Chapter 9
Fleur was stunned into silence. Her anger faltered as the weight of Theo’s words settled over the room. This boy had been Voldemort’s right-hand man? The revelation hung thick in the air, making the warehouse feel colder, darker somehow.
Theo took a slow, deliberate breath, his usual arrogance settling back into place. Whatever emotions had cracked through his mask were swiftly buried beneath an icy calm. He tilted his head, considering Harry with a thoughtful expression, though his wand hand never wavered.
“So,” he said softly, “are you planning to take the beast?”
His tone was light—casual, even—but there was a dangerous edge beneath the words. His eyes flicked to Draco, still weak and trembling where he lay, then back to Harry. “Because if you are, we’re going to have a problem.”
Harry’s lips curled into a faint, amused smile. “Is that so?” he asked, taking a slow step closer. “You’re going to fight me, Theo?” His voice was warm and teasing, but there was a challenge beneath the surface.
Theo’s grip on his wand tightened, his knuckles turning white. “Don’t act so smug,” he snapped, a flash of something raw breaking through his composure. “You think you can just waltz in here and—”
“You’re cute when you’re angry,” Harry interrupted with a smirk, his emerald-green eyes gleaming with mischief—and something more dangerous. “But if you’re going to do this, better not hold back.”
The air shifted.
Theo moved first, his wand flicking upward in a blur of motion.
Harry was already moving.
The duel erupted in a cascade of silent, deadly spells. Gone was the arrogance Theo had displayed when toying with Ron and Hermione. This was something else—faster, sharper. The air cracked with the force of the magic they unleashed. Blades of light slashed through the air, bolts of raw energy hurtling between them in rapid succession. The spells were soundless, precise, and lethal.
Harry ducked under a slicing hex, his movements fluid, almost lazy. A curse burned through the air where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. His feet barely touched the ground as he sidestepped another blast, his green eyes glittering with predatory focus.
Theo pressed forward, his attacks relentless—each curse sharper than the last. But no matter how fast he cast, Harry was faster. He moved through the storm of magic with terrifying grace, deflecting Theo’s spells with a casual flick of his wand, as though the battle was nothing more than a game.
If Draco hadn’t already been harboring a ridiculous crush on Harry Potter—one he would sooner die than admit—this display might have sealed it for him.
The duel escalated, magic slamming into the walls, leaving scorch marks across the concrete. Harry’s expression never wavered—his focus was razor-sharp, his movements effortless. But unlike Theo, there was no malice in his attacks. He wasn’t trying to hurt Theo—he was simply outclassing him.
And it was driving Theo mad.
A particularly vicious blast from Theo ricocheted off Harry’s shield—straight toward Hermione.
Both she and Ron screamed.
Harry blurred into motion. One second he was dueling, and the next he was standing in front of them, his wand raised high. A shimmering, golden shield expanded around them, absorbing the curse with a thunderous crack.
Theo froze for a heartbeat, his breath ragged. His face twisted in fury as he hissed, "Are they your new friends now?" He spat the word like it was poison.
Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The brief flicker of softness in his expression as he glanced at Hermione and Ron—checking that they were unharmed—was answer enough.
Theo’s face twisted with rage. He lashed out harder, his spells growing more erratic. But it wasn’t just Harry he was aiming for now.
A curse shot toward Draco—Harry deflected it.
Another darted toward Ron—Harry blocked it, his shield shimmering into place with effortless speed.
Each time, Harry was there—always a step ahead, always protecting. And with every failed attempt, Theo grew angrier, his control slipping.
“Stay still, you bastard!” Theo snarled, hurling a streak of green light at Harry’s chest.
Harry vanished. One moment he was there—the next, he was behind Theo, his wand hovering inches from the other boy’s back. “Language, Theo,” he murmured softly, as though he were scolding a child.
Theo spun, fury blazing in his eyes, and for a brief moment, they were close enough for Draco to see the tension vibrating between them—something old and bitter and tangled.
The duel should have ended in a blaze of power. Instead, it ended with a whisper.
"Expelliarmus."
Harry’s disarming charm hit Theo squarely in the chest. His wand spun out of his grasp, clattering to the ground at Harry’s feet.
For a breathless moment, the only sound in the warehouse was Theo’s harsh, ragged breathing.
His face twisted with fury. "You—" he spat, the word trembling with venom. “You think you’ve won?”
