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Tom lay awake in the darkness, his thoughts a chaotic mess, though he refused to let it show on his face. The room was still, save for the occasional creak of the old building, and the light from the narrow window that filtered in, bathed the room in a muted silver glow. Harry was asleep in the bed next to him, or so he assumed. Tom hadn’t heard him move for hours, though his mind refused to rest. He had been thinking about everything—the situation they were in, their roles, and what they would eventually need to become to survive in this new timeline.
His eyes flickered towards Harry’s bed, and he could feel the tension in the air between them, despite the silence. He didn’t mind the quiet; after all, it was more than he had had in the past. More than he had ever allowed himself to have. But the weight of the decisions ahead loomed over him, and for the first time in years, Tom found himself longing for something that wasn’t power, wasn’t control, wasn’t the obsessive thirst for dominance he had clung to his whole life.
And yet... there was still the nagging feeling of ambition.
Ambition. It had been his driving force, hadn't it? But now, the idea of ruling, of forcing others to bow and scrape before him, seemed... less appealing. He didn’t want chaos anymore. He didn’t want the world to be consumed by destruction and bloodshed. What he wanted now was control—quiet, calculated, and unchallenged control.
But that? That wasn’t something he could share with anyone, not even Harry well not yet. They had already grown far closer than expected and if things kept moving the way they were they may even be able to call themselves friends. It sounded insane, even to himself. No one would understand. But Tom was no longer that man. He had no desire to be the Dark Lord again. It wasn’t about revenge anymore against the stupid muggles and the filth that looked down on him. It was about... something different.
After a moment, Tom’s eyes flicked to Harry’s bed once more. The boy was lying on his back, eyes wide open. Harry wasn’t asleep either, then.
“Are you awake?” Tom asked softly, his voice breaking the silence that had settled between them.
Harry’s eyes, still shadowed by the dim light, flicked toward Tom. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper. "Couldn't sleep."
Tom sighed inwardly, pushing himself upright in the bed. He hesitated for a moment before calling out, “Come over here.”
For a long while, there was only the sound of Harry’s breath, but then Tom heard the rustling of sheets. The bed creaked under Harry’s weight as he slid out and walked across the room to join Tom. He hesitated for a moment at the foot of the bed, glancing at Tom as though searching for any sign of weakness. Tom didn’t flinch.
“It's only weird if you make it weird,” Tom said bluntly, gesturing to the space beside him. “And in case you’ve forgotten, we have no one else but each other.” He paused, watching Harry, waiting for him to make a decision. Harry's hesitant expression softened, and then he sat down.
“Alright,” Harry said quietly. "I guess we both need some sleep, and it’s not like we’re going to find comfort elsewhere."
Tom nodded, feeling a rare flicker of warmth in his chest. They weren’t friends—not yet, but maybe they would be, in time.
For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. Then Harry broke the silence.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Harry began, “about how I wanted to change things... save my family. I used to think it was impossible. But now, I think I might be able to.”
Tom didn’t respond immediately, though his gaze turned inward. “You do realise that to save them, you’re going to have to make some very tough decisions,” he said slowly, his tone carefully neutral.
Harry’s voice was quiet but firm. “I know. But at least now, there’s a reason to do it. Before... my life didn’t feel real. I was just drifting. Now, I have a purpose. I want to make sure they’re safe. To change things for them. For the better.”
Tom studied Harry in the dim light, the boy’s features softened but still determined. Harry, in his heart, had always cared for his family more than anything else. His purpose was clear to him. And in that moment, Tom realised something. This wasn’t just about saving lives. Harry wasn’t doing this because it was easy—he was doing it because it was right. Harry wanted to rebuild, not just for himself but for the people he loved.
"That’s noble," Tom said, his voice quiet but carrying a weight of sincerity. "But you need to be careful. If you start down the path of trying to fix everything, you may find yourself losing what matters most. But..." He paused. "I suppose that’s the price of being in control, isn’t it?”
Harry was silent for a long moment, his eyes drifting to the window as though seeing something far beyond the glass. Then, finally, he turned back to Tom. "And what about you? What do you want, Tom?"
Tom’s gaze shifted, his expression hardening for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. “I want to change things too. But not like before. Not through violence or terror. Well no to the violence unless necessary however terror is a useful tool. However Control. Quiet control. I don’t want to fit in anymore, not with the world as it is. I wouldn't be able to even if I wanted to. I want to remake it into something better. Something more... efficient. Something that works for everyone, not just the few. But,” he added, his voice darkening slightly, “no one can know that. I want to make change I want magic to reign supreme as it is and I will.”
