The grand doors to the meeting room swing open with a creak that echoes through the cavernous space. Harry's hand tightens around Draco's as they step over the threshold, their silhouettes framed by the dim light filtering in from the hall.
Four pairs of eyes turn towards them—Voldemort's red gaze burning brighter than any other. Lucius Malfoy sits rigidly at one end of the table, his pale face as cold and hard as marble. Beside him, Narcissa appears equally composed, her blue eyes betraying nothing of what she might be thinking. Severus Snape is there too, his black robes merging with the shadows that cling to the corners of the room.
The atmosphere is thick, charged with an anticipation that clings to every surface and creeps along Harry's skin like static electricity. His heart hammers against his ribs, each beat echoing the questions that have been tormenting him since he arrived: Will he walk away? Can he?
Harry glances at Draco, whose expression is carefully blank. The tension radiates off him in waves, but his grip on Harry's hand doesn't waver, providing an anchor amidst the storm threatening to capsize them both.
"Please sit," Voldemort commands, his voice slithering into the silence. They both take their seats beside each other, and Voldemort turns to Harry. "I trust you've had time to consider your position?"
Harry's gaze meets the Dark Lord's, and for an agonizing moment, everything else falls away—the opulent room with its heavy drapes and high ceilings, the faces watching them with bated breath, even Draco's steady grip on his hand.
"Yes," Harry's reply is far quieter than he'd like, but it carries in the stillness of the room. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself against the weight of what he's about to say. "I have."
A flicker of interest sparks in Voldemort's red eyes, quickly replaced by that familiar cold calculation. "And?" The word hangs in the air, charged with expectation.
"First, I am willing to provide every bit of evidence against Dumbledore that I have. Lucius already has the official records we've been able to provide, as well as copies of my parents wills, but my memories can support claims." Harry's voice grows stronger with each word, the truth lending him a courage he didn't know he possessed.
"Could you give specifics?" Voldemort asks, leaning forward slightly in his throne-like chair.
"For instance," Harry begins, "on my first visit to Diagon Alley, it was Hagrid who took me there instead of a Head of House or even a Ministry representative, as it's supposed to be. This is against the Hogwarts rules, and given Hagrid managed to turn me against Slytherin in a day, I have no doubt that it was strategic."
This is only a surprise to Voldemort, but it doesn't surprise him.
"And after I informed Dumbledore about the abuse at Privet Drive..." Harry's voice falters for a moment, but he pushes past the lump forming in his throat. "He sent me back there anyway. I know I'm not the first, but we need as much evidence as possible. However, I do not wish to be officially involved in your... endeavours until I turn seventeen."
Voldemort leans back in his seat, red eyes narrowing as he studies Harry. The silence stretches on, filled only by the crackling fire and the distant sounds of the manor settling into the night.
"I've spent fourteen years being tortured because of him—four of those living in constant fear of you," Harry continues, his green eyes meeting Voldemort's without flinching. "I need peace before anything else."
His words hang in the air, a stark reminder of the horrors he has endured and the precarious nature of their current alliance. It's a daring move—a plea for respite laced with an accusation—and Harry can only hope it will be enough
"Very well," says Voldemort after what feels like an eternity. His voice slithers through the silence, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "Please elaborate."
And so, Harry does.
He begins at the beginning: not with a boy who lived, but with a child neglected and abused. A cupboard under the stairs instead of a nursery; beatings instead of bedtime stories; loneliness where there should have been love. For ten years, he endured, knowing nothing of his true heritage or the world that awaited him beyond Privet Drive.
But it is the last four years that Harry emphasises now, the ones spent living under the shadow of a resurrected Voldemort while Dumbledore remained distant, offering little more than cryptic messages and half-truths. Four years of learning to rely on himself, that the adults always fail to protect him and others, of realising that the line between good and evil isn't always clear-cut, especially when it comes to those in power.
Harry's voice doesn't waver as he recounts his past, each word etched into the silence like a scar upon skin. There's pain in his eyes, yes, but also determination—an unwavering resolve forged in the crucible of suffering. It's this resilience, perhaps, that surprises those present the most. To them, Harry has always been a symbol, a figurehead in their war against the Light. But here, now, he is undeniably human: wounded, yes, but not broken.
