Daddy Dearest

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…
Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…
And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…
And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”

On July 31st, at exactly three in the morning, a child’s cry pierced through the quiet halls of St. Mungo’s.

Harry Potter had been born.

And at that same moment, in that same sterile hospital room, Lily Potter’s heart went still.

James did not enter the room.

He stood outside, hands clenched into fists, his heart hammering against his ribs, but he could not bring himself to step through that door. James he knew. He had known from the moment Lily was diagnosed with high chances of Amniotic Fluid while giving birth—which the risk was too high.

James had warned her. Begged her. But Lily had only smiled, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. “He’s innocent, James. This isn’t his fault.”

Yet Birth and death. Two sides of the same coin.

Lily’s fate had been decided long before this night, long before she had whispered those final reassurances to James, long before she had chosen to give her life for a child who never even knew her.

And James—James could not bear to look at the child she had left behind.

So on the day Harry Potter was born, James Potter walked away.

He left the infant in St. Mungo’s, unable to face the reality that his wife, the woman he had loved more than life itself, was gone. He knew Lily wouldn’t have wanted this. She wouldn’t have wanted him to blame the boy. She wouldn’t have wanted him to hate his own son.

But James did.

He couldn’t help it.

If Lily had chosen differently, if she had let go of the life that had doomed her, they would still be together. Happy. Whole. A family. But instead, she was gone, and all that remained was the child—the reason for her death.

Harry had destroyed everything.

He did not ask to hold the baby. He did not ask to see him. He could not bear to look into the boy’s face and see her eyes staring back at him—those green eyes, the ones James had spent seven years at Hogwarts chasing, the ones he had loved so much. Eyes that did not belong to Harry. Eyes that belonged to her.

And oh how he wished — he wished he could take them back. Strip that color from the child’s face and return it to Lily, where it belonged.

But Lily was in the ground now.

And James stood over her grave, hollow and silent, his friends murmuring empty condolences around him. He did not listen. He did not care.

Because on the day Harry Potter was born, James Potter lost everything.

And he could never forgive him for it.

Though James knew he had a responsibility to his son, he never made time for Harry.

His work as Head Auror consumed him. The workload was overwhelming, especially now, with Grindelwald imprisoned and awaiting trial. The Ministry had buried him under mountains of paperwork, countless reports demanding his attention. It was easier this way—easier to drown himself in work than to go home to a child he could not bring himself to love.

Each morning, before heading to the office, James would leave Harry in Sirius Black’s care. Sirius never hesitated, never complained. In fact, James often found himself wondering why Sirius was so fond of the boy. He treated Harry as if he were something precious—feeding him well, buying him new clothes, rocking him gently when he cried. It was strange.

James had always believed such instincts were natural for an Omega, yet Sirius was an Alpha. And still, he cared for the child in a way James never could.

On the days Sirius was unavailable, James would leave Harry with Remus and his wife. And Remus, of course, never refused. But every time James dropped Harry off, he was met with the same disapproving stare, the same words laced with quiet frustration.

“You can’t keep doing this, James. He’s your son.”

“I know.”

“Then act like it.”

James never had an answer to that.

James hated the criticism.

He had heard enough of it—from Remus, from Sirius, from everyone who thought they had the right to tell him how to be a father. So he stopped leaving Harry with them. Instead, he handed the boy off to Peter Pettigrew.

Peter never complained. He never lectured James about responsibility, never questioned his choices. He didn’t actually care for the child, but that was fine. James wasn’t looking for someone to love Harry—just someone to watch him. Peter did the bare minimum, ignoring the infant most of the time, only accepting the responsibility because James paid him to.

When James returned home from work, exhaustion weighed heavy on his bones. He cooked dinner—enough for himself and the boy, because no one else would—but after that, he wanted nothing more to do with him.

He spent his nights in the bathtub, soaking in the warmth of the water, letting his mind go blank. Or he buried himself in books, anything to fill the silence, anything to drown out the sound of Harry crying in the next room.

Maybe this was an excuse.

Maybe it was easier to pretend he was simply too busy, too drained, too tired to care for the child. But the truth was, James had hated Harry from the moment he was born. He didn’t want him. Didn’t want anything to do with him.

And Harry grew up knowing that.

Harry was passed around from person to person like something unwanted, something discarded, shoved from one pair of hands to another every time James left for work. On the rare occasions when no one was available, when even Peter had other obligations, James had no choice but to keep the boy at home.

And so, he put him to work.

He taught Harry how to cook. How to clean. How to keep himself busy, so James wouldn’t have to deal with him. Luckily, the boy was obedient. Smart. Quick to learn.

Harry never argued. Never complained. Never asked for more than what James was willing to give. He did as he was told, never expecting praise, never asking for affection. And yet, sometimes—just sometimes—when he did well, James would reach out and ruffle his hair in passing. A fleeting touch. The only physical contact between them.

And that, somehow, was enough for Harry.

By the time Harry turned seven, he had learned exactly what was expected of him.

Each morning, he rose before the sun, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he padded into the kitchen on bare feet. He could barely reach the stovetop, but that didn’t matter—he had learned how to manage, how to stretch up on his toes just enough to flip eggs in the pan without burning himself. He knew how to time the toast just right, how to plate the food so it looked neat, how to pour James’s coffee just the way he liked it.

And every morning, when James walked into the kitchen, Harry would glance up, hopeful, waiting just for a single word, a nod, anything to acknowledge his effort.

But James never said a word.

He ate in silence, his mind elsewhere, his expression unreadable. And then, just as quietly, he would stand, grab his coat, and walk out the door.

No thank you. No goodbye.

Harry would watch him leave, then quietly begin cleaning up. He wiped the counters, swept the floor, kept everything neat and tidy, because James didn’t like mess. A house should feel like a home, James had once told him. His home.

And Harry wanted to make it perfect.

But James never noticed.

James never bought him new clothes. The boy wore old hand-me-downs—shirts and trousers from James’s own childhood, decades out of style, far too big for his small frame. But that wasn’t James’s problem. If Harry looked malnourished, well it wasn’t as if James starved him. He had taught him how to cook, hadn’t he? The boy could feed himself just fine.

And so, when night fell, Harry did what he always did—he set the table for two.

James always came home late. The house would be dark, the air heavy with silence, save for the quiet tick of the clock on the wall. Harry would sit at the table, chin resting against his arms, fighting off sleep as he waited.

And then, finally, the front door would creak open.

His head would snap up, exhaustion melting into relief as he scrambled to his feet, offering a tired but bright smile.

“Daddy! You’re home! I made dinner for you. It’s probably cold now, but I can heat it up!”

Sometimes, if James was in a rare moment of mercy, he would say nothing and simply take a seat, letting Harry warm up his food.

But most nights, he didn’t.

Most nights, James would glance at the table, at the untouched plates, at the boy standing there waiting for him, and then wordlessly turn away—climbing the stairs, shutting his bedroom door, leaving Harry behind in the dim glow of the kitchen

Sometimes, James wondered how a child like this could be his.

Harry was nothing like him. He was too kind, too caring, always trying to please, always trying to give.

It was almost ridiculous.

Like a little wife waiting for her husband to come home.

Some nights, James came home even later than usual—his breath heavy with alcohol, his steps uneven. Nights when he had been out drinking, entertaining Ministry officials, losing himself in the haze of liquor because it was easier than coming home to a child he never wanted.

Harry always waited for him.

As always, he sat at the dining table, head drooping forward, barely staying awake. The room was quiet, save for the slow ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then—BANG.

The door slammed open, hitting the wall with a force that made Harry flinch.

He had learned to recognize the difference in James’s footsteps, the way they dragged across the floor when he was drunk, the way his breath came heavy and uneven.

Harry curled in on himself, his small fingers twisting into the fabric of his oversized shirt. His body tensed as James stumbled into the room, his face flushed red from drink, his expression dark.

James would knocked the plates off the table, sending food and glass shattering to the floor. The noise rang through the house, sharp and jarring. Pieces of broken porcelain flew, some embedding into Harry’s skin, leaving thin, stinging cuts across his arms and legs.

But Harry didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

Because last time, he had made the mistake of opening his mouth. And last time, James had hit him.

“The food you make—” James slurred, swaying where he stood. He hiccuped, “It’s not even good.”

Harry stayed silent.

“Why are you even here, huh?” James’s voice grew louder, rougher.“If you didn’t exist—Lily would still be alive.”

His finger pointed straight at Harry, accusing.

Harry did not lift his gaze. His head tilted downward, his green eyes staring at the floor, his hands gripping tightly at the loose fabric of James old clothes. His lip trembled as he bit down, trying—desperately trying—not to cry.

“You have her eyes, you know. But you’re nothing like her. You’re useless. Utterly fucking useless.”

And then James would turned away.

He staggered up the stairs, leaving Harry alone in the dim light of the kitchen. Alone to clean up the mess.

Alone to pick up the shattered glass, the spilled food, the pieces of a home that had never really been one.

Yet Every time James woke with a pounding headache and the taste of stale alcohol in his mouth, guilt clawed at the edges of his mind. 

It was the eyes.

Harry’s green eyes, wide and uncertain, shadowed with fear. They haunted him. Every time the boy looked up at him, James saw Lily—saw her softness, her unwavering kindness, her quiet strength. And it sickened him. Because Lily was gone, and yet her eyes still existed in the child who had taken everything from him.

Perhaps that was why, in the mornings after his drunken outbursts, he forced himself to make up for it.

James would stayed home a little longer before leaving for work. He would invite Harry to join him for a bath. At first, the boy was hesitant, as James never allowed him into his room or let him bathe in the upstairs bathroom - only in the dank, moldy basement washroom that needed renovations. Then Harry’s eyes widened as he saw the tub for the first time, as if it is something miracle.