Harry arched a brow. “Haven’t I?”
Theo’s lips curled into a vicious smile as he rolled up his left sleeve, exposing the mark burned into his pale skin—a black skull with a snake curling from its mouth. The Dark Mark.
Draco felt his blood turn to ice.
“I think a reunion is in order,” Theo said silkily. “Maybe our Lord should know you’re back.”
His fingers twitched, preparing to press the mark.
Harry’s expression didn’t change. One moment he was still—the next, Theo was bound from head to toe in thick, unbreakable ropes.
“Can’t let you do that, Theo,” Harry said lightly, though there was a strange warmth in his voice. “Now, this has been fun, but I really must be going now.”
Theo struggled against the magical bonds, snarling in frustration. “You can’t run from him forever, Potter!” he spat. “He’ll find you. And when he does—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry interrupted, giving a mock yawn. “You lot always say the same thing.” With a wink, he added, “Let him know I said hi, will you?”
Before Theo could respond, Harry turned to Draco, Hermione, and Ron, who were still staring at him in shock.
“Hold on tight,” Harry instructed, his tone gentler now.
Without another word, he seized Draco’s arm with one hand and Hermione’s with the other. Ron scrambled to grab hold of Hermione’s shoulder.
With a sharp snap, the air twisted around them—and they vanished, leaving Theo screaming after them in rage.
The group landed with a sharp crack in the dim, dusty hallway of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. The house was as gloomy as ever—dark wooden walls, heavy velvet curtains, and the faint smell of age and magic hanging in the air. The only sound was their footsteps as Harry led the way toward the living room.
The moment they were inside, Hermione whirled on Harry, hands on her hips, her eyes blazing with fury.
“I think,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “you owe us an explanation.”
Harry, ever the picture of unbothered calm, flopped into one of the worn armchairs with a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I do,” he said, as if the idea of explaining himself was some grand inconvenience. He stretched his legs out, leaning back as though he didn’t have a care in the world. “We might as well sit down. This is going to take a while.”
Ron dropped onto the couch beside Hermione, his ears still red from the adrenaline of the duel. Draco hesitated by the doorway, arms crossed, torn between his confusion and his usual reflexive mistrust of anything Harry Potter did. Eventually, he slumped into the chair opposite Harry, though his gaze never left the other boy.
“Kreacher!” Harry called out casually.
With a loud crack, the ancient house-elf appeared in the middle of the room, bowing so low his long nose nearly brushed the floor. His bat-like ears twitched in excitement.
“Master Harry calls Kreacher!” he croaked gleefully, his wrinkled face breaking into a toothy grin. “How may Kreacher serve his kind and noble Master Harry?”
Hermione, predictably, bristled at the term master, but for once, she held her tongue. The weight of her curiosity was clearly stronger than her desire to lecture Harry about elf rights.
“Tea, please,” Harry requested smoothly, flashing Kreacher a charming smile. “For all of us.”
“Kreacher will bring tea at once!” the elf declared, his chest puffed out proudly before disappearing with another loud crack.
The room settled into silence, broken only by the faint ticking of an ornate clock on the mantel. Harry seemed perfectly at ease, but the tension radiating from the other three was nearly tangible.
“You know,” Harry drawled, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, “you’re all staring like I just grew a second head.”
Hermione’s fingers twitched against the fabric of the sofa, clearly restraining herself. “Well, forgive us for being a bit shocked, Harry!” she snapped. “In case you missed it, Nott just said you were—you were Voldemort’s right-hand man!” Her voice trembled slightly as the words left her mouth. “That’s not exactly a small thing to gloss over!”
Harry tilted his head, as if considering her words. “Technically, he said I used to be,” he pointed out, his tone deliberately flippant.
Draco’s eyes narrowed, his voice cold and cutting when he finally spoke. “Hilarious,” he said deadpaned, “I don’t recall that little detail coming up in any of our conversations.”
Harry met his gaze with infuriating calm. “You never asked,” he said simply.
“Oh, come off it, Harry!” Ron burst out, his face as red as his hair. “Don’t act like this is nothing! We just watched you duel like— Theodore Nott’s one of the most ruthless Death Eaters we’ve ever fought, and you—you barely broke a sweat!”
“Impressive, wasn’t it?” Harry smirked, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “You know, I do aim to please.”
