Sunday, 23rd July

Harry stepped out of Gringotts, the weight of the new keys in his pocket, the cold metal pressing reassuringly against his leg.

Odbert had been swift and efficient, copying the documents Griphook had provided, and making the additional keys. He felt oddly liberated knowing that he had access to not only his trust vault but also the main family vault. He wasn't planning on using the Potter vault anytime soon, of course - he couldn't risk Dumbledore finding out. But having the key meant that if anything went wrong, if he needed to make a quick exit, then he'd have enough gold to disappear; Dumbledore be damned.

As he made his way through the crowded streets of Diagon Alley, he took a moment to breathe in the unique mix of flowers, parchment, and potion fumes that filled the air. Despite everything, there was an undeniable thrill to being here - a place where magic thrummed in every stone and hollow.

Bypassing the bustling shops and street vendors, Harry's eyes eventually landed on Ollivanders. He hesitated, his steps faltering as a faint, swirling energy within the shop seemed to pull at him.

A wand.

Rowle had told him wands were a tool, but personally, he felt like they were a crutch that too many witches and wizards relied on, limiting their own potential. Harry didn't like the idea of relying on a piece of wood, living his life with the knowledge that his magic could be taken away with the simple snap of a stick.

He wouldn't allow himself to be bound by something so fragile. He was determined to master his own power without one first, see just how strong he could become without relying on a wand. If it turned out that he needed one to be stronger or to defend himself better and maintain his independence, then he'd consider it. But not now. Not yet.

With a resolute shake of his head, he turned away from the shop and continued down the alley.

His first stop with gold in his pockets was for one of the more practical items on his shopping list - robes. His current clothes, Dudley's cast-offs, were still ridiculously large on him and undeniably muggle and Harry wanted to blend in and keep his head down for as long as possible.

Rowle had told him that, although he could find everything he needed in Madam Malkins at a far better price, the real elite shopped at Twilfitt and Tattings. He didn't particularly care about his own appearance, but he knew that in the wizarding world, tailored robes weren't just about looking presentable, they were a sign of power.

There was also a small childish part of him that wanted to spend ridiculous money on high-quality clothes that actually fit him just because he could - and since that was one of his less harmful inclinations, he decided to give in to it.

The soft chime of a bell announced his arrival as he pushed open the door. Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of lavender and the clothing racks were lined with elegant, expensive robes in every conceivable fabric and colour.

The man behind the counter looked up with a smile as he entered, but it quickly fell at the sight of the short, scrawny boy in worn and wrinkled muggle clothes. Harry didn't blame him, but he did want to be treated at least civilly today, so he decided to cut right to the chase.

"I'm a half-blood lord who grew up in the muggle world and this is my first time getting robes. I know that I might not look like your usual clientele, but I assure you, the only person who hates what I'm currently wearing more than you, is me. I've been to Gringotts and I have approximately thirty galleons to spend on clothes, some of which I'm even willing to pay upfront, provided that this entire experience is as painless as possible. Deal?"

His mouth opened and closed and then opened once more before the man quickly snapped it shut and nodded.

"Deal".

Half an hour later, with half a dozen new perfectly tailored outfits to his name, Harry stepped back onto the street, immediately feeling more at ease. The man working there had even been kind enough to let him change into one of his outfits before leaving, and he'd taken a very odd sort of sadistic glee in incinerating Harry's old clothes in front of him.

Needless to say, they'd both left the entire exchange feeling indefinitely happier than before.

He was on his way back to Flourish and Blotts when he passed what appeared to be the wizarding world's version of a pet shop - and one owl, in particular, caught his eye. She was standing on a perch just inside the door, proud and dignified, and as soon as he stopped walking, her amber eyes latched onto his.

Harry had always dreamed of having a pet growing up; maybe a cat, since they were affectionate yet independent, or a snake, since he could talk to them, or maybe even a mouse or a goldfish since they were small and easier to care for. He definitely never wanted a dog - not after Aunt Marge's little beast - and the bite scars on his calves twinged with the memories. As he'd gotten older, he began to realise that the only reason the Dursleys would ever allow him a pet would be so that they could kill it in front of him, and at St Brutus, there was a firm no-animals-allowed rule.

