The Plagues

Chapter 2

The archives were a graveyard of forgotten crimes.

Rows upon rows of thick, dust-covered tomes lined the towering shelves, their spines cracked with age, their pages yellowed and brittle. Each file was a tombstone, marking cases long buried under the weight of bureaucracy and time.

The air was thick with parchment dust, the scent of ink, and lingering like ghosts of the past.

A dim, flickering glow from lightbulbs near burnout, barely cut through the oppressive darkness. Shadows stretched long across the stone floor, pooling in the corners, lurking between the aisles as if they were waiting for someone to get lost and never return.

Harry Potter sat at a long wooden table, surrounded by stacks of files, his shoulders tense from hours of poring over reports. His coffee had turned cold hours ago, but he still reached for it out of habit, grimacing as the bitter, lifeless liquid hit his tongue. He set the mug down with a quiet clink, rubbing at his temples.

Across from him, Colin Creevey was still flipping through reports with an almost manic energy, his quill scratching furiously against a notepad as he scribbled down connections, theories—anything that might help.

Colin hadn’t changed much from his school days. He was older, of course—taller, leaner, his boyish enthusiasm tempered by the years—but he still had that restless, eager energy that made it impossible for him to sit still for long.

His brown eyes darted across the pages, his fingers drumming against the tabletop in an erratic rhythm as he worked through each document with relentless determination.

"Here’s another one," Colin said suddenly, shoving a file toward Harry. His voice was edged with excitement. "Same kind of throat wound, but no symbol left behind. Could be unrelated, but it’s worth looking into."

Harry barely glanced at it. "It isn’t him."

Colin frowned. "You don’t even want to check?"

Harry exhaled slowly, rubbing his eyes. His head still ached from earlier—the result of waking up on his desk after another long night. The pounding behind his temples hadn’t eased, no matter how much coffee he drank or how many times he stretched his stiff back.

"If there was no signature, it wasn’t him," Harry muttered.

"But what if he just wasn’t leaving marks back then?" Colin insisted, flipping through the report. "The precision of the cut, the fact that the body was found in a public-facing area, the lack of witnesses… it all fits a pattern, doesn’t it?"

Harry didn’t answer immediately. His mind wasn’t here, not really. It was still in that penthouse, still kneeling beside the body, staring at the clean, surgical slash across the throat.

He had seen plenty of corpses in his time. More than he cared to count. But this one sat differently in his gut, coiling like a slow-burning fuse, a quiet sense of inevitability pressing down on him.

This wasn’t random.

This wasn’t just another murder.

This was personal.

The message had been left in blood—deliberate, taunting.

A snake.

A signature.

"Harry?" Colin’s voice snapped him back to the present.

Harry blinked, realizing Colin had been watching him, waiting for a response. He forced himself to focus, shaking off the lingering thoughts.

"If it was him, we’ll find the pattern," he said finally. He gestured toward the endless stacks of files. "We keep looking."

Colin hesitated, but he nodded, turning back to his work.

The hours dragged on.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper, the faint scratching of Colin’s quill, the slow ticking of the clock mounted high on the wall. Time felt sluggish here, thick and heavy, stretching endlessly between one breath and the next.

The air smelled stale, the dust settling into Harry’s lungs with every inhale. His fingers were stiff, sore from flipping through so many pages, his vision beginning to blur from scanning report after report.

He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to stretch the muscles in his neck. His eyes flicked toward the stacks of files still waiting to be read, an endless sea of names, dates, crimes.

Every case was a life.

Every case was a mystery that had once mattered to someone.

But most of them had been forgotten.

Not this one.

Not this time.

He closed his eyes briefly, but all he saw was the penthouse.

The marble floor.

The blood.

The body.

The cut had been precise—almost elegant in its execution. A single, clean motion, straight through the artery. No hesitation. No struggle.

Whoever had done this was methodical. Calculated.

And they had wanted Harry to see their work.

Voldemort.

The name had drifted through the underground for years, a specter whispered about in hushed, fearful tones. No one had seen his face. No one even had proof of his existence. He was a myth, a ghost.

"Here," Colin muttered suddenly, breaking the silence. "This one might be something."