Harry didn’t respond right away, the words hanging heavily in the room. Tom glanced at him briefly, noticing the way Harry tensed at the mention of ‘control.’ The topic wasn’t something Harry wanted to discuss yet, and Tom could see the hesitation written on his face.
“It’s not about chaos or destruction,” Tom continued, lowering his voice. “I’m not interested in going back to the past. I don’t need to be some twisted version of Voldemort anymore. I want to make change in a way that lasts... quietly. Not through death. But through... guiding the world in the direction it needs to go.”
Harry exhaled, clearly thinking over Tom’s words, but remained silent, his eyes unfocused as though still lost in thought. After a while, he spoke again, his voice quieter now.
“I think I understand,” Harry said softly. “You don’t want to repeat what Voldemort did... You just want... control.”
“Exactly,” Tom replied, his voice calm and assured. “And I don’t want to go back to my time. I don’t care about it anymore. It’s not home. This... this place is.”
Harry stared at him, his brow furrowed, but he didn’t question Tom further. Instead, he nodded slowly.
“I think I’m starting to feel the same way,” Harry muttered. “We’re stuck here, but that... that might not be such a bad thing. I could make it work. We both could.”
Tom allowed himself a small smile. “Maybe we could,” he agreed.
They settled back, the weight of their shared words hanging in the air like an invisible thread between them. Neither of them said anything more before they both drifted into a restless sleep.
---
The next morning, Tom woke to find his arm numb and heavy. At first, he thought it was just the usual stiffness of sleep, but when he tried to move, the weight of something pressing on it became apparent. He looked down to see Harry, fast asleep, his head resting on Tom’s shoulder, using his arm as a pillow. Tom froze, feeling a strange mix of frustration and amusement.
He didn’t understand why he’d allowed it to happen. But then again... it wasn’t so bad. Harry had no idea what was going through his head, nor would he, but for some reason, Tom didn’t mind it. He couldn’t quite explain why.
After a few moments, Tom carefully shifted, trying not to wake Harry, but eventually, he was forced to gently push him off. Harry groggily woke, his eyes blinking in confusion as he realised where he had fallen asleep. He mumbled an apology, but Tom merely waved it off, though the moment was oddly comforting, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
As they both stood up to get ready for the day, Tom had a moment to observe himself in the small mirror. His hair was different now—shorter, more controlled, styled in a way that made him look more like... well, a regular teenager. Not that he particularly cared. His face was still sharp, angular, but his appearance was far less recognisable than it had been in the past. Only Dumbledore would be able to connect the dots.
And then there was Harry. Tom’s gaze lingered on the boy, taking in the changes. He had cut his hair while they had been waiting on there documents, giving it a ‘wolf cut’ that softened the unruly wildness. He looked less like James Potter now, almost nothing like him in fact, though there were still slight similarities—that stubbornness mainly. But Tom’s focus shifted to the most striking change. Harry had lost his glasses, and his sharp eyes stood out even more now. It was clear that Harry had taken after Lily in many ways which was sort of a relief it would make passing him of as an unconnected half blood easier.
Then there was the issue of their identities. The Polish names—Thomas Avery for himself, Harrison Evans for Harry—would hopefully keep them out of trouble, though Tom was still wary. Especially with what the muggle had said in the pub - Micky? He for the life of him couldn't remember. He was never one to rely on luck, but for now, he chose not to think about it.
They dressed in silence, but Tom’s thoughts were already elsewhere. They had a meeting with the Minister of Magic to attend, and they had little time to waste.
---
The Minister was more eager to speak with them than Tom had expected. Harold Minchum, in his fancy robes and overly enthusiastic manner, greeted them with the kind of false warmth Tom found annoying. But he kept his cool, maintaining the role he had been assigned.
“How are you both settling in?” Minchum asked with feigned concern.
“We’re managing,” Tom said smoothly, keeping the conversation moving. He noticed Harry seemed barely present in the exchange, his mind clearly elsewhere.
“That’s good to hear,” Minchum continued, casting a brief glance at Dorea, who had been standing by. “You’re quite the talk of the town. A lot of people are curious to know what you’ll do next. And what about your studies? You’ve been given a week to prepare for your tests, and I trust you’ll be ready?”
Tom gave a subtle nod. “We’re prepared.”
Dorea looked frustrated as Minchum explained the situation to them. They were stuck in the Ministry for the time being, unable to find a suitable guardian. They were only allowed to explore the Minister's suite and the first floor, which left them with little to do. It wasn’t much, but Tom was unfazed. He was already planning their next moves.
