watching him with amusement.

“So?” James called over his shoulder as he tossed the onions into a pan. “What do we think?”

Evan exhaled sharply. “Kid’s good. Runs a tight operation.”

Barty smirked. “Which one? The one with the attitude, or the one speaking in riddles?”

James snorted, stirring the sauce. “Both, but I’m guessing you mean Harry.”

Evan tapped the table. “He was running searches on me the second I gave my name. And the other boy—” he gestured to the screen, “—was doing it too. They didn’t trust a damn thing we said, which means they’re smart. And fast.”

Barty stretched, cracking his neck. “Harry’s got a mouth on him. I like him.”

Evan rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”

James turned, raising an eyebrow. “And what exactly do you like about the kid who very clearly wanted to murder you through the phone?”

Barty grinned. “Oh, just the sheer, overwhelming disdain in his voice. I think I got under his skin.”

“You absolutely got under his skin,” James said, unimpressed. “That’s not a good thing.”

Barty wagged a finger. “Ah, but it is. Now he’s paying attention to me. Which means next time we talk, I can get more out of him.”

Evan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You think they bought it?”

James turned back to the stove, stirring idly. “Hard to say. But you both passed. If they didn’t believe it, they’d have cut the calls short.”

Barty smirked. “Told you I’d make the cut.”

James shook his head. “You barely made the cut. I thought he was gonna hang up the second you asked his favorite color.”

Evan snorted. “That was a dumb question.”

Barty grinned. “It was an annoying question. And now he’s going to remember me.”

James sighed, turning the heat down. “Yeah, as the guy he hates.”

Barty just shrugged. “Better than being forgettable.”

Evan turned his laptop toward James. “The other one said something interesting in Russian before the call ended.”

James walked over, wiping his hands on a towel. “Yeah?”

Evan nodded. “He asked Harry if he was sure we weren’t lying.”

James frowned. “And?”

“And Harry said he hadn’t found anything yet.”

Barty whistled low. “They’re still looking.”

Evan nodded. “Which means they’re not convinced.”

James sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Alright. So lay low until the meeting tomorrow. You guys stick to the covers. No risks.”

Barty grinned. “No fun, you mean.”

James gave him a warning look.

Barty raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave.”

Evan glanced at the laptop screen once more. “Harry’s going to be a problem.”

James turned back to the stove. “We’ll deal with him when we get there.”

Barty grinned. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

The warehouse loomed ahead, dark and industrial, the kind of place that had seen countless deals go down—some ending in handshakes, others in blood. Evan adjusted his cufflinks as he approached, the weight of his hidden gun pressing reassuringly against his side. He knocked once.

The door cracked open almost immediately, revealing two figures standing in the dim light. Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. Both young, both dangerous in ways most wouldn’t expect at first glance.

Evan’s eyes flickered over them quickly. Pansy, with sleek black hair framing a sharp face, held herself with the easy confidence of someone who knew she could kill you and make it look like an accident. Her gaze was sharp but unreadable, a mask of disinterest.

Draco, paler than her, platinum hair catching the low light, looked almost delicate—until you noticed the way his fingers rested near his concealed weapon. His expression was neutral, but Evan saw the flicker of scrutiny as their gazes met.

They didn’t say anything at first. Then, in Russian, Draco muttered, “This one’s got money.”

Pansy snorted softly. “He doesn’t look like the type to get his hands dirty.”

Evan, of course, understood every word. He schooled his features into mild curiosity, pretending not to catch the exchange. Let them think he was just another clueless outsider. It gave him the upper hand.

Then came the voice from inside, clipped and firm. “Sit.”

Evan’s attention snapped to the speaker.

Harry.

And that was when Evan knew, without a doubt. The resemblance was undeniable—small nose, pale skin, and the same sharp bone structure. But the eyes? Green. Not James’s.

He didn’t need to ask for a last name. He already knew.

Evan smoothed out his expression before stepping inside. If Harry was anything like James, questioning him outright would get him nowhere. Better to act like nothing was out of the ordinary.

The room was sparse, a table set up in the center where Cedric Diggory and Blaise Zabini sat. Cedric gave off an air of warmth, almost too kind for a place like this. A strategic move, Evan noted. Make them feel safe before they’re forced into something dangerous. Blaise, on the other hand, was already watching him like a predator sizing up prey, fingers idly tapping against the gun resting on the table.

Evan took the empty chair across from them, stretching out like he wasn’t remotely concerned.

Cedric was the first to speak, his voice even. “We’re here to see if you’re a good fit for the organization.”

Blaise, unimpressed, leaned forward slightly. “And if you’re not, well…” His fingers stopped tapping the gun. A small, deliberate pause. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Evan only smiled. “Straight to the point. I like it.”

He could feel eyes on him. Harry, Draco, and Pansy weren’t just security. They were watching him. Studying. Calculating.

Harry spoke next, tone cool and detached. “Tell them what you can offer.”

Evan exhaled as if considering his words. He already knew what they wanted. But playing along was part of the game.

“I move money,” he said simply. “Quietly, efficiently. No flags, no paper trails. You need accounts set up? Funds funneled through clean businesses? I make that happen.”

Cedric nodded, still polite, still playing the good cop. “And if we need someone to travel for business?”

Evan tilted his head slightly, catching the unspoken meaning. “If we need someone to disappear.”

“Then I go.”

Blaise hummed, unimpressed. “And if you don’t want to?”

Evan smiled, slow and lazy. “Depends on the offer.”

The click of a gun broke the air.

Blaise didn’t hesitate, pointing the weapon directly at Evan’s chest. “Wrong answer.”

From the corner of his eye, Evan caught Harry watching, unimpressed, arms crossed like this was the most boring thing he’d seen all day. Draco leaned in slightly, clearly enjoying the display. Pansy barely blinked.

Evan only grinned. Not scared. Never scared. He's done this rodeo more than he can count. He let the silence stretch, knowing that fear made people sloppy.

Then, finally, he let his gaze flick lazily back to Harry. “Do the job,” Harry said, voice smooth. “It could all be so easy for you.”

There was something in the way he said it—calculated, almost taunting. Like he already knew Evan would agree. Like he was daring him to refuse.

Evan pretended to hesitate, just for show. Then he exhaled, like he was giving in. “Fine.”

Harry stood immediately, retrieving a manila folder from the table and sliding it across. “Great.”

Evan reached for it, fingers brushing against the surface. He could feel the weight of the information inside. Names. Locations. Instructions. Excuses for disappearing.

Pansy leaned in slightly, smile returning. “You’re going to be great.”

Evan raised a brow. “Nice to see someone with faith in me.”

Draco scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t mind her. She gets attached.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but before Evan could respond, she held out a slip of paper. “One week. You leave then.”

Evan accepted it smoothly, slipping it into his pocket. “Understood.”

Then he turned, exiting the warehouse without looking back.

A black car was waiting outside. The moment he slid into the passenger seat, Barty tapped the steering wheel impatiently. “So? How’d it go?”

Evan exhaled, resting the folder against his lap. “Oh, you know.” He smirked. “I passed.”

The moment Evan shut the car door, Barty hit the gas, pulling away from the warehouse in one smooth, practiced motion. The streets were dimly lit, the flickering neon of a distant convenience store casting fractured colors across the windshield.

Evan exhaled, running a hand through his hair before looking down at the manila folder in his lap. Thicker than expected. They were giving him a lot of trust upfront. Either that, or they were confident that if he crossed them, he’d be dead before he could do anything with the information.

Barty didn’t look over, just drummed his fingers on the wheel. “So?”

Evan smirked, glancing at the rearview mirror. James was in the backseat, arms crossed, waiting. The way he did when he was trying not to seem impatient but absolutely was.

Evan let the silence stretch a little longer, just to mess with them.

Barty side-eyed him. “Evan, I swear to God, if you don’t start talking, I’m driving this car into a fucking river.”

James sighed. “Just tell us how it went.”

Evan chuckled, finally indulging them. “Well, for starters, it was exactly what we expected. Tight security, nothing sloppy. And their setup? Ruthless. They’re not asking people to join. They’re forcing them.”

Barty snorted. “Shocker.”

Evan hummed. “The interviews are structured. Cedric and Blaise run them. Cedric’s the nice one—good cop. Blaise is the bad cop. Very bad cop.” He tilted his head slightly, recalling the moment. “If you so much as hesitate, you get a gun pointed at you.”

James frowned thinking of Regulus. “That’s their approach? Just threaten people into it?”

“More or less,” Evan said. “Though, to be fair, I think Cedric tries to soften the blow. He actually seemed… decent.”

Barty scoffed. “Yeah, well, he’s still part of it.”

Evan didn’t argue. He flipped open the folder, thumbing through the papers inside. Lists of names. Financial breakdowns. Travel instructions.

Then, almost absently, he said, “Oh, and James—your son’s running security.”

Silence.

The car stayed in motion, but both Barty and James visibly stiffened. James leaned forward, voice suddenly sharper. “What?”

Evan kept flipping through the folder like he hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb on them. “You heard me.”

James was staring now. Hard. “Explain.”

Evan exhaled. He’d suspected before, but seeing the kid in person? It was like looking at a ghost.

“He’s got your bone structure,” Evan said, matter-of-fact. “Small nose. Pale. The way he carries himself—it’s you, but… harder. Less expressive.” He tilted his head, recalling. “And then there are the eyes. Not yours. Green.”

James didn’t say anything.

Barty, however, let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Evan shut the folder and tossed it onto the dashboard. “He didn’t recognize me, obviously. But he’s sharp. Cold. He’s not just there for show. He knows what he’s doing.”

James rubbed his temples, clearly processing. “And you’re sure?”

Evan turned slightly in his seat, leveling James with a look. “I don’t need a fucking DNA test, James. It’s obvious.”

Barty muttered, “That’s insane.”

