Mama Dearest
"Look at me, Draco," Narcissa's voice came out soft, for once in her life.
With a resigned sigh, Draco slowly raised his eyes. They were hollow with something that felt too much like living death.
"No follower of the Dark Lord has ever been blessed in the way you have, Draco," she cooed softly, gently rubbing his cheek. "No one has been granted such a... rare opportunity."
He wished he could just walk away.
"You've been so brave, so smart..." Her lips curled into a thin, approving smile. "Stealing the diary from the blood traitors... it was clever, Draco. Only a boy with the cunning of our bloodline could have succeeded where so many others would fail. You've done more than we could have ever hoped."
Draco looked away.
"Not only that, but you've also saved your own mother from imprisonment." Narcissa cooed and pressed a kiss on his forehead. "But there is still work to do."
"I... I'm not sure I'm ready for this," he muttered. Narcissa remained unmoved, she repeatedly clenched and unclenched her fist; Resisting the urge to grab his face and scream till he complied, like the old days.
"You are already in too deep to turn away. The time for hesitation has passed." She said.
"You have your orders. Go to Salazar's abode. Do what the dark lord commands." She said. "Rest assured, your reward will be beyond compare."
Too Perfect
"Will you relax Mr. Grouchface?" Tracy said. "You are ruining the vibe."
Jago sighed as the cards exploded once again in his face, peppering him in vulgar green.
"Ha!" Tracy laughed. "You are not so smart are you, Mr. Sevatar."
"hark hark." Jago mocked. "You are not that funny."
"Nonsense." Tracy said. "I'm a riot. "But I can't help it if I find humor in the small things—like watching you become a walking explosion of green."
Jago sighed and said nothing. Tracy pouted in frustration at that.
"Come on, Jago," Tracy cooed, leaning over the table with a grin as she stacked her cards with exaggerated flair. "You should be happy! No more petrifications. It's a good sign, right? Things are looking up."
Still, she was unable to coax a smile out of him.
"But I can't help it if I find humor in the small things—like watching you become a walking explosion of green." Tracy said.
"Still, there's nothing to be happy about. The enemy's just grown smarter, is all." He shrugged dismissively. "They've stopped their petty attacks and tricks, but that doesn't mean the danger's gone. It's just being masked, for now. It's probably worse."
"Gee – You are beginning to sound like Moody." Tracy said.
"Who?" Jago asked.
"Mad-Eye Moody! The legendary Auror. Half-crazy, paranoid as hell, always warning everyone about the next big attack, thinking every shadow's out to get him." She raised her hands, doing an over-the-top impression of a stern, slightly exaggerated warning. "'Constant vigilance!'" she snapped with a playful growl.
Jago blinked at her for a second. "I... what?"
"You've got that 'grumpy auror' vibe down, Jago. Seriously." She leaned in. "You should be happy. The term's over. The whole month's practically yours. Take a break from fighting shadows and maybe try to enjoy yourself. It'll make you less… well… Moody."
Fateful Encounters
Jago's head ached—throbbing like a war drum.
His vision swam as he opened his eyes to damp, suffocating darkness. The scent of rot filled his nose, mixed with the metallic sting of fresh blood. The sound of water dripping echoed somewhere in the distance, but it was drowned out by something else—whispering.
It took a moment for his mind to catch up. His arms were stretched tight over his head, his body bound to a grotesque gargoyle carving jutting out from the ceiling. He tried to move, but the chains held fast.
His breath hitched.
The Great Hall—the sound of footsteps—then nothing. He had been walking back from lunch. Now he was strung up in some hellish, forgotten undercroft.
So much for taking it easy, Trace. Harry thought.
A groan from nearby had his head snapping to the side.
Ron.
The redhead was hanging from another gargoyle a few feet away. Neville was beside him, breathing heavily, eyes wide with fear. Both were alive, but it wasn't them that made set Jago's blood to boiling point.
It was Malfoy.
Or rather, the thing that wore Malfoy's face.
Jago's sharp gaze shot downward to the altar at the room's center. A girl lay sprawled upon it, pale and bloodied—Ginny Weasley. Even from here, Jago could see the slow, rattling rise and fall of her body. She was alive. Barely.
