Tuesday, 2nd February

It had taken Tom a long time to re-earn Randolph's trust, and even now he wasn't entirely sure that he had it. The man had been wary, scared even, but understandably so. In the end, it had taken the revelation of his Horcruxes - physical evidence for his fall into ruin to convince the man that he really was returning to his old self.

His original self, that was, as he swore to himself just as much as he swore to Lestrange that Voldemort was well and truly dead.

After that, it had been a simple matter to retrieve the Hufflepuff Cup. As suspected, Bellatrix had ensured its safety by placing it in the depths of Gringotts. The Lestrange's were an old, wealthy family; their founding in England originated from the Norman conquest where they had shortly after been bestowed a large plot of land in Norfolk, along with the ranking of Marquess.

Although Randolph had passed his title to his eldest son once the boy reached his majority, he currently held regency over all that came with it, given that Rodolphus was currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban.

Tom would have to do something about that…

Either way, it meant that the man had no trouble accessing his son and daughter-in-law's joint account and a quick Floo trip later, he had yet another piece of his soul safely held in his own hands.

Tom's sanity had already been slipping when he'd created this particular Horcrux, although he still vaguely remembered where he got it, as well as whose death he had ensured to create it. Reabsorbing it was… unpleasant, to say the least and unfortunately it only returned one-sixteenth of his soul to his new body, which only gave him approximately one-third of his entire being.

It was going to be a long road to sanity.

In return for the Cup, Randolph had quietly, cautiously, fearfully asked for a favour in return and Tom had smiled, genuinely, for the first time in recent memory, remembering late nights in the Slytherin common room, trading boons for help in certain subjects or to take the fall for practical jokes gone wrong.

Needless to say, he agreed immediately.

Which now led him to sitting here, in one of the numerous drawing rooms of Lestrange Manor, sipping from a green trimmed porcelain teacup on a lavishly upholstered armchair, waiting for Theodore Nott to step through Randolph's Floo.

Theodore Nott Senior, he mentally corrected, since the man apparently had a son now that he had named after himself. Admittedly, the boy had been born early in 1980, a year and a half before his downfall, but Tom had lost his mind long before that and didn't recall the birth of the child at all.

How many other things had he missed near the end?

Lestrange Manor was as decadent and opulent as one would expect, but unlike Malfoy Manor, which he distinctly remembered as being handsome but rather gaudy, it was subtle in its elegance, full of dark and neutral tones that belied the true worth of the house.

Randolph sat in a matching armchair across from him, his hands clasped together, betraying the nervous energy he tried to conceal. A sudden whoosh and a flare of green flames in the fireplace had him jumping to his feet and stepping forwards, a hand outstretched to greet their guest.

"Theodore" he said warmly, as Nott stepped out of the Floo, brushing soot from his robes, "Thank you for coming".

"The pleasure is all mine, Randolph. It's been too long since we last had a chance to properly catch up - I feel as though I've hardly seen you outside of Wizengamot these past few months!"

"Yes, well, there's been a… very good reason for that".

Tom straightened, setting his teacup down with deliberate calmness.

"Has there?"

The man sounded exactly as he had over fifty years previous, but as he finally turned to take in the room, Tom saw that he had aged just as much as his other dear friend. His dark brown eyes were the same as ever, thankfully, but his hair had long since faded from its once rich chestnut colour to a far paler ash. And as well as that…

"Hello Theodore" he said, smirking slightly, "I see that you've finally managed to grow a moustache in your old age".

His eyes widened in shock and he stumbled back a step, instinctively reaching for his wand, although he kept it pointed at the ground rather than at him.

Smart man.

"You- That's- You're- That's not- But you- You're not-"

"Oh, but he is" Randolph interrupted, taking great enjoyment now that the shock wasn't his own, "Perhaps you ought to sit down... There's much that we need to discuss".

The man obediently took the middle seat in the classic Chesterfield sofa in between them, although he more so blindly fell onto it than gracefully sat, his gaze never leaving Tom's for a moment - and his wand never once returning to its holster.

His original war generals may have gotten old, but they hadn't lost a solitary ounce of their sharp reflexes.

"How… How is this p-possible?" he finally managed to stutter out, as a house-elf appeared to pour him a cup of tea and the other two men picked up their own cups once more.