Evan huffed a dry laugh. “Oh, you think that’s insane? Try the fact that he and his little friends are running an operation where children—literal children—are pointing guns at people.” He shook his head. “Pandora found a bit of information on those other fuckers. Their names are Draco and Pansy. They’re young. You can see it. They act tough, but it’s a front. They’re playing a role. They don’t have a choice.”

James let out a sharp breath, leaning back into the seat. His jaw was tight. “And Cedric and Blaise?”

“They’re older,” Evan said. “Still young, but they’re the ones actually pulling strings in the interview process. Cedric’s the only one who shows any humanity. Blaise is efficient, detached, the kind of guy who doesn’t hesitate to pull a trigger.” He paused. “Harry, though? He’s different.”

James looked at him, waiting.

Evan shrugged. “He’s… quiet, but not weak. Sharp. Watchful. He listens more than he speaks.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh. “At one point, he was talking to Draco and Pansy in Russian, assuming I wouldn’t understand.”

James frowned. “And?”

“And he was talking about me.” Evan smirked. “Didn’t say anything too damning, but he was suspicious. Watching.”

Barty exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “So, let me get this straight. James’s son—who James never even knew—has been raised in this absolute hellhole of a program, and now he’s some kind of child security enforcer for a criminal organization?”

Evan nodded. “Pretty much.”

James didn’t speak.

Barty turned, looking at him. “You good?”

James clenched his jaw, staring at the dashboard. His fingers curled into a fist, then relaxed, then curled again. Something in him was breaking, but he wouldn’t let it show.

Evan sighed. “It’s bad, James.”

James closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah.”

Barty tapped the wheel. “So, what’s the next move?”

Evan picked the folder back up. “Well, I play along. I do the job. If I refuse, I’m dead.” added Evan with air quotes.

Barty huffed. “So, nothing new.”

Evan chuckled dryly. “Exactly.”

They drove in silence for a moment, the weight of everything settling between them.

Then Barty said, “James, you need a drink.”

James didn’t respond. He just stared out the window.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. The city lights blurred past the windshield, neon streaks of red and blue reflecting in the rearview mirror. James sat stiffly in the back seat, eyes distant, lost in whatever thoughts were clawing at him.

Evan glanced at him once before looking at Barty. James was gone for now, tuned out completely.

Barty must have noticed too because he exhaled sharply and muttered, “Well, that’s fucking depressing.”

Evan huffed a laugh, rolling his shoulders back. “Yeah, well. I’d say let him process, but knowing James, he’ll just shove it down until it kills him in ten years.”

Barty shrugged the thought of Regulus appearing but he brushed it aside quickly. “We all cope in our own ways.”

Evan hummed, then tapped the folder on his lap. “Alright. Let’s talk about what we actually got out of this.”

Barty tilted his head. “Aside from the fact that James has a secret son who grew up in a crime syndicate and now casually threatens people with guns?”

Evan smirked. “Yes, aside from that.”

Barty snorted but nodded for him to continue.

“We have the upper hand,” Evan said simply. He tapped the folder again. “They think they’re vetting me, but we’re vetting them just as much. We have a direct look into their operations now. I have access to their laundering network, their connections, everything. If we play this right, we can dismantle it from the inside.”

Barty considered this, eyes flicking toward the road ahead. “And Silas?”

Evan’s fingers drummed against the folder. “Still need to find him. But I have a feeling we’re getting closer. Pansy mentioned his name.”

Barty frowned. “She gave it up just like that?”

Evan smirked. “I might’ve fished a little.”

Barty raised a brow. “And they didn’t suspect anything?”

“Nah. To them, I’m just some guy looking for a job. They expect questions. They assume I’m trying to assess risk.” Evan tilted his head. “They’re paranoid, sure, but that’s why they think they’re untouchable. No one who gets in is supposed to ever get out.”

Barty’s lips curled into a grin. “Yeah, well. They’ve never met us.”

Evan chuckled. “Exactly.”

For a moment, the mood lightened—just a little. But then, inevitably, the conversation turned back to the kid.

Harry.

Evan leaned back against the seat, rubbing his jaw. “It’s fucked up, you know.”

Barty didn’t need clarification. He sighed, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Yeah.”

“James’s kid,” Evan muttered. “He should be in school. He should be complaining about homework or sneaking out to meet friends, not—” He exhaled sharply. “Not pointing guns at people. Not watching every move like he’s already seen the worst of the world.”

Barty tapped the steering wheel idly. “Thing is, he has seen the worst of the world. And he survived it.”

Evan shook his head. “That’s not the point. He shouldn’t have had to.”

Barty was quiet for a second, then said, “Do you think he even knows?”

Evan glanced at him. “Knows what?”

“That James is his dad.”

Evan considered this. Harry hadn’t reacted to his last name—hadn’t even asked for it. Either he already knew, or he didn’t care.

“I don’t think so,” Evan admitted. “And if he does, he doesn’t acknowledge it.”

Barty clicked his tongue. “That’s cold.”

Evan huffed a dry laugh. “Yeah, well. Seems to be a family trait.”

They fell silent again, but this time, it was heavier. Because no matter what plans they made, no matter how much control they thought they had, there was still a kid—James’s kid—caught in the middle of all of this and none of them could change that.

Barty approached the warehouse at an unhurried pace, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, eyes flicking over the exterior. It was a bleak, industrial thing—corrugated metal, a few boarded-up windows, rust creeping along the edges. The kind of place that could swallow a man whole if he wasn’t careful. Evan said it wouldn't take too long.

He knocked twice, sharp raps against the heavy metal door.

There was a pause. Then the telltale sound of a lock sliding back before the door creaked open just enough for him to see who was inside.

Blaise stood in the doorway, pale hair tousled, looking half-asleep. His head lolled slightly as he blinked at Barty, clearly exhausted.

Cedric was already seated at the metal table in the center of the room. Cedric, ever the polite one, offered a small nod of acknowledgement, while Blaise leaned against the wall, arms crossed, exuding the kind of silent threat that didn’t need words.

To the side, sitting on an old crate, were Harry, Draco, and Pansy. They looked exhausted—Draco had his head tilted slightly, resting against Harry’s shoulder, while Pansy rubbed at her eyes, barely keeping herself upright. If Barty didn’t know better, he’d say they needed a nap and a bedtime, not a life of crime. But then again, he did know better.

“Sit,” Blaise instructed, voice clipped.

Barty dropped into the chair across from them, slouching just enough to appear casual but not careless. He could feel Harry’s eyes on him, cool and assessing.

Cedric, ever the contrast to Blaise’s quiet hostility, leaned forward slightly. “Tell us why you’re interested in the job.”

Barty grinned, slow and easy. “Money.”

Blaise scoffed. “Try again.”

He rolled his eyes, like he was indulging them. “Fine. I’m good at what I do, and I like to stay busy.”

Cedric tapped his fingers against the table, studying him. “And what exactly is it that you do?”

“Security. Movement of certain…goods. Keeping things quiet when they need to be quiet,” Barty listed off lazily. “You know, the fun stuff.”

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “And if we decide we don’t need you?”

Barty gave a slow, exaggerated shrug. “Guess I’ll take my talents elsewhere.”

The silence stretched. Blaise reached for something under the table, and in a blink, he had a gun pointed directly at Barty’s chest.

“If you decline the offer,” Blaise said smoothly, “you don’t walk out of here.”

Cedric let out a sigh, shooting Blaise a look. “That’s not entirely necessary.”

Barty, for his part, grinned, not the least bit fazed. “Oh, I like this game.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement—Harry shifting slightly, watching. That kid was quiet, but there was a sharpness to him, something lurking beneath the surface.

“You’ll do the job,” Cedric continued, ignoring Barty’s amusement. “It could all be so easy for you.”

Barty tilted his head, pretending to consider. He already knew he was going to say yes—he and Evan needed to be inside, to figure out how deep this thing went. But playing hesitant gave him an edge.

Finally, he sighed, leaning back. “Fine. What’s the job?”

Harry, who had been silent the entire time, stood and walked forward. He placed a manila folder on the table in front of Barty. “Everything you need to know is in here. His finger tapped the folder for emphasis. You’ll be moving money for the program. Laundering. International transactions. It won’t be clean, and it won’t be easy.”

Barty flipped the folder open, scanning the documents. Fake accounts, coded instructions, lists of locations—yeah, this shit was deeper than he expected.

Pansy, who had been eerily quiet before, suddenly spoke up, handing him a small slip of paper. “Memorize the number. You cannot tell anyone about this, you know the consequence.”

Barty smirked, tucking the paper away. “You’re a delight.”

Pansy smiled, almost sweetly. “You’re going to be great.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Such a dramatic.”

That earned him a glare from Pansy, and the two started bickering in Russian.

Barty sat back, watching, feigning mild boredom. But inside, he was calculating. Observing. These kids—they were killers, professionals. But they were still kids. Draco’s gestures were too expressive, Pansy’s threats held the faintest edge of something playful. Even Harry, with all his cold poker face, still had a way of shifting his weight like

e he was bracing himself—like there was something in him that wasn’t fully hardened yet.

For a moment, just a brief one, Barty felt something almost like pity.

But he couldn't just scoop him up and run away. He was officially on the inside.

Barty watched them, lips twitching at the corners. “That’s bleak. Even for me.”

Draco threw down rock. Harry had scissors.

Draco smirked, victorious. “Looks like I win.”

Harry scoffed. “Rematch.”

Draco snorted but held up his fist again. “You’re just mad because I’m better.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Luck, Draco. Nothing more.”

They started again, the rhythm of their hands slapping against their palms almost hypnotic. Pansy leaned forward on the table, resting her chin in her palm as she watched them play. “You know, if you used this energy for something useful, maybe we’d own the program by now.”

Draco, still focused on the game, hummed. “We’re patient.”

Harry threw down rock. Draco had paper.

Draco grinned. “Two for two.”

Harry groaned, flopping back against his chair. “Fine. I admit it. You’re a rock-paper-scissors mastermind. The best that’s ever lived.”