Time by time, he got used to bathing with James, though they had little physical contact beyond the head pat after meals when James was in a good mood. 

James also started to notice more about the boy’s skin. It was soft, and tender, the way his little body quivered under James touch, and the gentle slope of his shoulders. It was an addiction that grew stronger with every passing moment, and James couldn't help but wanted to touch more. 

Wanted to feel more

James had started to enjoy abusing Harry, then pulling him back in with gifts and the words the boy longed to hear. 

It wasn’t the pain that mattered—it was the aftermath. It was watching those green eyes widen in fear, then soften with hope the moment James changed his tone. The way the boy would clung to the smallest scraps of kindness, the way he wanted to believe.

And so James perfected the cycle.

Some nights, it was a slap.

A mistake—a broken plate, a spill on the floor, an accident Harry would apologize for a hundred times over, voice trembling, hands gripping his too-big sleeves. Then came the sharp sting of James’s palm against his cheek, sending the boy stumbling back, his breath catching in his throat.

And then, just as quickly as it started, it was over. James would sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and his expression changed.

“You know I don’t want to hurt you, right? But you just… you frustrate me sometimes. You’re always so clumsy.”

Then he would crouched down, his hands resting on Harry’s small shoulders. “You know I love you, right?”

And just like that, the boy’s expression changed.

The hurt faded into something softer, desperate to believe. And the next day, James would come home with gifts. A brand-new toy, a book, a sweet pastry wrapped in parchment paper.

And Harry—sweet, trusting, foolish Harry—would beam, his eyes lighting up as if nothing had ever happened.

James watched it all unfold with something sickeningly close to satisfaction.

Because the boy needed him.

No matter how hard James pushed, no matter how cruel he became, all it took was a single I’m sorry, a single pat on the head, and Harry would always come crawling back.

Oh sweet revenge.

When Harry turned eleven, his Hogwarts letter finally arrived.

James didn’t take him to Diagon Alley.

Instead, he left the task to Sirius—the one person who never seemed to mind looking after the boy. Sirius always had the patience James lacked, which treated Harry with the warmth James refused to give.

At times, James found the thought unsettling.

If Sirius played too large a role in Harry’s life, wouldn’t it be inevitable that the boy would eventually start seeing him as a father figure? And if that happened, wouldn’t there come a day when Harry no longer needed James at all?

The idea was irrational. Ridiculous, even.

James hated Harry. Had hated him from the moment he was born. The boy had ruined his life, stolen Lily away, left him with nothing but a hollow ache in his chest and a face he could barely stand to look at.

And yet, Harry was still his.

His last remaining family. His blood. The only thing left of Lily, the only person who carried the emerald green eyes James had once sworn to protect.

James could never bring himself to love him.

But the thought of Harry choosing someone else made something ugly fester in his chest.

James could see it already—Harry and Sirius, laughing together, forming a bond that James had never allowed to exist between himself and the boy. Sirius caring for him, filling a role that James had deliberately left empty. And the worst part was that Harry would let him.

The boy always clung to the smallest kindness, would willingly let Sirius take that place.

James hated it.

At times, he considered cutting Sirius off entirely. Breaking that attachment before it could grow any stronger, before Harry could start believing there was someone else in the world who would care for him more than James did.

Because James needed him to believe that he was the only one Harry should depend on. That he was the only person Harry would ever need.

But the thought was madness.

So, instead, James said nothing.

He let Sirius take Harry to Diagon Alley. Let Sirius be the father he never was.

Harry was sorted into Gryffindor—just like his father.

But compared to the other first-years, he was noticeably smaller.

His robes, freshly bought yet still somehow ill-fitting, hung loosely from his thin frame. His shoulders looked narrow, his limbs too delicate compared to the sturdy builds of the other boys. Even Hermione, the girl he had only just met on the train, stood a full head taller than him.

And people noticed.

The whispers started early.

“He’s tiny.”

“Looks like he hasn’t eaten in years.”

“James Potter’s son? You’d think he’d be stronger.”

But then—there were the other whispers.

The ones that slithered through the halls like a secret too heavy to keep hidden.

“I heard James Potter doesn’t take care of him.”

“He’s so scrawny—do you think his dad even feeds him?”

The words burned.

Because they weren’t true.

They couldn’t be true.

Harry loved his father.

And James loved him.

Didn’t he?

People didn’t understand. They didn’t know what James had been through. They didn’t know how much he had lost—how much Harry had taken from him simply by existing.

Of course James was harsh sometimes.

Of course there were days when his words cut deep, when his hands were too rough, when the weight of his disappointment felt like something tangible, pressing down on Harry’s chest.

But that was his fault.

He was the reason people whispered about James.

He was the reason his mother was dead.

He was the reason James had to live in a world without her.

How could he ever make up for that?

No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, it would never be enough.

But James still reassured him, and he showed it too, with gifts. With words. With fleeting moments of kindness that made Harry believe—really, truly believe—that even when James was cruel, even when he left bruises in the shape of his fingers, even when his voice was sharp enough to make Harry flinch—

It was only because James cared.

Because love was supposed to hurt.

Or at least that was all Harry ever known

After his first year at Hogwarts, Harry returned home with a bright smile on his face.

Excitement bubbled in his chest, his words tumbling over each other as he stepped through the door. He couldn’t wait to tell James everything—about his new friends, about his classes, about how amazing the past year had been.

James, however, barely spared him a glance.

He looked the same as ever, though a little older, a little more tired. His face carried a distant, unreadable expression as he flipped through paperwork, barely acknowledging Harry’s presence.

But something had changed.

Harry had grown.

His body, once thin and frail, had filled out. His skin looked healthier, no longer sickly pale, and the clothes he had left behind—James’s old, hand-me-downs—finally fit him properly.

But if James noticed, he said nothing.

Harry didn’t let that stop him.

He kept talking, his voice filled with excitement as he recounted his adventures—about Ron and Hermione, about Quidditch, about the professors who had taught him so much.

He talked, and talked, and talked.

And James didn’t listen.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t nod. He didn’t even pretend to care. He simply continued working, silent, uninterested, as if the boy in front of him was nothing more than background noise.

When Harry finally finished, his smile faltered. His excitement dimmed, giving way to something smaller, something quieter.

James saw it.

He saw the disappointment flicker across Harry’s face, saw the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

But he said nothing.

Harry was talking too much. His voice was grating, filling the house with unnecessary noise. James could feel his irritation building, his fingers twitching against the parchment in front of him. A single strike across the face would be enough to shut him up.

The thought lingered, tempting, familiar.

But James swallowed the anger down.

And for once, he let it go.

And so, during the summer, Harry would ask James if he could go over to Sirius’s. At first, James barely registered the question, offering nothing more than a distracted nod, his attention fixed on the parchment in front of him.

He didn’t care.

Or at least, he thought he didn’t.

So Harry stopped asking.

He came and went as he pleased, slipping out without a word and returning home hours later, eyes bright, voice full of laughter. And every time, like clockwork, he would talk—endlessly, excitedly—about his day with Sirius.

Harry spoke as if James wasn’t drowning in paperwork, as if his presence demanded acknowledgment, as if his words meant something. James tolerated it for exactly three days before the irritation curdled in his chest and spilled over.

The next time Harry opened his mouth, James slammed the door in his face.

And just like that, the house fell silent.

At first, James welcomed it—the absence of noise, the reprieve from Harry’s constant prattling. But then, other things began to change.

The meals stopped appearing on the table.
His clothes remained unwashed, wrinkled where they lay. The house grew dusty, floors no longer swept, windows no longer polished.

It was subtle, creeping in like a slow poison, but James noticed.

And he hated it.

Hated how the silence felt heavier than Harry’s chatter. Hated how the emptiness made him restless, made him listen for footsteps that never came, made him turn toward a door that never opened.

Hated how Sirius had stolen something from him.

And then, his pride—the unbearable, insatiable weight of it—drove him to his worst instincts.

The next time Harry left, James followed.

Shrouded in the Invisibility Cloak, he moved soundlessly, unseen. And as he stood in the shadows of Sirius’s home, watching, something twisted deep inside his chest, coiling tight like a serpent.

Sirius lifted Harry onto his shoulders, hands steady and sure. James wanted to knock him to the ground. Wanted to tear Harry away. No one else should be allowed to touch what was his. No one else should be allowed to lay a hand on his possession.

Mine.

Harry also stayed the night, helped Sirius cook, cleaned his house. James wanted to drag him back home, wanted to remind him who he belonged to.

But the worst part that made James burn, made his hands clench and his jaw tighten—was how Sirius treated Harry.

Not as a burden.

Not as an obligation.

But as something precious.

He would wiped the sweat from Harry’s brow, careful, gentle, treating him like something delicate. And after every meal, Sirius ruffled his hair, smiled, and said, “Good job, kid. I’m proud of you.”

And Harry, so starved for affection, so desperate for approval—would light up, emerald eyes shining like stars in the night sky, looking at Sirius as though he were salvation itself.

He looked at Sirius as if he hung the moon.

As if he were something sacred.

And James hated it too.

How dare those emerald-green eyes look at someone else like that?

How dare those beautiful eyes—her eyes—light up with such warmth for someone who wasn’t him?

Lily’s eyes.

James clenched his fists, his breath shallow, uneven.

No.

Those eyes weren’t Lily’s anymore. They belonged to Harry now.

Lily’s eyes had long since been buried beneath the earth, lost to time and decay.

And yet, even knowing this, his mind faltered, his chest tightened with something ugly, something he didn’t want to name.

He needed to remind himself—Harry is not Lily.

Harry is his son.

Harry is separate.

But why did it matter?