During the days that followed, Harry became somewhat attached to Lipsy, a house-elf who reminded him of Dobby. The elf brought them food, and Tom couldn't resist explaining some of the house-elf customs to Harry. Though he still couldn’t help but tease the boy on how he was the reason for there new fame. They spent their days studying from books Dorea provided, preparing for their tests. Tom, as always, was confident in his abilities.
“I’ll take all twelve OWLs,” Tom said casually one afternoon, earning a raised eyebrow from Harry.
“You’re barking mad,” Harry replied, but Tom just smirked.
“I’ve done them before. Easy. I’ll drop some for NEWTs. You should join me,” Tom said, trying to convince Harry.
“I’ll do ten,” Harry replied after a moment, “but I’m not doing Arithmancy or Ancient Runes. Those are too much for me.”
They studied, but not much—most of the material they already knew, but it kept their minds occupied.
---
The day of the tests arrived, and Dorea wished them luck with a warm smile before they set off for the Ministry. Her words were kind, but Harry could sense the worry behind them. She had already done so much for them, and yet, with everything hanging in the balance, she couldn’t shield them from what was coming. He felt a deep ache for her, but there was something else—a sense of relief that, for once, he was fighting for his family moving forward to his goal. A small flicker of hope in the dark.
Tom, on the other hand, appeared unbothered, almost indifferent to the significance of the moment. He had prepared meticulously for this day, and his mind was clear. It wasn’t the tests themselves that worried him—he had long since mastered the art of manipulation, the skill that would carry him far beyond any schoolroom. It was Dumbledore. The man who had seen it all, who had defeated Voldemort and who, in many ways, had become a living legend. Tom didn’t trust him, and he made no secret of that.
As they sat before Dumbledore, the tension in the room was palpable. It wasn’t just the usual unease that comes with being evaluated—it was deeper, more instinctive. Both of them knew the stakes were higher than anyone realised. Their true identities were still hidden, but Dumbledore had a way of seeing through layers, understanding things that weren’t said. His piercing blue eyes locked onto them with a level of scrutiny that made Harry’s skin crawl. He was too clever, too sharp.
Tom kept his Occlumency shields high, an impenetrable wall around his thoughts. His mind was his sanctuary, and he’d spent years perfecting the art of mental discipline. He wasn’t about to let Dumbledore—who, as far as he was concerned, was just another obstacle in his path—break through so easily.
Dumbledore's eyes flickered between them, searching for any sign, any chink in their armour. The moment his presence began to press into Harry’s mind, Harry stiffened, his heart racing. It wasn’t fear that coursed through him but uncertainty. He didn’t know whether Dumbledore would find out the truth. But Tom’s mental strength was like a steel door, and the moment Dumbledore attempted to probe further, Tom slammed it shut. The old man’s efforts were futile, and the tension only grew thicker as Tom’s calmness contrasted sharply with Harry’s inner turmoil.
"Are you ready?" Dumbledore asked, his voice soft but with an edge of curiosity, as though testing the waters.
Tom, ever the composed figure, gave a slight smirk. "Let’s get on with it."
And so, the tests began.
Tom excelled in every aspect, as expected. His sharp mind and strategic thinking allowed him to breeze through even the most difficult parts with minimal effort. He manipulated the very air around him, showing off his natural flair for magic, especially when it came to practical applications. His Transfiguration was near flawless, and his Defense Against the Dark Arts performance was nothing short of masterful. To the examiners, he appeared like the epitome of magical talent, and their awe was palpable.
Harry, meanwhile, was more guarded. His magical prowess was undeniable, but there was a part of him—something deep inside—that hesitated to reveal the full extent of his power. It wasn’t fear. No, it was something more complex. Perhaps a remnant of his old self, of the boy who had always been afraid of standing out, of drawing attention. Yet, in this moment, he couldn’t help but be reminded of how much he had changed. His Patronus, a silver stag, burst from his wand with a grace and power that made even Dumbledore raise an eyebrow. It was a rare and impressive feat for anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old. The brief moment of connection between him and Dumbledore felt like a truce—if only temporary. The tension between them lifted just a fraction, as if the old man had seen enough to realise Harry was no ordinary boy.
As the tests wrapped up, the results came in with little fanfare. Tom’s scores were, unsurprisingly, all Outstanding—his abilities were unrivalled, and his calm, calculated approach to each test left little room for failure. It was as if the Ministry had been handing him the keys to his own empire.