Draco crossed his arms, smug. “I know.”

Barty huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “And here I thought this place was all blood and brutality. Turns out, you’re just a bunch of kids.”

Harry’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze flicked toward Barty. “We can be both.”

Pansy sat up. “Yeah, didn’t you hear? We’re multitalented.”

Draco nodded, feigning seriousness. “Elite killers. Professional gamblers. And, most importantly, undefeated rock-paper-scissors champions.”

Harry shot him a glare. “I wouldn’t say undefeated.”

Draco shrugged. “I would.”

Barty exhaled, looking between them.

Pansy smirked. 

Blaise and Cedric returned to the room, the heavy door creaking slightly as they stepped back inside, breaking the brief moment of stillness. Blaise, as usual, had a quiet confidence in his step, his eyes sharp as they moved across the room, scanning the surroundings. He carried with him a folder, which he slid onto the table with a soft thud, a brief flicker of annoyance crossing his features as if the weight of the task at hand had just increased. Cedric followed behind him, his posture more relaxed, the soft click of his shoes against the floor seeming almost at odds with the tense atmosphere in the room.

Harry, sensing the return of the adults and eager to escape the looming tension for just a moment, shuffled closer to Cedric. His earlier exhaustion melted away as he approached the older man, his catlike eyes now rounder and innocent, his voice was low but firm when he spoke. “Can we get ice cream later?” His words, though simple, carried a sincerity in them, a small request for something normal in the middle of this chaotic world.

Cedric blinked, caught off guard for a second, before his face softened with a warmth that was almost too genuine for the cold setting they were in. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked down at Harry. “Ice cream, huh? I think that sounds like a good idea,” Cedric replied, his tone light, as if indulging Harry in this small request was the easiest thing in the world. “Yeah, of course, Harry. Any flavor in mind?”

Harry tilted his head slightly, contemplating the question with exaggerated seriousness. “Something good,” he replied with a shrug, his expression a mix of innocence and mischief, as if he were giving Cedric a challenge to find the perfect flavor. His tone was nonchalant, but there was an underlying trust in his words, a trust he had yet to show anyone else. In that moment, Harry seemed less like the hardened figure he had been shaped into and more like a child, asking for something simple in a world that wasn’t kind to children.

Harry grinned, his eyes brightening just slightly. “Chocolate’s fine,” he agreed, but his voice held a playful edge, as if he were testing Cedric’s promise.

From the corner of his eye, Barty watched the exchange, his sharp gaze noting the way Cedric’s demeanor softened in Harry’s presence, the way he gave Harry that small, comforting smile. For a moment, Barty couldn’t help but wonder, he wasn’t used to seeing anyone so… genuinely kind, especially in a place like this. Him, Evan, and Regulus never showed affection like they did during interviews for the heist. In fact they were mainly pointing guns at other people and cracking jokes together while Regulus was annoyed. However he then remembered that there are 3 children in a room— one which is James' son, so he shouldn’t be surprised to hear ice cream being a topic for conversation. One thing the program could not succeed in was forcing a child to not act like a child. Criminal masterminds, white collar crime, and guns but at the end of the day they will always be children who got sucked into something they can't get out of on their own. 

As Barty’s fingers tapped on the table in irritation, his gaze flicking back to Blaise, who was flipping through papers in the folder he’d placed down. Blaise, as usual, seemed oblivious to the softer moments unfolding in front of him, his face a mask of indifference. The quiet between them stretched, leaving Barty to ponder what had just happened—how easily Harry leaned into Cedric, how natural it seemed for Cedric to offer that kind of affection. It was something Barty hadn’t seen much of in his life, and it struck him in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Harry, still standing close to Cedric, felt a quiet sense of comfort in the older boy's presence. He wasn’t used to it—wasn’t used to feeling safe—but there was something about Cedric’s easygoing nature, the way he spoke so plainly, that made Harry forget for a moment that they were in the middle of something dangerous. For once, Harry wasn’t on edge, wasn’t trying to hide his every thought, his every move. He felt like a child, even if just for a moment, and that scared him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Blaise and Cedric mumbled something at getting final approval before taking off. Barty however had his mind stuck on the interaction of Harry and Cedric, taking note of how easy Harry was with Cedric, the way he stood just a little closer, the way Cedric’s warmth was met with something almost—safe. It was… odd to see. Comfort like that didn’t belong in a place like this.

Blaise and Cedric returned to the room, the heavy door creaking slightly as they stepped back inside, breaking the brief moment of stillness. Blaise, as usual, had a quiet confidence in his step, his eyes sharp as they moved across the room, scanning the surroundings. He carried with him a folder, which he slid onto the table with a soft thud, a brief flicker of annoyance crossing his features as if the weight of the task at hand had just increased. Cedric followed behind him, his posture more relaxed, the soft click of his shoes against the floor seeming almost at odds with the tense atmosphere in the room.

“Let me guess your favorite flavor pleasee” Harry asked, his voice softening and pleading like a child asking to stay awake for five more minutes. He was more curious than anything else. It was a simple question, but it felt like the first time in a long time Harry wasn’t focused on the bigger picture, on what was lurking in the shadows of their lives.

Cedric gave a small smile, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Vanilla,” he said, shrugging. “It’s simple, but it works.” His tone was casual, unbothered—he didn’t seem like someone who cared much for picking something more exciting; he liked what he liked.

Harry smirked slightly, a spark of mischief flickering in his gaze. “Vanilla? Thats super boring,” he teased, though there was a softness to his voice. He wasn’t completely closed off, not with Cedric. Not right now.

Before Cedric could respond, Blaise’s voice interrupted, sharp and biting. “Enough with the ice cream, Cedric,” he snapped, flipping through the folder in front of him with barely concealed irritation. “We have work to do.”

Cedric didn’t react to Blaise’s harsh tone. Instead, he gave Harry a small, apologetic smile and ruffled his hair once more. “Later, alright?”

Harry nodded, already turning back toward the others as Cedric and Blaise began to settle into a more businesslike demeanor. He felt a strange mix of emotions—discomfort and warmth, security and unease—but for the first time in a long while, he let himself relax, if only for a moment.

The car was parked just a block away from the warehouse, tucked into the shadows of an alley. Barty stepped in, the door shutting with a solid thunk behind him. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke and leather filled his nose, and as he settled into the seat, Evan, behind the wheel, barely spared him a glance. James, on the other hand, turned fully in his seat, sharp eyes scanning him.

“Well?” James asked, voice measured.

Barty exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Well,” he started, stretching out the word with a dramatic sigh, “Like Ev said they’ve got children with guns, Blaise is a piece of work, and Cedric’s nice enough to make you want to puke.” He grinned, but it quickly faded. “Oh, and Harry is James’s actual clone, except for the green eyes. I thought I was losing my damn mind when I saw him up close.”

James stiffened, his fingers curling against his knee. Evan, who had been quiet so far, let out a low hum. “This is crazy.”

Barty shot him a flat look. “Come on, Evan. The kid has the same bone structure, same nose, same pale skin. If he had brown eyes, I’d have thought we time-traveled and picked up James as a teenager. It’s unsettling.”

James didn’t say anything for a long moment. His jaw was tight, his eyes unfocused, like he was somewhere else entirely. He swallowed, rolling his shoulders back before speaking. “And how was he?” His voice was quiet, carefully controlled.

Barty considered that. “Cold. Guarded. But not completely shut off. He’s sharp, quick on his feet. Definitely the kind of kid who doesn’t trust easy. But,” he tilted his head, thinking back to the moment Harry had leaned into Cedric, voice soft when asking for ice cream, “he’s still a kid. He just doesn’t get to act like one much.”

James breathed out slowly through his nose. “And the rest of them?”

Barty leaned back against the seat, resting his head against the headrest. “Draco and Pansy—also just kids, but they’re trying real hard not to be. They’ve got an edge to them, but it’s put-on, like they don’t know how else to be. They joked about their trauma. Just laughed about it. It was… fuckin’ sad, honestly.”

Evan’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “And the job?”

Barty smirked slightly. “Organizing files. A glorified librarian gig probably task me to break in some place every now and then. But you and I both know that means I’ll have access to a lot of information.” He tapped the folder on his lap. “There’s a number in here. They’ll call, I’ll go where they tell me, and then I’m in.”

James finally looked at him again, expression unreadable. “We’re going to find that tape. And we’re going to put an end to this.”

Barty nodded, but his mind lingered on Harry, on the way he had been surrounded by people but still looked alone. He thought about how James was going to have to face him eventually.

Barty was thinking how hell of a mess it would be. Too many possible outcomes and reactions.

The car rumbled down the dimly lit road, headlights cutting through the night. The only sound for a moment was the steady hum of the engine and the occasional pop of Evan’s bubble gum as he drove, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. He was leaning back, one hand loose on the wheel, exuding the kind of casual confidence that made it look like he had nowhere in the world to be, despite the weight of everything pressing down on them.

Barty, sitting in the passenger seat, was idly playing with his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger, sliding it up and down absently. It was an old habit, one he probably didn’t even realize he was doing anymore. His gaze flickered to James in the back, who hadn’t spoken since they pulled away. He was staring out the window, lost in thought, his jaw tight.

“So,” Barty started, breaking the silence. “You wanna hear the most ridiculous thing?”

Evan made a vague noise of acknowledgment, still chewing his gum, while James barely shifted.

Barty smirked. “Harry—your kid, James, in case you forgot—went up to Cedric and asked him if he’d buy him ice cream.”

That got Evan’s attention. He turned his head slightly, blowing a bubble before popping it with his teeth. “No shit?”

“No shit.” Barty let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “The kid’s been raised in whatever the hell this operation is, surrounded by guns and blood and all that, and yet he’s out here asking Cedric Diggory to take him for a damn ice cream cone.”

James finally reacted, his brows furrowing. He blinked a few times, like he was trying to process it, and when he spoke, his voice was rough. “What did Cedric say?”