Lily had been his. And so was Harry.

His.

His possession.

James had never been a patient man.

So, being the selfish asshole that he was, he didn’t take kindly to Harry slipping from his grasp.

He forbade him from seeing Sirius.

His reasons were flimsy, transparent even to himself—chastising Harry for shirking his responsibilities, for neglecting the housework. He expected the boy to bow his head, to accept the reprimand as he always had.

But instead—Harry’s spine stiffened, his lips parted, and to James’s utter disbelief, the boy dared to argue.

James should have struck him.

He should have put an end to this nonsense with the back of his hand, the same way he had in the past. But something stopped him.

Anger alone wasn’t enough this time.

If he truly wanted Harry to stop seeing Sirius, to cut that bond entirely, James knew brute force wouldn’t work.

He needed something deeper. Something that would crawl under Harry’s skin and take root inside his mind.

And so, he chose a different approach.

Manipulation.

That night, James called Harry into his study, his voice composed, calm.

“Sit,” he said.

Harry hesitated but obeyed, his movements wary.

James watched him for a long moment, then spoke.

“There’s something you need to understand,” he said smoothly, lacing his words with practiced authority. “Something Hogwarts will teach you in due time, but I think it’s best you hear it from me first.”

Harry blinked, confused.

James leaned forward, his tone solemn, weighty. “Do you know about the secondary genders? About Alphas, Betas, and Omegas?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “I— I’ve read about them. A little.”

“Not enough,” James corrected. “Hogwarts will cover the basics eventually, but there are things you need to learn now. Things that concern you personally.”

Harry swallowed. “Me?”

James nodded. “You’re of age now. You’re growing. And it’s important you understand those roles in the wizarding world.”

He watched, satisfied, as Harry’s confusion deepened.

Good.

Confusion was the first step to control.

James nodded, as if indulging him. “You haven’t presented yet dear, and for now you require structure, guidance—someone to ensure your safety.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “And Sirius, Harry… he is an Alpha. An unbonded Alpha.”

Harry frowned, lips pressing into a thin line. He could already feel where this conversation was going, and he didn’t like it.

James continued, undeterred. “Do you understand how dangerous that is for you?”

Harry’s frown deepened. His fingers curled into fists, his instincts screaming at him to push back. “Daddy… Sirius is a good person. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

James sighed, slow and measured, before reaching out to ruffle Harry’s already messy hair. His fingers tangled in the strands, deliberately making them more disheveled. “Harry,” he murmured, voice gentle, as though he were speaking to a child who didn’t yet understand the cruelty of the world. “I’m an adult. I see things you don’t. I see the way Sirius looks at you. The way he touches you. And it’s not normal, Harry.”

Harry’s lips parted, a sharp retort on his tongue—one he fully intended to say—until James’s eyes snapped to him, dark and piercing, sharp as a blade.

The words died in his throat.

A silent threat loomed between them, heavy, suffocating.

Harry’s feet planted themselves firmly on the ground, his muscles locking into place, as if his body knew better than his mind that this—this moment—was a line he couldn’t cross.

James’s expression didn’t change, but the air around them did.

“And if you think about sneaking off to see him…” James’s voice dropped lower. His fingers slid back into Harry’s hair, but this time, they clenched.

Not hard enough to hurt—not yet—but just enough to remind Harry of his place.

There was a barely-there smile on James’s lips, his grip tightening the slightest bit.

“There will be consequences, Harry.”

Harry swallowed thickly, his throat dry. His head ached from where James held him, fingers firm and possessive, and yet—he didn’t dare pull away.

So, instead—he nodded.

A small, reluctant nod.

And James smiled.

And just like that—Harry was his again.

No more trips to Sirius’s house. No more laughter that didn’t belong to James. No more stolen moments away from his watchful gaze.

Harry stayed home now.

He cooked for James.

He cleaned for James.

He bathed with James.

James convinced himself that this was how it was always meant to be. That this was right.

That Harry belonged here, with him.

That Harry belonged to him.

And for a while, it was enough.

For a while, he was satisfied with the way Harry moved through their home, soft and obedient, a constant presence in James’s life once more.

For a while, he could ignore the way something inside him had shifted—how the darkness had begun to take root, to bloom, twisting itself into something vile, something monstrous.

But the longer he kept Harry close, the more suffocating the desire became.

The more he needed.

The more he wanted.

The more he wanted to fuck his unpresented son.

And James Potter was a man who had never been denied the things he wanted.

His obsession grew—festered—until it clawed at his insides, turning his every thought to something ravenous, something all-consuming.

He’s losing his fucking mind.

By the time Harry entered his second year at Hogwarts, and then his third, James had ensured that every aspect of his life remained firmly within his grasp.

Every friendship was scrutinized.

Every potential connection severed before it could bloom.

James worked quietly, meticulously, ensuring that Harry never formed bonds deep enough to challenge his control.

It was easy enough—pulling a few strings with the professors, ensuring that Harry’s schedules rarely aligned with others. Spreading quiet whispers, subtle rumors that made others hesitate before getting too close.

And when that wasn’t enough, he relied on something simpler.

Fear.

The kind of fear that settled deep in Harry’s bones, the kind that made him second-guess himself, made him hesitate whenever warmth was offered. The kind of fear that made him wonder if friendships were worth the consequences that followed.

It was insidious.

And in the end, devastatingly effective.

By the time Harry reached his third year, he no longer had friends.

Just acquaintances.

Just polite handshakes and empty pleasantries.

No one who would ever love him. No one who would ever care for him the way James did. No one who could ever be good enough for him.

And when summer came, the only place left for Harry to return to—the only place where he could exist—was with James.

And soon when Harry presented, the only place he would ever find happiness would be on Jame’s cock. 

The mere thought of it was enough to make James's own cock twitch in his trousers, growing hard and eager for release. He couldn't resist the urge to touch himself, sliding his hand into his pants to grasp his aching prick.

He pumped his own cock, lost in a fantasy of bending Harry over and pounding into him until he was ruined for anyone else. Harry would writhed on the bed, equally lost in pleasure as he would fucked himself on James’ member.

And so James continued to touch himself, building higher and higher, until finally he came with groans of completion, spraying his releases across his hands.

He’s so fucked

James wasn’t sure when it had started—when the resentment had curdled into something else entirely. When the irritation, the jealousy, had warped into something darker, more consuming.

He hadn’t always felt this way.

He hadn’t always looked at Harry and felt his breath catch in his throat.

But here he was.

And it wasn’t his fault.

No—this was Harry’s doing.

If only he hadn’t looked at him with those damn green—Lily’s eyes. If only he hadn’t smiled at him like that. If only he hadn’t been so much like Lily, and yet nothing like her at all.

Then, maybe, James wouldn’t feel like he was unraveling. Maybe, he wouldn’t feel this unbearable need.

But this was Harry’s fault.

Harry had asked for it.

By the time Harry entered his fourth year, his fate had been sealed. He presented as an Omega, just as James had always known he would.

And the moment it happened, James felt something deep inside him tighten with satisfaction.

Because, of course, Harry was meant to be this.

An Omega.

His Omega.

Harry wasn’t just an Omega—he was a beautiful one. Exquisite, delicate—every feature a testament to his lineage.

His emerald-green eyes, already so captivating, now shone with a brilliance that drew people in like moths to a flame. His raven hair, soft and unruly, framed a face that carried traces of Lily in every curve, in every flutter of his long, dark lashes.

His lips—soft, too soft—parted in laughter, in shy smiles, in moments of quiet innocence, and James felt a madness clawing at the edges of his mind.

Because Harry looked like her.

And yet—He was nothing like her at all.

He was better.

Softer.

Sweeter.

More his.

Or probably he missed his wife so much that he was going insane

Others had started to notice. The Alphas at Hogwarts began to circle. They whispered to Harry in corridors, flashing charming smiles and making false promises—promises of protection, of love, of devotion.

And worse—Harry listened.

Those cheeks that reserved only for James, now flushed under the attention of other Alphas. His lips, untouched, curled in laughter at their words. His body, his gaze, his presence—all things that belonged to James—were being wasted on them.

It made him sick.

But James had prepared for this. He had always known this day would come. And so, with quiet precision, he destroyed every connection before it could take root.

Soon—just as he intended—

Harry began to believe it was his own fault. That no one truly wanted him. That no one truly cared. That he was undesirable.

That he was ugly.

James watched as the light in those emerald eyes dimmed ever so slightly. Watched as Harry’s shoulders hunched just a little more when no one came knocking.

Watched as the boy—his boy—turned back to him, seeking comfort where there was no escape.

But oh, dear Harry—How wrong he is.

He is so beautiful.

A beauty so delicate, so divine, that it was almost cruel for the world to have him.

But the world would never have him.

Because Harry belong to James.

James had make sure of that.

The summer of Harry’s fourth year came quietly. There were no more Alphas chasing after Harry. No more whispered promises or stolen glances. No more threats to his control.

Harry was alone again—exactly as he should be.

Exactly where he belonged. With James.

The final step is to take what his.

It started with something simple.

A gentle push in the right direction.

A small, tasteless additive slipped into Harry’s food, undetectable amidst the warmth of home-cooked meals. A substance designed to do what nature had not yet intended.

To force his first heat.

James watched.

Waited.

And that night, Harry’s body softened, his skin flushed with warmth. His breath grew shallower, his pupils dilating in confusion. He shifted uncomfortably on his bed, fingers twitching against the fabric of his shirt.

James quietly entered the room, seeing Harry squirming on the bed, unable to control his instinct, he released his Alpha pheromones, making Harry's face flushed even more.

“…Daddy,” he murmured, voice uncertain. “I don’t feel right.”

James looked up from across the table, his expression unreadable.