Harry’s results, though impressive, weren’t perfect. He received Outstanding in every subject except Astronomy, where he earned an Exceeds Expectations. The Astronomy professor had been difficult to impress, and Harry didn’t have the same natural affinity for the stars that he did for other branches of magic. But Tom wasn’t surprised by this result. Harry was naturally gifted—he’d seen it in him since they first met. It was impossible to deny, even though Harry was still learning to embrace his abilities fully. Tom, however, couldn’t help but be curious. How far could Harry go with the right guidance? How much more potential lay beneath the surface?
As they left the testing chamber, Tom glanced at Harry, a flicker of something almost approving in his gaze. "You did well," he said, his voice surprisingly neutral.
Harry gave him a small smile, trying to hide the mixture of relief and frustration he felt. He couldn’t help but miss his friends, even now. Ron and Hermione, with their endless banter and unwavering loyalty—things had been so different before. But there was something else, a deeper feeling he couldn’t quite shake. He was glad for this. For this second chance. He could save his family—his parents, his friends. He had the power now, and with Tom by his side, he wasn’t going to let it slip away.
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As they made there way toward there suite a familiar figure was waiting for them. Dorea stood poised, her elegant robes falling in perfect folds as she observed them with her usual composed grace. However, the moment her sharp gaze met theirs, her lips curled into a proud smile.
“You did exceptionally well,” she praised, her voice warm but filled with a knowing edge. “I must say, I expected great things from you both, but even I am impressed.”
Tom smirked slightly, the satisfaction clear in his expression. “Of course.”
Harry, on the other hand, looked slightly embarrassed by the praise, shifting his weight. “Thanks,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Dorea let out a soft chuckle before reaching into the elegant bag she carried, withdrawing two thick envelopes and holding them out to them. “And with that, Hogwarts has sent your official acceptance letters. Congratulations, gentlemen.”
The weight of the parchment in Tom’s hands felt heavier than expected. He turned it over, breaking the seal with a flick of his thumb before pulling out the familiar list of supplies that accompanied it.
Harry, still holding his own unopened letter, was staring down at it, his fingers gripping the parchment tightly. It wasn’t hesitation—it was something else. A reminder that this wasn’t his Hogwarts, not really.
Tom glanced at his supply list, reading through it with disinterest. The usual—textbooks, cauldrons, potions ingredients, and robes. His lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes flickered to Harry’s.
“We have money, but not enough for everything and still have pocket change,” Tom noted. “We’ll have to be mindful of what we buy.”
Harry frowned slightly, the idea of struggling for supplies unsettling. He had already spent his childhood in oversized, second-hand clothes; the thought of attending Hogwarts like that was irritating.
Before either of them could dwell on it, Dorea reached into her bag again and pulled out a small leather pouch, holding it between her fingers with an amused look.
“There’s no need to worry about that,” she said, offering the pouch to Tom. “The Ministry has set up a special fund for you both, considering your... unique situation. It’s enough to cover all of your needs nicely, with plenty to spare.”
Tom took the pouch, weighing it in his palm. He could already tell by the weight of it that it was more than just enough—it was substantial.
“That’s... generous,” Harry murmured, surprised.
Dorea gave him a knowing smile. “You’re somewhat famous now, whether you like it or not. The Ministry wants to ensure you’re well taken care of.”
Tom’s fingers curled around the pouch. He could hear the unspoken implications. This was about control. The Ministry wanted to own them, keep them within reach. They weren’t just giving them money out of goodwill. Still, he wouldn’t turn away resources handed to him.
Dorea gestured for them to follow. “Come along, boys. We have a shopping trip ahead of us.”
The streets of Diagon Alley bustled with activity, witches and wizards moving about their daily business, shopping for supplies, chatting animatedly. To avoid unnecessary attention, Dorea cast simple glamour charms on them, subtly altering small features to ensure they blended in.
Their first stop was Flourish and Blotts, where Tom immediately gravitated towards the advanced section. He skimmed through the book titles, eyes narrowing as he selected additional readings on Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. His fingers trailed over the old leather bindings, the scent of parchment filling the air.
Harry, meanwhile, picked up a few extra Defence Against the Dark Arts books, knowing he would need every advantage he could get. It was almost strange—seeing the books he had once read now brand-new again, untouched by years of handling.
After that, they moved through the other shops—picking up potions ingredients, cauldrons, and various other essentials. At Madam Malkin’s, they were fitted for their Hogwarts robes. Tom insisted on a perfect fit, standing still as the measuring tape coiled around him. Harry, though less concerned, appreciated that these were clothes made for him rather than something second-hand.
When they stopped at Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, Dorea insisted they take a break.
Harry eagerly selected a rich chocolate and raspberry swirl, the taste familiar yet strange—like a memory from another life. Tom, ever the traditionalist, chose vanilla with caramel, eating in slow, methodical bites.