Barty grinned. “Said yes, obviously. Kid’s got him wrapped around his damn finger. Harry asked what Cedric’s favorite flavor was, and when he said vanilla, Harry just called it boring, straight to his face.”

Evan huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Shit, that’s kinda funny.”

Barty glanced back at James again, expecting at least a small reaction, but James was still staring ahead, his expression unreadable.

“James,” Barty pressed. “Did you hear me? Your long-lost son, trained assassin or whatever the hell he is now, is out here bullying people over ice cream flavors.”

James inhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. I heard you.” His voice was strained, like the words were pulling something out of him he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Barty watched him for a second longer, then just exhaled, turning back to the front. “Well, don’t say I never tell you anything interesting.” He resumed playing with his wedding ring, sliding it up and down his finger.

Evan popped another bubble. “Gotta say, the kid’s got taste. Vanilla is boring.”

Barty smirked. “Yeah, but you’re Russian. You probably like weird shit like black licorice or something.”

Evan scoffed. “First of all, fuck you. Second, black licorice is disgusting, even in Russia.”

James, despite everything, let out a quiet, barely-there breath of amusement. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The car fell into a moment of silence, the weight of everything settling in. The street lights flashed past, throwing shadows across James’s face as he sat still in the backseat, staring at nothing in particular. Barty and Evan exchanged a glance—one of those silent, wordless conversations they’d perfected over the years. 

They really are just kids. It was easy to forget, easy to see them as something else—these trained, hardened little soldiers with guns and knives and dead eyes when they wanted to have them. But then there was this. Harry teasing Cedric over ice cream flavors. Draco and Harry playing rock, paper, scissors like the outcome actually mattered. Pansy fussing over them in her sharp, biting way. They weren’t just kids once upon a time. They still were.

Barty exhaled, rubbing his hand over his face. “It’s fucked up,” he muttered. “Everything about it. But especially this. The fact that they’re just—” He gestured vaguely. “Like, how?”

Evan popped another bubble. “Yeah. It’s—it’s hard to believe.” His voice was quieter than usual, lacking the usual bite. His grip on the wheel tightened slightly. “They should be worried about school, not—” He stopped himself, because they weren’t in school. They’d never had the chance.

James still hadn’t said much, just sitting there, tense, his fingers curled into fists against his knees.

Barty turned fully in his seat, looking at him. “James,” he said, his voice unusually steady. “Listen to me.”

James didn’t move.

Barty didn’t let up. “We’re gonna be there for him. I mean it. You know I don’t say shit like this often, but you know I do what I say. Me and Evan—we’ll be there. You’re not doing this alone.”

Evan gave a small nod, his eyes flickering to the rearview mirror to meet James’s for a second. “Yeah. We’ve got him.” His voice was firm, no hesitation. “However this goes—whatever it takes.”

James inhaled deeply, still staring out the window, but there was something in the way his shoulders dropped slightly. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to.

Barty turned back around, clicking his tongue. “Good. That’s settled. Now, before we all get too sentimental, I’d like to point out that Evan still hasn’t admitted what his favorite ice cream flavor is.”

Evan groaned. “Barty, shut the fuck up.”

James let out a breath—just a little exhale, barely noticeable. But there was something else in it this time. Something lighter. Something like relief.

James finally moved, just slightly, lifting his head enough to look at them. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something like quiet desperation, like he needed to believe them.

“Pinky promise,” he said, holding out his hand. His voice was flat, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in it.

Barty blinked. “You’re joking.”

James didn’t move his knee, still bouncing up and down.

Evan huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he reached over first, hooking his pinky around James’s. “Yeah, alright. Pinky promise.”

Barty rolled his eyes but did the same, linking his pinky too. “Fine. But if you tell anyone about this—”

James squeezed their fingers, just for a second. “I won’t.”

The café was quiet, dimly lit, the kind of place where conversations could slip between the cracks and never be found again. It smelled like burnt coffee and cheap pastries, but the people who met here weren’t looking for quality—they were looking for discretion.

Pandora was already seated in the corner booth, her fingers wrapped around a cup that had long gone cold. She didn’t look up right away when the door opened, but she didn’t have to.

 Barty was the first to walk in, scanning the place like he was rating it. “Huh. Thought you’d pick somewhere fancier,” he said as he slid into the booth across from Pandora, who was already there, stirring her coffee. “Not that I’m complaining. Just figured you’d have us meeting in some upscale lounge with overpriced cocktails.”

Evan dropped into the seat next to Barty, popping his gum. “Nah, this fits. Quiet. Easy to disappear if things go south.”

Pandora sighed, finally looking up. “Barty.”

Evan sat beside him, arching a brow. “Don’t sound so excited, Panda. We missed you too.”

James was the last to sit, quieter than usual. He barely glanced at her, his gaze flickering to the window like he was already thinking ahead, already searching for something he couldn’t quite reach.

Pandora studied him for a long moment before exhaling. “I assume you’re all here because of Harry.”

Barty smirked. “No, we just really wanted overpriced coffee and stale croissants.”

Evan snorted. “Speak for yourself. I wanted to see if Pandora still looks like she hasn’t slept in a decade.”

Pandora rolled her eyes. “You’re hilarious.”

James finally spoke, his voice even but edged with something sharp. “What do you know?”

Pandora didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, dropping her voice. “I know that this won't be easy.”

The air in the booth shifted.

James’ fingers curled into his palm. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to.

Evan and Barty exchanged a glance before Evan leaned back, popping his gum. “Well, no shit.”

Barty hummed, drumming his fingers against the table. “Yeah, but that’s not the part that matters, is it? We want to know what’s under all that. The stuff he doesn’t say out loud.”

Pandora exhaled, glancing toward the window before looking back at them. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

James’ jaw tightened. “Say it anyway.”

Pandora’s words sat heavy between them, unspoken truths weaving themselves into the conversation like ghosts neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

James exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, but the exhaustion he felt wasn’t physical. It was something deeper, something rooted in the years he had already lost. “I know it’s going to be messy,” he admitted finally, his voice quieter than usual. “But it’s not just about how he finds out. It’s about when.”

Pandora studied him carefully, before glancing at Evan and Barty. “You need to understand something,” she said. “Harry’s not just some kid who grew up tough. His childhood was taken from him. Stolen. You see him now—sharp, calculating, good at what he does—but that’s not who he was supposed to be. He didn’t get to be a kid. No birthdays, no family, no safety. Just survival.”

Barty frowned, fingers tightening around the spoon he had been toying with. “We get that,” he said, though there was a rare tension in his voice.

Pandora shook her head. “No. You think you do. But there are things he’s endured that none of us can begin to imagine. Things you don’t know about, things he’s never going to tell you. He has no reason to trust people with his pain. He’s used to swallowing it down, to pushing through, because what choice does he have?”

Evan’s jaw twitched, his fingers still idly sliding his wedding ring up and down. “So what do you want us to do? Hold his hand? Buy him a teddy bear?” His voice was laced with sarcasm, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I want you to be patient,” Pandora countered. “Because this isn’t just about James. It’s not just about you. This is about Harry having to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about his life. And when that happens, when the cracks finally start to show—what do you think he’ll do? Do you think he’ll lean on you?” She gave a sad, knowing smile. “Or do you think he’ll run?”

There was silence. Because she was right,  Harry was always running, even when he was standing still.

James clenched his jaw, staring down at his hands. “I don’t want to push him,” he admitted. “I don’t want to force something he isn’t ready for. But how do you expect me to just sit here, knowing my son is out there, that he’s alive, and pretend like it doesn’t matter?”

Pandora softened, but her voice stayed firm. “It does matter. But it has to happen on his terms. Not yours.”

Barty scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “And in the meantime? What, we just act like we don’t know?”

“Yes,” Pandora said simply. “And you make sure no one else knows either. Because the second Silas catches wind of this, it’s over. If he finds out before Harry even has time to process it himself—”

James didn’t need her to finish.

Silas Riddle was a name that left nothing but wreckage in its wake.If he knew? If he suspected? Harry wouldn’t just be in danger. He’d be hunted. And that was something James Potter would not allow.

The room was quiet except for the soft hiccups of Draco’s crying. He was curled up in Harry’s bed, his back shaking with every breath he tried to steady. Harry lay beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of him but not touching—at least, not yet. His big green eyes, wide and full of something gentle, never left Draco’s face.

Draco’s fingers clutched at the blankets like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. His usually perfect hair was messy, sticking to his damp cheeks. “I saw his file,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I read everything.” His breath hitched, and he shut his eyes tightly like that could block it out. “He wasn’t who I thought he was.”

Harry stayed quiet, letting Draco talk at his own pace.

“He—he did awful things,” Draco continued, barely above a whisper. “I always thought—he was my father. He was supposed to love me.” His voice broke, and he pressed his face into the pillow, trying to stifle another sob. “I feel so—so stupid for ever thinking he was a good person.”

Harry hesitated for only a second before reaching out, his fingers brushing against Draco’s wrist. Draco didn’t flinch, so he wrapped his hand around it, holding it gently.

“You’re not stupid,” Harry murmured. His voice was soft, careful, like he was afraid to break Draco any further. “You didn’t know.”

Draco let out a small, shaky laugh, wet and bitter. “I should have.”

“No.” Harry squeezed his hand, firm but still careful. “He was your dad. You wanted to believe in him. That’s not stupid.”

Draco swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. He turned his head just enough to look at Harry, his grey eyes glassy, lost. “What if—what if there’s something wrong with me, too? What if I’m like him?”

Harry shook his head instantly. “You’re not.”

Draco blinked at him, his gaze searching. Harry held it, steady and full of something so sure that Draco felt his chest ache.

“You’re good,” Harry whispered. “I know you are.”

Draco let out a choked sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and before he even realized it, Harry was pulling him closer. Draco barely had time to think before his head was pressed against Harry’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat the only thing grounding him.