“Harry.” Hermione’s voice cut through his amusement like a knife. She leaned forward, her expression fierce, and there was no humor in her eyes. “Tell. Us. The. Truth.”
For a long moment, Harry just looked at her. Something in his playful mask flickered—something darker and heavier that he couldn’t quite hide. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Kreacher reappeared with a silver tray, wobbling slightly under the weight of a teapot, four steaming cups, and an assortment of biscuits. He carefully placed it on the low table between them, casting a fond glance toward Harry before bowing again.
“Tea for Master Harry and his guests,” he said proudly. “Kreacher is most happy to serve.”
“Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said softly, his voice gentler now. “That’ll be all.”
With a final bow, the elf vanished again, leaving the room heavy with unspoken words.
Harry poured himself a cup, stirring it leisurely as though the fate of their world hadn’t just shifted on its axis. The others followed suit, though none of them were as calm as he was.
He took a sip, savoring it, before speaking again.
“You want the truth,” he said quietly, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “Fine. I worked for Voldemort.” His voice was even, but beneath the surface, something old and bitter simmered. “Not by choice. Not at first, anyway.”
Hermione sucked in a breath, but Harry raised a hand before she could interrupt.
“It’s not a simple story,” he warned. “And you’re not going to like all of it.”
“We deserve to know,” Draco said coolly, though his knuckles were white where they gripped the teacup. “After everything.”
Harry’s expression softened—just a little. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I suppose you do.”
He leaned back into the chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes distant.
Harry’s voice was quiet but steady as he began to speak.
“I guess I should start with the Dursleys,” he said, tracing a finger absently along the rim of his teacup. “After my parents died, I was left with my aunt and uncle. Muggles. Not exactly the warm and loving type.” His mouth curled into a bitter smile. “They tolerated me at best—until they didn’t.”
He leaned back into the armchair, eyes distant as if he were looking at something far beyond the walls of Grimmauld Place.
Ron frowned. “Wait. Why the Dursleys in the first place? Why didn’t you end up with Sirius or Remus?”
Harry’s eyes darkened instantly. His shoulders stiffened, and when he looked up again, something old and hard flickered behind his gaze.
“That’s not my story to tell,” he said, voice edged with finality. “Anyway, they got tired of me pretty quickly,” he continued in a lighter tone. “Wasn’t long before they left me in an orphanage. Out of sight, out of mind.” His tone was light—too light—but the words hung heavy in the air.
Hermione’s lips parted in shock. “They—left you?” she echoed, horrified.
Harry only shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly a paradise, but… well, I didn’t fit in there either. My magic—” He hesitated for the briefest of moments. “—it was… erratic back then. Not easy to control. Accidental magic, outbursts… you name it. Even when I was little, things just happened around me.”
His voice drops lower, almost as if he’s confessing something he’s never said aloud. “That’s when he found me.”
Hermione sucks in a sharp breath, her face pale. “Voldemort?” she whispers.
Harry surprises them by smiling—sharp and almost amused. “No,” he says quietly. “Actually… it was Grindelwald.”
Ron looks like someone’s just punched him. “Grindelwald?” he repeats, as if hoping he misheard.
Harry nods, his smile fading into something more reflective. “Yeah. I don’t know how or why—he never told me—but I guess he saw potential. And when you’re a scared little kid with no one else… well, it’s easy to listen when someone says they want you.”
Hermione’s hands tremble slightly where they’re folded in her lap. “He took you in?”
Harry’s expression turns unreadable. “He saw potential. I was a scared little kid with too much magic and nowhere to belong. Grindelwald gave me… purpose. Or atleast handed me over to someone who did. A place where I wasn’t a freak.” His voice dips into something darker.
For a moment, no one said anything. Even the ever-curious Hermione seemed unable to form a question.
“Voldemort took me in,” Harry continued, his voice softer now. “Trained me. Taught me how to fight—how to win. I went up the ranks fast. I did things…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “Things I’m not proud of.”
The weight of those words lingered in the room, and no one dared to break the silence.
“What changed?” Hermione finally asked, her voice gentle but insistent. “You said something happened.”
Harry’s expression darkened, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if he wouldn’t answer.
“Let’s just say,” he murmured, “I realized I was on the wrong side of things. And I wanted out.”
The simplicity of his words only made them heavier. But there was something in the way he said it—something raw and unfinished—that told them he wasn’t giving them the full truth. Not yet.