Harry looked up as Colin slid another file across the table, his hands smudged with dust, his face alight with barely-contained excitement.

"Early 2000s. Suspected contract killing. Body found in a similar way—throat cut, no defensive wounds—but here’s the interesting part." He tapped the page. "Witness reports say the suspect was never seen. No forced entry, no signs of a struggle. Just… dead."

Harry frowned, scanning the document.

It was close. Not an exact match, but close enough to make his heartbeat quicken..

"Victim’s name?" Harry asked, flipping through the report.

"Damien Travers. Former Ministry official. Had connections to organized crime, suspected of money laundering for several high-profile clients."

Harry’s frown deepened. "And the case went cold?" Colin nodded.

"No leads, no suspects. Just another ghost in the system."

Harry’s jaw tightened.

Another ghost.

Another whisper.

Until now.

He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, hand reaching for his notepad.
A shrill beep cut through the suffocating silence of the archives.

Harry flinched, his quill jerking across the parchment, leaving a sharp ink blot in the margin of his notes. Not looking up from his notes, he fished his pocket watch from the folds of his coat.

His phone shone dimly. A notification scrolled across the surface in crisp, silver script.

Lunch with Ginny–12:30 PM. Harry blinked.

Then he swore under his breath.

The watch read 12:28 PM.

He shoved back his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. Across the table, Colin looked up, startled, a dusty file still open in his hands.

“Something wrong?”

“I was supposed to meet Ginny for lunch,” Harry muttered, already reaching for his coat. “I completely forgot.”

Colin raised an eyebrow, grinning. “You forgot about a date with Ginny Weasley?” Harry shot him a flat look.

“It’s not a—” He stopped himself. “It’s just lunch.”

“Right,” Colin said, dragging out the word. “Lunch. With the hottest and most talented Quidditch player of our time. Who you’ve been weirdly nervous about seeing all week.”

Harry groaned, shoving his arms into his coat sleeves. “It’s our first time having a meal together. You can barely even call it a date"

Colin smirked. “That’s why you’ve been checking your watch all day, huh?”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

Harry ignored him, grabbing his scarf,heading towards the heavy wooden doors of the archive. “Don’t set fire to the place while I’m gone.”

Colin called after him, “Tell her I said hi!”

The Ministry corridors blurred past him as he walked briskly, his boots echoing off the marble floors. He took a sharp left at the Auror department, cutting through the busy midday foot traffic, weaving between Ministry workers clutching parchment rolls and enchanted briefcases.

It had been Ginny’s idea. The Lunch.

He hoped she didn't regret suggesting it.

His stomach twisted at the thought.

By the time he reached the café, his pulse had settled, but the unease hadn’t. He stepped through the doors, the scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee washing over him. It was a cozy little place, tucked between a row of bookstores in Diagon Alley, with wide windows that let in the soft gray light of the overcast afternoon.
Harry scanned the room.

No red hair. No flash of her warm, freckled smile.

His jaw tightened.

He checked the time again. 12:35.

He was late. But not that late.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the tension from his spine. Maybe she’d gotten caught up at practice. Maybe she was just running late.

He found a small table near the window and sat down, his fingers drumming lightly against the wooden surface, his fingers curling around a cup of coffee.

Outside, the streets bustled with lunchtime crowds. A group of young girls huddled near the window display of Flourish & Blotts, pointing excitedly at a stack of newly released romance books. A man in a dark coat strode past with a briefcase tugged beneath his arm, he muttered under his breath.

Time passed.

The café hummed with quiet conversation, the clinking of spoons against ceramics, the occasional crackling of the fireplace in the back.

He checked the time again. 13:00.

He exhaled through his nose, forcing down the disappointment curling in his chest.

She wasn’t coming.

Of course she wasn’t.

Maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe she hadn’t planned on coming at all. Maybe she’d realized—too late, or just in time—that he was not worthy of her attention.

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. He shouldn’t be surprised. Shouldn’t feel this stupidly let down.

It wasn’t like he’d expected anything from this.

Not really.

With a sigh, he stood and made his way to the counter.

The barista—a tired-looking witch with a mess of curls pinned to the top of her head—glanced up from behind the register.

“Just coffee,” Harry said, reaching for his coin pouch.