“Not right?” he echoed. “What do you mean, Harry?”

Harry swallowed, his brows drawing together. “I— I feel weird. My skin feels… hot.”

James tilted his head, feigning concern.

“Come here,” he murmured.

The boy’s green eyes were clouded with desire, his lips repeatedly begging.

"P-Please alpha, help me..."

James quickly stripped off his clothes and climbed onto the bed, pressing his body against Harry's sweat-soaked skin. Then he began kissing the boy possessively, his tongue exploring every inch of his son’s sweet mouth. The taste of Harry was addicting, driving him wild with lust. His member throbbed painfully in his boxers, aching to be inside the boy’s hole.

He then flipped Harry over and buried his face in the boy’s neck, inhaling his sweet haven scent. He pulled down his boxers, revealing his already hard member, and thrust it roughly into the boy’s entrance without any preparation. 

He had been waiting for so long.

The boy’s insides were so warm and tight, gripping James like a vice. It felt better than anything he'd ever experienced before. Even better than Lily. 

"Fuck, you're so tight," James groaned.

He began pounding into Harry relentlessly, their combined scents of sex and pheromones filling the room. He flipped the boy over again and drove his member deeper, nearly reaching Harry’s cervix. The boy’s hole still gripped him tightly, refusing to let go while James fucked him with wild abandon, like a starving demon just had its first meal.

"Mine."

Then, he began rubbing his fingers along Harry's swollen folds, circling the sensitive clit. The omega gasped and writhed under his touch, back arched off the bed as James worked his clitoris over.

"Oh!" Harry moaned, hips bucking to meet James' fingers.

James kept on rubbing in circles on the boy’s clit while fucking him, making his eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Then, Harry quickly cum, clear liquid gushing out around James' cock as he continued rubbing his clit through his orgasm.

Despite his release, Harry's body remained feverish due to his heat, his vagina still clenching tightly around James' throbbing member. He wiggled his hips, desperate for more friction.

Suddenly, James pulled out, leaving Harry empty "If you want me to fuck you so badly, show me how much you need it," he demanded.

The boy then whimpered and quickly spread his legs wider, using his two fingers to pull his lips apart. Then he started rubbing his clit in slow circles, mimicking the way James made him feel so good. The boy’s fingers then trailed down to his vangina, fingering himself while begging for James.

James growled low in his throat with satisfaction, he grabbed Harry's hips and positioned him over his member, ordering the boy to ride him.

”Good boy”

Harry then impaled himself on James's member, crying out as he was stretched wide. Sweat glistening on his skin, he started bouncing on his father lap, slamming his hips down to take every inch. The wet sounds of their coupling filled the room. James pistoned his hips upwards to meet Harry's downward thrusts, driving into him relentlessly. The force of his thrusts lifted Harry off his member before slamming him back down making the boy yelped.

”Oh..Oh god daddy..oh”

And so, with a loud cry, Harry came undone, squirting around James's member. The intense sensation pushed James over the edge and he growled, yet he couldn't risk knocking up his Omega yet. With a regretful groan, James pulled out, he smiled down at Harry, his perfect omega boy, spread out beneath him.

Then, he started rubbing the head of his member against the boy’s soft lips, hinting the boy to suck him.

Drowning in heat, Harry obediently opened his mouth and took James inside, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip. He bobbed his head, taking his father deeper into the heat of his mouth. James groaned at the feeling, his fingers tangling in Harry's hair, thrusting his hips to fuck his omega face. Harry gagged a little but didn't pull away, wanting to please his father, his alpha. James smirked down at him, loving the sight of his boy with tears in his eyes and saliva dripping down his chin.

James felt his orgasm building quickly, his member throbbing in the boy’s throat. With a groan, he pulled out and aimed his cock at the boy’s pretty face. Hot liquid splattered across Harry's cheeks and forehead, dripping into his wide, shocked eyes.

James used his member to smear the mess across the boy’s face, marking him thoroughly. 

But James wasn't done with his omega yet. Not even close. He flipped Harry over onto his hands and knees and moved in behind him. His alpha instincts were riding him hard, demanding. Again.

“The night is still long”

The next morning came slow and hazy.

Harry stirred, his body aching in ways he didn’t understand. His skin still felt too warm, as though something had settled deep inside him, curling against his ribs, leaving a phantom heat in its wake. His mind was sluggish, thoughts slipping through his fingers like sand.

Something was wrong.

But he couldn’t quite grasp what.

He blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, his vision unfocused. His limbs felt heavy, too exhausted to move, as if he had spent the entire night fighting against something unseen.

And then—A hand.

Fingers threading through his hair, gently, comfortingly. Harry flinched, his body stiffening on instinct before he even turned to look.

James sat at the edge of the bed.

Harry’s bed.

A soft smile curled his lips, but there was something wrong about it.

“You’re awake,” James murmured.

Harry tried to sit up—tried to move—but his body protested, weak and unsteady. His head spun, his stomach twisting with unease.

“…What happened?” he rasped, voice hoarse.

James’s hand never left his hair, stroking slow, methodical.

“You had a rough night,” he said simply.

His voice was too gentle.

Harry swallowed thickly, his body betraying him with a shudder he couldn’t suppress. There was a haze in his mind, a fog that refused to lift. Flashes of something warm, something overwhelming, lingered at the edges of his memory. Sensations he couldn’t place, a heat that had burrowed deep beneath his skin.

His heat.

A realization struck him, cold and sharp—His first heat had come early.

Too early.

His breath hitched. He remembered 

“Daddy…” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Why…What?”

James’s fingers tightened ever so slightly in his hair, just enough for Harry to feel it.

“Hush, sweetheart,” James murmured, leaning in just a fraction. “You don’t have to worry about anything. I took care of you.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. His stomach twisted, a sickening mix of confusion and something dangerously close to fear. 

“Why?” Harry’s voice trembled, his body betraying him even as he shrank back, even as his Omega scent—called for comfort from the very person who had done this to him.

James sighed, slow and deliberate.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, reaching out once more, fingers grazing Harry’s cheek.

“But daddy… isn’t this wrong?”

James only smiled, his expression calm.

“I’m only trying to help you, dear,” he murmured, his tone soothing, patient. “And this is perfectly normal in the wizarding world.”

Then, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, amusement flickering across his face as he continued,

“Besides, nobody wants you anyway. This is just another way I show my love for you, dear.”

His voice was gentle, warm, as if he were simply stating a fact.

“As if it were the truth.”

James reached forward, pulling Harry into his embrace with ease, arms firm around his frame. He inhaled deeply, drinking in the sweet Omega scent that belonged only to him.

And then, he whispered, “I’ll protect you, dear.”

Harry hesitated but slowly nodded, confused, unsure.

Ever since he had presented as an Omega, he had felt… lost. He didn’t know how to handle his heat, didn’t know how to navigate this new part of himself. Suppressants were his only escape.

And ever since that moment—No Alpha had looked at him. Not even Beta had spared him a second glance.

It was only James.

Now his father would be here to help him, to finally love him.

He felt sorry for his mom though, he didn’t mean to steal James away, but James said it was completely normal.

And so, Harry would clung to him.

Because who else would?

The summer of Harry’s fourth year passed in a blur.

He no longer needed suppressants. Not when James was there, helping him through every heat, whispering comforts into his ear, keeping him safe, keeping him his.

James didn’t treat him the way he used to. He bought Harry new clothes—fine, elegant fabrics that draped over his frame perfectly, accentuating every delicate curve that marked him as an Omega.

He spoiled him. Showered him with gifts, with sweet words, with affection so overwhelming that Harry felt dizzy from it all.

James would run his fingers through his hair, murmur how precious he was. And in return, Harry did everything James wanted.

Every. Single. Thing. 

Even to have sex with Harry frequently without the boy’s consent.

It was an unspoken agreement—a balance carefully maintained.

But sometimes when Harry made mistakes. Such as saying ‘no’ when James wanted to fuck him — he would reminded Harry.

A sharp slap. A punishment delivered swiftly, without hesitation. A bruising grip.

Some days, it was worse than others.

Some days, James lost his temper.

And those days were the worst.

But after the pain, after the fear, after the trembling breaths and the quiet sobs, James would always hold him. He would soothe him. Would kiss the bruises away, fingers careful as he tended to the wounds he himself had inflicted.

“Shh, sweetheart,” James would murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “You know I don’t like hurting you.”

And Harry believed him.

Because Daddy loved him.

Right?

In Harry’s fifth year, the arrival of Tom Marvolo Riddle at Hogwarts sent ripples through the castle.

The Minister of Magic himself had come to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. The students were enthralled, captivated by his presence—his charm, his authority, his raw Alpha dominance that seemed to command every space he entered. All of the Omegas swooned, the Beta admired. Even the Alphas watched him with wary respect.

But Harry barely paid him any mind, because he already had James.

And besides..Harry was ugly.

Why would someone like Minister Riddle ever notice someone like him? So, while his classmates vied for Tom’s attention, hanging onto his every word, seeking his approval, Harry simply sat in his seat, quietly flipping through his textbook, doing exactly as he was told.

It should have been simple. Until, after class, Tom spoke.

“Mr. Potter. Stay behind.”

Harry froze.

His first thought was James. Had he done something wrong? Had Daddy sent the Minister to reprimand him?

But when he glanced around, searching for anyone who might question this sudden interest, he found nothing.

As always—No one cared enough to look at him.

No one questioned why Minister Riddle wanted him alone. So, Harry quietly set his bag down and took the seat Tom offered, his movements small, compliant.

Tom took a slow sip of tea, watching.

Those red eyes felt like they could see straight through him, peeling him apart layer by layer.

“You’re Harry Potter. James’s son, aren’t you?”