Harry didn’t say anything else, just held him there, fingers brushing lightly against Draco’s back. He wasn’t used to comforting people like this, but for Draco, it was easy. It wasn’t even a question.

Draco clenched his fists in Harry’s shirt, pressing his face into the warmth of him. He didn’t say thank you, but Harry understood anyway. Because that was the thing about them. They understood each other, in a way no one else ever really could.

Barty adjusted the collar of his jacket, slipping his hands into his pockets as he leaned against the damp brick wall of the alleyway. The air was thick with the smell of rain and cigarette smoke, the pavement slick under the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. He exhaled, watching as his breath curled into the cold night air, waiting.

The car arrived without a sound. A sleek, black sedan pulled up to the mouth of the alley, its tinted windows giving away nothing. Barty pushed off the wall and walked over, opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat.

The driver barely spared him a glance. He was an older man, graying at the temples, dressed in a plain black coat. His hands were steady on the wheel, his expression unreadable. He was just a driver—nothing more, nothing less.

Barty shut the door, settling in. “You always this chatty?” he quipped, glancing at the man.

The driver didn’t react, just pulled the car smoothly onto the road.

Barty smirked to himself, resting his head against the seat. “Strong, silent type. Got it.”

The city blurred past in streaks of yellow and white, headlights cutting through the dark streets. The drive was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of the tires splashing through puddles. Barty watched the buildings roll by, fingers tapping idly against his knee.

He knew where they were going—deeper into the belly of the beast, the place where they kept records of everything. Names, locations, jobs completed, people they had erased. It wasn’t just files; it was a ledger of lives ruined and controlled, a meticulous system designed to keep the society running smoothly.

Barty exhaled, stretching out his legs. “So, what, they send you to pick up all the new recruits?”

The driver didn’t look away from the road. “I drive.”

Barty raised an eyebrow. “No shit.”

Silence.

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll take the hint.”

The drive stretched on, the city giving way to quieter streets, then to roads that felt too empty. The kind that no one paid attention to, no cameras, no casual pedestrians. The kind of place people disappeared from.

Finally, the car pulled onto a narrow road lined with warehouses. The driver slowed in front of an unmarked building, stopping just short of a rusted metal door.

Barty glanced at the driver, waiting for some kind of instruction. The man just looked at him once, brief and indifferent, before unlocking the doors with a quiet click.

“Go in,” was all he said.

Barty snorted. “Man of few words. I’ll remember you fondly.”

The driver didn’t respond.

With a final glance at the shadowy streets around him, Barty opened the door and stepped out, rolling his shoulders before heading inside.

Barty stepped inside, and the first thing that hit him was the smell. Antiseptic, sweat, and something metallic—blood, maybe, or gunpowder. The hallway stretched long and sterile under dim fluorescent lights, the white tiles beneath his boots scuffed and worn. The air was filled with a distant hum, but beneath it, other sounds cut through—screams, sharp and sudden, the crack of gunfire from somewhere deeper inside. Training. If you could even call it that.

His gaze flickered over the sign-in chart near the entrance, a simple clipboard hooked onto the wall. Rows of names, times logged in and out, scribbled in different hands. Some had red slashes through them—people who wouldn’t be signing in again. He scanned the list quickly, his stomach tightening when he saw a name that stood out like a scar on the page.

Severus Snape.

Barty’s jaw clenched. He forced his breathing to stay even, lifting the clipboard slightly as if adjusting it, using the movement to shield his other hand as he slipped his phone out. A quick snap of the page, the shutter sound silenced. He’d check it later, make sure he never set foot in here on a day Snape was scheduled to come in.

He didn’t need to be recognized. Not yet.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. The place was a hive of movement. People in lab coats hurried past, clutching clipboards and vials of unknown substances. Armed guards stood at key points, watching everything with sharp, impassive eyes. It wasn’t just an office. It was an operation.

From further inside, a shrill scream cut through the air, followed by the unmistakable snap of a whip. Barty didn’t flinch, didn’t react. Just slid his hands into his pockets and kept moving.

He passed by a glass window overlooking one of the training rooms. Children—small, some barely older than nine or ten—stood in a rigid line, weapons in their hands. Their faces were blank, eyes hollow. A trainer barked something at them, and one hesitated for just a second too long. A sharp slap echoed as the kid hit the floor, the back of their head connecting hard with the tile.

No one moved to help.

Barty exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to walk past.

Keep your head down. Get the job done.

Another corridor. More doors, some labeled with numbers, others with names. A few were locked, heavy steel, probably where they kept the ones who stepped out of line. Somewhere deeper inside, another gunshot rang out.

He finally reached the file room, a cold and windowless space lined wall-to-wall with cabinets. It was quieter here, isolated from the madness outside. Barty ran a hand over the labeled drawers, already thinking ahead.

He was in. Now, it was just a matter of how much he could take before he lost his mind.

Barty stepped into the file room, hands in his pockets, scanning the space with a lazy sort of curiosity. The air was thick with the sterile scent of paper and ink, a dull contrast to the distant sounds of gunfire and muffled shouting from deeper within the facility.

And there, tucked in the corner at a metal table, was Harry. Clipboard balanced on his knees, lollipop lazily turning in his mouth, wrist flicking methodically as he copied down signatures with a precision that was almost eerie.

Barty slid into the chair across from him, dragging it obnoxiously just to see if Harry would react. He didn’t—not outwardly, at least. Just kept writing, barely sparing Barty a glance.

Barty smirked. Alright, Potter. Let’s see how much I can get you to talk.

“Oh look who it is,” he started, resting his chin on his hand. “Whatcha doing? You like animals?” said Barty noticing the little cat doodle on Harry’s paper.

Harry didn’t look up. “You talk a lot.”

Barty grinned. “And you don’t talk enough.”

Harry tapped the end of his pen against the clipboard before sighing through his nose. “I have a cat.”

Barty blinked, then sat up a little. “No way.”

Harry finally glanced at him. “Why is that hard to believe?”

“I dunno, just didn’t peg you as the ‘cat person’ type.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What type did you think I was?”

Barty shrugged. “The type that doesn’t have time for pets.”

Harry was quiet for a second before looking back at his work. “He was here before me. They kept him to make sure there was no mice.”

Barty tilted his head. Bingo. A crack.

“What’s his name?”

Harry hesitated for a second. “Crook-shanks.”

Barty made a face. “What kind of name is that?”

Harry gave him a pointed look. “Mine.”

Barty huffed a laugh. “Fair enough. What’s he like?”

Harry was silent for a moment, then, to Barty’s absolute delight, he actually answered. “He’s orange. Kind of ugly, really. All squashed-faced and grumpy. But he’s smart.”

Barty latched onto the slight fondness in Harry’s voice. “So, you’ve got a thing for ugly animals?”

Harry exhaled through his nose in something that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t not one either. “I’ve got a thing for Crookshanks.”

Barty watched him, eyes sharp, taking in the way Harry’s grip on the pen relaxed slightly, how his shoulders weren’t as tense.

Yes, talk to me.

“So, does he actually like you back, or is it one of those ‘I tolerate you because you feed me’ situations?”

Harry leaned back a little, twirling the pen between his fingers. “He likes me.” Then, after a pause, “Most of the time.”

Barty smirked. “Bet he scratches you, huh?”

Harry shrugged. “Only when I deserve it.”

Barty chuckled, stretching his arms behind his head. “Sounds like a real charmer.”

Harry tilted his head, considering. “He is.”

Barty just grinned. He was getting somewhere. Slowly, carefully, but surely.

A few moments of silence passed.. The lollipop in Harry's mouth clicked against his teeth as he worked, eyes flicking between the two sheets in front of him.

Barty took a moment to study him. Small, thin wrists barely hidden under his sleeves, expression unreadable, movements practiced and precise. He looked like he belonged here, like this was just another day in the life.

But Barty knew better.

“So,” he started casually, “what exactly are you doing?”

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose. “I won't hesitate to kill you if you don’t stop talking.”

Barty grinned at that, the same easy, amused grin he always wore, but something in his chest ached a little.

Because the thing is—Barty doesn’t believe Harry would kill him, even if he had the chance. It’s hard for him to even conceptualize it.

He doesn’t see a killer when he looks at Harry.

He sees a kid—just a kid who looks very much like James— except he's quiet and closed-off, but curls his knees to his chest like he’s trying to take up less space. A kid who copies signatures with the kind of precision you only learn when mistakes aren’t an option. A kid who, in another life, might’ve been sprawled out in bed on a Saturday morning, half-asleep, hair a mess, with no real worries beyond school and whether his favorite show was on TV. Instead, he’s here.

When Barty first saw Harry he thought he was younger, at first. Maybe it was the way he sat—small, careful, contained. Maybe it was how soft his voice had been when he asked for ice cream.

Maybe it was because Barty could so easily imagine him asleep against Cedric’s shoulder, warm and safe and unguarded for once, because Cedric would’ve let him be.

Harry was just a kid.

And yet, here he was, threatening to kill Barty with the same empty, detached voice he used for everything else.

It should’ve been funny. And it was, kind of. But Barty still felt something sharp and cold curl in his stomach.

He grinned wider. “Well, that’s just rude. Here I am, trying to be friendly, and you’re making death threats. You always this mean to people who try to make conversation?”

Harry flicked his gaze up at him, expression unreadable, but Barty caught it—that flicker of something beneath the surface.

It wasn’t anger.

It was exhaustion.

Barty hummed, tapping his fingers against the desk. “You ever get a break?”

Harry shrugged, looking back down. “No point.”

That sat uncomfortably in Barty’s chest.

“Yeah, well, I’m annoying,” Barty said, stretching lazily. “And I’ll be back. So, you better get used to me.”

Harry didn’t respond.

But Barty swore, just for a second, that he saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

A few moments of silence arose and Harry finally answered his question. “Copying signatures.”

Barty tilted his head. “For what?”

Harry exhaled slowly, like Barty was testing his patience. “To impersonate people.”

Barty let out a low whistle. “These people have you committing identity fraud this young?”