“And you went to Dumbledore,” Draco said, his voice laced with disbelief. “Just like that?”
A faint smile tugged at Harry’s lips. “Not just like that. Took me a while to trust anyone again. But yeah—when I was ready, I went to Dumbledore. And to his credit, he didn’t throw me back. He gave me a second chance.”
Hermione, ever the rational one, furrowed her brow. “Who knows about this?”
Harry’s smile faded. “All the adults,” he said, swirling the dregs of his tea. “ They’ve known since the day I switched sides.”
Ron’s ears burned red with anger. “We’re adults,” he snapped. “Or do they not count us when it’s something important?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Ron,” he said, half-exasperated. “You know what I mean. No one our age knew— No one younger than Charlie Weasley’s got a clue.”
Hermione was silent for a long time, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was thinking—Harry could almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes, processing everything he had told them.
Finally, she sighed. “You’re one of my best friends, Harry,” she said quietly, her voice trembling just a little. “If you say this is the truth, then I believe you.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Harry’s mask cracked. His face softened, and for a fleeting moment, something almost vulnerable flickered across his expression. He opened his mouth to respond—but no words came out.
And that was all it took.
Hermione stood abruptly and crossed the space between them, wrapping her arms around Harry in a tight, fierce hug.
Harry froze, startled by the sudden contact. But after a moment, his shoulders dropped, and he leaned into the embrace.
Ron followed without hesitation, his taller frame easily enveloping them both. “Don’t think this gets you out of explaining the rest later,” he muttered against Harry’s shoulder. But the warmth in his voice betrayed the words.
The three of them stood there—an imperfect, messy knot of friendship—holding on like the world might fall apart if they let go.
It was too much for Draco.
The intimacy of the moment—the rawness of it—was something he had never been part of, and he felt like an intruder in a space he didn’t belong. Quietly, he slipped away, the sound of his footsteps lost beneath the faint creak of the old house.
As he reached the hallway, he glanced back one last time to see Harry, held tightly between the two people who trusted him despite everything.
The warmth of the hug lingered even after they pulled apart, the weight of Harry’s revelations still heavy in the air. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, as if sensing the tension was too much, Ron cleared his throat and broke the silence.
“Well,” he said, his trademark smirk sliding back into place. “At least we managed to steal Voldemort’s right-hand man. That’s something, right?”
Hermione rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Trust you to put it that way.”
Harry, to their relief, laughed—a real, genuine laugh that softened the lines of tension in his face. “I guess you’re not wrong,” he admitted, leaning back against the worn leather of the couch. “Though I don’t think he was exactly thrilled about losing me.”
“Yeah, well,” Ron said, puffing his chest out a little. “We’re better company anyway.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “Better company, huh?”
“At least we don’t have a creepy snake fetish,” Ron shot back, making Harry laugh again.
The mood lightened further, the weight of Harry’s past loosening its grip—at least for the moment. Ron leaned back, shaking his head in disbelief. “And to think,” he said, voice full of mock outrage, “we had a bloody ex-Death Eater in the Order this whole time, and no one told us.”
Harry hummed, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. “Well,” he said, dragging the word out, “in the interest of full disclosure… I’m not the only ex-Death Eater in the Order.”
Ron’s head snapped toward him, his jaw dropping. “What?”
Hermione groaned softly, already guessing the answer. “Harry…”
Harry grinned wider. “Snape also defected.”
Ron’s reaction was immediate. “Of course it’s Snape,” he said, throwing his hands up. “If we had to guess that one of the other members was an ex-Death Eater, would you really have picked someone other than him?”
Hermione didn’t say anything—because, honestly, he had a point. Instead, she settled for shooting Harry a sharp look before reaching over and slapping Ron lightly on the back of his hand.
“Ow!” Ron yelped, pulling his hand back like she’d burned him. “What was that for?”
“For your attitude,” Hermione said primly, though her exasperation couldn’t quite hide her fondness.
Harry, still grinning, shook his head. “You two never change.”
Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry. “Would Snape be happy that you told us?”
Harry’s laughter faded into a knowing, almost mischievous smile. “I don't thinks that man has ever been happy about anything in his life. Probably best if he doesn’t find out,” he said, his tone light but with a distinct undercurrent of caution. “His idea of payback is… not very pleasant.”