“This is nice,” Harry admitted after a few moments, licking his spoon.
Dorea chuckled. “Shopping doesn’t have to be dreadful.”
Their next stop was Quality Quidditch Supplies. Harry had initially only planned to browse, but as his eyes landed on a sleek broomstick, something in his chest tightened. He reached out, fingers brushing the polished wood.
“You should get it,” Dorea encouraged.
And so he did. A broom that wasn’t as grand as a Firebolt but still something he could call his own.
Tom, meanwhile, took his time choosing a finely crafted chess set, the pieces carved with meticulous detail. It was an indulgence, but he enjoyed the strategy of the game.
Finally, as they were about to leave, Dorea led them toward a pet shop.
“You boys have done exceptionally well,” she said, a small smile on her lips. “I think it’s only fair that you each get a pet. My treat.”
Harry’s throat tightened at the mention of a pet. Hedwig. His fingers curled slightly, and for a moment, he thought he might refuse. But as he scanned the cages, his gaze landed on a small, tawny owl, its round amber eyes peering at him with curiosity. It wasn’t Hedwig. It never would be. But… it was something.
“This one,” he said softly.
Tom, meanwhile, had wandered towards the reptile section, eyes lingering on the snakes. A pang of something unfamiliar settled in his chest as he thought of Nagini. He expected Dorea to disapprove, but instead, she only smiled.
“Snakes are fascinating creatures,” she remarked. “Very clever.”
Tom glanced at her warily. “You don’t mind?”
She hummed thoughtfully. “You’d have to talk to Dumbledore about keeping one at Hogwarts, though.”
At his crestfallen look, she smirked.
“Buy the snake,” she said conspiratorially. “I’ll deal with Dumbledore myself.”
Tom smirked back and picked out a small, non-venomous snake, its sleek scales glistening
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The soft golden glow of the enchanted lamps cast long shadows across the room. The Ministry suite was comfortable, perhaps excessively so, but neither boy could find it in themselves to truly relax. Too much had happened. Too much was still happening.
Tom sat at the writing desk, fingers idly tapping against the polished surface, watching as his new snake slithered out of its enclosure. The sleek creature coiled into a neat spiral, her dark green scales gleaming in the warm light.
It had been too long since he had spoken Parseltongue so freely.
A slow smirk curled across his lips as he lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Hello."
The snake lifted her small head, golden eyes locking onto his with an eerie intelligence.
"Hello, Speaker."
A familiar, almost forgotten thrill ran down Tom’s spine. There was something undeniably satisfying about conversing in Parseltongue, the words sliding off his tongue like silk. It felt like home.
From across the room, Harry, who had been adjusting the perch for his new tawny owl, stiffened at the sound of the serpentine language. His green eyes flickered toward Tom, intrigued despite himself.
He had spoken Parseltongue before, of course, but it was something he had long associated with Voldemort, with dark magic, with things he had been taught to fear.
Yet hearing it now... in this setting... spoken with ease and comfort rather than malice... It was different.
Harry hesitated, then did something that neither of them had done before.
"Can I...?" Harry asked in Parseltongue, letting the foreign syllables roll off his tongue.
Serena, the snake, immediately turned her head toward him, surprised but curious.
"Another Speaker?" she hissed, sounding pleased.
Tom’s eyes flickered with interest. He had known Harry was a Parselmouth, but they had never spoken in the language together. Not once.
"Yes," Tom said smoothly, watching Harry closely. "He is."
Harry, encouraged by the response, leaned forward. "Do you like your new home?"
Serena flicked her tongue out, considering.
"It is warm. Safe. I like it."
Tom let out a quiet hum, studying Harry. He was good at it. The hissing syllables rolled off his tongue naturally, fluid and practiced.
It struck him then, how rare this moment was. They were the only two Parselmouths in this world. Well apart from Voldemort and Grindelwand who was locked up if he recalled. Dumbledore too though he could not speak it only understand. Though still they were the only ones who could speak this way, who could communicate like this - actually hold a proper conversation. Unless Voldemort and Grindelwand liked to get together for morning tea.
A strange, unspoken understanding settled between them.
They weren’t the same—not by any means.
But they were the only ones like this.
"I will call you Serena," Tom finally said.
The snake coiled slightly, testing the sound of it.
"Serena," she echoed, settling into a relaxed position.
Satisfied, Tom leaned back in his chair.
Across from him, Harry was still watching him, his owl perched silently on his shoulder.
He had hesitated to name the bird, something Tom had noticed immediately.