Harry’s eyes brightened immediately at the mention of James.

“Yes, professor,” he answered softly.

A knowing smirk tugged at Tom’s lips. Then he reached out, pale fingers brushing over the back of Harry’s hand.

Harry flinched, his instinct was to pull away—but before he could, Tom’s grip tightened.

“James works under me,” Tom mused. “Your father is Head of the Aurors, you know that, don’t you?”

Harry nodded. Tom hummed, his thumb absently stroking the back of Harry’s hand.

“He’s done well in his time,” he continued, “but he’s lost his edge since his wife died. He’s not the man he used to be.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Was Tom… criticizing daddy?

Before he could react, Tom leaned in, his voice dipping into something softer, more insidious.

“I’ve been considering replacing him.”

Harry tensed.

“Your father is getting old, after all,” Tom added, a hint of amusement in his tone. His grip remained firm, controlling, as he watched the way Harry’s lips parted, his emerald eyes widening ever so slightly.

Then, Tom stood, moving closer—too close—until he was right in front of Harry, his breath warm against his ear.

And then—

“Omega… beautiful little Omega,” he purred.

Harry shuddered.

“You haven’t been mated yet, have you?”

A sharp pang of discomfort settled in Harry’s chest.

Tom’s voice dipped even lower, “Why don’t you become mine?”.

“Be my mate, Harry, and perhaps I’ll reconsider demoting your father.”

Harry quickly yanked his hand away from Tom’s grip, the cold touch of the Minister still lingering against his skin. His breath hitched, his cheeks flushing a deep, fucking delicious red.

A color so vivid, so unintentionally tempting, that Tom’s lips curled with predatory delight. His red eyes darkened, trailing over the boy with a gaze that devoured, yet Harry didn’t notice.

Didn’t see the way Tom licked his lips, how his fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to reach out again.

Harry fingers clenched around his bag, and in a rushed, breathless murmur, he bowed his head and spoke.

”…I already have a mate. I’m sorry, sir.”

A hesitation, an apology, as if he owed Riddle anything at all.

And then Harry ran. Turned on his heel, fled from the classroom before Tom could respond, before he could see the way those crimson eyes gleamed with the color of lust.

James’s stomach twisted, a deep, gnawing unease settling into his bones when he knew Tom was coming to Hogwarts. 

Tom had always been a problem.

The ruthless minister. A man who took pleasure in making James’s life hell, burying him under mountains of work, stretching him so thin he could barely breathe. Even when Lily died, when James had submitted his request for leave with shaking hands, Tom had rejected it without a second glance. And then, as if to mock his grief, he had doubled James’s workload.

Heartless. Unforgiving.

But efficient.

Under Tom’s rule, Great Britain had flourished. His hands were stained red, his ascent to power paved with blood and sacrifice, but no one could deny the results. The world was better under his control.

James had learned to live with it.

What he couldn’t live with—what sent ice-cold dread pooling in his stomach—was Tom’s particular tastes.

Everyone knew it. Tom liked pretty things. He surrounded himself with beauty, collected lovers like one would collect priceless artifacts, each more exquisite than the last.

And Harry was more beautiful than all of them.

James knew how beautiful his Omega is, the way people looked at him. Those luminous green eyes, that delicate, almost ethereal beauty—Harry was irresistible. Dangerous, even.

And Tom had no self-restraint.

So, his decision was made before he even realized it.

He would go to Hogwarts. He would take Polyjuice, slip into the castle unnoticed, disguise himself as a worker. He would watch.

Every move Tom made. Every glance, every touch, every stray moment of attention toward his Omega. James would be there.

As James had expected, Tom wasted no time in trying to approach his Omega.

Every lesson, every opportunity—Tom lingered, always keeping Harry back after class, always finding an excuse to hold his attention just a little longer. And Harry—his obedient, clever little Omega—always found a way to slip through his fingers. Excuses spun with careful precision, a polite smile, a murmured apology—anything to stay out of Tom Riddle’s grasp.

But there were moments where Tom pushed too far.

He couldn’t have Harry, not openly. Not yet. He was too powerful, too high-profile to be reckless. A scandal of that magnitude could shake the very foundation of his rule. And Tom had never been a fool. He knew patience. He knew restraint.

But he was also an Alpha.

And an Alpha without what they want was a creature on the edge of madness.

There were times, when Harry tried to escape too quickly, when the Minister’s patience wore thin. When his control—his infamous, calculated self-control—snapped.

Like now.

The moment Harry turned to flee, Tom pinned him against the desk, strong hands locking around fragile wrists, pressing him down with the full weight of his presence.

“Where do you think you’re going, little one?”

A whisper, low and dark, curling against the shell of Harry’s ear.

Harry struggled, muscles tensing, but Tom was relentless.

And then—Magic.

Raw, wandless magic.

A burst of force erupted between them, slamming into Tom like a physical blow. He was thrown backward, crashing against a desk with bone-rattling force, the sharp crack of wood echoing through the empty classroom.

For a moment, silence.

Then—Harry.

Wide, terrified emerald eyes staring at his trembling hands, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. And then, realization—fear.

Fuck, he had just attacked the Minister of Magic.

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering to Tom, who was already pushing himself upright, the hint of blood smeared at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away carelessly, movements slow, deliberate.

And then he smiled.

Pleased.

Amused.

Hungry.

Blood-red eyes locked onto Harry, pinning him in place, the sharp gleam of something dark curling in their depths.

James clenched his fists.

Beneath the safety of his Invisibility Cloak, he watched—helpless.

He should move. Should do something. Should rip that look off Tom’s face, should protect what was his.

But he didn’t.

Because he was a fucking coward.

Because Tom Riddle was the Minister of Magic. His boss. 

James didn’t want to lose his jobs 

So he stood there—and watched.

James watched as the moment Tom’s pheromones flooded the room. A silent, invisible force pressing down, filling every inch of space with an overwhelming, suffocating dominance.

Harry’s legs buckled beneath him.

James clenched his fists. He could see how the Alpha’s presence crashed over his Omega like a tidal wave, how it stole the strength from his limbs, making him sink to his knees. Yet despite the trembling in his frame, despite the way sweat dripped down the side of his temple, Harry did not give up.

James had trained his boy well.

But Tom was relentless.

He moved the moment he regained his footing, a blur of black robes as he lunged forward, predatory and hungry.

Harry barely had a second to react.

His wand was in his hand in a flash, instincts sharper than any blade.

“Stupefy!”

The spell cut through the air, aimed with perfect precision—

Blocked.

Tom swatted it aside like it was nothing, the impact of the spell exploding against the wall behind him in a harmless burst of red light. Then he took another step forward, then another, his scent thickening, curling around Harry like an iron chain.

Harry was sweating now, breath uneven, muscles burning from the effort of fighting against instincts that screamed at him to submit. To lower his gaze. To bow to the Alpha before him.

Another spell, sharper, deadlier—

“Expulso!”

A surge of raw magic erupted from the tip of his wand, aimed directly at Tom’s chest—Too slow.

Tom dodged with inhuman speed, the spell barely grazing his shoulder before it detonated against the desk behind him, shattering it into splinters.

The Minister just smirked.

His eyes gleamed with lust

“You’re beautiful like this,” Tom murmured. “Sweating. Trembling. Fighting so, so hard.” He took another step forward. “How long will you last, little one?”

Harry’s breath hitched. His vision blurred.

The pheromones were getting worse, thickening around him like a fog, making it hard to breathe.

He couldn’t let Tom get closer.

His next spell was wordless—sharp, vicious, raw with power—

Tom caught his wrist before he could release it.

Harry gasped.

His magic surged—wild, uncontrolled, trying to shove Tom back—

Nothing.

Tom held him.

His grip, firm and unyielding, wrapped around Harry’s delicate wrist like a shackle.

Harry struggled, twisting, kicking—anything to break free—

A whisper.

Soft. Amused.

“Crucio.”

Pain exploded.

It burned.

It sank into his bones.

It tore through every nerve, scorching him from the inside out, dragging a broken, strangled cry from his throat as his body collapsed under the weight of agony.

Harry writhed on the floor, back arching, hands clawing at the floor beneath him, his mouth open in a silent scream while tom watched with a disgusting smile on his face.

James panted, his breath ragged, sweat beading at his temples. He hadn’t expected Harry to last this long. Still, there was no surprise when Tom cast the Cruciatus.

After all, Tom Riddle always got what he wanted.

The spell had finally worn off, leaving Harry gasping, shaking in the Minister’s grasp. His small frame was caged between Tom’s arms, his wrists pinned, his body forced against the cold floor. The scent of Alpha surrounded him, thick and suffocating, pressing down on him like a tangible weight.

Tom leaned in, breath hot against Harry’s ear.

“Mine.”

Harry shuddered.

And then, with the last bit of strength in his trembling limbs, he lashed out, driving his knee into Tom’s stomach with everything he had.

Yet Tom didn’t even flinch.

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, his grip tightening, pressing Harry back against the desk as if the attempt had amused him.

Desperation clawed at Harry’s throat.

And so he did the only thing he could—begging

“Professor,” his voice cracked, raw from pain, from fear. “I—please, I have a mate.”

Tom stilled.

Slowly, he pulled back, his crimson eyes flickering down to Harry’s neck.

Bare.

Untouched.

Unmarked.

Tom smirked. The cruel, mocking smile of a predator who had just cornered his prey.

“Oh?” he murmured, voice like silk, coiling around Harry’s throat like a noose. “Then tell me, little one…” His fingers ghosted over the unblemished skin of Harry’s neck, tilting his chin up. “Who is this mate of yours, that has failed to leave a mark on you?”

Harry’s lips parted.