“No, I got it.”

The voice was smooth, velvety, laced with amusement.

Harry barely had time to process it before a pale, elegant hand slipped past his own, dropping a few sickles onto the counter. His fingers instinctively clenched around his coffee cup, the warmth a sudden afterthought.

He turned.

The man standing beside him was tall, effortlessly poised, dressed in a sleek black coat that fit him a little too well—tailored, crisp—like he belonged in a world of quiet opulence and whispered power. His dark hair was neatly combed, though not without a touch of purposeful disarray, the kind that made it look like fingers had just run through it.

But it was his eyes that caught Harry off guard.

Deep. Piercing. A shade of grey so dark it was nearly black, sharp enough to cut through the space between them. They were locked on him.

Harry felt a quiet prickle of unease at the base of his spine.

The stranger smiled. Slow. Knowing.

“What’s a handsome man like you doing out alone?” Harry blinked.

“Excuse me?”

The man gestured toward the empty table near the window—the one Harry had been sitting at for the last half hour, staring into his lukewarm coffee, waiting for someone who never came.

“I couldn’t help but notice you,” the stranger continued, his voice a low hum of amusement. “Sitting there. All alone. Looking rather… brooding.”

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose.“I wasn’t brooding,” he muttered.

The man made a quiet, skeptical noise.

“Of course. Just sitting in a café. Checking your watch. Staring at the door like a man waiting for something.” His head tilted slightly. “Or someone.”
Harry’s grip tightened around his cup.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to drink my coffee in peace.”

The stranger didn’t move. If anything, his smirk deepened, eyes flicking over Harry with an air of amusement, as though he were finding all of this terribly entertaining.

“Peace,” he mused. “Funny thing, that. I find it’s often mistaken for solitude.”
Harry sighed, already regretting engaging at all.

“Look, I appreciate the attempt, but I’m really not in the mood for—”

“For company?”

The man had the audacity to fall into step beside him, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat, like they were old friends sharing an easy stroll through London. His presence was effortless, like he belonged exactly where he chose to be.
^<
Harry rolled his shoulders, forcing down a flicker of irritation.

“For flirting” he corrected flatly.

The stranger tsked, feigning offense. “Who said I was flirting?"

Harry shot him a look. The man’s lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin.

“Alright,” he admitted, “perhaps a little.”

Harry groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted, still thinking about the case, still bothered by Ginny’s absence, and now he had to deal with this—this ridiculous man who apparently thought it was his personal mission to make Harry’s afternoon more complicated.

The man glanced toward the empty chair at Harry’s abandoned table. “You were expecting someone.”

Harry took a slow sip of his coffee. “They didn’t show.”

A soft hmm—a thoughtful noise, not quite pity, not quite surprise.

“If I had plans with you,” the stranger murmured, voice warm and edged with something close to amusement, “I wouldn’t dream of missing them.”

Harry scoffed. “Right.”

“I mean it,” the man said, head tilting slightly. His eyes flicked over Harry’s face, studying, considering.

The air shifted.

For the first time since this conversation started, Harry actually looked at him. Really looked. There was something about him. Something calculated beneath the charm, something precise about the way he carried himself—like a man who never made mistakes.

Something told Harry this man had never been rejected.

And he knew it.

Harry should walk away.

His instincts were screaming at him to walk away.

Instead, he exhaled sharply, shifting his weight. “I really should go.”

A hand brushed against his wrist.

Barely there. Just a whisper of contact, light enough to be dismissed, deliberate enough to be remembered.

“Wait.”

Harry hesitated.

“Let me buy you another.”

Harry blinked. “Another what?”

“A coffee,” the man said smoothly. “Or, if you prefer, something stronger.” His gaze flicked toward the pub across the alley. “You look like you could use it.”

Harry huffed a short, incredulous laugh. “I don’t even know your name.”

The man’s smile deepened, like he had been waiting for that.

“Tom,” he said, offering his hand.

Something in Harry’s gut twisted.

He stared at the outstretched hand, his Auror instincts screaming at him.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

But instead of walking away he found himself reaching out.