Harry’s fingers stroked its soft feathers, his expression unusually distant. He was thinking of something—of someone.
Tom knew who.
Finally, after a long pause, Harry murmured, “Newla.”
His voice was softer than usual, and Tom didn’t comment on the way his fingers lingered a little too long on the owl’s back.
The unspoken grief was there, but Harry wasn’t addressing it. Tom wouldn’t either.
Instead, he turned back to Serena, whispering something else in Parseltongue.
To his mild surprise, Harry responded.
Their words wove together—low, almost melodic.
Harry hadn’t spoken it much before, but it was natural.
Tom’s smirk returned. “You’re better at that than I expected.”
Harry gave him a dry look. “Thanks?”
Tom chuckled.
For the first time in years, Parseltongue didn’t feel isolating.
It felt like something shared.
-------
Three days after their trip to Diagon Alley, Dorea arrived at their suite with an unreadable expression. She stood in the doorway for a moment, assessing them the way she always did before speaking.
“I was wondering,” she said finally, her voice smooth but expectant, “if you’d like to meet my son.”
The statement was simple. Casual, even.
But to Harry, it was anything but.
Something inside him stilled, but he forced his grip on the armrest to remain relaxed, his expression unreadable.
Across from him, Tom’s gaze sharpened immediately. He was watching him—of course he was.
Harry knew Tom was too observant to miss the momentary pause, the way Harry’s fingers clenched for half a second, the shift in his breath.
But, to Harry’s relief, Tom didn’t comment.
Instead, after only a slight glance in his direction, Tom spoke first, his voice effortlessly smooth.
“We’d be happy to,” he said, tilting his head with polite interest.
Dorea gave a pleased nod. “Good. He’ll be here shortly.”
Harry barely nodded in return, keeping his breathing even.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. But James Potter was coming, whether he was ready or not.
The door swung open, and there he was.
Harry felt a brief, dizzying moment of déjà vu as he took in the boy standing before them.
James Potter, alive and real, radiating effortless confidence as he leaned against the doorway. His messy black hair stuck up in every direction, his warm brown eyes held a mischievous spark, and his easy grin was so natural that Harry could only stare.
He looked just like the photos. Just like the echoes in the Mirror of Erised. Just like the stories Sirius and Remus had told him.
Except this wasn’t a memory.
This was James. A sixteen-year-old James, standing in front of him, completely unaware that the boy sitting across from him was his son.
James glanced between them, then grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“So,” he said, voice light, friendly, and full of ease, “you’re the famous war refugees.”
The breath in Harry’s lungs stilled for a moment.
James stepped further into the room. “I’m James. James Potter.”
Harry swallowed back the absurd, overwhelming weight of hearing that name spoken so casually, as if it didn’t change everything.
He had to respond.
He had to be normal.
“Harrison,” Harry said, carefully keeping his tone neutral, as if this wasn’t the most surreal moment of his life. He nodded toward Tom. “This is Thomas.”
James gave them both a once-over, then smiled again, completely at ease. “Good to meet you both.”
Harry let out a slow breath. He could do this. He could handle this.
Because James didn’t know him.
To James, Harry wasn’t his son.
Just another new face. Just another boy.
And maybe that was a good thing.
James flopped into one of the armchairs, completely at home, as if he had known them for years. He stretched out, looking at them with open curiosity.
“So,” he started, “you two are starting at Hogwarts this year?”
Tom, as always, was perfectly composed. “Yes.”
James grinned. “You’ll love it. Best school there is.”
Harry gave a small, genuine smile before he could stop himself. That was exactly what he would have said to a new student too.
James stretched his legs out, looking between them. “What classes are you taking?”
Harry, thankful for an easy topic, latched onto the conversation.
“All the core subjects,” he answered, leaning back slightly. “I’m keeping Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures, but dropping Muggle Studies and Divination.”
Tom, never one to let Harry sound more competent than him, added smoothly, “Same, but I’ll be taking Arithmancy and Ancient Runes as well.”
James whistled. “That’s a lot of work. You’ll probably get along with my mate Remus—he’s big on academics too. He actually enjoys Ancient Runes, believe it or not.”
Harry’s chest tightened briefly, but he kept his smile. “Sounds like someone Tom would like to meet.”
James chuckled. “Just don’t let him talk your ear off about rune theory unless you fancy losing three hours of your life.”
Tom raised an eyebrow, intrigued rather than put off.
Harry laughed, genuinely, before shaking his head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
James leaned forward, suddenly more animated. “Right, important question—do either of you play Quidditch?”