"It's a long story" Tom admitted, "One that I have neither the time nor the inclination to get into today, but the most important part of it is that I've returned. Properly. And I have no intention of becoming Lord Voldemort ever again".

They both flinched automatically, but Nott still looked nervous and watchful, his eyes flickering from Tom to Randolph, who nodded at him encouragingly.

"It's true, Theodore. We've spoken many times on what our Lo- on what Tom plans to do next. Our original goals are still firmly in place and this time, we're going to achieve them".

"But how can you be so sure?" he blurted out, before flinching back once more, "I mean, not to-to question you, my Lord, but-"

"Theodore".

He stilled.

"I've had a lot of time to reflect" Tom said, quietly, something in his chest twinging at the meekness of his once-proud friend, "Ten long years of it, actually… I've seen where I went wrong and I've learned from my mistakes. I do not intend to start a war this time around and I would be… honoured to be able to call you my friend once more".

"... Friend?"

"Friend" he repeated firmly, "I did something rather… foolish in my youth that led to the corruption of my sanity… of my very soul… I'm trying to rectify that now, and I am far too intelligent to make such a grievous error again".

Nott snorted and then froze as if expecting punishment. Tom sighed, firmly squashing down that unstable part of himself that wanted to curse the man for testing his patience, and focusing on the one-third of his mind that was disgusted by his friend's fear of him.

"I will not lose myself this time" he promised, "And we will succeed".

"May… May I ask h-how?"

"Whenever you so wish... It's impossible to pinpoint the exact moment when everything started going wrong-"

"How about when you first split your soul in half?" Randolph quipped, and once again, Theodore stilled, shooting the man a panicked look, but when no such punishment came and instead, Tom reluctantly inclined his head in agreement, he slowly started to relax.

"Admittedly, that might have had something to do with it" he replied, "But my point is, it's very difficult to narrow down the exact cause of something, and yet, if I had to choose… I would say that our downfall began the day I started ruling to inspire fear rather than respect. You cannot become a great leader without being able to convince others that what you believe in is correct, but near the end of the last war… many of our supporters didn't believe in anything except ensuring their own survival. Which is why I don't plan to inspire fear anymore".

"He's been back now for over a year, Theodore" Randolph said, placing down his empty teacup, "And he still hasn't killed anyone".

"Directly".

"Directly" he amended, with a nod in Tom's direction, "He's serious about this. We've spoken at length as to what this means, as to what this could mean for us, for our children, for the future of the wizarding world… Don't you want your son to live in the type of society that we've always dreamed of?"

Nott licked his lips, casting a nervous look in Tom's direction.

"I won't force you to join us if you do not wish to do so" he said, finally realising what the man was most anxious about, "And nor will I force your son. You both have the choice to decide your own paths, and even if he does wish to join us, willingly and entirely, then he will not be marked. I told you the truth, Theodore, when I said that Voldemort is dead".

For a moment, there were tears in his eyes, changing the honey brown to a glossy amber instead. But then he blinked, and that perfect Slytherin mask was in place once more.

"I know that you lost your wife not long after my downfall" Tom continued quietly, "And I know that Mulciber was given the Dementor's Kiss for seeking revenge on your behalf. Many other good men and women died not long after or were sentenced to life in Azkaban, like Randolph's own two sons. I need you to know that I… regret it. Deeply".

"My boys made their own decisions, Tom" Randolph said, his voice tight with emotion and painfully honest, "They were fighting for a just cause, a cause they believed in, even if they went about it in a truly stupid way... But they were proud to stand by your side, even to the end. They believed in you, just as I do".

"And your belief won't be misplaced this time, I swear it. I refuse to let our cause lose anyone else… but we can still succeed. We will succeed".

"But how?" Nott asked rather hopelessly, "You said it yourself, we've lost far too many people over the years and yet now you're telling me that we can still achieve our goals? Without violence? Without any bloodshed? How?!"

"By doing what I should have done first day" Tom said simply, placing down his now-empty cup, "By taking the political route".

Sunday, 6th February

The halls of Hogwarts were unusually quiet, the stillness broken only by the distant echo of footsteps. Dumbledore moved without purpose, his long robes swishing as he made his way through the castle with no real destination in mind.

For once, his feet didn't lead him to the Book of Admittance.

Usually, whenever Minerva turned up in her tartan dressing gown and hair net at his quarters late at night, it meant only good things - a bottle of fire whiskey from her private stash, gossiping about other staff members, and complaining about the most misbehaved student of the week.