Draco stood at the head of the altar, but it wasn't him.
Even under the dim glow of flickering torches, his eyes were too wrong, pupils slitted, their silver gleam hollowed out with something ancient. He was chanting—words that created unnatural sounds in response.
A sickly glow, a faint mist of golden-red, was rising from Ginny's chest, stretching toward something behind Malfoy.
Jago's eyes darted past Draco and nearly recoiled.
A bloody crib.
The hue fed into it, vanishing inside like a light devoured by a black hole.
Jago wrenched at his bindings, raw rage crawling up his throat. His wand—gone. Trapped. Again.
"YOU BLOODY SNAKE-LOVING BASTARD!" Ron's furious scream cut through the damp air.
He thrashed wildly, nearly dislocating his shoulder in his attempts to break free. "LET HER GO, YOU PSYCHOTIC PRAT—"
Draco didn't flinch. He didn't even acknowledge them. He simply continued his chant, voice reverberating, unnatural, and wrong.
Jago didn't wait. Waiting meant dying.
He forced a sharp inhale, ignoring the tremor of pain in his arms, the unyielding grip of the iron. Something shifted beneath him—the gargoyle's base. Loose.
Jago ground his teeth, muscles screaming as he heaved. The stone wobbled. Another sharp jerk, his entire body weight thrown into the force—
A crack.
Then—plummeting.
Jago twisted midair, bracing—
He crashed against the damp floor in a heap of broken shackles and stone rubble.
Pain flared through his limbs, but he had no time for it. His arms were free. He was moving before his thoughts could catch up, sprinting toward Draco with reckless speed, breath sharp as daggers.
But then—
Smash.
An unseen force slammed into him, knocking him backward.
A shimmering barrier surrounded Draco like an impenetrable cocoon, the unnatural glow pulsing with his every whispered incantation.
Jago grit his teeth, mind racing. He had no wand, no plan. And they were running out of time.
His gaze snapped upward—Neville and Ron.
The pipes.
Wasting no breath, Jago lunged, gripping the rusted piping along the ceiling. He scaled it with practiced efficiency, swinging his body toward the two strung-up boys. His fingers curled around Neville's restraints first, yanking and twisting until—
A snap. The chains gave way, and Neville fell, crumpling onto the ground below with a pained grunt.
Ron was next.
Jago was halfway through unbinding him when a new voice slithered through the air.
"Now, now," a smooth voice sneered, dripping with mockery. "I can't have you ruining everything just yet."
Jago's stomach turned as his gaze snapped toward the source.
Perched atop a broken column stood a young man—or rather, something that looked like one. His form flickered, hazy like a mirage. The shade smirked, "The least you could do is stay put and let the ritual finish."
"Speak to me Salazar Slytherin!" The man hissed in parsel tongue.
Something deep beneath them shifted.
A guttural, bone-shaking rasp coiled through the chamber—the scrape of scales against stone.
A monstrous, deep hiss filled the air, so ancient that it rattled Jago's very soul.
Cold dread sank into his chest.
The mirage-like boy tilted his head, amusement dancing in his expression.
"Enjoy being Basilisk food."
Jago didn't waste time in dragging Neville and Ron by the collar and running away. Something massive trailed behind him and he jumped left into an open pipe.
"We have to run!" Jago said.
"We have to save Ginny!" Ron said.
"We have to fight Voldemort!" Neville said.
The trio looked at each other, an invisible clash of personalities happening between them. The basilisk sniffed the air, and Jago was damned sure that the beast now had their location. Before the basilisk could lunge, a melody filled the air followed by a bright, fiery flash.
"So, this is what Dumbledore sends his soldiers!" The illusion mocked. "A phoenix song and an old hat!"
Neville grinned at that. "We have help!"
"Neville wait!" But the boy had already bolted towards the phoenix's cargo. Meanwhile, the phoenix flew high and raked its talons across the Basilisk's eyes. The beast shrieked angrily at that.
"Damn you Dumbledore!" The illusion shrieked. "Fools! The eyes aren't the only weapon a basilisk has."
"The basilisk can't see! This is our chance!" Ron shouted, urging Jago to charge the basilisk alongside Neville.