Narcissa listens, her icy composure cracking just enough to betray the flicker of empathy in her eyes. She knows what it means to be caught in the crossfire of other people's ambitions, to feel trapped within the confines of expectation and duty. But understanding Harry's pain doesn't make hearing it any easier.
A glance at Draco reveals his own struggle with the revelations. His fingers are white where they clutch the edge of the table, knuckles standing out in sharp relief against his pallid skin. His jaw is set, teeth grinding as if each new piece of information is a physical blow.
This isn't the Harry Potter he's known since childhood—not the celebrated hero or the despised enemy. It's like trying to stand on shifting sands, the solid ground of certainty giving way beneath him. The past month has been a lesson in unlearning, in realising that Harry's life hasn't been the fairytale he'd once imagined. But hearing the full extent of it still sends shockwaves through him, not least because of the warmth that has begun to unfurl in his chest whenever Harry is near.
Narcissa gives a subtle nod, barely perceptible to anyone watching. It's a simple gesture, yet it carries the weight of unspoken agreement. She understands why Harry wouldn't want to involve himself officially until he's of age, free from the shackles of underage magic laws and the watchful eye of the Ministry. It's a reasonable request, one rooted in self-preservation rather than cowardice.
When Harry's words fade into the hush of the room, it is Draco who breaks the silence, taking the chance to make his stance clear.
"I have conditions for supporting you," Draco begins, his voice clear and steady. His fingers, once clenched tight around the edge of the table, now rest lightly upon its polished surface. "Firstly, I will only assist in changing pureblood opinions about half-bloods and Muggle-borns, focusing on students in Hogwarts, until I am 17."
His declaration hangs heavy in the air, and there's an intensity in Draco's gaze, a determination that belies his years. Across the table, Lucius and Narcissa exchange a glance. Pride swells within them, mingling with a sense of trepidation for the path their son has chosen, but they remain silent, offering him the respect his conviction commands. Severus Snape's expression softens almost imperceptibly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, unseen by the others.
"Secondly," he continues, his tone hardening, "My support comes with expectations. I will not be used as a mere pawn in a war, if it comes to that, nor will I blindly follow orders without understanding your intentions."
Draco pauses, allowing each word to sink in. He meets Voldemort's gaze head-on, unflinching despite the gravity of what he's suggesting.
"And finally, there are to be no underage recruits involved in your plans." The final condition is spoken with a quiet ferocity, revealing a protectiveness that few would associate with Draco Malfoy. "If you don't include underage people, I will support you publically from day I turn 17."
Voldemort leans back, regarding Draco with a thoughtful expression. It's an interesting development, this newfound assertiveness from the young wizard before him. Perhaps there is more to Draco than he initially perceived—more strength, more potential.
"Very well," he concedes after a moment, though his red eyes continue to study Draco, searching for any sign of weakness or deceit. Then he glances back at Harry, "Does your support come with the same terms?"
"Yes," Harry states. "I am willing to help Draco make these changes because I have the power to do so now, and not out of obligation, but because it is the right thing to do."
"Understood," Voldemort says, his voice a low drawl that sends a shiver down Harry's spine. "I appreciate your candor, and I am not opposed to the conditions you have set forth."
"Thank you," Draco replies with a nod, relief evident in his posture as he leans back slightly from the table.
Voldemort turns his gaze to Lucius and Severus, who have been silent observers throughout the exchange. "What are your thoughts?"
Severus remains impassive, his dark eyes unreadable. "The idea has merit," he concedes after a moment, "but implementing such changes will not be without challenges."
"Of course," Draco agrees. "But anything worth doing rarely is."
"I'm incredibly proud of my son for standing up to what he believes, and I am relieved that his beliefs align with your goals anyway," Lucius states.
A silence descends upon the room as Voldemort considers their words. For years, he has sought power through division and fear. But now, faced with the prospect of an alliance born out of shared goals rather than coercion, he finds himself intrigued despite his initial reservations.