His mind screamed at him to lie, to say anything—But words tumbled out before he could stop them.

“J—James.”

A tremor ran through him as he forced the words out, panic lacing his voice. “James said—James said it was too soon—to claim me”

Tom laughed.

A low, wicked sound.

And then, mockery.

“Ah.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “So that’s why he’s been hiding you like gold—”

His grip on Harry’s chin tightened.

“And that’s why he hasn’t claimed you.” Tom smirked. “Because it would tarnish his precious reputation.”

Harry’s breath hitched while Tom’s lips curled into a sharp, delighted grin.

“What a wonderful headlines for the Daily Prophets don’t you think?” he purred. “James Potter—father, Head of Auror—having an inappropriate relationship with his own Omega son.” He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “A great one, right?”

Harry felt his stomach plummet. Like he had just revealed something Harry hadn’t even realized himself.

Meanwhile, James stood in the corner, fists clenched, his body wound tight. His breath was slow, measured, his expression carefully schooled into blankness—controlled. Yet, beneath the calculated stillness, his mind was racing.

He should have expected this.

Of course, Tom would see through the carefully laid-out illusion. And of course, he would sniff out the one thing James had worked so hard to keep buried.

He had tried so hard to convince Harry that fucking his own son was normal in the Wizarding World.

It wasn’t Tom’s actions that angered him, he had accounted for that. Tom was predictable in his desire, in his need to claim what he wanted. He was a beast of impulse, led by hunger and obsession. That was why he had always been easy for James to maneuver around.

But this—Harry knew the truth, and it was fucking dangerous because James can’t manipulate the boy any longer,

Can’t fuck the boy whenever he wants anymore.

And then, the unmistakable sound of a zipper tearing through fabric echoed in the room—enough for both James and Harry to hear. In that grim moment, Harry’s legs were forced apart, his desperate, frantic screams pleading for the torment to stop falling on deaf ears.

And as everything unfolded in the most predictable yet unbearable way, the last fragment of consciousness that clung to Harry was Tom’s voice, low and intimate as it brushed against his ear, whispering a single word.

“Precious.”

When Harry woke, he was still on the cold stone floor of the Dark Arts classroom. The room was silent, the air heavy with something he didn’t want to name. His body ached—his limbs felt foreign, his skin hypersensitive, every nerve in his body wrong.

And his neck burned.

The moment he moved, pain flared along his scent gland, instinct screaming at him that something had changed. Then the memories came, like petals drifting onto water, one after another—soft, weightless, but impossible to stop

His fingers trembled as they reached up, pressing against the tender skin at his neck, feeling the unmistakable claim that had been seared into his very being.

Tom had marked him.

James was supposed to be the only one. The only one he would ever give himself to.

For so long, Harry had tried—tried so desperately to be good enough for his father. To be wanted by James. To make James love him. It had taken years, had taken everything in him to break through that cold, distant wall—to become his.

And now it felt like all of his efforts meant nothing.

A sharp, broken sob tore from his throat, his vision blurring with tears.

Daddy will hate him forever 

But hadn’t James lied to him too?

Had daddy— only ever seen him as something to be used, something precious to be fucked.

He was just a whore and nothing else. Nothing worthy.

He thought back—every moment, every touch, every whisper in the dark. The way James had always kept him close. The way he had made sure no one else ever got near him. The way Sirius had been pushed away before he could claim him—That was what daddy said

But it doesn’t matter if he lied,

Harry have no one else anyway.

He just wished life had been easier.

The small Omega curled in on himself, forehead pressed to his knees, his fragile frame trembling with each quiet sob. The empty classroom was silent, save for the broken sounds spilling from Harry’s lips—soft, miserable.

He wanted to die.

He wanted death to hear him, to grant him mercy, to end this.

Because what was the point of living, if the only thing that had ever mattered—the only thing he had to offer James had been stolen from him.

His fingers clutched at his robes, his body shaking, breath hitching.Then suddenly, he heard a sound, the faintest shuffle of fabric. Harry’s head snapped up, his puffy, tear-streaked face searching the empty room. His heart pounded, his body tensing.

And then, James appeared.

The shimmering fabric of the Invisibility Cloak slipped from his shoulders, revealing him—standing there, watching.

Harry’s breath caught.

“Daddy?” His voice cracked. “Why are you here?”

Before James could answer—before he could say anything, Harry ran to him.

He threw himself into James’s arms, clinging to him like a lifeline, like a drowning child reaching for the only thing keeping it afloat.

James hands hovered, hesitant—then, by sheer habit, they moved to card through Harry’s wild hair, mechanical, indifferent.

But then his fingers drifted lower, touching the claim.

James stilled.

The moment his fingers brushed the wound, something inside him snapped.

His grip tightened. Too tight.

His fingers pressed harder against the raw, sensitive flesh, until the pressure burned making Harry whimpered.

His rage coiled tighter, seething, boiling. He wanted to erase it.

To rip the claim from Harry’s skin. 

To punish him for allowing this to happen. 

For not keeping himself pure.

For ruining what belonged to James.

For giving Tom something that should have only ever been his.

His jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he fought the impulse to do something worse. Harry looked up at him, eyes wide, desperate.

“Daddy… I’m sorry.” His voice was trembling. “Tom—Tom did this to me, I tried to stop him—”

James stared at him. And the longer he looked, the more he hated him.

Hated the sight of him like this—weak, pathetic, begging for comfort that he did not deserve.

So he shoved him.

Harry gasped as he was sent crashing back to the floor, his still-aching body unable to catch itself in time. Pain flared through his limbs, his breath leaving him in a choked whimper. And then, slowly—desperately—he crawled back.

Like a wounded animal, dragging himself forward, clutching at James’s legs, clinging to him with everything he had left.

Tears streamed down his face, wet and uncontrollable.

“Please—” His voice cracked. “Daddy, please—don’t hate me—please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I promise—”

He sobbed against James’s legs, shaking, pressing his forehead to his thigh, hands clutching at his robes.

James didn’t care.

Afterall he had never truly cared about anything but himself and his goddamned ego.

Then, James grabbed him. Fingers tight around the collar of Harry’s rumpled robes, yanking him up with effortless strength. The sudden force made Harry gasp, his small frame trembling as he dangled slightly, caught in his father’s grasp.

Suddenly, out of shock, his father started kissing him

Hard. Rough. Cruel.

His lips crushed against Harry’s, his teeth sinking into the soft, delicate curve of his lower lip, biting down until the coppery taste of blood bloomed between them making the boy whimpered.

Pain shot through him, a sharp, searing sting that made his hands jerk against James’s chest. He struggled—he didn’t want this, not right now, not right after Tom just brutally raped him.

Harry hands pushed against James’s chest, his heart hammering in his ribs as panic coiled in his stomach.

“D-Daddy, stop—”

Of course he didn’t stop but only held him tighter, forcing the kiss deeper, swallowing every sound, every protest, as if they meant nothing. Tears spilled from his emerald eyes, wetting his cheeks, mixing with the blood from his split lip.

“D-Daddy—I don’t want this!”

The words were sharp, desperate, trembling. And James froze.

For the smallest fraction of a second, something unreadable flashed in those dark, burning eyes.

James’s hand moved before he even realized it, his palm cracking against Harry’s cheek with a force that sent a sharp, sickening snap echoing through the empty room. The impact whipped Harry’s head to the side. A sharp gasp choked in his throat. And then a splatter of red, bright and vivid, trickled from his lip, dripped onto the stone floor beneath him.

Harry’s whole body shook. His breath hitched, ragged and shallow, his fingers twitching where they had been clutching at James’s robes

James’s grip tightened in Harry’s hair, yanking his head back, forcing those tear-streaked emerald eyes to meet his own.

“Fucking slut! So now that you’ve let someone else claim you, you think you can just do this to me?” James sneered. His hand trailed down to the boy’s hair, griping it tightly, yanking his head back, forcing those tear-streaked emerald eyes to meet his own.

Harry’s breath came fast and shallow. His lips trembled, his whole body frozen in place. He shook his head, frantic, terrified.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

But James wasn’t listening. He never listened.

His fingers curled tighter in the boy’s hair, the tension sharp, his eyes burning with a dangerous mix of rage.

Then suddenly the door behind them creaked open. The sound was sharp, intrusive—cutting through the suffocating tension like a knife.

A figure stepped inside.

Tall. Composed. Smirking.

James’s blood ran cold.

Standing before them, dark robes billowing with an air of effortless authority, was the Minister of Magic himself - Tom Marvolo Riddle.

His crimson eyes flickered between them—between James’s grip in Harry’s hair, between the blood-streaked Omega trembling on the floor.

“Tell me, James,” Tom murmured, voice rich with amusement. “What, exactly, do you think you’re doing to my mate?”

James’s breath hitched. His fingers immediately released Harry’s hair, his whole body going rigid.

“…M-Minister,” James stammered, his voice hoarse.

Harry, still shaking, barely managed to process the sudden change in atmosphere. His body was screaming at him to move, to run, but he was frozen—paralyzed beneath the weight of both Alphas looming over him.

James hesitated—then, reluctantly, he stepped back. Lowered his head.

Tom laughed.

A soft, amused chuckle as he strode forward, unhurried, unbothered, exuding nothing but pure control.

“Well, well, well,” Tom mused, his tone mocking, “I’ve always been able to sense you lurking around Hogwarts, James. Skulking in the shadows. Keeping such a close eye on your precious little Omega.”

His smirk widened.

“As if you could actually keep him from me.”

James’s jaw locked.

Tom crouched beside Harry, his long fingers trailing over the boy’s delicate, bloodied face—almost tender, almost gentle.

Harry flinched while Tom only tilted his head, admiring him.