He'd never considered getting an owl before.

But he'd also never lived by his own rules before.

He slowly pushed open the door and as soon as it shut behind him, the white and black-speckled owl spread her wings and took off, landing on his outstretched arm with a surprising amount of grace.

"Oh".

Harry blinked and turned to face the girl standing behind the counter - a Hogwarts student, no doubt, given her age.

"How much?"

"Oh" she repeated, "Uh, you- you want to- to buy her?"

The owl shuffled further up his arm and began pecking at his hair.

"Yes" Harry replied simply, "How much?"

"She's… She's getting on in years, you know. A few people have looked at her but… well, she's usually not so, uh… friendly". The girl wrung her hands together, looking decidedly nervous. "She's definitely smart! But she's… well, like I said, she's- she's older now and- and probably won't be very obedient or- or deliver many letters and, uh, we have a lot of- of younger owls that you could look at or-"

"I don't care" he interrupted calmly because it wasn't as if he had anyone to write to anyway and she deserved a home too, "How much?"

He decided to name her after Hedwig of Silesia, a witch he'd read about in A History of Magic who had later been canonised by the muggles and made the patron saint of orphans. Harry thought it was fitting, and based on the happy-sounding chirp she gave him when he suggested it, Hedwig approved of her new name too.

He returned up the street to the owl post office he'd seen earlier, paying a few sickles to write a note to Rowle, telling him that he'd gone to Diagon Alley, he wouldn't be returning to St Brutus next year, and that he'd likely see him in The Daily Prophet one of these days.

He wasn't stupid enough to think that the return of the Boy Who Lived wouldn't make front page news, and he also wasn't arrogant enough to think that he could keep his return to the wizarding world silent for very long - but he would try his bloody best to delay both events for as long as possible.

Either way, he told Rowle that he still wanted to remain friends if he did, and then gave the note to Hedwig, asking her to deliver it to him. He wasn't entirely sure how much English she understood, but she certainly seemed to be more intelligent than any other bird he'd ever come across, and she didn't hesitate in the slightest before grabbing the note and taking off.

Harry trusted that she'd find him again, and continued on to Flourish and Blotts.

His newfound knowledge of the wizarding world - his titles, the politics, the expectations that came with being the Boy Who Lived - had left him with a growing sense of urgency. There was so much more to this world than he'd ever imagined, and he wasn't about to let himself be swept up in it without a plan.

He needed to learn. Fast. He needed to understand the intricacies of wizarding society, its power structures, and how best to navigate them. Rowle had been right about one thing: succeeding in this world required more than just magic. It required cunning. Determination. Resilience.

And Harry Potter would have it all.

With his robes tucked under his arm, he disappeared into the throngs of wizards and witches, his mind already spinning with the possibilities ahead.

Thursday, 27th July

Tom leaned back against the plush armchair, still feeling the lingering ache in his bones.

His skin tingled where Randolph's healing spells had knitted it together even two weeks after the event, the pain dull but persistent. He flexed his shoulder experimentally, grimacing at the tightness. Perhaps he should have taken a break after absorbing two Horcruxes, making himself into one, and duelling Alastor bloody Moody - but alas, he had things to do.

At least the previous two weeks had been… beneficial. Regaining Lucius's influence and Severus's loyalty had been no small feat - or, the latter, at least, given that the former was a far simpler creature and easily controlled by fear. He knew that he hadn't won Severus over completely, but he'd at least made him reconsider his loyalty to Dumbledore, which was a step in the right direction. An even bigger step had been making his first official appearance in Wizengamot as Lord Slytherin, the Duke of Lincoln.

The look on Dumbledore's face had been worth every single second of the last fourteen years he'd spent waiting.

But now that he was set up in politics and firmly wriggling his way into every other lord and lady's good graces, it was, perhaps, time to reconsider Theodore's words from many days before which had been lingering in his mind ever since.

Don't you think he deserves to live for himself now?