Ron snorted. “Oh, come on. It’s not like the man likes you anyway, right?”
For a second, Harry’s expression shifted—his emerald eyes gleaming with something unreadable. And then he grinned—that grin, the one that always meant he knew something they didn’t.
“Sure,” Harry said, dragging the word out with far too much amusement.
Both Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, suspicion sparking between them, but before either could press further, Harry stretched his arms behind his head and said, far too innocently, “Anyway, who wants more tea?”
Hermione huffed, muttering something under her breath about ‘impossible boys,’ while Ron only shook his head. But Harry? Harry just kept smiling.
---
After Hermione and Ron finally left, the house grew quiet again. Harry lingered in the living room for a few minutes, letting the weight of the night settle around him. He should probably let Percy know they’d returned safely—but where would the fun be in that? Besides, seeing Ron and Hermione back in one piece would be enough to stop him from completely panicking. The rest? Well, that was a problem for tomorrow.
As he made his way up the staircase, Harry felt it—that prickling sensation along his spine, the awareness that someone was watching him. He smirked to himself. So, Draco was still lurking. Of course he was.
Turning the corner, Harry didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Are you planning to ambush me, Draco?” he drawled, his voice rich with amusement.
Draco stepped out of the shadows with a frown, his arms crossed tight over his chest. "Who would be stupid enough to ambush a former Death Eater?" His tone was sharp, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression—something curious, hesitant.
Harry laughed, unbothered by the words. "Fair point," he said easily. "I’m guessing you stuck around because you’ve got more questions. Wanted to catch me alone, did you?"
Draco didn’t answer right away. His face was carefully neutral, but his fingers twitched against his sleeves—a nervous tell. Finally, he took a breath and asked, "Do you have the Mark?"
The question caught Harry off guard. For a moment, surprise flashed across his face before he schooled his features. "Actually, no," he said simply.
Draco’s frown deepened. Clearly, that wasn’t enough for him.
With an exaggerated sigh, Harry rolled his eyes and pushed up the sleeves of his jumper, baring his forearms. Pale skin, smooth and unmarked. "Satisfied?"
Draco didn’t respond, his sharp gaze lingering on Harry’s bare arms as though he expected the Dark Mark to reveal itself any second.
Harry let his sleeves fall back down and shrugged. "Not that it really proves anything. If I wanted to hide it, I know plenty of spells to make it invisible."
Draco’s mouth curled into a faint sneer. "Is that what you did?"
"Why would I bother?" Harry huffed, stepping closer. "After everything I admitted tonight, do you really think this would be the secret I’d try to protect?" His tone was sharp—exasperated—but his eyes gleamed with mischief.
Still, Draco didn’t seem entirely convinced. His stance was tense, guarded—like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Harry tilted his head, a slow smile curling his lips as he started to move. Deliberate. Purposeful. He advanced on Draco with the kind of easy, predatory grace that had nothing to do with magic.
Draco, to his credit, didn’t immediately flinch—but his back hit the wall before he seemed to realize he was retreating.
Harry’s voice dropped into something lower, smoother—dangerously soft. "You saw me duel Nott earlier. You know exactly how lethal I can be. Do you really think a tattoo would make any difference?”
By the time Harry stopped, Draco was pinned against the wall, his back hitting the cold stone with a soft thud. Harry’s arms were braced on either side of him, caging him in.
Draco’s breath hitched, his heart thudding against his ribs, but he refused to break eye contact.
The smile curving Harry’s lips turned wicked—mischievous and utterly disarming. He leaned in, so close that Draco could feel his breath ghost against his ear.
“My, my, Draco,” Harry murmured, his voice sending an involuntary shiver down Draco’s spine. “You’re looking a bit flushed. I wonder…” He tilted his head slightly, his lips dangerously close to Draco’s neck. “Is it fear—or something else entirely?”
Draco’s face burned with heat he couldn’t suppress, and Harry chuckled softly—low and knowing. That blush was answer enough.
Without another word, Harry pulled back, leaving Draco against the wall, his knees weak and his pulse racing.
“Sweet dreams, Draco,” he purred, that same teasing lilt in his voice, before turning on his heel and sauntering away with a laugh.
Draco stayed against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest, knees weak enough that he nearly stumbled when he tried to move.
And as he stood there, trying to gather the last shreds of his dignity, he realized one undeniable truth.
He was completely, utterly doomed.