Jago wrapped an iron grip around Ron's arm.
"We have less than one percent chance of winning here." Jago harshly whispered. "We need to leave and get help—now."
Ron whipped his arm away. "I'M NOT LEAVING WITHOUT GINNY!"
Something inside Jago snapped.
With lightening speed, he grabbed Ron's mouth and forced it near an opening.
"LOOK!" he snarled.
And Ron did.
The basilisk coiled tightly and then lunged.
Fawkes swooped, talons gleaming in the torchlight, wings flaring to strike—
But the basilisk was faster.
Its massive fangs sank deep into the phoenix's body. Even the phoenix's might had no chance against the potency of the basilisk venom.
Ron's breath hitched. His entire body went rigid.
The illusion laughed. "That's the end of that."
Then Neville struck. He swung the massive silver blade through the airs. It should have been a killing blow, a victory in motion.
The sword slammed against the basilisk's scales—
And bounced off harmlessly.
Neville's eyes widened in horror. The monster didn't even flinch. It merely flicked with its tail and Neville was sent careening back into the pipes and landed with a sickening crunch.
Jago's mind raced. The sword was useless. Fawkes was dead. Ginny was dying.
And they were next.
As if sensing Jago's thoughts, the illusion commanded. "Leave Longbottom, he and I have words to exchange. Hunt the others."
Jago didn't need to be told twice, and they ran deeper into the pipes.
The End
Jago's breath was ragged as he bolted through the suffocating pipe network. The heavy, rhythmic slithering behind them shook the metal with each passing second. It was close.
Too close.
Ron was just ahead
Below, past the gaps in the pipes, he heard Neville scream.
"HOW?" the illusion demanded.
"How did a mere baby destroy the greatest dark wizard of all time?" It demanded again.
Jago forced himself to focus ahead. None of that mattered. Only survival. They had to move.
Besides, Neville made his bed, now he must lie in it.
The pipe walls rattled—
Then exploded.
The basilisk emerged, shattering the metal works and lunged at Ron, wrapping its bulk around him.
Ron struggled, gasping for breath, his fingers clawing desperately at the rough, cold scales imprisoning him. But mere fists wouldn't help against the basilisk's bulk.
A hot, primal rage tore through Jago's veins like fire.
Were they destined to forever be the victims?!
His mind snapped to the only thing he could do. Above them, the pipes groaned under their combined weight.
Jago whipped his wand upward.
Magic surged through his body, raw and frenzied, spilling out through his veins. He barely noticed the coppery taste in his mouth as the spell tore itself from his throat.
"DIFFINDO!"
A roar of ripping steel shrieked through the tunnels.
The weakened metal connections snapped.
Jago barely had time to brace himself before everything collapsed.
They fell.
All 3 of them plummeted and Jago heard a sickening crack as leg broke.
Jago gasped, trying to shove himself upward—only for the basilisk to recover first.
Jago's head jerked toward Ron. The redhead lay sprawled on the floor, face pale, struggling to even move. He had clearly taken the worst of the damage, for a moment Jago though in horror if the boy had broken his spine.
But all such notions were dispelled when the basilisk reared its head up to strike again. Ron wouldn't be able to move in time and the serpent was absolutely salivating. It lunged towards Ron and Jago without thinking, threw himself in its path.
The basilisk's fangs sank into his back.
Jago shuddered, his breath leaving him in a silent gasp.
Venom poured into his veins, spreading like fire.
This is it.
"J-jago" Ron wheezed.
Tom meanwhile had grown bored of the broken Neville and walked towards them. It didn't go unnoticed that he looked more solid than ever.
"Pity you chose to ally with this blubbering fool." Tom said. "You could've known glory under my service."
Jago spat at him and Tom laughed at that. He nodded at the serpent, and it wrapped itself around Jago and squeezed. Not tight enough to kill but just enough to make him suffer.
Jago palmed an experimental device that Seamus had secretly worked on, unknown to Dean. Grabbing the serpent's tooth, Jago shoved his hand inside its mouth and threw it. Before the serpent could spit it out, something large exploded in its throat.