It wouldn't… harm their cause if he were to cut Barty or Quirrell free, but he had gotten used to them being around and, dare he admit it, Tom had even come to expect their company. Yes, they weren't quite his friends in the way that Randolph and Theodore were - but he had over fifty years' worth of history with them and that couldn't be replicated overnight. Barty and Quirrell were… useful. Advantageous to have. Beneficial to keep.

That boy has suffered under one master for long enough.

Damn.

Sighing, Tom reluctantly pushed himself to his feet with a wince. Nagini gave him a curious look from her customary spot in front of the fireplace but said nothing as he left, making his way through the manor to the library where he knew their resident Ravenclaw typically haunted.

His mind was already crafting what he would say to Quirrell. The man had been useful, no doubt - intelligent, obedient, and utterly devoted to him - but that devotion was bordering on obsession. It was a problem he needed to address, not just for Quirrell's sake, but for his own sanity too… or, what was left of it, at least.

Reaching the library, he stepped inside, finding the man reading a thick tome he'd found in the Slytherin vault - the same place where much of the books in the room had been salvaged from. His face lit up the moment Tom entered, though he quickly composed himself, standing up and bowing instead.

"My lord".

The one good thing about their forced proximity these past few years was that the man's nervousness had finally started to settle. Most days he didn't stutter at all unless he was in the same room as Nagini or Randolph. There was a… hardness in his gaze now, a sharpness that had not existed when they had first met and Tom was glad the man had finally lost that irritating naivety.

He waved a dismissive hand, motioning for Quirrell to sit back down while he took a seat opposite.

"I wish to speak with you about something, Quirinus" he started, "You and Barty both, but you'll do for now... Theodore recently mentioned something to me and I have since found myself… begrudgingly agreeing with him".

Quirrell's brow furrowed in confusion. "My lord?"

"You've been useful, Quirinus. More useful than I anticipated when I first encountered you in Albania. You've proven yourself resourceful, dedicated, and capable of handling difficult tasks. But…" He let the word hang in the air for a moment, watching as Quirrell's fingers twitched in his lap, betraying his anxiety. "But you've served your purpose. You've done more than enough, and so… I'm going to offer you a choice".

His eyes widened, and Tom couldn't help but smirk at the flash of fear that passed through them. Quirrell knew full well what his "choice" to Severus had been after all, and no doubt expected the same options himself.

"I'm not going to kill you, Quirinus" Tom said calmly, "You're worth far more than that. No, I'm going to offer you something more valuable than your life… I'm offering you your freedom".

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "My… My freedom?"

"Yes. You can go. Leave Britain. Start over. You've more than earned it. You've been by my side through everything these past few years, and now that I've officially re-entered the wizarding world… your services are no longer required in the same capacity".

The words seemed to sink in slowly, Quirrell's expression shifting from confusion to caution to contempt.

"You're dismissing me?!"

"Not dismissing. Releasing. You've been bound to my service, yes, but don't insult my intelligence by claiming to have joined me willingly. Now, perhaps, you understand what we're fighting for, but this was never the life you would have chosen for yourself". Tom's gaze softened slightly, though his voice remained firm. "You're free to go wherever you wish now. Abroad, perhaps, if you want to avoid any… unwanted attention. Or, if you'd prefer to stay closer, I can alter your appearance, give you a new identity. You'll be able to move freely, without suspicion".

He sat there, stunned, for a long moment. His lips parted as though he was about to speak, but no words came. Tom could see the internal struggle - one part of him longing to be free, and the other part deeply entrenched in loyalty, in admiration. Perhaps, even, in infatuation.

"You don't have to decide right away" Tom added after a beat, "Take some time to think about it. Finish your grand tour of the world, perhaps. You were always a brilliant academic, even before I met you. There's still knowledge out there for you to uncover. And when you return… if you choose to return… we can discuss your place in my Inner Circle".

The flicker of surprise on Quirrell's face was almost amusing. The man had clearly never expected to be given the opportunity to leave, let alone to be invited back. But Tom knew him well enough by now to predict his answer, even if Quirrell didn't know it himself yet.