Harry flicked his eyes toward him, unimpressed. “I think it’s a bit more serious than that.”

“Right, right,” Barty nodded, smirking. “High-level identity fraud. My mistake.”

Harry went back to writing, but Barty caught the smallest twitch of his lips. A tiny, fleeting thing—but it was there. Encouraged, Barty pressed on.

“Alright, show me. How good are you?”

Harry finally tilted the clipboard toward him, and Barty scanned the paper. The handwriting was perfect, a flawless match.

“Well, shit,” Barty muttered. “You could’ve made a killing scamming rich old people.”

Harry shook his head slightly, still focused on his work. “I think I’m aiming higher than that.”

Barty grinned. “Fair. Still, you ever mess up?”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. His pen stilled for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable, but Barty noticed.

And then he looked up, expression unreadable again. “I don’t mess up.”

Barty raised a brow. “Oh, you’re confident.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “I’m good at what I do.”

Barty hummed, but his mind lingered on the way Harry had paused. Just for a second. Just enough to tell him that wasn’t the whole truth.

He let the silence sit for a moment, then leaned in, grinning. “Hey, wanna hear a cool story while you work?”

Harry didn’t look up, but Barty saw the slight way his posture shifted. He was listening.

So Barty started talking. Some exaggerated, borderline ridiculous story about a time he and Evan were in a car chase, narrowly escaping some lunatic of a driver. He made sure to be dramatic—hand gestures, sound effects, the whole deal.

And then—there it was. A small sound at first, then stronger.

Harry laughed.

Not a big, loud laugh, but enough that Barty felt like he’d just won something. His dimples showed, his green eyes wide with interest as he looked at Barty, his guard just slightly lower.

“That’s not real,” Harry said, shaking his head, but there was amusement in his voice.

Barty placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Do I look like I lie about something like this?”

Harry gave him a knowing look. “Yes.”

Barty cackled. “Alright, fair, but this one actually happened.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t seem to mind the conversation.

Barty watched him for a second, the way his expression had softened just the tiniest bit.

Yeah, Barty thought, we’re getting somewhere.

Barty sifted through the stacks of files, flipping through them with practiced ease, organizing and sorting as instructed. Across from him, Harry remained curled up in his chair, still copying down signatures with eerie precision, but his energy had dimmed.

Then, out of nowhere—

“Why do you even want a job in a place like this?”

Barty froze for a fraction of a second before glancing at Harry. The kid hadn’t even looked up, still focused on his work, like the question was just a passing thought.

The truth sat on the tip of Barty’s tongue: To save you. To stop this.

But instead, he smirked and tossed out a quick lie. “Job security. Always work in places like this.”

Harry hummed, unconvinced.

A quiet moment passed before Harry shifted, resting his head on his knees with a long, slow sigh.

Barty frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Harry didn’t answer at first, just staring at the paper in front of him. Then, barely above a whisper—

“Just tired. But I have to finish.”

Barty tapped his fingers against the desk, considering. Then he reached out, sliding the paper toward him.

“I’ll do it.”

Harry blinked, visibly surprised. “What?”

“I’ll finish it for you.” Barty grabbed the pen and started copying the signatures with casual ease, his handwriting morphing to match each one perfectly.

Harry stared for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“…You can do that?”

Barty just smirked, not looking up. “Yeah, kid. I can do a lot of things.”

Harry was still watching him, head tilted slightly like he couldn’t figure Barty out.

And Barty just kept writing, kept copying, kept finishing the job Harry shouldn’t have to do in the first place.

Harry was quiet for a long time, his head still resting on his knees, watching Barty work. His poker face had slipped entirely now, leaving something raw in its place—something vulnerable in a way that made Barty pause, pen hovering over the paper.

Then, Harry spoke, voice soft, almost hesitant. “I never had a grown-up help me before.”

Barty stilled.

Something twisted deep in his chest, sharp and unexpected. He had seen a lot of shit in his life. He had survived worse. His heart didn’t melt—it never did. It wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to people like him.

But looking at Harry now, it felt like something inside him cracked.

He wasn’t even sure what to say. His mouth opened, but no words came, because what the fuck do you say to that?

Harry must’ve taken his silence the wrong way because he quickly looked away, blinking hard like he regretted saying anything at all. His hands clenched around his sleeves, his shoulders curling inward again. “Forget it,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Barty exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Harry,” he said, and when Harry glanced up, Barty met his eyes dead-on. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Barty huffed, leaning back in his chair. “A grown-up should’ve helped you. A long time ago. It shouldn’t be some big deal.” He frowned, shaking his head. “But I guess the world’s full of assholes, huh?”

Harry stared at him for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, slowly, his lips twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. It was small. Barely there. But it was real.

And Barty—who had killed without blinking, who had lied and cheated and destroyed people without a shred of regret—felt something strange settle in his chest. Something he didn’t want to name.

Instead, he just rolled his eyes and went back to his papers, muttering under his breath, “Bloody kids.”

But he made a mental note, right then and there.

No matter what, he wasn’t going to be another person who let Harry down.

He had gone back to copying signatures, his head still resting slightly on his knees. The kid was something else—sharp, guarded, but underneath all that, just a kid. One who had never had anyone look out for him.

Barty wasn’t sentimental, but he wasn’t heartless either.

“Next time I come in here, I’ll bring you some candy,” he said casually, like it was nothing.

Harry looked up, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was trying to figure out if Barty was messing with him. “Why?”

Barty shrugged. “Why not?”

Harry studied him for a moment before speaking. “Can you bring gummy bears,” he said finally, voice softer than before.

Barty smirked. “Alright. Gummy bears it is.”

And for the first time since Barty walked in, Harry really smiled. It wasn’t big, wasn’t obvious, but it was there—small, but real. His dimples showed, and his green eyes softened, just a little.

Barty felt something warm settle in his chest, but he shoved it down, standing up and stretching. “Try not to miss me too much,” he said, winking as he grabbed his things.

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t lose the smile. “I’ll try.”

Barty shut the door behind him, letting out a long breath as he stepped into the dimly lit apartment. The weight of the evening clung to him like smoke—Harry’s guarded expression, the way his eyes had flickered with something unspoken before shutting it all away.

Evan was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He glanced up as Barty walked in, immediately taking in the tension in his shoulders. “Well?” he asked, raising a brow.

Barty scoffed. “It's full on corporation in there. Screaming. Gunshots. Scientists running around like they’re working on the next great invention, when really, they’re just ruining lives. There’s a damn sign-in chart for people working there, and guess who's name I saw on there.”

“Tell me later, you're going to ruin my mood” Evan swirled his drink idly, watching the liquid slosh against the sides. “Also I was thinking how he doesn’t know I speak Russian,” he said, almost offhandedly.

Barty, sprawled on the couch, raised an eyebrow. “Who, Harry?”

James immediately looked over, his fingers tensing against his knee.

Evan nodded. “He and his little friends—Draco, Pansy, they use it when they don’t want others to understand. I’ve only heard him speak it once, but it was enough to know they don’t think anyone around them understands.” He tapped his fingers against his glass. “That’s an advantage.”

Barty tilted his head, intrigued. “So, what? You planning on just sitting back and listening in?”

Evan shrugged. “Why not? If they think their words are safe, they’ll slip eventually. And if Harry trusts them, they’ll say things around him that they won’t around us.”

James let out a slow breath, his jaw tight. “You think he trusts them?”

Evan gave him a look. “James. He grew up with them. You don’t make it out of something like that without bonds.”

Barty hummed. “Yeah, well, he’s not exactly a fountain of information. Kid barely talks.”

Evan smirked. “You get anything out of him?”

Barty grinned. “He threatened to kill me.”

Evan snorted. “Sounds about right.”

James didn’t laugh. His gaze was fixed on the table, his thoughts somewhere else entirely, all he could think about was how we wished it was all a dream and he would wake up like how he used to with cold hands shaking him by someone with dark curls and beautiful green eyes that look like they could bring people back to life. He knew it would never happen but he could only imagine. But now—-now has someone he has to try for. Someone who needs a chance to live.

Harry

The first time Harry found himself mesmerized by Draco was in the quiet of the night, when the world around them had finally gone still.

Days in the program were relentless. They were filled with orders barked at them, bruises forming under rough hands, the constant awareness that one wrong move could mean punishment. There was no time to rest, no time to stop and breathe, because stopping meant falling behind, and falling behind meant suffering. But the nights—when the lights dimmed, when the guards stopped pacing as frequently, when the harsh voices softened into distant murmurs—they were different. Nights were the only time any of them could afford to be human.

Harry had always been careful with his nights. He never allowed himself to sleep too deeply, never allowed himself to forget where he was. It was easier that way. Safer. But even so, there were moments like this one, where exhaustion weighed too heavily on his limbs to fight against it, where the company of Draco and Pansy made it easier to let go, just a little.

Pansy had taken the space beside him first, like she always did. She never asked—never needed to—she simply curled up against his side, as natural as breathing. Pansy had sharp edges, sharper than Harry’s even, but when she was pressed up against him like this, seeking comfort without words, she was soft. She didn’t sleep easily, but when she did, it was always against him.

Draco had hesitated before settling in on Harry’s other side. He always hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take up space, even though Harry and Pansy had never denied it to him. But he had been so, so tired, his pale face drawn and exhausted, his limbs trembling faintly from how hard they had pushed him that day. Eventually, he gave in, lying down with a sharp exhale as though he was annoyed at himself for needing the closeness at all.

For a while, none of them spoke. Pansy’s breaths evened out first, her body warm against Harry’s. Draco held out longer, tense in the silence, but eventually, he relaxed too. Harry could hear the way his breathing changed, the way his frame settled against the thin mattress. It was always like this—three bodies pressed together under dim light, too tired to speak but too stubborn to let sleep take them separately.