"By the time you are both of age, Dumbledore will be behind bars where he belongs, and I..." Voldemort hesitates, a small look of amusement crossing his features. "Well, I shall merely be another politician."
The significance of this statement is not lost on those around the table. For years, Voldemort has been synonymous with terror and chaos—a dark force that operates outside the established order. Yet now, he speaks of positioning himself within the very system he once sought to dismantle.
"That reminds me about the prophecy," Harry says suddenly, his tone cautious. "Before we return to Hogwarts, I intend to retrieve it from the Ministry, like I said I would. You said it was crucial that we know what it says in full."
The statement hangs in the air between them, an echo of a conversation they had weeks ago when Voldemort first revealed the existence of a prophecy.
Voldemort shakes his head, the corners of his mouth pulling downward ever so slightly. "It is not necessary, Harry," he replies, the usual hardness in his eyes softening.
"While I would like nothing more than to unravel Trelawney's riddles, knowing the exact contents will not change our course of action, and I should not have mentioned it to you before," Voldemort continues, his voice lowering almost to a whisper. "I was over-eager to use any information against Dumbledore. I am still learning not to see people as mere pawns in my game. That is his way, and I don't wish it to be mine any longer."
There's a pause, and for a moment, everything else fades into insignificance. All that remains is this new reality, unfathomable yet undeniable: Lord Voldemort publically expressing regret, acknowledging mistakes, showing glimpses of humanity beneath the mask of the feared Dark Lord.
"Your focus should be on your education," Voldemort adds, breaking the silence that has settled over them. "That includes understanding the complexities of our world and the injustices within it—not chasing after prophecies."
The words hang heavy in the room, laden with implications that beckon further exploration. They paint a picture of a different Voldemort, one who values knowledge over blind obedience, one who seems to care about Harry's growth beyond just grooming him for war. This isn't the monster from the tales whispered in hushed tones at Hogwarts; it's someone—or something—else entirely.
For a brief moment, Harry locks eyes with Draco across the table. There's a shared understanding there, a silent acknowledgment of the shift occurring right in front of them. Their journey has been fraught with tension and uncertainty, but in this instant, they sense the possibility of something transformative unfolding—one that might redefine not only their relationship with Voldemort but also the course of the wizarding world itself.
"It appears we have much to contemplate," Lucius finally breaks the silence, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts brewing beneath his composed exterior.
"Indeed." Voldemort stands, and with a flick of his wrist, the plates and cutlery vanish from the table. "But we adjourn, there are a few more matters to attend to."
With that, he steps toward Lucius, whose eyes widen slightly under the scrutiny. Voldemort raises his wand, not in threat but in ceremony, and for the first time since Harry's arrival, the Dark Mark on Lucius' forearm is exposed.
"I will be disbanding the 'Death Eaters'," Voldemort states, his voice reverberating through the grand dining hall. "I would still like to hold meetings with the same people, but I don't want a band of servants. I want allies who are truly on my side with the freedom to step away from my side if things change."
The room falls silent, save for the crackling flames in the fireplace which cast an eerie dance of shadows across their faces. The air seems to grow heavier with each passing second, anticipation hanging thick like an unspoken promise waiting to be fulfilled.
Lucius straightens up in his chair, holding out his arm without hesitation while Narcissa watches, her hand resting lightly against her throat—an elegant display of control despite the tension radiating from her every pore.
Voldemort's wand moves over the Dark Mark, and as it does, the once vivid mark starts fading until it entirely disappears, leaving nothing behind but smooth skin. It feels almost surreal as they watch the symbol of fear and obedience erase from existence—as if with its departure, the era of the Death Eaters has officially ended.
"The world believes us bound by these marks," Voldemort continues, lowering his wand and turning back towards the centre of the room. His red eyes scan the faces around him—each etched with varying degrees of surprise and curiosity. "But we are not defined by them. We make our own destiny."
He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to sink into the minds of those present. Then, with an aura of finality, he declares, "From this day forth, I shall no longer be known as Lord Voldemort. You may address me as Marvolo Riddle."