"My lord… I… I'm grateful for your generosity. Truly. I…" He hesitated, licking his lips nervously. "I believe I will take your advice. I've learned so much in your service, but… there's more I wish to see. More I wish to study. I was a fool when I first sought out Dark Magic, but now… now I understand it better. I understand the cause better. I want to- to improve my ability to achieve our goals".

Tom inclined his head, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Good. It's wise to seek knowledge before making any final decisions. You've grown, Quirinus. You're cleverer now than when we first met, and not half as gullible".

He straightened up in his seat, the admiration in his eyes still present, but tempered now by something else - ambition, perhaps. It was a good sign.

"I will return, my Lord. I swear it".

Of course, he would - Quirrell's loyalty was too deeply rooted to ever truly be severed. The man would come back, eventually, once he had satiated his academic thirst. Perhaps he'd even find a new object for his affections in his travels - a witch or wizard who would distract him long enough to get over this ridiculous crush he had on Tom.

"I know. And when you do, there will be a room here waiting for you… You know where to find me".

He flushed, his eyes darting away, and Tom smirked. He wasn't cruel enough to press the issue further - not today, at least. The man needed to leave, needed to find his own path for a while. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he'd come back even steadier and more capable than before.

"The world is wide, Quirinus… Go find your place in it".

Quirrell nodded, rising from his chair. He bowed deeply before leaving the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

Tom sat there for a moment, watching the empty space where Quirrell had been. He knew the man would return - eventually, they always did. But for now, the sooner he got over his obsession, the better. Perhaps some time abroad, far away from him, would do the trick.

With a sigh, he stood himself and turned back toward the corridor, already thinking about the next conversation he needed to have - and this one, he knew, wouldn't be half as easy.

Quirrell had been predictable, but Barty… Barty was a different case altogether. His loyalty had been unwavering from the start, nearly fanatic. Tom wasn't sure if he'd be able to convince him to take the same offer. And, quite frankly, he wasn't sure if he wanted him to.

As he wandered through the winding corridors of the manor, he spotted Barty outside sitting on one of Frank's patio chairs in the garden. He was basking in the warm sunlight, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, soaking it all in like a man starved.

Tom guessed one didn't see much sunlight in Azkaban - and even less while house-bound under the Imperius curse.

He paused for a moment, watching. Barty's features were softer now, yet more defined than the gaunt, hollow-eyed expression he'd worn when Tom had first freed him from his father's clutches. He'd regained some of his strength since then, but there was a certain… fragility to him still. A vulnerability that Tom had never truly noticed before. Or perhaps, he had never allowed himself to notice it before.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot drawing Barty's attention. His eyes flickered open, and he immediately straightened, rising to his feet as Tom approached.

"Sit down, Barty" he said, "There's no need for formalities right now".

The boy hesitated for a moment before obeying, sinking back into the painted metal chair. Tom stayed standing next to him, his gaze drifting over the garden. Bryce had been doing a good job maintaining it, now that his old war wound had been healed.

"I've just spoken with Quirrell" he began, "I gave him a choice. The same one I'm about to offer you".

Barty turned to him, pale eyes narrowed in equal parts confusion and suspicion. "A choice, my lord?"

"You did exceptionally well during your time at Hogwarts. No one suspected even for a moment that you were anyone other than Alastor Moody, and you successfully retrieved the objects I asked of you exactly as we planned… Even when you first joined me, I knew you were different. Special. That's why I made you an Inner Circle member at a much younger age than many of your cohorts".

He immediately scowled and looked away.

"I was still older than Snape" he muttered, kicking at a tuft of grass.

Tom couldn't help but smile at his childish jealousy. "Only by a few months".

"Still!"

"Barty" he chided, and the boy quickly straightened up, lowering his gaze. "I'm sorry, my lord, I don't mean to complain. You were saying?"

"I was saying that you are and always have been one of my most devout followers" Tom finished, "Which is why it pains me to say this, but… you deserve more. More than this. More than a life of servitude and shadows… You've paid your dues, and you've more than earned your freedom".