Harry should have let himself rest. His body was begging for it. But his eyes, heavy-lidded and tired, had caught on something: Draco’s hair, pale and fine, spilling over his forehead. The light was dim, but it still caught the strands just enough for Harry to notice the way they gleamed. His hair looked soft. Softer than it should have. Softer than anything in their world was allowed to be.

It was an absurd thing to notice, really. He had seen Draco a thousand times before, had sat beside him, fought alongside him, watched him glare and spit out sharp words at anyone who dared look at him the wrong way. He knew the way Draco’s mouth curled when he was irritated, the exact sharpness of his glares, the way his hands always trembled just slightly when he was trying to keep himself together. He knew Draco.

But he had never looked at him like this before.

His fingers twitched before he even realized he was reaching out. It wasn’t conscious—not really. It was more like an instinct, a curiosity he hadn’t been able to suppress. His fingertips barely grazed the strands, the lightest touch, so fleeting that he might have imagined it.

Draco shifted slightly in his sleep, his breath catching for just a moment before settling again. Harry froze. His heart stuttered in his chest, a strange feeling curling in his stomach.

He should pull away. He should stop this.

But he didn’t. Not immediately. Instead, he let himself linger for a fraction of a second longer, caught in something he didn’t understand.

Draco let out a quiet sigh, his breath ghosting against Harry’s skin. He was so close.

Harry’s chest ached with something he didn’t have a name for. Something unfamiliar, something warm and fragile and terrifying.

A second later, he pulled his hand back, curling it against his chest like he could hide what he had just done.

He didn’t know why he had done that.

Didn’t know why he wanted to do it again.

Draco

The daylight cracked through the window as Draco’s eyes fluttered open. The door was not yet unlocked meaning he was awake too early. His eyes somehow landed on Harry, his breath quiet in the stillness of the room. The first thing Draco noticed was that Harry’s face was so calm, so untouched by the harshness of their world. His dark hair, messy and unruly, fell across his forehead, and his pale skin seemed almost luminous in the low light. The way his lashes kissed the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the way his fingers curled gently around the deer stuffed animal—it was a sight Draco had never noticed before. Most of the time Draco seen Harry through a different lens: a spy, a person with a sharp mouth, someone to be wary of, someone who never showed weakness. But now, in this moment, Harry looked… softer, somehow. More vulnerable. More human.

Draco found himself captivated by the image, something stirring in his chest. He had seen Harry in countless moments of distress, sadness, annoyance, or sharp retorts, but this was different.  For some reason he is seeing Harry differently, in a way he never has before. The first time he saw that the walls Harry had built around himself—those impenetrable defenses—were gone was when Harry fell down and scraped his knee and Cedric came running and picked him up. They had not been in the program for a long time but long enough to know what goes on behind closed doors. Right now Harry was just a human, resting peacefully in the safety of their small shared world. Draco’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to wake him up from this peace.

His eyes traced the curve of Harry’s cheek, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the way his head rested on the deer, like it was a lifeline. Draco shifted slightly, trying not to disturb the stillness of the room, as if any movement would shatter this fragile moment.

Do I like him?

Draco’s heart stopped for a moment, the air suddenly thick. It was as though the room had closed in around him, and for a split second, he thought he might suffocate on the question. His mind scrambled for something, anything, to latch onto. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Harry like this, not like this. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything other than the need to protect the group, to stay focused on the task at hand, to stay detached. He couldn’t afford this.

But then again, he wasn’t used to feeling much of anything at all, and Harry—Harry, with his sharp edges and quick wit, the kid who was always watching, always calculating—had cracked something open in Draco that he hadn’t expected.

“No,” Draco said, his voice too sharp, too quick. The words came out so automatic, so defensive, that they felt like a lie even as they left his lips. He swallowed hard, trying to push the strange sensation away, but it lingered, like an ache deep in his chest that wouldn’t go away.

Draco’s gaze drifted back to Harry. He looked so small in that moment, so far removed from the person who would shoot a sharp comment without a second thought, the one who carried the weight of things no one should have to carry. Harry wasn’t looking at him now. He wasn’t watching him with those bright, accusing eyes. 

The vulnerability was there, hidden beneath the sharpness, buried deep inside him, and Draco felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He didn’t want to wake Harry up from this. From the peace, from the softness, from the quiet.

His mind raced, the thoughts colliding, fighting for dominance. He didn’t like Harry—did he? No, that wasn’t possible. He couldn’t. He couldn’t let himself feel that way about him. It was wrong. Harry was just his best friend.

And yet, a part of him wished—wished he could stay here, in this moment, just a little longer. Just long enough to memorize the way Harry’s eyes fluttered beneath his closed lids, the way his lips parted slightly with each breath, the way his little hand gripped the stuffed deer like it was his only lifeline. This is not a new version of Harry that Draco saw, the one who was calm and  peaceful, the one who wasn’t always holding a gun. The new thing about this is how he's feeling inside. Because whatever this is, Draco is sure he has never felt it before.

Draco stayed in bed, his back against the cool sheets as he continued to watch Harry. The room was quiet now, the hum of the lock mechanism fading away as the door released its grip, signaling that the outside world had returned. The soft sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows on the floor.

Harry, still curled up in a tight ball, had his deer stuffed animal pressed into his chest. It was strange, Draco thought—this boy, the one who had endured so much already, still looked so innocent in his sleep. He looked like someone who had never been part of this harsh world, someone who hadn’t been torn apart by the system, someone who still had the potential to be something else.

Draco’s eyes flickered down to Harry’s hand, which was loosely gripping the stuffed animal. It was almost like a lifeline for him, something to cling to in this place that had robbed them all of their childhoods. His own chest tightened at the thought, though he tried to push it away.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t leave, why he was still here, frozen in place. His body itched to move, to get up and do something, but his mind wouldn’t let him. It was like Harry had become the center of this small, stolen moment, and Draco didn’t want to break it.

Pansy stirred beside him. Her soft breath filled the space between them as she slowly woke, her movements graceful and precise, like everything she did was calculated. She blinked a few times, then looked toward Harry without saying anything. For a brief second, Draco caught the faintest flicker in her eyes—something like curiosity, maybe even a little concern—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Well,” Pansy said with a smile, stretching and shifting, “I should go. Got training. Talk later. Todays a busy day.” Her voice was calm, unaffected, though Draco could feel the undercurrent of urgency in it. It was a routine for her, a necessary escape from whatever thoughts lingered in her mind, whatever questions gnawed at her. Over time Draco had come to learn that Pansy had always been one to run away from her thoughts and feelings instead of face them.

“Yeah,” Draco replied quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t know if he was replying to her or to himself. It felt like everything had become too heavy, too real, in the quiet moments before the world rushed back in.

Pansy slid out of bed, her movements swift and efficient, gathering her things without looking back at him. She paused by the door for just a second, offering a glance toward Draco—something unreadable in her eyes. She didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod.

“Bye, Draco,” she said, before leaving the room without another word.

The door clicked softly as it shut behind her, leaving Draco in the silence. For a long moment, he stayed still, just listening to the faint sounds of the compound outside the room—the muffled footsteps in the hallway, the far-off hum of the fluorescent lights, and the distant buzz of the intercom system.

His eyes drifted back to Harry. The boy was still asleep, still holding his stuffed animal, Draco’s thoughts felt like a tangled mess, pulled in a thousand different directions. Part of him knew that they didn’t have much time. The security door was unlocked, and the world outside was waiting. But for some reason, Draco couldn’t bring himself to move.

He glanced at the clock—there was time. Just a little longer.

Draco was still lying in bed. He could hear the faint sound of footsteps fading down the hall, heading towards one of the training rooms. Draco guessed that it was Ginny based on the sound of her footsteps. The room was quiet now, save for the steady sound of breathing beside him.

Draco didn’t move, didn’t even breathe too loudly, just gathered his thoughts. 

Then, all at once, it changed.

Harry’s body tensed, a sharp inhale breaking the silence. His fingers clenched around the blanket, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. His face twisted like he was in pain, his brows furrowing, mouth parting slightly.

Draco sat up immediately. “Harry?”

Harry’s eyes snapped open.

His breathing was ragged, his pupils blown wide, a wet sheen in his green eyes that made Draco’s stomach twist.

“Hey,” Draco said softly, his voice low, careful. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

Harry blinked quickly, his breath stuttering as he pushed himself upright, his arms wrapping around himself. He sniffed sharply, tilting his head away like that would somehow hide the tears welling in his eyes.

“’M fine,” he muttered.

Draco frowned. “Yeah, I don’t believe that.”

Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. His voice came out rough, hoarse, like he was trying to force everything down. “It was just a dream. Doesn’t matter.”

Draco shifted closer, not saying anything at first. Then, he carefully reached out and pulled Harry next to him. Harry let out a shaky breath and leaned into him, pressing his forehead against Draco’s shoulder.

They sat there like that for a moment.

Draco ran a hand through Harry’s hair like Harry did for him when he was upset, slow and steady. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Harry’s fingers curled slightly against Draco’s shirt. His voice was quiet. “I don’t want to remember it.”

Draco nodded. “Then don’t. Just stay here for a second.”

Harry didn’t move. His breath was still uneven, but it was slowing. His body, still curled inward, felt small against Draco’s, his weight light, like if Draco wasn’t careful, he might disappear completely.

Draco tightened his hold, resting his chin lightly against the top of Harry’s head. “I’ve got you, okay?” Harry didn’t say anything. But after a moment, his grip on Draco’s shirt tightened, just slightly.

Draco felt the warmth of Harry’s breath against his collarbone, slow but uneven, like he was still grounding himself. He kept his arms around him, not saying anything, letting the silence settle. Then, after a long moment, Harry shifted.

He pulled back just enough to look up, and that’s when their eyes met.

Draco felt it immediately—like the air in the room had changed. Harry’s green eyes were wide, still glassy from sleep and whatever nightmare had haunted him. There was something else in them too, something Draco couldn’t quite place. Vulnerability, maybe. Uncertainty.