Tom's eyes widened and he went over to look where the serpent was shrieking in agony. The sword of Gryffindor lay near him and Ginny's almost hollow form was at the altar nearby. Closing his eyes to contemplate, Jago whispered a silent apology to Ron and swung the sword at Ginny's neck.
A sickening crunch and the head rolled down the floor.
The chamber stilled and even the Basilisk stopped thrashing in pain from its shredded throat.
The steady, lifeblood flow of magic that had been feeding him just moments before had been severed, and though he tried to mask it—Jago saw the flicker of shock in his cold, calculating eyes. Tom looked at the beheaded Ginny and then back at Jago. Before looking at Ginny and then back at him.
For a brief moment, Tom didn't sneer.
Didn't rage.
Didn't curse.
He simply studied Jago.
Then, a smirk ghosted over his lips.
"Not in a hundred years," he murmured, sounding almost… impressed. "Never, not even in my darkest imaginings, would I have expected a Gryffindor to have such gumption."
Jago's fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor.
"Nothing in your cauldron is as vile the poison in my soul, Voldemort." Jago snarled.
Tom let out a breath of genuine laughter.
"Oh, Jago Sevatarion," he said, shaking his head. "I can see why Draco was obsessed with you."
He moved closer to the altar and pocketed a diary.
"I was hoping to kill Dumbledore with the serpent. But you have changed that." Tom admitted.
"You should feel honored," Tom continued lightly, "to be spared by Lord Voldemort himself. I respect audacity. I admire conviction." His smirk widened. "You're the first in years to remind me of that night."
Jago went rigid.
"I haven't seen such boldness since the night I killed Lily Potter."
Jago stiffened at hearing that name, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by Tom. Jago glanced back to see the anagram assembled from Tom Riddle's name to Voldemort.
"Tom Riddle, huh?" Jago rasped as his lungs burned with the basilisk's venom.
Tom nodded at that with borderline paternal pride. His eyes still drilling into Jago.
He barely had time to process the boiling rage, the murderous intent burning in his bones, when Tom turned away—not towards Jago, nor the broken girl on the altar, but to the fool standing on the sidelines.
Lockhart.
His once-perfect smile now glassy, his wand held limply at his side, as if waiting—no, begging—to be told what to do.
"Obliviate them," Tom ordered.
Aftermath
Snape exhaled sharply before speaking.
"The house-elves raised the alarm," he said curtly. "They found the bodies of three students—Weasley, Longbottom, and Sevatarion—discarded in the middle of the Great Hall. Barely breathing. Bloodied. Gravely injured."
Dumbledore's eyes darkened behind his half-moon spectacles. "And you arrived first?"
"I did," Snape confirmed. "Transferred them to Poppy's care at once."
Dumbledore nodded, watching Snape carefully.
"What ails them?" he asked, a foreboding edge creeping into his tone.
Snape's lips pressed into a thin line. "That," he said, "is the question."
He exhaled, crossing his arms as if the very discussion of it left a sour taste in his mouth.
"I have dealt with poisons of all kinds. Basilisk venom, aconite extracts, dark potions crafted in shadows." His voice lowered slightly. "Yet I have never seen a poisoning quite like this."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "Explain."
Snape's voice grew colder, more precise. "It is evident their attacker used a poison against them. That much I could tell. However, I suspect it was removed—replaced—with something else."
Dumbledore's fingers tapped lightly on his desk. "To cover their tracks?"
Snape inclined his head. "Precisely. A method designed to obscure the true nature of the original toxin. The counter-agent wasn't meant to heal them—it was meant to erase the evidence of what had nearly killed them."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fingers still interlocked. "That would be… difficult to accomplish," he admitted.
"Nearly impossible," Snape agreed. "Which only makes it more troubling."
Silence settled between them for a moment.
But Snape wasn't finished.
He hesitated slightly before speaking, as if selecting his next words with deliberate care.
"There is something even stranger," he admitted.
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened.
"They were…" Snape's lips curled slightly, as if disgusted by his own conclusion. "Healed. Not completely, and certainly not well, but…" He narrowed his eyes. "Somebody attempted to repair the worst of their injuries before dumping them there."
Dumbledore's expression turned troubled. "You are certain?"
