What they fear, they seek to control
The ancient, serpentine tunnels beneath the Slytherin common room were cold and quiet, save for the steady drip of moisture echoing off the stone walls. Tom Riddle walked alone, his steps slow and deliberate. The flicker of a single wandlight cast his shadow tall and menacing against the damp walls.
He had spent the past hour unraveling every detail of Harry Evans’ lesson, dissecting the man’s words, his tone, even the subtle tilt of his head as he delivered that chilling lecture. There was something about Evans that didn’t sit well with him.
Harry Evans was an enigma wrapped in an unassuming guise. There was power in him, raw and unyielding, but not in the way others suspected. No, it wasn’t just his magical ability that unsettled Tom—it was his presence. He carried himself like a man who had seen too much, who knew too much.
And then there was the prophecy.
Tom stopped in front of the carved serpentine statue that marked the entrance to his private study. It hissed open at his command, revealing a small chamber filled with tomes, scrolls, and relics he had collected in his relentless pursuit of knowledge.
The prophecy Dumbledore had been so careful to keep hidden from prying ears spoke of a force beyond reckoning, a master of life and death. Someone who would tip the scales of the magical world forever.
It couldn’t be coincidence.
Tom sat down at his desk, his fingers brushing against the edge of his wand. "Evans," he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. "Who are you, really?"
Meanwhile, in Nurmengard
Grindelwald paced the great hall of his fortress, his long coat sweeping the stone floor as he moved. The air crackled with the faint hum of magic, a reminder of the wards that protected his sanctuary.
He had been following the whispers of the prophecy for months now, his network of spies feeding him scraps of information about a figure who seemed to slip through the cracks of history. A ghost, some called him. A master of death.
A grin curled at the edge of Grindelwald’s lips. "A master of death," he repeated, his tone almost amused. "Such a grand title for someone who hides so well."
But Grindelwald was not a man easily deterred. He had learned long ago that the most dangerous threats were the ones that lingered just out of reach, the ones you couldn’t quite see but felt nonetheless.
He turned to his second-in-command, Vinda Rosier, who stood silently near the window, her arms crossed. "What do you think, Vinda? Do you believe this... Evans could be the one?"
Rosier hesitated, her expression thoughtful. "He is an anomaly, Gellert. A Muggle Studies professor with no clear lineage, no affiliations. He operates outside the Ministry's reach, yet he commands respect from those who know him. If he’s not the one, he is certainly something."
Grindelwald’s grin widened. "Something indeed. But if he is what I suspect, then we cannot allow him to remain in the shadows. The world deserves to know its savior—or its destroyer."
Rosier’s lips curled into a sly smile. "Shall I begin the search?"
"Yes," Grindelwald said, his voice low and dangerous. "But tread carefully. If Evans truly is the one, he will not be easy to find. And if he is not..." His grin turned sharp. "Then we’ll make sure to remind him of his place."
In the Headmaster’s Office, Hogwarts
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the enchanted map of Europe spread out before him. Tiny dots of light moved across the parchment, representing the key players in the game that was unfolding.
One dot, marked in deep gold, represented Gellert Grindelwald. Another, marked in a faint, silvery glow, hovered near the southern border of England—Harry Evans.
Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Grindelwald’s dot. His old adversary was moving again, his network of followers stirring like ants beneath a disturbed stone. And now, his attention seemed focused on Evans.
"Harry Evans," Dumbledore murmured, leaning back in his chair. "What have you done to catch his eye?"
He had been watching Evans closely since the man’s arrival at Hogwarts. There was something about him, something that didn’t quite fit. His knowledge was vast, his methods unorthodox, but it was his presence—calm, deliberate, and vaguely otherworldly—that had truly set him apart.
Dumbledore reached for his tea, his mind racing. The prophecy loomed large in his thoughts, its cryptic words echoing in his memory: A master of death, a guide of shadows, one who walks where others dare not tread.
Could it be Evans? Dumbledore couldn’t dismiss the possibility, but he also knew Grindelwald too well. If Gellert suspected Evans was tied to the prophecy, he would stop at nothing to exploit it.
Fawkes, perched on his golden stand, let out a soft trill, breaking the silence of the office. Dumbledore looked up at the phoenix, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Ah, my friend. It seems the game is afoot once more."
He rose from his chair, his robes billowing as he moved to the window. The grounds of Hogwarts stretched out before him, serene and untouched by the chaos brewing beyond its borders. But Dumbledore knew better than to be lulled into a false sense of security.
Grindelwald was on the move. Tom Riddle was growing restless. And Harry Evans...
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed as he gazed into the distance. Harry Evans was a puzzle he had yet to solve, but he would be watching. Always watching.
Back with Harry:
Harry wondered lazily around the castle, he knew Tom , Albus and most certainly Grindlewald were sniffing about. Harry sighed, many universes in peace, and ONE decides to be bratty.
The prophecy echoed in Harry’s mind, a haunting refrain that refused to fade, no matter how far or how often he fled. He’d heard it in countless forms, in countless universes—always different, yet always the same. Sometimes it was whispered by a trembling Sybil Trelawney, her voice trembling with fear. Other times, it was carved into stone, sung in ancient tongues, or scrawled on parchment so old it crumbled to the touch.
But here, in this world, it had soured. The words, once ripe with possibility and burdened hope, had curdled into something foul. Something bitter.
"Neither can live, while the other survives "
A grimace tugged at his lips as he stared into the flickering firelight of his quarters. The line that had once shaped his life no longer felt like destiny—it felt like a curse. A cosmic joke played by forces far beyond his understanding. Each repetition, each rephrasing, chipped away at its meaning until only the hollow echo of inevitability remained.
The universes he’d seen…so many faces of Tom Riddle, so many versions of Albus Dumbledore, of friends and enemies alike. In one, Hermione had led a rebellion against the Ministry after his death; in another, Ron had taken up the Elder Wand and broken the world apart in vengeance. The variables shifted endlessly, the players danced to the same refrain, but Harry alone walked between them. The prophecy followed him, a shadow that stretched across realities, tethering him to a fate he no longer believed in.
And now, here, they were sniffing around it again.
Grindelwald, with his insatiable hunger for power, circling like a predator drawn to the scent of prey. Tom, younger and sharper, his ambitions raw and untamed, dissecting every word like a cursebreaker unearthing ancient traps. And Albus—always Albus—playing his endless game of chess, watching both from a careful distance while pretending not to.
Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Bloody vultures," he muttered under his breath. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. None of them knew what it was like to live through this song, to hear its discordant melody repeated over and over.
The prophecy wasn’t sacred to him anymore. It was a broken thing, its edges jagged, its meaning twisted.
A faint knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts, and he scowled. He’d need to deal with them soon—Tom and Grindelwald, with their ceaseless questions and sharp suspicions, and Albus, ever-watchful, ever-silent.
"One prophecy, three dogs barking after its bone," Harry muttered as he stood, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion.
He paused for a moment, glancing at the small mirror on his desk. For a brief moment, his own reflection stared back at him with weary green eyes.
The Boy Who Lived.
The Master of Death.
The Eternal Wanderer.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he turned away. "I wonder if they’d still care so much if they knew how it ends."