“You know,” Tom murmured, “I’ve always known about the type of relationship the two of you share.”

His fingers traced along Harry’s jaw, then drifted lower—brushing the fresh bite mark on his neck.

James’s fingers twitched.

“And, you see, James,” Tom continued, his voice turning silkier, sharper, crueler, “You made a grave mistake.”

“You thought you could hide something so pretty from me.”

James’s stomach turned.

But Tom’s gaze was still fixed on Harry, his touch slow, lingering.

“As if I wouldn’t notice.”

A smirk curled at his lips, dark amusement flickering in his blood-red eyes.

“Just like how you tried to hide Lily from me.”

James whole body went cold.

Tom chuckled at his silence, unfazed. Enjoying it.

“I have always wanted a piece of her, you know?” Tom said casually, as if it were nothing. “But you kept her all to yourself. Stole her away. Just as you tried to steal away something else that belonged to me.”

He paused, fingers grazing Harry’s throat.

“I always knew Lily would give birth to something beautiful.”

“And so, I waited,” Tom continued smoothly, his voice almost dreamlike. “Waited for the day her child would present.” His fingers tightened just slightly against Harry’s skin, enough to make the Omega tense.

“It never mattered what you turned out to be, little one,” Tom murmured, amusement curling at the edges of his words. “Alpha, Beta, or Omega—you were always meant to be mine. Pretty little thing.”

A slow, sharp smile.

“But James,” Tom sighed, finally looking up at the man still standing, still silent, still seething, “you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

He tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“You already took one beauty from me.”

His eyes gleamed.

“And now, you thought you could take another?”

Tom stepped closer, his blood-red eyes gleaming with cruel amusement as he looked down at James.

“I’ve considered making you resign, you know,” he mused, voice dripping with mockery. “Because—sweet Salazar—your performance has been atrocious.”

He leaned in slightly, his smirk widening.

“Perhaps your only talent lies in spending your days fantasizing about which position you should fuck your own son in.”

James’s jaw locked. Harry’s breath caught.

“However,” he continued, voice smooth, “I’ve had a change of heart.”

He glanced at Harry, his expression almost fond.

“Because Harry,” Tom purred, “is too precious.”

“Which is why, James, you’re going to make an Unbreakable Vow with me.”

The words stilled the air. Even Harry—still shaken, trembling on the floor—stared up in disbelief.

James, too, froze.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his pulse a slow, deliberate drum of rage and control.

Tom smirked at his silence.

“You will give Harry to me,” he said, casual, cruel. “Permanently.”

“You will never interfere with what belongs to me.”

A sharp, almost playful tilt of his head.

“In exchange,” Tom mused, “I won’t make you resign.”

His smile widened.

“Because if you refuse..I’ll make you resign anyway.”

This wasn’t fair.

He had worked for years, clawed his way up, crushed others beneath him, made sacrifices that only he understood—to get here.

His title.

His power.

He had bled for it.

Killed for it.

He couldn’t lose it.

Not for some stupid, weak, pathetic Omega.

It was absurd.

Yet, Harry was his. His possession. His Omega. His blood. Those emerald green eyes—the ones that had haunted him for years—they belonged to him. And in some ways—perhaps cruel, Harry was even more beautiful than Lily had ever been.

Ha.

He doesn’t have much of a choice haven’t he?

Perhaps he wasn’t any better than Tom. In the end, they were both monsters hiding behind the titles that all of Great Britain trusted.

So, with a breath cold and sharp, James made his decision.

“Fine,” he said.

Harry froze.

His breath hitched, his vision blurred, his entire body going rigid with disbelief. His hands clenched into fists, his heart pounding so loud it was all he could hear. The Vow was performed in near silence. The moment the magic sealed around them, binding the deal, and from now on, Harry was Tom’s. Bound to him. His consort. His prized possession. His precious little thing. A pretty toy—displayed, adored, and incapable of living without him.

From that day on, Tom continuously violated Harry. After every lesson, he would demand Harry stay behind, cast a Silencio, and fuck him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Harry thought—Tom had the strength of a wild beast. He could fuck him for hours—from the afternoon until midnight—living marks on his legs, neck, every part of the body he could think of.

And still, he wouldn’t let him go.

”Pretty little slut”, he often say.

Tom also love to corner Harry into the bathroom, force the boy’s mouth down on his monstrous erection, and make the poor Omega swallow every last drop of his bitter, disgusting seeds.

The Minister’s lust knew no bounds. He'd take Harry anytime, anywhere - even shamelessly finger-fucking the boy right in the middle of class by creating a fleshlight that connected to the the boy’s vagina

Harry, like a pathetic whore he is, squirmed and mewled while Professor Tom worked his fingers inside his clenching channel. The boy's face would flushed scarlet, tongue lolling out as his own shameful arousal grew. He couldn't hold back, drenching his robes with his squirt in the middle of the class that only Tom knew what was going on.

And Oh Merlin..James seethed with jealousy as he watched Tom ruthlessly pound into the boy. Even though it was wrong, James couldn't deny the intense arousal he felt seeing his precious Omega being so viciously defiled. His cock throbbed painfully in his trousers as he pumped his member under the Invisibility Cloak.

He thought of how Omega's vagina must be sore and swollen, oozing Tom's seed. A part of him was furious that Tom was filling the boy with his seeds, claiming his possession in the most primal way. But another part of him was twistedly aroused and he hated himself for that.

James hated himself for getting off to this, for stroking his member as his Omega was violated right in front of him. But everytime, he couldn't stop. He would pumped faster, imagining it was him stretching the boy open, fucking Tom's seed back out of Harry and pump him full all over again.

He missed the Omega’s vagina so much, it has always looked so good, pink and puffy and dripping with arousal. James ached to reach out and stroke the boy’s sensitive folds, to rub his clit until he was writhing and begging. He missed the taste of the Omega on his tongue, the feel of his wet heat gripping his fingers as he pumped them inside the boy.

He knew just how to make Harry squirm and scream with pleasure. He knew every erogenous zone, every spot that made the boy gasp and shudder. He could get the boy so worked up, so desperate for release, that he would be sobbing his name, begging James to fuck him hard and deep.

He felt guilty and disgusted with himself, but also exhilarated and satisfied in a dark, shameful way.

He’s on so many level of fucked to be like this.

Beside, James was also worried that Harry would get pregnant with Tom’s child. And when it came to pregnancy, James didn’t care if Harry got pregnant.

What he cared about was Harry getting pregnant too soon. Too soon, and his reputation would be at risk, then the Daily Prophet would sink its teeth into him.

And his so-called friends would judge him—especially Sirius, who would never stop questioning him.

Well..James was afraid too, that if Harry got pregnant—He would lose him.

Like he had lost Lily.

Afraid that it was hereditary. That it was inevitable. That one day, Harry would die in childbirth, and James would be left standing over a grave once more.

Again.

James didn’t want to be alone. But what if it happened anyway? What if Harry carried Tom’s child? What if he died, just like Lily had?

What the fuck was James supposed to do then?

And so, throughout his fifth year at Hogwarts, life became nothing short of a living hell for Harry.

But if he really thought about it, Tom was a horrible person, yet he never hit him.

Not like James.

Harry shook his head. How dare he compare daddy to that monster?

He exhaled shakily, trying to push the thought away. At the very least, he was the first among his peers to be mated. Now, Tom no longer hesitated to display his affection—touching him, kissing him in front of everyone. And no one dared to speak against it.

No one wanted to find themselves on the wrong side of his power.

Summer was approaching.

Harry should have been relieved.

Should have been excited to finally reunite with his father.

Or so he thought.

Because the truth was—Harry didn’t even know if Tom would let him have his freedom for a while or, being the psychopath that he was, he would simply keep him.

Well didn’t actually want to meet James, he just wanted to be alone.

Harry exhaled again.

James was on the verge of getting fucked up. He didn’t want to lose his job, yet he missed his Omega so much—well, technically, not his anymore.

He had never wanted a child. Never wanted Harry. 

If only the boy had never existed, if only Lily had lived—none of this would have ever fucking happened. His life would have remained untouched, unspoiled, unstained by this grotesque obsession that now consumed him. If he had never developed this need—this attachment—he would never have had to suffer.

Yet deep down, James knew he had no one to blame but himself

Every time he looked into those piercing emerald eyes, he saw the remnants of the woman he had lost. A quick glance of Lily’s ghost, staring at him through her son’s gaze, disappointment woven into every unspoken word. Yet it was more than that. Those eyes, so bright and full of something other than him, reflected his own ugliness back at him. A monster. A wretched, twisted thing that he could barely recognize as himself.

James hated it. He hated himself. But he couldn’t stop.

Happiness. Rage. Love. Suffering.

He had come to embody them like a wraith with no tether. And yet, he never bore the weight of them himself. Instead, he blamed Harry. It was the boy’s fault, the boy’s existence that filled him with such unbearable contradiction—such agony and such sick, twisted satisfaction all at once.

The truth was that James feared himself more than he feared anything else.

And yet, he could not let go.

He was only a man—a mortal, forever trapped in the cycle of his own making. He could never escape his suffering. He would never escape.

Because the problem wasn’t that James wanted to be free.

The problem was that he had come to find joy in his own monstrosity. The act of breaking Harry down, of sinking his claws into something helpless — it made him feel powerful. Superior. It was a feeling he had never known before, and now that he had tasted it, he could not let it go.

After all, Attachment is the root of suffering.

Thus, James would never let go—not of Harry, not of Tom.

Summer arrived swiftly, relentless in its forward march. And, of course, the Minister would never allow Harry to return to him. Not after everything. And perhaps, after learning the truth, Harry himself would no longer wish to see him either.