Harry’s instincts kicked in immediately.
“I do,” he answered without thinking.
James lit up. “No way! What position?”
Harry hesitated for half a second, but there was no use lying.
“Seeker.”
James’s eyes widened in pure excitement. “You’re joking. That’s perfect! Seeker’s open this year! Well for Gryffindor at least”
Harry blinked.
Oh. Right.
This was before Gryffindor had its famous team. Before Charlie Weasley had ever flown for them. Before everything.
James grinned, clearly thrilled. “You should try out! If you end up in Gryffindor ofc!! We could use a good Seeker—I’m a Chaser.”
Harry couldn’t help but smile. “I might, then.”
“Brilliant,” James declared. “You won’t regret it.”
Eventually, the conversation shifted.
“All the houses have their merits,” James admitted, “but Slytherins have a reputation.”
Tom’s expression didn’t change, but Harry could feel the shift in his presence.
James shrugged. “I get that it’s a stereotype, and some of them are alright. But some of them really are gits—Malfoy and Snape, for example.”
At the mention of Snape, Harry’s stomach twisted.
Tom, for the first time, visibly tensed at the name Malfoy.
James didn’t seem to notice. “Anyway, just steer clear of those two, and you’ll be fine.”
"Though from a totally unbiased opinion I say Gryffindor is the best."
Harry laughed, enjoying his fathers company.
“So, what’s your blood status?” James asked casually, leaning back. “Just so you know what to expect.”
Harry exchanged a glance with Tom.
“Half-blood,” Harry said.
“Same,” Tom added easily.
James waved a hand. “No problem, then. Some of the Pureblood families might hassle you, but just ignore them. Or let me know.” His smile turned slightly sharper. “I’ll settle it.”
Harry’s breath caught for a second.
James Potter. His father.
Offering to protect him.
The irony was painful.
But Harry only smiled back. “I’ll remember that.”
James grinned, easy and carefree, and the conversation flowed on.
The hours stretched on, and James talked to them like old friends.
He was ridiculously easy to talk to, and Harry found himself relaxing, little by little.
It was still strange—painful, even—but there was something good about it.
Something important.
Because James Potter was real.
And for the first time in years, Harry let himself enjoy the moment.
Just for a little while.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Time passed slowly at first, the days blending into one another as Harry and Tom settled into their new reality. The Ministry had provided them with everything they needed, but it didn’t feel like home. There was always a certain coldness to it—polished floors, pristine furniture, too many watchful eyes. They weren’t prisoners, but they weren’t free either.
Dorea, however, had become a constant presence. She visited nearly every day, sometimes under the guise of checking on their progress with their studies, but mostly just to talk. She was sharp, intelligent, and carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had the world figured out.
She never pried too much, never asked who they really were—not directly, at least. But she was perceptive, and Harry had the feeling that even if she didn’t know the whole truth, she had a vague understanding that neither of them were ordinary.
And then there was James.
If Dorea had wormed her way into their lives with quiet observation, James had bulldozed through any walls they might have had with his relentless enthusiasm and sheer inability to take things too seriously.
He had started visiting casually—at first, just to talk about Hogwarts, classes, Quidditch, or whatever absurd thing he and his friends had done that week. But soon, it became routine. James would drop by whenever he could, usually unannounced, sprawling across their furniture like he owned the place and pulling them into whatever nonsense was on his mind that day.
It wasn’t difficult to befriend him.
Harry had known it would be effortless, even before it started. This was his father, after all. He knew James would be easy to like, easy to talk to. He knew he would laugh at his own jokes, he would be reckless, charming, and far too quick to offer loyalty.
But Tom?
Tom surprised him.
At first, Harry had expected Tom to tolerate James at best. Tom wasn’t exactly known for making friends. He was calculating, cautious, always thinking five steps ahead. But James—James had no patience for walls.
Somehow, Tom adjusted to him quickly, matching James’s quips with sharp remarks of his own. James, in turn, seemed delighted by Tom’s ability to keep up with him, as if he had never had a challenge before.
Their conversations turned into debates, which turned into friendly arguments, which eventually turned into an odd kind of friendship that neither of them acknowledged aloud.
Harry wasn’t sure if Tom actually liked James. But Tom enjoyed winning, and James was too stubborn to ever let him win too easily. It was enough to keep them both entertained.
It was one evening, about a week before Hogwarts, when Dorea sat them both down with a proposition.
Dorea Potter stood before them, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression warm but serious. James was slouched in an armchair nearby, absently flipping through a book he clearly had no intention of reading.
“I wanted to speak with you both about something important,” Dorea said, her gaze shifting between Harry and Tom.