The proclamation hangs heavy in the air, its implications rippling through the silence that follows. This isn't just a change of name—it signifies a severance from a dark past, a rebirth of sorts into something unknown yet undeniably intriguing.
Harry and Draco exchange a glance, their expressions reflecting the shared surprise and uncertainty. This night has been full of revelations, each challenging their perceptions and forcing them to question what they thought they knew.
Even now, as they sit there amidst the remnants of dinner and discourse, they can feel the gravity of this moment—the way it tugs at the strings of fate, unraveling old narratives and weaving new ones in their place.
Voldemort—Marvolo turns his gaze to Snape, who has been a silent observer throughout the exchange. His black eyes meet Marvolo's red ones, and for a moment, there is a quiet understanding between them—a shared history stretching back through years of war and clandestine operations.
"Extend your arm," Marvolo instructs. The command hangs in the air, heavy with anticipation. This time, it's not an order but an offer—one that could sever the final thread linking Severus Snape to his past as a Death Eater.
But instead of complying, Snape shakes his head, just once, a subtle refusal that belies the gravity of what he's denying.
"Not yet," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. But in the vast dining hall, each word carries, resonating with unspoken implications. There's a flicker of surprise in Marvolo's eyes, quickly replaced by curiosity.
"I must remain at Dumbledore's side, undetected," Snape explains, meeting Marvolo's gaze without flinching. "He cannot know of this... development. Not until the time is right."
His words hang in the air, casting long shadows over the faces around him. Everyone present understands their significance—Snape, ever the double agent, continues to walk the razor-thin line between loyalty and deception, always one step away from disaster.
The silence stretches on, broken only by the crackling fire and the occasional clink of silverware against china as dinner resumes. Snape's statement lingers like a spectre, reminding everyone of the delicate balance they all maintain—the dance of power and perception that defines their existence within these walls.
"In this spirit of cooperation," Marvolo continues, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade, "I propose we begin by taking steps to prove Sirius Black's innocence."
The statement lands with the force of a physical blow, stunning everyone into silence. Harry feels his breath hitch in his chest, while Draco blinks in surprise across the table.
"Peter Pettigrew has been hiding in plain sight for years," Marvolo says, red eyes flickering with cold calculation. "It is time he served a purpose beyond self-preservation. Placing him within the Ministry will not only clear Black's name but should also expose Dumbledore's negligence—or worse, his complicity—in letting an innocent man take the fall."
The room falls still as the gravity of Marvolo's words sinks in. Even Lucius, ever the picture of composed aristocracy, seems taken aback. Narcissa's hand tightens around her wine glass, and Snape stiffens, his gaze sharpening on Marvolo.
"That seems smart," Draco murmurs, breaking the silence that has settled over the dining hall. His mind races, considering the implications of such a move. It would undermine Dumbledore's credibility, yes, but it could also cause unforeseen ripple effects throughout the wizarding world.
Marvolo nods at Draco's response, seemingly unperturbed by the shock rippling through those gathered. It's a calculated risk, no doubt—one that reveals how much he's willing to gamble on this new alliance.
Harry watches, silent and thoughtful, as Lucius exchanges a glance with Narcissa before turning back to Marvolo. There's a question in his eyes, one echoed in Harry's own heart: Can they trust this man—this former enemy—to deliver on such promises?
"If you are suggesting manoeuvring within the existing structures rather than tearing them down entirely..."
Lucius leaves the sentence unfinished, the implication hanging heavy in the air. But his grey eyes never waver from Marvolo's face, searching for any hint of deception or hidden agenda. The elder Malfoy has always been a master strategist, acutely aware of the delicate balance of power within their society—a balance that now teeters precariously on the edge of change.
"That is precisely what I am suggesting," Marvolo replies, leaning back in his chair with an air of quiet confidence. "Our goal is not destruction but reformation, you already know this. But I understand that it'll be hard for you to believe until I begin to prove myself."
He looks pointedly at Harry and Draco then, inclusion evident in his gaze. No longer are they mere pawns in this game; they are allies, integral to whatever comes next.
"May I contact Sirius?" Harry asks, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts raging within him. "He should hear this from us, it's about his life."