"I inspected them myself," Snape said. "The work was crude but unmistakable. It kept them alive long enough for us to find them."
Dumbledore's frown deepened, worry knitting into his aged features.
"An act of remorse?" he murmured aloud. "Or…" His voice became graver. "…a sign that this was never meant to end in death."
Snape's gaze was unyielding. "Or an attempt to avoid a murder charge."
Dumbledore's breath hitched.
"If a duel became too violent," Snape continued, voice low, "and they feared the consequences of taking it too far…" His lips curled slightly. "They may have sought to patch them up before leaving them behind."
Dumbledore was silent.
"You suspect the students?" Snape asked.
"It could be anything." Dumbledore admitted. "It should be noted that the Weasely was gravely injured but not poisoned."
"I see. I will keep watch on…. The usual suspects." Snape said and Dumbledore looked away.
"There's more." Snape declared. "What?"
"Ginny Weasely…." Dumbledore trailed off.
The Dreaming Void
Jago's mind drifted in a sea of endless, fractured darkness.
He was aware, but only barely. The agony was constant, a dull, pulsing throb that refused to let go. It wasn't just pain in his body—it was deeper, gnawing at his very essence, at his thoughts, at his soul.
His mind was trapped in an endless cycle of torment, memories twisting and playing in a cruel, endless loop.
The screams.
The blood.
The failures.
A younger version of himself—his own voice—whispered through the void.
"Pathetic."
"Weak."
"You're going to die here, Sevatarion."
"Just like they did."
Jago strained against the nothingness, trying to grasp something, anything that would anchor him. But all that greeted him was a flickering, primal instinct—something ancient, something beyond thought.
A hunter's drive. A knowledge deep in his bones, his blood.
It whispered of a place.
Of salvation.
Then, suddenly—
"He's waking up!"
A voice. Distant, panicked, real.
A surge of power dragged him back under, and the void swallowed him whole once more.
Try Again
Jago jerked awake with a strangled gasp, his body convulsing.
The infirmary was dark, save for the dim glow of moonlight. His limbs were sluggish, the venom still a shadow in his blood. His head pounded, his vision swam, but the instinct—that damn instinct—still roared in his skull.
He couged violently into his hand and removed it with a grimace. There was blood on his palm.
He had to move.
Jago rolled off the infirmary bed, his legs failing him. He crashed onto the cold stone, choking on his own breath. His hands clawed at the floor as he crawled forward, nails scraping against the polished tile.
His body felt like lead. His veins burned.
"Move, you useless wretch."
His own voice, snarling in his mind.
Jago dragged himself forward, pain thrumming through every inch of him.
Somewhere in the dim haze of his thoughts, he remembered the potions stores.
A second later, he found himself ripping through cabinets, shoving vials aside with shaking hands. Glass shattered, liquids spilled. His fingers curled around a Pepper-Up Potion, and before his rational mind could protest, he tore off the cork and drank.
Then another.
And another.
A dangerous amount.
His body burned from the inside, steam pouring from his skin, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't healing him.
He stumbled out of the infirmary, staggering through the corridors like a man possessed.
His legs carried him without thought.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Until he found himself standing before a door that hadn't been there before.
Jago barely had time to think before it opened.
The Room of Requirement.
I Remember!
Jago staggered back from the golden stone, his breath ragged and his vision swimming.
Something was wrong.
A crack splintered through his mind—then another, then another. Memories rushed in like a broken dam, images cascading through him, each one sharper, more brutal than the last.
He saw someone chanting in that warped, inhuman voice.
He saw Ron screaming, struggling as the basilisk coiled around him.
He saw Neville's bloodied form crumpling against the wall.
He saw Ginny.
Ginny—
Ginny on the altar.
Ginny dying.
And him.
The sword. His hands. The swing. The crimson arc.
The pulsing golden glow of the stone twisted into something rotten, abhorrent in his eyes. He clutched his head, veins bulging, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
"No, no, no."
But the memories did not stop.
They forced him to see it again. To feel the cold steel in his grasp. The way her body slumped. The way Tom laughed as her lifeblood spilled onto the altar.
He had done that.
He had killed Ginny Weasley.