Harry straightened slightly, glancing at Tom before nodding for her to continue.
“I’ve spoken to my husband, Charlus,” she went on, “and we would like to offer you both a place in our family.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, stunning in their weight.
Harry blinked, his breath catching for a fraction of a second.
Tom stilled beside him, his usual carefully controlled expression giving way to something unreadable.
James, who had clearly already been informed, grinned at them. “It was my idea,” he added smugly. “You’re welcome.”
Dorea shot him a look before turning back to them, her expression softening. “I know the Ministry has provided you with accommodations, and technically, you’re under their guardianship. But that’s not a home. That’s just a place to exist. Charlus and I—” she hesitated, her voice warmer now, “—we would like you to live with us. If that’s something you’d want.”
Harry’s throat felt tight.
Home.
It had been years since he’d had a real home. Grimmauld Place didn’t count. The Burrow had been the closest thing, but even then, he had always been a guest.
This would be different.
This would be… his family.
He looked at Tom, who hadn’t spoken yet. There was something unreadable in his expression, something calculating, like he was assessing the offer from every angle. But then—slowly—Tom’s lips curled into a small, careful smile.
“We’d be honoured,” Tom said smoothly.
Harry swallowed, but smiled too. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter. “We’d love that.”
Dorea’s entire expression brightened. “Good,” she said, before suddenly pulling them both into a hug.
Harry froze for a second, entirely unused to the gesture, but… it wasn’t bad. It was warm. Safe.
James smirked at them from his seat. “You two are so awkward.”
Dorea swatted him lightly on the shoulder.
Of course, not everyone was thrilled about the arrangement.
The Malfoys, the Blacks, and even the Averys raised immediate protests. The Malfoys called it “a disgraceful adoption from blood traitors.” The Blacks, despite Dorea’s connections to them, were furious that she was taking in “war refugees.” The Averys, in particular, were enraged, claiming that Tom “might be connected to their family line” and that they had the right to take him in instead.
Dorea, unimpressed, shut them all down swiftly.
By the time everything was settled, Harry and Tom were legally part of the Potter family—at least until they turned eighteen.
Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it.
He didn’t feel like a Potter. He didn’t know if Tom even felt like he belonged anywhere at all. But when they finally left the Ministry and arrived at the Potter estate, Harry realised something.
This wasn’t just a place to stay.
This was a place to live.
Charlus Potter was nothing like Harry had expected.
He was warm, charming in a way that reminded Harry almost painfully of Sirius, and quick to laughter. He had James’s easygoing nature, but Dorea’s sharp wit. He welcomed both of them with open arms, treating them not as charity cases, but as part of the family.
Tom, naturally, challenged him to chess within an hour of meeting him.
Charlus, to everyone’s amusement, was terrible at chess. Well now he knew who to blame for his bad skill Harry thought wryly.
Tom exploited this immediately, leading to a week’s worth of battles that Charlus continued losing spectacularly. That was un till Harry was challenged to a game and Charlus enjoyed playing against someone who was if possible worse than himself.
James, meanwhile, kept them occupied with wizarding games, giving them the full Hogwarts experience before they even got there.
Dorea, at one point, raised an eyebrow at Harry and Tom’s decision to share a room, but she didn’t say anything—except to casually mention that the walls were quite thin before walking off.
Harry didn’t like the knowing glint in her eye, but decided not to question it.
Tom, equally clueless, just nodded in response.
The night before Hogwarts, James was buzzing with excitement.
“This is going to be brilliant,” he said. “You two are going to love the train ride. The sweets, the trolley—”
“We’re not taking the train,” Tom interrupted.
James blinked. “What?”
Harry sighed. “Ministry officials said we have to Floo straight there.”
James gaped at them, then scowled deeply. “That’s so unfair. I have to wake up early and drag myself onto the train, but you two get to sleep in and just—pop over?”
Harry grinned. “You could always come with us.”
The Ministry officials immediately objected, when Harry asked but before they could argue further, Harry shrugged. “If James can’t go, I won’t go either.”
Tom smirked. “Nor will I.”
The officials groaned, clearly exasperated, before reluctantly agreeing. James was positively delighted when he found out.
James was grinning. “I knew I liked you two for a reason. And just wait the look on Padfoot's face when I strut into the great hall after everyone else. He will be so pissed.”
Dorea gave James a reprimanding look but she had a glint of amusement in her eyes. Charlus was openly laughing and James looked beyond giddy at how he could make a spectacular entrance. Even Tom was slightly smirking and Harry couldn't help the warmth that filled his chest.