Draco was used to this—to being this close, to seeing Harry like this. They’d trained together, fought together, sat side by side for years. He’d seen Harry bruised, bleeding, laughing, furious, crying. But never has he had this warm feeling in the pit of his stomach when he was this close with Harry. It was different, almost scary.

Harry’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Draco swallowed. His hand was still in Harry’s hair, fingers curled loosely at the nape of his neck. He should move. He should say something. But he didn’t.

Instead, Harry blinked slowly, his gaze flickering over Draco’s face—his eyes, his mouth—before settling back onto his eyes again.

Draco’s stomach twisted.

Harry’s eyelashes were still wet.

“I—” Harry started, then hesitated.

Draco barely heard him over the way his own pulse picked up, the way his throat felt tight for no reason.

Harry let out a breath, then, just like that, the moment shifted.

His expression changed—just slightly. His usual snark creeping back into place, the emotion from before slipping into something more familiar.

“You’re staring,” Harry murmured, voice quieter than usual.

Draco blinked, like he’d just snapped out of something. His ears felt hot.

“Shut up,” he said automatically, rolling his eyes to cover whatever the hell that had just been.

Harry huffed a small laugh.

Draco exhaled through his nose, then—before he could talk himself out of it—reached up and pushed a strand of messy black hair out of Harry’s face.

“Next time you wake up like that,” he said, voice lower now, “just wake me up, okay?”

Harry’s expression flickered again, just for a second. His eyes searched Draco’s like he was trying to find something, trying to figure him out. Then, finally, he nodded.

“Okay.” 

Draco didn’t move his hand from Harry’s hair just yet.

Harry hated mornings. Hated waking up to the cold air, hated the stiffness in his limbs from sleeping curled up too tight, hated the way his mind felt raw and exposed after dreaming—always dreaming. It wasn’t always nightmares, not exactly. Sometimes, it was just memories twisted into something uglier, something that left his chest feeling hollow and his hands unsteady. He hated that most of all. Sometimes when he shared a bed with Draco and Pansy it was harder for him to get up knowing he was at peace with the two people he would move mountains for.

And now Draco was here, trying to drag him out of bed, and Harry wanted to resist just for the sake of it.

“Come on,” Draco nudged his shoulder.

Harry grumbled, shifting just enough to bury himself  in the blankets. He wasn’t ready to face the day yet. Wasn’t ready to be seen.

Draco sighed. “Harry—”

Harry peeked up at him, blinking sluggishly, and scrunched his nose. He knew he was being difficult, but he didn’t care. He wanted five more minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe forever.

“Just five more minutes,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

Draco huffed. “The doors are unlocked. If we don’t go now, Blaise is gonna come looking for us.”

Let him, Harry wanted to say, but the words felt heavy in his throat. He was too tired to argue properly, so he let his head sink into the pillow again. Maybe if he stayed still enough, Draco would give up.

But of course, Draco didn’t give up.

Harry barely had a second to react before Draco grabbed his arm and yanked, dragging him upright. He let out a small noise of protest, blinking blearily at him.

“You’re so annoying,” Draco muttered, but his grip was steady, grounding.

Harry hated being pulled from sleep, from the temporary quiet in his mind, but he didn’t hate this. Didn’t hate the way Draco kept his hand on his arm even after he was sitting up, like he was making sure Harry wouldn’t tip over.

Harry sighed and let his head drop against Draco’s shoulder. He was still tired, but this was okay. Draco was warm, and that was okay.

Draco didn’t push him away.

“ленивый мальчик,” Draco muttered, but there was no bite to it.

Harry just hummed in response, letting his eyes slip shut again. He knew they had to get up, knew he couldn’t stay like this forever, but for now, just for another minute, he let himself rest.

But for some reason Harry didn’t want to get up because he was tired, sure its true, but it was more than that—something else he couldn’t quite name, something that made his limbs feel heavier than they should. It wasn’t like him to stay in bed when he didn’t have to. He didn’t like feeling useless. Didn’t like feeling slow.

But right now… right now, he didn’t want to move.

Harry knows he shouldn’t want anyone else to hold him—if that’s even what this was.. He would never let anyone see him like this. But Draco wasn’t just anyone, this was the secret. 

He didn’t know what he wanted exactly. Just that Draco was warm. That his voice was softer in the mornings—music to his ears. That if Harry was going to let himself be like this with anyone, it had to be Draco.

“The doors are open,” Draco said in a sing-song voice. He wasn’t touching him yet.

Harry hummed into the pillow, curling up tighter. He wasn’t really sleeping, but he wasn’t really awake either.

A pause. A shift in the mattress. Then—Draco’s fingers wrapping around his wrist.

Harry thought he should do something to make it seem like this wasn’t exactly what he wanted. But he didn’t. He let Draco pull him up, slow and careful, his hand lingering for a fraction longer than necessary.

“Fuck, you’re annoying,” Draco muttered, shaking his head, but he didn’t let go immediately.

Harry glanced at him from under messy dark hair, heart beating too fast for something so stupid.

He wouldn’t say it. Would never say it. But if Draco held him just a little tighter, just a little longer—Harry wouldn’t mind.

There was a weird feeling in Harry’s stomach.

It wasn’t like fear, not really. Not like hunger either. It was something else, something softer, like the brush of warm hands over cold skin. It curled deep inside him, light but insistent, making him shift where he sat.

He didn’t know why.

Didn’t know why Draco’s fingers still lingering on his wrist made his chest feel tight in a way that wasn’t bad. Why the warmth of Draco’s body next to his made him want to sink into it, to let it press against him until there was nothing separating them at all.

It wasn’t fair. Harry never let himself need things. That’s what got people hurt. What made them weak. He was good at being on his own, good at holding himself up even when everything felt too heavy. But right now… he wished he wasn’t.

Wished he didn’t have to be. Because Draco was right there like he was made to be leaned on. Harry wanted to let himself. Just for a second.

He wanted to close his eyes and rest his head on Draco’s shoulder, let him huff about it but not really mind. He wanted to feel Draco’s arms wrap around him, pulling him close like he was something small, something worth protecting.

He didn’t know why. Didn’t know why it had to be Draco. But it did. That was the problem.

Draco sighed, exasperated but fond, as Harry refused to move. The little brat just sat there, his nose scrunched up in that way that made him look even younger, even softer, like he wasn’t one of them at all.

Draco nudged him with his foot. “Come on, you’re being difficult.”

Harry only slumped further into the mattress, burying his face into his deer plush.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Alright, if you won’t get up—”

Before Harry could react, Draco turned around and crouched down in front of him. “Get on.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Draco craned his neck to look at him. “You heard me. I’m not dragging you, so either you get up yourself or I carry you.”

Harry hesitated.

It was a bad idea. A really bad idea.

But his body moved before his brain caught up, and the next thing he knew, he was hooking his arms around Draco’s shoulders and letting himself be lifted.

Draco adjusted his grip, one arm looping under Harry’s legs to keep him steady. “You’re way too scrawny,” he muttered. “When was the last time you ate?”

Harry hummed in response, letting his chin rest on Draco’s shoulder. He didn’t mean to, but it felt nice and safe.

Draco carried him effortlessly, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t weird, like it made sense.

And Harry let himself enjoy it. Just for a little while.

Draco adjusted his grip on Harry’s legs, frowning at how light he was. He could feel the sharp edges of Harry’s knees against his arms, the way his ribs pressed faintly against Draco’s back when he breathed.

“You don’t eat enough,” Draco muttered, the concern in his voice barely concealed.

Harry huffed against his shoulder. “Not my fault.”

Draco knew that. Knew exactly why Harry was so small, why none of them ever seemed to gain any weight. If you missed a shot, you didn’t eat. Simple as that. Draco got used to the hunger, made peace with it at times. And Harry—Harry had always been good, but even the best missed sometimes.

“I know,” Draco admitted, his voice quieter now. He wanted to say something else, something to fix it, but there was nothing to say. Nothing to do.

Harry must’ve picked up on it because he tapped Draco’s shoulder lazily. “Stop worrying. You sound like Pansy.”

Draco scoffed. “Yeah, well, one of us has to.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Draco held him a little tighter. If he couldn’t do anything else, he could at least do this.

Evan was drunk. That much was obvious from the way he blinked slowly at Barty, his pupils blown wide, his usually sharp composure softened around the edges. Barty was drunk too, but he was always a little bit unhinged even when sober, so the alcohol just made him worse.

They were lying on their sides, facing each other, bodies pressed close like they were afraid the other would disappear if they let go. Barty was staring—no, admiring—the freckles scattered across Evan’s nose and cheeks, his fingers tracing them as if mapping out constellations.

“You’ve got a stupid amount of freckles,” Barty murmured, voice lazy and warm. “Like, I don’t think I’ve ever actually counted, but I bet there’s a hundred.”

Evan blinked at him, unimpressed. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, and?” Barty grinned, letting his fingers trail down to Evan’s jaw. “Still true. You look like someone dipped a paintbrush in gold and just—” He waved his hand vaguely. “—splattered it all over you.”

Evan scoffed but didn’t move away. “That was terrible.”

Barty grinned wider. “You love it.”

Evan hummed, eyes lidded. “Maybe.”

Barty’s fingers didn’t stop moving, tracing the bridge of Evan’s nose, the curve of his cheekbone, the sharp angle of his jaw. He looked at him like he was something to be studied, something to be kept.

“You know,” Barty murmured, his voice quieter now, more serious. “Sometimes I think about how lucky I am.”

Evan’s brow quirked, though his eyes were still hazy. “Lucky?”

Barty nodded, shifting even closer, like there wasn’t already barely an inch of space between them. “Yeah. ‘Cause I get to have you.” His fingers trailed back up, tapping lightly against Evan’s nose. “Freckles and all.”

Evan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re so sappy when you’re drunk.”

Barty let his head rest against Evan’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. After a moment, he muttered, “Yeah. Maybe.”

Evan smiled, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to Barty’s lips before pulling back. “Thought so.”