Jago lurched, falling to his knees before the pool. His stomach twisted, bile rising up his throat.
His entire body shook, his hands instinctively clawing at his own skin like he could tear the truth away. But it was inside him now. Buried deep.
And it would never leave.
The Room of Requirement pressed in around him, vast and suffocating all at once. The golden stone gleamed in the water, as if mocking him.
The weight in his chest grew unbearable.
Jago Sevatarion had always imagined what kind of monster he might become.
Now, he knew.
And worst of all—
There was no one else to blame.
Mourning
Hogwarts had never felt so quiet.
The news of Ginny Weasley's death had spread like wildfire, suffocating the castle with its weight. There was no laughter in the halls, no whispered gossip between classes. The younger students walked with hunched shoulders, speaking in hushed tones like they were terrified to disturb the ghosts that had suddenly taken residence among them.
But none of it compared to the morning they carried her body out of Hogwarts.
Jago had stood in the shadows, watching as the Weasleys—a broken, weeping collection of red hair—escorted Ginny home. Molly sobbed into Arthur's shoulder, Fred and George flanked their father with expressions so haunted that for once, they made no jokes. Percy, normally composed, looked like he had been physically hollowed out.
But worst of all—
Ron.
Jago couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes.
Not then. Not ever.
Ron never looked away from his sister's body, his face pale, lips pressed into a shaking, bloodless line. No screaming, no raging—just empty grief. Jago was glad. He wasn't sure he could have survived it if Ron had looked at him.
Even when he had secretly mixed the stone's water in his medicine, Jago didn't have the guts to talk to Ron. Pomfrey had been shocked by their quick healing. Neville, on the other hand, still lingered between life and uselessness.
Jago hadn't bothered helping him.
He doubted the stone could cure stupidity.
Jago's fingers curled into a fist.
They had carried Ginny Weasley home in a body bag.
That moment burned itself into his mind. Let it. Let it scar..
And she was never coming back.
All because Jago Sevatarion had killed her. Jago the murderer. Jago the fool. Jago the coward.
All I ever wanted was to be a hero. Jago thought and wept.
He marched out of the infirmary with single-minded determination, his robes billowing as he stormed down the halls. He knew where he needed to go.
Straight to Dumbledore's office.
And this time, he would have answers.
What Fools Ye Be
He turned a corner sharply, only to come face-to-face with McGonagall.
She didn't flinch at his presence, but her expression tightened in warning.
"You're awake," she said, her tone edged with something unreadable. "I was—"
"Why do you care now?" Jago cut in, sneering. "You've spent the whole damn year with your head buried in the sand. What changed? Your sudden sense of authority? Or did the reality of a student dying under your watch finally get through your thick skull?"
McGonagall's nostrils flared, but Jago was too far gone to care.
"You spent months ignoring everything," he spat. "Now you want to talk? Save it. You're a damn joke."
The barest flicker of pain crossed her face before she clamped down on it. A lesser student might have cowered at the way her eyes burned, but Jago felt nothing.
Before McGonagall could even attempt to stop him, a calm voice interrupted them.
"That will be quite enough."
Jago's muscles stiffened as Dumbledore emerged from the corridor's shadows.
The old man barely looked at McGonagall—his gaze was locked onto Jago. Measuring. Calculating.
"Come, Jago," he said lightly, as if they weren't standing on the bones of catastrophe.
Yelling At The Sun
The abduction.
The chamber.
The ritual.
The basilisk.
Tom Riddle.
Ginny.
His throat felt raw by the time he finished, his breathing uneven. The golden glow of the office felt wrong—too warm, too soft.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, gazing at Jago with quiet thoughtfulness.
"You claim that the Chamber of Secrets has been opened once more," he said at last. "And yet, you cannot recall where it is?"
Jago frowned.
His mind ached when he tried to remember. He could recall the darkness, the smell of damp stone, the feel of cold air against his skin—but whenever he tried to focus on the specifics, it was like something slammed shut inside his head.
Something was missing.
Something was blocking him.
"I don't know," Jago admitted, his voice tight with frustration. "I should remember, but I can't. It's like something's been… ripped away."