Fingers clasping around Tom’s in a firm, steady shake, a small smile fighting its way onto his tiered features.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹

Tom Riddle sat in his dimly lit office, the flickering candlelight casting elongated shadows across the polished mahogany desk. The scent of aged parchment and spiced whiskey hung in the air, a quiet indulgence he allowed himself in moments like these—when he was alone, watching, waiting.

Before him, framed within the enchanted glass of his window, was the café across the street. It was a quaint little place, all warm lighting and dark wood, the kind of establishment that exuded a false sense of comfort. Tom wasn’t interested in the café itself.

His focus was solely on Harry Potter.

Harry sat by the window, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other resting against the table, his fingers absently tracing the grain of the wood. His hair was damp from the drizzle outside, a few errant strands curling against his forehead, utterly unkempt in a way that only made him more appealing.

He kept glancing at the door.

Checking the time.

Leaning back, exhaling sharply through his nose, shifting in his seat with mounting frustration.

He was waiting.

And Tom knew he would be waiting for a long time.

A smirk played at the corner of Tom’s lips as he took a slow sip of whiskey. The sharp burn was pleasant—reminding him, in some small way, of control. Of precision. Of the game he was playing, and how beautifully it was unfolding.

He knew, of course, that Ginny Weasley wasn’t coming.

Because he had made sure of it.

His fingers drummed lazily against his desk as he observed the way Harry shifted in his seat, restless, his disappointment curdling into something bitter. It was a fascinating thing to watch—the way Harry’s emotions played across his face, open and unguarded, as if he had never quite learned the art of concealment.

It made him terribly easy to manipulate.

Not that Tom would call it manipulation, per se. That word was so crass.

Guidance was more appropriate. A nudge in the right direction. A carefully orchestrated series of events, aligning themselves just so, leading Harry where Tom wanted him.

And Ginny?

She had simply been in the way.

It had been effortless, really. The problem with people like her—like all of them—was that they never saw him coming until it was too late. They thought in simple terms. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Choices.

Tom knew better.

There were no choices. There was only inevitability.

She had simply been a loose, fraying thread in the tapestry he was weaving, one that needed to be plucked before it could ruin the entire picture. Removing her hadn’t been an act of cruelty. No, that would imply emotion, which Tom had no interest in.

It was a necessity.

Harry belonged to him.

He had known it for years.

Long before Harry himself had even considered the idea.

And Harry, in his foolish, infuriating stubbornness, had spent so much time resisting the inevitable. Chasing ghosts in the dark, running himself ragged, throwing himself into cases, distractions, people who could never truly understand him.

Ginny had been one of those distractions.

A poor one, at that.

And now, she was gone.

Tom tilted his head slightly, watching as Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He checked his watch again, jaw tightening.

How long before you give up, darling?

Thirty-six minutes.

That was longer than Tom had expected.

Long enough for doubt to creep in. Long enough for Harry to start questioning. Not just where Ginny was, but why she hadn’t come.

Had she changed her mind?

Had something happened?

Tom relished the idea of those thoughts weaving their way into Harry’s mind, tangling around each other like threads in a snare. He wanted Harry to feel uncertain. To feel abandoned.

Because that was when Tom would step in.

Not as a villain.

Not as a threat.

No, that would be far too easy.

Tom didn’t deal in force—he dealt in control. In subtlety. He didn’t want to take Harry. He wanted Harry to choose him. To turn to him. To need him.

And that would never happen if he pushed too hard, too fast.

He had spent years crafting this. A slow, meticulous process of removing every tether Harry had. One by one, until there was nothing left but Tom.

His fingers traced absent circles over the rim of his glass, watching the moment that realization flickered across Harry’s face.

The shift in his expression.

The resignation.

He wasn’t going to wait much longer.

Tom smirked, setting the glass down with a quiet clink against the wood. That was his cue. It was time.

He stood, stretching out his fingers, rolling the tension from his shoulders before reaching for his coat. He buttoned it slowly, deliberately, smoothing the fabric with precise care. Everything about him was controlled. Composed.

Because this moment—this was where it all began. Harry had been waiting for her.

And now, he would find him instead.

With one last glance out the window, Tom stepped toward the door, the faintest hint of amusement curling at his lips.

After all, he couldn't leave Harry sitting there alone, could he?

No.

That simply wouldn't do.