His lips parted in surprise, his eyes wide. Tom could almost see the thoughts racing behind them, but unlike Quirrell, Barty didn't look confused or conflicted. Instead, there was something else - a quiet… resolve.

"My lord" Barty began, his voice soft but firm, "I cannot leave. I owe you everything!"

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by the answer, though he had half-expected it.

"You don't owe me anything, Barty. You've just been given your life back. You could go anywhere, do anything you like. You're free".

But the boy was already shaking his head.

"No. No, I owe you everything! You saved me! You gave me purpose when I had none. Without you… I would still be a prisoner. In Azkaban, or under my father's curse, it wouldn't matter". His hands clenched into fists in his lap, the intensity of his emotions clear. "I owe you a life debt, my lord. Not just for saving me, but for giving me something to fight for. A world we dreamed of. A world where we don't have to hide or live under the thumb of those who don't understand the Dark Arts, who don't understand the dangers creatures face, who don't understand anything!"

Tom watched him closely, noting the fire in his eyes. Barty had always been passionate, driven by a fanatic devotion to their cause. But now… there was something deeper. A sense of purpose that went beyond mere loyalty. He wasn't clinging to Tom out of fear or desperation. He genuinely believed in what they were building together.

"You're not bound to me by any debt, Barty" he said slowly, "You're free to choose your own path".

"And I choose you" he replied immediately, "I choose this. I want to stay. I want to help you create the world we've always talked about, my lord. I don't want to hide or live some quiet life abroad. I've been hiding for too long - I refuse to do it anymore. I won't turn my back on this, not ever! Not even if you order me to!"

Tom studied him, a mixture of admiration and frustration stirring within him. Barty's loyalty was absolute - but it also made him difficult to reason with. Still, there was a certain value in having someone so dedicated by his side. He had no doubt that Barty would follow him into hell if asked.

"Are you sure about this?"

"I am."

A sigh escaped him, and Tom rubbed a hand across his jaw, Theodore's words still burnished in his mind.

"... Very well. If that's what you want, then I won't force you to leave. But know this, Barty - this path we're walking… it won't get any easier. The world we're building will demand sacrifices and you've already sacrificed too much".

"I'm willing to give more, my lord. I've made my choice".

Tom nodded slowly, accepting his answer. He had tried, at least. Barty's life was his own now, and if he wanted to stay by his side, then so be it. And yet… there was a heaviness in his chest. He had freed Barty from one prison, only for him to willingly step into another.

But perhaps that was just the price of loyalty.

Tom distantly wondered if it was the abused child in them all that made them want such things. His most loyal all came from broken households, after all. Some, like Randolph and Theodore, were merely victims of their time, growing up in an era where hitting a child was not only socially acceptable but even encouraged. Others, like Barty, had come from families that appeared picture-perfect on the outside but were rotten to the core. His own childhood, and that of Severus's, didn't warrant further discussion. Quirrell, he supposed, was perhaps exempt from this observation of his - the man had never spoken of his youth, although that in itself could be a sign of something darker, and he always did display an innate desire to please…

How interesting it was that all of these abused children found a common enemy in that of Albus Dumbledore.

Monday, 31st July

Harry had spent most of the last week reading, learning, and plotting.

He'd returned to the Leaky Cauldron his first night to book a room, telling the barman that his mother had gotten delayed at work and wouldn't be able to Floo in to go shopping with him until the following day.

Unfortunately, that excuse could really only work for a short while, and it wasn't long until he had to find himself other accommodations or else risk incurring the barman's suspicion. He'd found himself a shadier but quieter inn off a side street in Knockturn Alley with a landlady who asked no questions and was happy to send three meals a day up to his room.

Hedwig had indeed been able to find him again, and in her beak had held his original note which had been scrawled on the back of - a simple smiley face and "we'll see" - which had been more of a response than he'd been expecting to get from Rowle if he was honest.

And so, he had all but holed himself up in his small single room that was still larger than the room he'd had at St Brutus and absorbed absolutely everything about the wizarding world that he could. When the need for fresh air became too much, he'd wander the streets, ducking into any store that caught his eye and striking up casual conversations with teenagers who looked a year or two older to find out what was involved with O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.