But James was nothing if not persistent. He buried himself in research, his mind fevered with obsession. If he could break the Unbreakable Vow between himself and Tom, then he would suffer no loss. He would reclaim what was his—his Omega, his perfect, fragile thing.

Fate, it seemed, had a way of rewarding the wicked.

James found a way.

The ancient texts whispered their secrets to him. The Unbreakable Vow could not be broken by those who swore it, nor by any magic of their own. But if one of them died—if one of the bound perished—then the vow would lose its power, reduced to a meaningless whisper of past oaths.

Of course, James could not kill Tom himself. The vow forbade it. But Harry… Harry could.

The idea festered, grew, twisted itself into something tangible. He needed a way to ensure it. A way to make Harry do it.

And so, James went to Azkaban.

The prison walls were thick with the weight of forgotten souls, the very air soaked in despair. But James was not afraid. He sought out the fallen tyrant, the former Dark Lord himself—Gellert Grindelwald. He offered the man a deal, whatever Grindelwald desired within these walls, James would grant it.

The old Dark Lord was simpler than James had expected. Or perhaps he had rotted too long within his cage, driven to the brink where reason and madness were indistinguishable.

Grindelwald gave him an answer.

Legilimency.

A wandless form of it, something powerful. A technique that would allow James to bend another’s mind to his will—to break them into doing the unthinkable. But it required something crucial: a connection. A bond between the caster and the victim, something deeper than mere acquaintance.

James had laughed.

How merciful the gods were, how gracious the demons that watched over him. Harry was his blood. His flesh. His son. The connection was already there—ripe, unbreakable, waiting to be exploited.

All he had to do was master the spell.

And so James did.

He drowned himself in the forbidden arts, let the magic consume him, body and mind. He could feel himself slipping, losing the last vestiges of sanity he might have once possessed. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except his goal.

Yet the deeper he sank into the abyss, the hungrier he became. The taste of power was intoxicating, a venom that burned sweet against his tongue. He had started this with a single goal—to reclaim what was his. But now he wanted more.

He wanted to climb higher. To reach beyond the Minister, beyond the limitations of any mortal man.

He wanted immorality.

So, he decide he would create a Horcrux.

One Horcrux was not enough so he made five.

James no longer hesitated. He no longer flinched at the sight of death, feeling the weight of lives slipping through his fingers. The Avada Kedavra flowed from his lips like a lover’s whisper, a spell spoken in secret, cast in the dark, a prayer to the abyss.

His soul, now fractured five times over, had left him unrecognizable.

Gone was the dashing Head Auror, the trusted enforcer of the law. The man with sharp features and an easy, confident smile was all gone. Instead was the eyes that sunken, dark hollows carved into his face like the remnants of something long since withered. His lips cracked, dry as old parchment. His proud expression had twisted into something perpetually weary. Those warm brown eyes no longer human, but they burned red, the same cursed hue as the deepest pits of the underworld.

He was becoming a monster

And yet, through it all, an insidious thought took root in his mind—one that clawed at him, whispering relentless in its torment.

If he was to live forever… then Harry would not.

That can’t be happening.

The very idea was unacceptable. Unbearable.

He had not fought, not suffered, not killed just to lose him. His Omega, his Harry—James would not allow time to take him. Would not allow the slow, cruel march of mortality to undo all he had built.

He despised mortality. He loathed fate. And if Harry ever bore a child, if his body broke, if he died the way Lily had, James knew he would go mad.

And He would not allow it.

If heaven itself sought to deny him, then he would tear the sky apart. If nature demanded submission, then he would crush it beneath his heel.

The gods would not take Harry from him. Because James would make him immortal too.

Yes. Yes, that was the answer. That was the only way.

And as for Tom?

It would only take time. Time, manipulation, the breaking of Harry’s mind. Enough voices, enough pressure—eventually, his son would do the deed himself.

He would kill Tom. He would split his own soul. And when that moment came, when Harry’s soul lay fractured and raw, James would be there and all he has to do is to find a vessel for the Omega.

The summer had come and gone, and with its passing, Harry found himself once more at the gates of Hogwarts.

Tom had never truly let him go—not in body, not in mind. The Minister grip was relentless, suffocating. He had treated Harry with an unsettling tenderness, a careful touch that felt more like possession than affection.

Yet, amidst that tenderness, there had always been a phrase that had haunted him all summer.

“Harry, you will carry my heir.”

“This child will be different. It will be born on the day it is meant to be.”

And then after that, every time his hands would found their way to Harry’s stomach, pressing firm and deliberate, it felt as though he were casting a silent spell into Harry’s body

Harry never understood what Tom meant, nor did he want to. He didn’t want to belong to anyone. Not to Tom, not to James. He wanted to be free, to be nothing more than himself. Sometimes, he wished he could rip the very nature of his Omega status from his being, discard it like a useless piece of flesh, leave it behind and just be.

During summer there was also a voice that had plagued him, lurking in the corners of his mind, curling around his thoughts like smoke, feeding him darker things.

“Kill him.”

“You know the spell.”

“You have always known the spell.”

The voice despised Tom, dripped venom at the very mention of his name.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Perhaps, deep down, it was the remnants of his mother’s mercy that stopped him. That fragile, flickering piece of Lily Potter that still lived on within him. The voice had not pushed him toward hatred—but rather toward acknowledgment.

Tom had taken him. Claimed him. Controlled him. But Tom had also cared for him.

And so Harry endured.

But everything had a breaking point

It started with an argument—a real one.

Tom had spoken of the future again, of what belonged to him, of what Harry owed him.

And Harry had had enough. He never owed the Minister anything, he didn’t choose to be with him, he never even get to choose.

“I am not a breeding machine, and I don’t want to give birth to your child.”

Tom had only tilted his head, his eyes cold, “isn’t that your purpose, Omega?”

Harry had stepped back, breathing hard. “That’s all you Alpha fuckers could ever think of?”

Tom had laughed, “You misunderstand, my love.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

But Tom only continued, smooth and indifferent,

“Then what is it then? I have given you more than anyone else ever has. More than your father, and oh, he only wanted you because you are easily to be manipulated. Or else he could have killed you on the day you were born.”

Something inside Harry snapped.

“Do you even hear yourself?” His breath came ragged, fury simmering beneath his skin. “I never have a choice, you two forced me to be this way!”

But Tom’s expression had darkened then, his crimson eyes gleaming with something cruel.

“You have always been naive, Harry. Thinking you could ever be more than what you are. Your useless mother—” he sneered, “was nothing but a weak-willed fool who died for a cause that never mattered. She wasted her life on sentimentality, on love—” he spat the word like a curse, “and look where it got her. Rotting in the dirt, forgotten. And oh, your pathetic father—”

Tom let out a low, mocking laugh.

“He was nothing but a selfish, obsessive pervert who only wanted to fuck you. And isn’t that your sole purpose? To be fucked and breed?Do you think he ever loved you?” 

Tom’s voice dipped lower

“You were never his child. You were just his fixation. A whore.”

He took a step forward, his presence suffocating, his voice sinking lower, cutting deeper.

“You are nothing but an Omega. A political tool, nothing more.”

Harry had frozen.

The words struck like a curse, an invisible blow that shattered the last frayed edges of his restraint.

A rush of heat crawled up his spine, his hands trembling, his vision blurring with something he couldn’t quite name. Rage. Hurt. Disgust.

“Kill him.”

The voice.

“Cast the spell, boy.”

“You know the spell.”

A fever overtook him. His skin burned, his breath caught in his throat, his mind drowning in something not his own.

And then a Green light.

Bright, blinding, beautiful.

The spell had left his wand before he even realized he had cast it.

The last thing Harry saw before darkness overtook him was Tom’s body collapsing to the floor, motionless, lifeless.

Then he saw a figure. Stepping forward, emerging from the shadows. Very familiar.

But before Harry could make sense of it, before he could see, before he could understand, the world slipped away.

Fifty years had passed since James Potter had forsaken all that he once was, casting aside his humanity and ascending to the throne of darkness.

A new Dark Lord.

Under his rule, Great Britain had become a land of despair, a realm where fear and reverence bled together in a terrible harmony. No one dared rebel. No one dared to defy him. Those who had once called him friend, clinging to the fading memory of the man he used to be, had all met the same fate that worse than death.

And yet, despite the horrors of his reign, one figure always remained at his side.

A consort of breathtaking beauty.

Seated beside him in every court, every grand event, was a young man with striking emerald-green eyes. His eyes so deep, so hypnotic, that those who gazed too long into them felt as if their very souls were being pulled from their bodies.

Time did not touch him, did not dare to leave its mark upon him. His beauty remained unblemished, unaging, as if he had been sculpted from something beyond mortal flesh. There was a softness to his features, a delicate elegance that bore an undeniable resemblance to the Dark Lord himself. 

And yet his presence was not one of terror but of melancholy. His lips rarely curled into a smile. His gaze never met the people of the country—always cast downward, always avoiding the eyes of those who might dare look upon him.

Today was July 31st.

The consort’s birthday. And yet, the celebrations were not for him.

Today, the country rejoiced for another reason. Today marked the birth of the Dark Lord’s first child. A child born of darkness and power. A child destined to inherit an empire built upon blood and shadow.

The newborn was strong—far stronger than any had expected. His hair was black, but not the deep brown-black of his father’s youth. It was darker, void-like, curly, swallowing the light around it. His eyes red. Blood-red. Not the warm hazel of the Dark Lord who once was. The only thing soft about him was his pale skin, plump and unmarked, a stark contrast to the power that radiated from his tiny form.

The Dark Lord was pleased. A worthy heir. A child who would carry his legacy.

A child he would mold into a ruler greater than himself.

A child with the power the Dark Lord knows not.