But not last night.

Last night, when a rather frantic Professor McGonagall banged loudly on his door at two in the morning, there had been no time for sweets or sleepovers. The youngest Weasley boy, Ron, claimed that Sirius Black had stood above his bed with a knife.

He'd initially dismissed it as a nightmare - the Gryffindor quidditch team had beaten Ravenclaw only the day before which undoubtedly meant they'd all been up late celebrating, but then Minerva said that she believed him. A quick interrogation of the other boys in the dormitory only further supported the boy's story.

Mr Longbottom had been awoken by Ron's shouts, but he swore that he'd heard the door to their room bang shut too, and since both Thomas and Finnegan were accounted for, it had to have been closed by someone who wasn't meant to be there. The curtains around Weasley's bed were ripped and torn from one side as well, which the boy said had been caused by Black slashing at them with a knife. Since such weapons weren't allowed at Hogwarts and Dumbledore's quick "Accio knife!" turned up nothing...

They were forced to believe him.

The most pressing question was how the man had gotten in, but although the portrait of Sir Cadogan - the Fat Lady's temporary replacement - told Minerva that Black had the correct password, the knight didn't know where the man had gotten them from. Evidently, Black had been hiding in the castle as of late, listening in on Gryffindor students as they entered their common room in order to figure the password out.

The second most pressing question was where Black had run to after being frightened away by Weasley's shouting. Dumbledore had sent a patronus to awaken the other Heads of Houses and together they had searched the castle inch by inch.

They didn't find him.

The tension in the castle was palpable the following morning, even as the Headmaster coordinated a tighter security system with his staff. Flitwick could be seen teaching the front doors to recognize a large picture of Sirius Black, Filch was suddenly bustling up and down the corridors, boarding up everything from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes, and Sir Cadogan had been fired - replaced by an expertly restored Fat Lady, now guarded by a bunch of surly security trolls.

Which led to the third most pressing question, hence why Dumbledore was still awake and patrolling the corridors many hours later, namely; why?

Sirius Black, a man driven by rage and vengeance, had managed to break into the castle not once, but twice. The first intrusion, on Halloween, had resulted in the slashing of the Fat Lady's portrait when she refused him entrance to the Gryffindor Tower. Clearly, he learned from his mistakes and he'd waited until he heard the password before trying again.

But he'd succeeded in breaking in this time, so why did he run? Why had he gone for Ron Weasley? Why hadn't he, a convicted serial killer, not silenced the boy when he'd yelled?

Was he searching for Harry?

He obviously hadn't heard that the poor child was missing or Black wouldn't have wasted his time - and potentially his freedom - by breaking into Hogwarts. But how had he not heard about Harry yet? If his goal truly was to kill the boy, then surely he'd have done at least some basic form of research first.

… But what if he wasn't here to kill his godson?

What else could he be searching for?

Dumbledore remembered Sirius Black; of course he did, the young man had been a snake in lion's clothing, wickedly smart, and apparently the master of deception considering he'd had them all fooled until it was far, far too late.

If he were being honest with himself, then he still couldn't believe it.

Sirius Black and James Potter had been brothers in all but blood and that depth of friendship simply couldn't be faked. He'd been a lively boy; charming and brave and talented. He'd been arrogant as well, more than a bit of a troublemaker and, at times, even a bully.

But Albus had never labelled him as a killer.

So just what was the man after…

The thought gnawed at him. Black was reckless, yes, but not foolish. He had once been among the brightest of his generation, his cunning rivalling even that of the Dark Lord himself. So, what could he be searching for?

Dumbledore's mind drifted to the whispers he had recently been hearing - whispers of a new lord having returned to Britain, and not just any lord, either, but a duke. The only available dukedoms he knew of were either long extinct, Harry's, or… Voldemort's.

The implications were troubling.

The man had been suspiciously quiet since stealing the philosopher's stone, and it worried Albus that perhaps he'd been planning something all this time. Was the political route a distraction? Was he biding his time and gaining followers while he rebuilt his army? Should he call for the Order?

Was that why Sirius Black had returned - to serve his master once more?