Marvolo regards him for a moment, red eyes unreadable before giving a slight nod. "Very well."
Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out the mirror, now a part of his lifeline.
"Sirius," he whispers, holding the mirror so only his reflection is visible. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the glass shimmers, blurring before clearing to reveal a different face altogether.
Sirius Black appears in the mirror, his features drawn but composed. His grey eyes, usually sparkling with warmth and mischief, are serious as they meet Harry's green ones.
"What is it, Harry?" There's concern etched into each line on his face, yet his voice remains calm—a rock amidst turbulent seas.
"We need to talk." Harry glances at Marvolo before continuing. "About Pettigrew... and your innocence."
A breath catches audibly through the mirror, then silence. The image of Sirius doesn't waver; his gaze grows sharper, more focused.
Harry explains, detailing Marvolo's proposal—the plan to place Peter Pettigrew within the Ministry not just to undermine Dumbledore, but also to prove Sirius's innocence. He watches as understanding dawns on Sirius's face, followed by a flicker of something else: Hope? Relief? Or perhaps merely the shared sense of unease at the shifting tides.
"I see," Sirius says after a long pause. His grey eyes seem distant, lost in thought—or maybe calculating the risks ahead. "But such a move... it must be timed carefully."
"Why's that?" Draco interjects, leaning closer. In the candlelight, his silver-blue eyes are alight with curiosity—and a hint of defiance.
"To avoid suspicion," Sirius replies, his gaze never leaving Harry's. "It would be best if this happened when you two are back at Hogwarts."
"You mean to delay until the start of term?" Marvolo's voice cuts across the table, slicing through the tension like a blade. But there's a note of consideration there, a willingness to entertain the idea rather than dismiss it outright.
"Precisely," Sirius confirms, his nerves showing. "Dumbledore will have his hands full once the school year begins. It'll be easier to make our move then without drawing too much attention."
A heavy silence descends upon the room, broken only by the soft crackling of the fireplace. Marvolo leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he contemplates Sirius's words. Then, slowly, he nods.
"Agreed," Marvolo replies, his voice low and resonant. "We will proceed with the plan at the start of term."
He rises from his chair, signalling an end to the meeting. "I look forward to our future collaborations."
Harry and Draco stand as well, their bodies tense with relief or exhaustion—it's hard to tell which. But they both feel it: a shift in the air, subtle yet profound.
The room is silent save for the crackling fire and the occasional clink of glass against wood. It should be filled with animosity, but instead, there's a sense of cautious optimism—a flicker of hope amidst the ashes of old grudges.
Across the table, Harry catches Draco's eye. They share a glance that speaks volumes—of uncertainty, yes, but also determination. They are no longer just boys caught up in the machinations of powerful men; they are allies bound by shared purpose.
"Come on," Draco mutters, leading Harry out of the dining room. They step into the cool night air, a welcome reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere that had settled over their meeting.
They find a quiet spot in the gardens, away from the imposing grandeur of Malfoy Manor and its occupants. The stone bench is cold beneath them, but it offers a solid grounding—a counterpoint to the whirlwind of thoughts swirling within their minds.
Above, the sky is clear, offering a canvas for the stars to shine brighter than ever. Their light filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that dance with every gentle breeze. It's peaceful here, a stark contrast to the intensity of their earlier confrontation.
Harry glances at Draco, who stares back at him, silver eyes reflecting the starlight.
"What are you thinking?" Draco asks, breaking the silence that hangs heavy between them.
"I'm not sure," Harry admits. His fingers trace the rough edges of the stone bench as he gathers his thoughts. "It's... a lot to take in."
Draco snorts, a small smile playing on his lips. "That's one way to put it." He leans back, propping himself up with his arms.
They sit in silence, each lost in their own reflections. The events of the evening replay in Harry's mind—the proposal, the implications, the potential fallout. It's overwhelming, yet oddly liberating, like stepping off a cliff only to realize you've been given wings.
"Wasn't sure how it would go," Draco admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I half expected him to... well, you know. I know he swore on his magic, but it's difficult to believe."
Harry does know. He's seen the Dark Lord's wrath, felt its sting.
