Harry was never a fan of these gatherings; their only purpose seemed to be bragging about blood purity and how to make the wizarding world "great again." Harry, being a half-blood, never cared for such discussions. Some might even call him a blood traitor. The only reason he was tolerated in Slytherin House was because of the group’s leader, Tom Riddle. He and Tom had grown up in the same orphanage, though they hadn't initially seen eye to eye. It wasn’t until they realized they were both special—both magical—that they became inseparable.
They grew up together, went to Hogwarts together, and were both sorted into Slytherin House. But Slytherin wasn’t kind to seemingly Muggle-born children. Harry endured three years of hateful comments and curses whispered behind his back. Everything changed when Tom discovered he was the Heir of Slytherin. The rumors of his Parseltongue ability spread, and with them came respect. By association, Harry too became respected, though he knew Tom had a hand in that as well.
“And what do you think about that, Harry?” Tom’s soft voice snapped Harry out of his thoughts. He glanced across the table and met the mocking gaze of Orion Black, who was barely holding back laughter. Harry quickly looked to his right, where Tom was watching him with a slight smile.
“Abraxas is right,” Harry said, hoping they were still discussing Grindelwald’s followers in Germany. “We haven’t heard anything from your contacts. It’s impossible to know what’s happened to them.” He held his breath, relieved when the others began to nod in agreement.
As the conversation continued, Harry checked the time. Only twenty minutes had passed since the meeting began, but he was already exhausted. Tom liked these monthly gatherings to be thorough, and Harry remembered one that had dragged on for four hours. He doubted he could handle that tonight.
He felt a hand on his leg and looked down in surprise. Tom wasn’t one for public displays of affection, especially outside their warded dormitory curtains. But now, Tom raised his other hand, silencing Avery, who had been speaking.
“I’m sorry, Avery,” Tom said, glancing at his wristwatch—the one Harry had given him for his seventeenth birthday. “It seems I miscalculated how much time we had today. We’ll have to reschedule, but I’m very interested in what you mentioned. Send an owl to your aunt about that book.”
Tom smiled at the group, his charm as smooth as ever. “Thank you all for being here. Let’s disperse and digest the information we’ve discussed.”
---
Later that night, Harry was nearly done with his evening routine when he heard soft voices coming from the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, and curiosity got the better of him. Peeking through the gap, he saw Alphard Black leaning down slightly to say something to Tom, who was seated at his desk. Alphard held out a book, and Harry squinted to read the title. *Secrets of the Darkest Arts*.
Harry frowned. Tom was no stranger to dark books, but this one seemed different. Still, he shrugged it off and returned to his routine. Whatever it was, it didn’t concern him.
---
It was the first Divination lesson of the year, and Harry was skeptical. Their old professor had retired just before the winter holidays, declaring, “I am not going to spend my last years listening to children whine!” The new teacher, Professor Albertina Fangale, was a slim, elderly woman with dark hair that brushed her shoulders. Her eyes were covered with a white sheen, giving her a ghostly appearance, and her deep purple robes bore a sun on one sleeve and a moon on the other.
Professor Fangale was intimidating, and as she walked up and down the classroom, Harry felt a chill. She stopped in the center of the room, her voice as sharp as her gaze. “Your old professor wasted precious time. None of your inner eyes are open. We’ll work on that.”
With a wave of her hand, crystal balls appeared in front of each student. “Look into the crystal. Feel its vibrations. Touch it if you need to. Try to see what lies inside.”
Harry winced. They had done this in third year, and it had been pointless then. He glanced at Tom, who smiled and gestured at the ball in front of him. Sighing, Harry did as expected and stared into the crystal.
Minutes passed, and he saw nothing. He glanced at Tom, who wore a strange expression as he examined his own ball. Harry was about to return his focus when Professor Fangale appeared beside him, her presence so sudden that he nearly jumped.
She looked at his crystal, then back at him. When her hand brushed his, she froze, her eyes widening as if she had seen something terrible. Harry wasn’t the brightest student, but he knew when a Seer was having a vision. When her eyes snapped back to his, she looked pale and shaken.
“Is everything alright, Professor?” Tom asked, his voice calm but with a note of curiosity.