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed as he considered his next move. The signs were ominous, but he could not afford to act rashly. The wizarding world had barely recovered from the last war, and a premature call to arms could sow panic and disbelief. He needed proof - definitive evidence that Voldemort had returned and was amassing power before he called for the Order of the Phoenix to form once more.

As he stood in the corridor, the weight of the castle's ancient walls pressing in on him, he knew that the days ahead would be fraught with danger and uncertainty. Sirius Black was on the loose, and Voldemort - if the whispers, and his suspicions, were true - was plotting his return.

The Headmaster steeled himself, resolved to uncover the truth. He would wait, watch, and prepare. And when the time came, he would be ready to face whatever darkness lay ahead.

Saturday, 12th February

Harry had learned a lot about Dark Magic over the past few months - and he'd learned even more about himself.

Rowle had found him a few more books on the Hogwarts founders, as well as one on Salazar Slytherin specifically. There had been only a single brief mention of something called "Parseltongue" which had led to him asking the older boy what it meant and apparently, talking to snakes wasn't a normal wizard thing.

Harry wanted to say he was surprised at being an exception yet again, but honestly, at this point…

He remembered Dudley's eleventh birthday that summer he'd been left at St Brutus, and he distinctly remembered visiting the zoo and more specifically, the reptile exhibit. Talking to that boa constrictor had been an experience, to say the least, although at least now he knew that causing the glass of the snake's tank to vanish had been accidental magic - and commiserating with the snake had been Parseltongue.

He didn't know how rare an ability it was, however.

Salazar Slytherin was the original Parselmouth in Britain, and although there were dozens, if not hundreds more around the world, it was still a very uncommon trait - and typically associated with Dark wizards, with the last known speaker being Lord Voldemort himself.

Harry wondered what that said about him.

Were Parselmouths usually drawn to the Dark Arts? Or did you have to be a Dark wizard to inherit the ability? But wasn't a Dark wizard simply someone who primarily used Dark Magic? Was that an innate skill? Did some witches and wizards simply find Dark Magic easier to use, the same way that some of his classmates found maths or history easier to learn than others?

Was Harry a Dark wizard?

… Did it even matter if he was?

There was a great shortage of Parselmouths in Britain, and it was commonly believed that the only speakers left were direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin, such as the Dark Lord - but Harry had combed through his entire family tree extensively when he'd read Rowle's genealogy book and he himself wasn't.

The only connection he had was incredibly distant, with him being a descendant of the youngest Peverell brother while the middle brother's descendants married into the Slytherin line. But that didn't make him a direct descendant himself, and he was one hundred per cent positive that the Potter family was only related to the Slytherin family by marriage and not by blood.

On a grander scale, it didn't really matter, he supposed. His ability to speak to snakes confused him, and yeah, the lack of an answer was somewhat irritating, but there were far more important things to learn and who's to say that Rowle's genealogy book was accurate, anyway?

Maybe one of his relatives had an affair with a Slytherin or something. It wasn't as if infidelity was a new thing and a ton of pure-blood marriages were arranged for money or power or political benefit rather than love so who's to say one of his ancestors didn't have a dalliance with someone from the Slytherin line that they actually cared about?

Either way, it made no difference - he couldn't prove that such an affair did or did not happen; he simply had the ability to speak Parseltongue and that was that.

But learning about Dark Magic and about how Salazar and Voldemort both wanted the world to be only made him want to join the wizarding world that much more.

He had thrown his mind, body, and soul into learning magic these past few years and according to Rowle, he was at the very least up-to-date with Hogwarts students his age, if not ahead of them - in theory, at least.

Although his practice was still coming along nicely as well. He'd already mastered the charms and spells taught to first and second years, and he had almost finished The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 3 by Miranda Goshawk, even though there were a handful of spells he wouldn't be able to test out until summer when the school was mostly empty again.

His astronomy knowledge, admittedly, was absolutely dreadful but Harry found it impossible to learn about faraway stars and planets when he could be learning something that he could use in the world around him instead, something that would actually benefit him and his future.

Intermediate Transfiguration, too, was proving a struggle, something which Rowle somehow found relief in. Harry thought it had something to do with his focus - not that he didn't have enough of it, but because he found it a lot more difficult to direct his magic at a specific object rather than just having it appear.