"But he agreed," Harry says, more to himself than to Draco. "He accepted our conditions." There's a hint of disbelief in his tone, but also relief.
"Yes," Draco replies. "I know he offered you an out but he didn't offer me one so the fact that he accepted our conditions without question... it's so strange. My family...we've always been part of this world, so I didn't think I had a choice."
His words hang heavy in the night air, revealing the depth of his internal struggle. It isn't just about allegiance or power; it's about identity, about grappling with the weight of expectations and the fear of losing oneself in the process.
"And yet we're here," Harry muses aloud, "trying to find a way forward without losing who we are."
"Who we want to be," Draco corrects him gently, turning to face Harry fully. "There's a difference."
"Right," Harry agrees, meeting Draco's gaze steadily. "Who we want to be."
They sit together under the vast canopy of stars, bound by circumstance and the fragile threads of possibility. The silence stretches between them, no longer oppressive but almost comforting—like the quiet after a storm, filled with uncertainty but brimming with potential.
"Thank you, Draco," Harry murmurs, his gaze never leaving the vast expanse overhead. "For standing by me. Even when you didn't have to."
Draco stiffens beside him, caught off guard by the gratitude in Harry's voice. It's genuine, laced with a respect that goes beyond begrudging alliances.
"For what it's worth," Harry adds, "I believe we can change things. Together."
Underneath the vast canopy of stars, Harry leans closer, drawn by the flicker of vulnerability he sees mirrored in Draco's eyes. The distance separating them seems inconsequential compared to the chasm they've already bridged—a divide forged by years of rivalry and resentment, slowly eroding beneath the weight of truth and necessity. Here, among the roses and shadows, they are simply two boys bound by a cause greater than themselves, unlearning what they once believed absolute.
When Harry's hand brushes against Draco's, the spark that jumps between them has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with something far more intoxicating. Draco looks at him then, really looks at him, and what Harry sees reflected back is the recognition of one soul adrift in a sea of uncertainty reaching out for another.
"Together," Draco echoes, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.
In response, Harry reaches across the small space separating them, closing the gap until his fingers entwine with Draco's. For a moment, they lose themselves in each other's gaze, the silence wrapping around them like a cloak. Then Harry leans forward, closing the distance left between them. His lips find Draco's in a soft kiss that speaks volumes about trust and bravery, about standing together in the face of adversity.
It's not their first kiss, nor will it be their last, but this one holds a significance that transcends physical contact. It's a declaration of intent, a beacon shining through the fog, illuminating the path they've chosen. Together.
When they finally pull away, the air between them is charged, alive with possibility. They remain seated on the garden bench, side by side, a comfortable silence enveloping them as they take in the tranquility of the night. The stars above seem to shine brighter, each one a testament to the unexpected turn their lives have taken.
"Didn't expect that, did you?" Draco's voice cuts through the quiet, his tone teasing yet filled with warmth.
Harry chuckles, shaking his head. "Not exactly part of my plan, no."
Their laughter echoes softly around them, a harmony amidst the rustle of leaves and distant hoots from owls returning home.
As the night deepens, wrapping its cool embrace around them, something shifts—a strengthening of bonds, a kindling of hope. Their conversation ebbs and flows, marked by moments of profound understanding and flashes of shared conviction. With every exchange, every shared dream, the foundation of their alliance solidifies, becoming something more—something real and enduring.
"Are you ready for this, Harry?" Draco's voice is low, almost a whisper against the hush of the night.
Harry turns to him, his eyes gleaming with determination. "I've been ready."
Their fingers lace together, an unspoken pact sealed beneath the moonlight. It's a small gesture, yet it carries the weight of their shared resolve, grounding them amidst the whirlwind of uncertainties that lie ahead.
Neither speaks, for words are no longer needed. Instead, they let the quiet speak volumes, allowing space for reflection and anticipation. Their gazes remain fixed on the horizon, where the first hint of dawn begins to bleed into the indigo sky—a beacon signalling the end of one journey and the beginning of another.
AN: There is a planned sequel that I have not written yet. Hopefully, soon.