“Yes,” Professor Fangale said quickly, her face even paler as she looked at Tom. “Yes, thank you, Mister Riddle.” She clapped her hands, dismissing the moment, and continued assisting other students.
Tom leaned over and whispered in Harry’s ear, “What a strange woman.”
Harry nodded, unease gnawing at him, but he said nothing.
---
It was a cold January morning when it happened. Harry was on his way to the Great Hall for breakfast, having dozed off again after Tom’s wake-up nudge. He was in no rush, enjoying the quiet solitude of the castle’s corridors. As he rounded a corner, he felt it—eyes on his back.
His instincts, honed by years of dodging curses and insults, screamed at him to turn around, but he was a second too late. A spell hit him from behind, knocking him forward. He stumbled but didn’t fall, quickly spinning on his heel, wand already drawn.
“Protego!” he shouted, just in time to block a second curse that would have hit him square in the chest. The shield charm sent the spell rebounding off the stone walls.
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he faced his attackers. Cormac McLaggen, a seventh-year Gryffindor with a notorious temper, stood in the center, flanked by two others—a tall, burly boy and a dark-haired girl with a cruel smile. Their wands were out, and the air crackled with tension.
“Potter,” McLaggen sneered, “out for a morning stroll? Without your pet snake?”
Harry clenched his teeth, his grip on his wand tightening. “Walk away, McLaggen. This doesn’t have to get ugly.”
“Oh, but it does,” McLaggen shot back, his voice dripping with malice. “You think you can hide behind Riddle forever? Think again, half-blood.”
Before Harry could respond, McLaggen fired another curse, this one faster and more vicious. Harry dodged, sending a Stunner back in retaliation. The duel erupted into a blur of spells and counters, Harry’s movements sharp and precise as he deflected curses and sent them flying back at his attackers.
He was powerful, more so than any of them expected. His spells were well-aimed, his reflexes honed by years of surviving in Slytherin. But the surprise attack had thrown him off, and there were three of them, each pressing harder, pushing him back down the corridor.
“Expulso!” The girl’s curse blasted a chunk of stone from the wall beside Harry’s head, showering him in debris. He ignored the sting of cuts on his face, firing a Disarming Spell that sent her wand spinning from her hand. But as he did, the burly boy struck from the side, his spell hitting Harry square in the ribs.
Pain seared through him, but Harry gritted his teeth, refusing to go down. He sent a curse that sent the boy crashing into the wall, but McLaggen was already on him, hurling a curse that Harry barely managed to deflect. The spell ricocheted off his shield, but McLaggen was relentless, firing off curse after curse, forcing Harry back step by step.
Harry knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. His strength was fading, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He tried to summon the power for a stronger spell, but before he could, McLaggen’s wand slashed through the air.
“Diffindo!”
The curse hit Harry with brutal force, slicing across his chest. He cried out, his legs giving way as he fell to the cold stone floor. Blood poured from the wound, staining his robes a dark crimson. His wand slipped from his fingers, clattering out of reach.
Harry tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled and collapsed under him. He was dimly aware of McLaggen and the others approaching, their footsteps echoing ominously in the corridor. He could barely keep his eyes open, the edges of his vision going dark.
“Well, well,” McLaggen said, his voice full of sick satisfaction. “Looks like the snake finally got what he deserved.”
Harry tried to muster a retort, but all that came out was a choked gasp. He could feel his life slipping away, cold seeping into his bones. His mind drifted, thoughts of Tom, of their time together, flickering through his mind.
He felt a surge of anger at his own helplessness. He was strong, he had trained for this, fought for this, and now... He couldn’t let it end like this. But no matter how much he He couldn’t let it end like this. But no matter how much he willed his body to move, his muscles refused to obey. His vision blurred, the faces of his attackers growing hazy as the pain in his chest throbbed with every labored breath. Darkness threatened to swallow him whole, and Harry felt a chill of fear unlike any he had ever known.
But then, through the fog of his fading consciousness, he heard it—a voice, cold and commanding.
“Expelliarmus!”
The force of the spell was so intense that it not only disarmed McLaggen but also sent him and his cronies flying back into the walls, their wands clattering uselessly to the floor. Harry blinked, struggling to focus, and saw Tom Riddle standing at the far end of the corridor, his eyes blazing with fury.
“Get away from him,” Tom ordered, his voice low and deadly.