And then, of course, he had the more hands-on subjects like potions and herbology. He liked learning about the magical properties of plants, and he liked learning about how different combinations or different amounts of certain rocks or insects could create incredibly different things, but as for the practical side of things…

Harry enjoyed herbology but he didn't like it enough to consider a career in it so he wasn't too concerned about his lack of experience in that regard, and after interrogating Rowle one evening while the boy poured over his GCSE English text, he'd found out that potioneers and potion shops existed, which thankfully meant that he didn't have to worry about that either, since he could just buy whatever potions he needed in the future.

Defence and the Dark Arts were still by far his strongest subjects, although he did worry somewhat that actually using some of those spells wouldn't work for him in the moment. It was fine to learn Riddikulus and the Patronus charm - which he was super looking forward to casting this summer - but who's to say that he wouldn't freeze up when he actually had to use them? He didn't know what his boggart would be, after all, much less what memories a Dementor would dredge up.

He could only assume it would be Dursley-related.

But let's say that he didn't freeze - could he successfully get a job using his defence knowledge? He knew that the wizarding world's version of the police were called Aurors, but Harry didn't much fancy working for the Ministry; not with how corrupt and illogical it was at the moment.

What else was there?

Rowle had told him that there was a curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts, but maybe he could… break it? He could certainly try, at the very least, as if he succeeded then… then maybe Hogwarts would give him the job?

It'd mean working for Dumbledore though, which… wasn't ideal, but maybe being a professor would make that worth it. He loved learning, after all, and he could picture himself teaching easily enough. Why wouldn't he want to get paid to tell a bunch of kids about his favourite subject ever? That sounded like a win-win, in his books.

But to become a professor, he'd have to pass his N.E.W.T.s, and to pass his N.E.W.T.s, he'd have to pass his O.W.L.s, and if he were at Hogwarts, then he'd be taking his O.W.L.s the year after next.

He could always do them later, he supposed, but that would involve becoming yet another exception and he really didn't want to have to figure out the Ministry paperwork to do so, much less reveal himself to the wider wizarding world at large. So no, he needed to do them on time, preferably in such a way that would allow him to blend in with everyone else this age.

Which meant, of course, that he had to return to the wizarding world within the next two years.

He always knew he would, obviously - that was what this entire self-teaching magic thing was about - but to return to it so soon… He knew his name would attract attention, but he also knew that his name would open doors to him that would otherwise be shut.

According to Rowle, the Potters were members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight all but in paper. The only reason they were left off was because the creator of the list had decided that "Potter" was simply too common a muggle name for there not to be "tainted" blood somewhere along their line. But it was still a name that garnered respect - and now more than ever, given that the sole remaining Potter had apparently defeated the greatest Dark Lord of all time.

Even more importantly, the Potters had not just an earldom, but a dukedom too. It would be ridiculous for him not to take advantage of that, not to mind all of the money, properties, and magical heirlooms he would be giving up if he didn't eventually reclaim his name.

And yet, in saying that… well. He was still just a kid, wasn't he?

Harry wasn't daft enough not to realise that an unsupervised thirteen-year-old in muggle clothing would attract attention in Diagon Alley, and he was far too young to justify living by himself just yet - even if he had practically raised himself and already knew how to cook and clean. If he got caught, which he would be, then Dumbledore might get involved and send him straight back to the Dursleys.

No. He wouldn't - couldn't - risk it. Not yet.

Harry still had a lot to learn; he couldn't expect to break any curse or get a good job if he only had a third-year student's worth of knowledge, and he still had to get his O.W.L.s at some point too. Maybe if he could master the third-year and fourth-year curriculum, then he could pass his O.W.L.s without needing any outside help. And if he could do that, then maybe he could teach himself what he needed to know for his N.E.W.T.s too.

He would have to ask Rowle for some more textbooks.

Maybe he could even convince Dumbledore to let him stay in the wizarding world, away from the Dursleys and away from St Brutus. Surely if he was smart enough, skilled enough, good enough then the man would have no issue with it? He was self-sufficient and, really, living alone at fourteen or fifteen wasn't so bad, was it? Dumbledore could always check in on him if he wanted to, if he had to, just as long as he could stay-

Just as long as he could stay.

And so, as much as Harry wanted to run headfirst kicking and screaming straight into the heart of the wizarding world, he would hold himself back…

For now, that is.

AUTHORS NOTE

Friendly reminder that this fic has a Discord server here (just remove the space before the ".gg"): discord .gg/QrCdPJP9Tp