An Unattended loss.
The firelight flickered against the cold stone walls of Harry’s office, but the warmth failed to reach him. He sat in the quiet, his eyes fixed on the crumpled remains of Grindelwald’s tracking charm. It wasn’t the charm itself that bothered him—he’d dealt with far worse over the centuries. No, it was the implications. Grindelwald wasn’t just watching; he was probing, testing the boundaries, and sending a message.
Harry stared at the faint shimmer of silver residue still clinging to his fingers. The magic was foreign yet oddly familiar, like the echo of a melody he’d heard long ago. He hated that it felt like a challenge, hated the pull of curiosity that tugged at him despite himself. After all, he was no stranger to the games of men like Grindelwald. But this wasn’t about Grindelwald. This was about the way the threads of fate were twisting around him, binding him tighter with each passing day.
A soft knock shattered the stillness. Harry’s head snapped toward the door, magic pooling in his palm instinctively. He hadn’t been expecting visitors—not this late, and certainly not unannounced.
The knock came again, louder this time. “Professor Evans,” a voice called, smooth and steady, carrying a hint of something serpentine. “You’re awake. I’d like to speak with you.”
Harry froze. That voice. It wasn’t Grindelwald’s messenger. It wasn’t Dumbledore, either. It was him.
Tom Riddle.
Harry didn’t move, didn’t speak. He let the silence stretch thin, waiting to see if the boy would leave. But of course, Tom didn’t.
“Please,” Tom added, a faint edge creeping into his tone. “I know you’re in there.”
With a sigh, Harry waved a hand. The door creaked open, revealing the fifth-year Slytherin standing in the hallway. Tom’s dark eyes were sharp, calculating, and far too knowing for someone his age.
“Mr. Riddle,” Harry said, his voice even. “It’s late. This couldn’t wait until morning?”
Tom stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. “I thought you might say that,” he said smoothly, his gaze flicking around the room before landing back on Harry. “But I don’t think this conversation can wait. Not when the world is shifting the way it is.”
Harry’s lips twitched into the faintest shadow of a smile. “And what, exactly, do you think is shifting, Mr. Riddle?”
Tom tilted his head, studying Harry with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey. “Everything.”
---
The conversation spiraled from there, a delicate dance of words and implications. Tom was careful—brilliant, even—but Harry had played this game longer than the boy had been alive. Still, there was something unnerving about Tom’s gaze, about the way he spoke as though he already knew the answers and was simply testing how much Harry was willing to admit.
When Tom finally left, Harry felt the weight of the encounter settle over him like a shroud. The boy was dangerous, that much was clear. But there was more to it than that. There was a spark in Tom, something raw and untamed, something that reminded Harry too much of himself.
Later, as Harry walked the empty halls of Hogwarts under the cover of his invisibility cloak, he found himself drawn toward the dungeons. He wasn’t sure why—not consciously, at least. But his steps carried him to a familiar door, one he hadn’t seen in years. The Room of Hidden Things.
It was there, amidst the piles of forgotten relics and discarded memories, that Harry found it. A mirror. But not just any mirror. *The Mirror of Erised.*
Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t seen the mirror in eons—not since he was a boy, staring into its depths and seeing visions of his parents. But as he stepped closer, the mirror’s surface began to shift.
This time, it didn’t show his parents. It didn’t show anything he could have expected. Instead, it showed himself—standing at the edge of a crumbling world, his shadow stretching across the ruins. Behind him loomed a figure cloaked in darkness, its face obscured but its presence unmistakable. Grindelwald.
Harry tore his gaze away, his heart pounding in his chest. The mirror had always been a cruel trickster, showing not just desires but fears—possibilities. It wasn’t a prophecy, but it was close enough.
When Harry returned to his office, there was another letter waiting for him. This one wasn’t sealed with Grindelwald’s mark, but with a sigil he hadn’t seen in a very long time: the Peverell crest.
He opened it with trembling hands. The parchment was old, the ink faded, but the words were clear.
*To the one who walks beyond death,*
*Beware the echoes of the past. They ripple forward, shaping the future in ways you cannot yet see. The Hallows are yours, but their power comes with a price. You are not the first Master of Death, but you may be the last.*
*The choice will come soon. The Cycle demands it.*
Harry’s hands tightened around the letter as his mind raced. The Cycle. He’d thought he’d escaped it—thought he’d broken free from its grasp. But the words on the parchment were a cruel reminder that fate wasn’t done with him yet.
He sank into his chair, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. He was tired. So, so tired. But there was no escaping this game, no stepping off the board.
With a quiet sigh, he let the letter fall to the desk. “Fate,” he muttered, his voice laced with bitterness. “You really do hate me, don’t you?”
But deep down, he knew the truth. Fate didn’t hate him. Fate needed him.
And that, he thought grimly, was so much worse.