McLaggen groaned, struggling to his feet, but the look on Tom’s face made him freeze. There was no mistaking the murderous intent in Tom’s eyes. Even in his weakened state, Harry could see the fear flicker across McLaggen’s face.
“You—” McLaggen stammered, but he got no further.
Tom flicked his wand, and McLaggen was slammed into the wall with such force that he slumped to the floor, unconscious. The other two Gryffindors, seeing their leader incapacitated, scrambled to their feet and bolted down the corridor, leaving McLaggen behind.
Tom didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on Harry, and in two swift strides, he was kneeling beside him, his hands trembling as they hovered over Harry’s bloodied chest.
“Harry,” Tom’s voice was tight with panic, a tone Harry had never heard before. “Harry, stay awake, don’t you dare close your eyes.”
Harry tried to respond, but all that came out was a weak rasp. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, the world around him dimming. He wanted to reach out, to grasp Tom’s hand, but his strength was gone.
“No, no, no,” Tom muttered, his calm facade shattering as he pressed his hands against Harry’s wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. His mind raced, desperately searching for a way to save Harry, but the injury was too severe, and there was no time to get him to the hospital wing.
Tom’s thoughts spiraled, and in his desperation, he remembered something—a dark ritual, something he had read about in Alphard’s book. It was dangerous, forbidden, but if it meant saving Harry…
“You are not dying today,” Tom whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and determination. He reached into his robes, pulling out a small, ornate dagger he kept hidden for emergencies. His heart pounded as he realized what he was about to do.
He knew the risks, knew that once he crossed this line, there was no going back. But the thought of a world without Harry, of losing the only person who truly understood him, was unbearable. He couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t—let that happen.
Tom made a small cut on his palm, letting his blood drip onto Harry’s chest, mingling with the crimson that already soaked through Harry’s robes. The ancient incantation formed on his lips, words he had never spoken aloud but had committed to memory from the dark tome. His voice was steady as he began to chant, low and intense, the corridor echoing with the dark magic that filled the air.
“Tom…” Harry’s voice was barely more than a whisper, his gaze flickering with confusion and pain. He could feel the cold touch of Tom’s magic, the darkness that swirled around them, and he wanted to protest, to tell Tom to stop, but he was too weak. All he could do was lie there as the ritual took hold, the shadows deepening around him.
Tom’s chanting grew louder, the words rolling off his tongue with increasing fervor. The corridor seemed to pulse with energy, the very walls vibrating with the power of the spell. Harry felt something inside him shift, something deep and ancient stirring as Tom’s magic sought to bind their souls together.
With a final, decisive phrase, Tom completed the incantation. For a moment, the world held its breath, the air thick with the weight of what had just been unleashed.
And then, silence.
Harry gasped as his body convulsed, the pain flaring to an unbearable intensity before suddenly, mercifully, fading. He felt warmth flood his veins, the icy grip of death retreating as the magic took hold. He could breathe again, his chest rising and falling with steady, unlabored breaths.
But something was different. Harry could feel it in his very soul—a connection, a bond that hadn’t been there before. It was as if a piece of Tom was now a part of him, their lives intertwined in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.
Tom let out a shuddering breath, his eyes locked on Harry’s, wide with a mixture of relief and fear. “Harry…?”
Harry blinked, his vision clearing, and for a moment, all he could do was stare back at Tom, processing what had just happened. He felt weak, but alive, the sharp pain in his chest now a dull ache.
“You… what happened?” Harry finally managed to say, his voice hoarse.
Tom’s expression softened, the hard edge of his fear melting into something more vulnerable. “I couldn’t let you go,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “I won’t ever let you go.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to be angry, to demand answers about what Tom had done, but the overwhelming relief of still being alive—and the look in Tom’s eyes—made the words die in his throat. Instead, he reached out, his hand finding Tom’s, their fingers intertwining.
“Thank you,” Harry said softly, his eyes never leaving Tom’s.
Tom nodded, his grip tightening around Harry’s hand, as if afraid to let go. “You’re safe now. I promise.”
But even as Tom spoke those words, a shadow passed over his face. He knew the gravity of what he had done, the dark path he had started them on. And though he would never admit it to Harry, a part of him feared what the future might hold.
For now, though, they had each other. And for Tom, that was enough.