From what he could gather, he might actually be able to continue his self-studying plan and then sit the exams at the end of the next school year like everyone else his age. If he was lucky, then he might even be able to sit his N.E.W.T.s on time too. His theory for most subjects seemed to surpass what was expected of him but the practical side of things would undoubtedly bring him down. But maybe if he could find himself a tutor…

Slowly, ever so slowly, a plan was starting to form in his mind.

The small fortune his parents left him meant that he could afford it, and also meant that he didn't need to worry about getting a job until he came of age anyway, so he could always re-sit an O.W.L. or two if he had to. His biggest issue was finding somewhere to live until he did so.

Harry knew that he couldn't live out of pubs and inns forever - at the very least, he'd run out of places to stay for a few weeks before he turned seventeen, and eventually, someone was going to catch on - sooner rather than later - that there was an unsupervised teenager roaming the streets of Knockturn Alley.

When he was younger, he'd dreamed of buying his own house and having a library and a garden - but realistically, who on earth would sell a property to a fifteen-year-old boy? A boy who was only just fifteen as of today, in fact? And although he'd spent fourteen of those fifteen years looking out for himself, nobody else in the wizarding world knew that.

And yeah, objectively, he realised that fifteen years old was young - far younger than any sane, responsible adult would ever let someone live by themselves - but Harry also knew that he wasn't exactly a normal fifteen-year-old, Boy Who Lived notwithstanding, so he'd be damned if he let some stranger take away his autonomy from him now.

Item number one; find a tutor. Item number two; find someone insane enough to sell a house to a clearly underaged wizard. Item number three…

No matter what he studied, no matter what he read, no matter what he saw or experienced or tried or explored… his thoughts kept drifting back to Sirius Black.

He had a godfather.

Harry had a godfather!

He decided to ask around about him too - it was easy enough, given that the man had been a convicted serial killer up until a year ago. Wizards, it turned out, loved to gossip as much as Petunia, and it didn't take him long to find out that the man was living in Soho with his partner and owned a tiny magical café of all things that was run on a day-to-day basis by the partner in question.

Remus Lupin was a half-blood without a title, although he'd once been a professor at Hogwarts for a few months before Black had escaped Azkaban. He was… kind, by all accounts, one of those soft harmless librarian types who always wore cardigans and always smelled of hot chocolate.

The man kept odd hours at the café and seemed to take random days off with very little warning, but there were a handful of regulars that always left the place with smiles on their faces, so Harry guessed that the tea and pastries must be good.

Harry watched the café.

A lot.

He was still building up the nerve to go in.

It was just- Sirius Black was his godfather! And Remus Lupin had been one of his father's best friends too which made him his honorary godfather! And here they were, both men within his reach, his last remaining semblance of family who just-

Didn't look for him.

He felt weirdly detached, watching the tall, lean man through the window of the café. Despite everything, he was glad that Lupin looked a lot healthier now than he did in any of the photos he could track down that'd been taken over the last thirteen years. He didn't laugh very often but he seemed to smile a lot and he clearly enjoyed baking the various sugary treats that the café sold.

He looked… happy.

Harry wondered if that was why he didn't save him from the Dursleys or from St Brutus or from his muggle life of hell. And Black was legally his godfather and had been named his guardian in his parents' wills. He knew that the man had been in prison for twelve years which, you know, fair enough, but now that he was out had he just… forgotten about him?

Harry didn't often get emotional, but he couldn't stop this deep-rooted ache in the very centre of his chest, a product of a lifetime spent being unwanted, and he hated it.

He hated them for making him feel this way.

At the very least, he deserved answers, didn't he? Black may have been in Azkaban, but he'd done nothing to find him over the previous few months, and Lupin, Lupin who should have raised him, who should have rescued him from the Dursleys, hadn't sent him so much as a letter over the past fourteen years.

Harry deserved answers - but he wasn't going to get them by hanging around outside, now was he?

Perhaps it was time to reintroduce himself…