Dumbledore hummed, stroking his beard. "Curious."
Jago gritted his teeth.
"That doesn't matter," he growled. "Voldemort is back."
Dumbledore didn't react. He merely tilted his head, his expression frustratingly calm.
"Jago," he said, "you have suffered a traumatic ordeal. It is understandable that your mind may seek patterns where there are none."
Jago felt something inside him snap.
"You think I'm making this up?!"
Dumbledore sighed. "I think you are injured. That you have seen terrible things. That your mind, as well as your body, is still recovering."
Jago's fury ignited.
"You think I'm imagining this?" he spat. "You think I'm delusional?!"
"Not delusional, my boy," Dumbledore said gently. "Simply uncertain."
Jago shoved himself up from the chair, shaking with anger.
"Slytherin House is compromised," he snarled. "You can't keep ignoring this! You have no idea what I saw down there! If you let this go, you're a bigger fool than I thought!"
His lungs clenched—a violent, wracking cough tore through him, and suddenly he couldn't breathe.
Jago lurched forward, choking, red-hot liquid spilling over his lips. His hands shook, fingers slick with blood.
Dumbledore's expression hardened.
"That is enough."
Jago barely had time to protest before the old man lifted his wand, murmuring something under his breath.
A wave of deep, velvety sleep crashed over Jago like a tsunami.
His legs buckled.
The last thing he saw was Dumbledore watching him fall.
Then—
Darkness.
Swallowing
When he next saw a Gryffindor, he was better than most. Jago saw an owl trying to grab his attention and looked at it. It was a letter from Ron.
Jago all but it ripped it apart as his trembling hands tried to open it.
I know what you did. My memories are hazy but I know what you did.
Jago read the words over and over, before he left the great hall to scream in agony. He walked without purpose, not even realizing his feet had once again taken him to the room of requirements. He needed to heal himself and then unleash vengeance over all the fucking Death Eaters he could find.
Flay them alive to their very bone marrows. Then and only then, will he find salvation.
Jago stared at the stone before him.
Its golden surface gleamed under the flickering candlelight, the strange material smooth yet unnatural, as if the very air around it warped in its presence.
He could feel it humming.
Calling to him.
This was the third time this week he had broken out of the infirmary. His body was still riddled with traces of venom, the poison eating at him like an unrelenting parasite.
And no one had an answer.
Snape had all but admitted defeat, declaring that basilisk venom had been lost to time, with no known countermeasures. Pomfrey wanted him confined, but St. Mungo's had refused to take him—too poor, too inconvenient.
Dumbledore had refused him Hogwarts. He was too busy playing Neville's personal nurse and Augusta's punching bag to help him. Clearly the man had his favories.
His fists clenched.
They wanted him to rot.
To wither away until there was nothing left.
But the stone—this stone—was different.
He had been using its water, had been drinking from it in increasingly desperate amounts. It had kept him alive, patching his wounds, dulling the venom's bite—but it was never enough.
Not enough to heal him.
Not enough to make the pain stop.
His fingers twitched.
This time, the water wouldn't do.
This time—
He needed more.
Jago's breath came fast and shallow as he picked up the stone, feeling its unnatural heat pulse against his skin. It was like holding a beating heart, thrumming with power, with promise.
This would work.
He could feel it in his bones.
The thought of hesitation flickered through his mind—but his body ached, the venom a slow, crawling death inside of him.
He didn't have time for doubt.
Jago opened his mouth.
And swallowed the stone whole.
The moment it hit his throat, agony followed.
His stomach lurched, his veins burned, and suddenly the world around him collapsed into blinding, searing light.
Press Ganging
The orphanage was cold as ever.
Jago lay in the dimly lit room, unable to muster the strength to move. The basilisk venom raged within him, its poison burning through his veins like liquid fire. Meanwhile, the stone in his belly actively counteracted it. Every heartbeat felt like an assault, the deep gnawing pain threatening to pull him under, but he still clung to consciousness—refusing to give in. He had spite in him that made Voldemort bow his head in acknowledgement.
One day, Jago would mount the same head on a pike.
The matron's voice filtered through the cracked door.
"I will not agree to it." Her tone was firm, but there was an unmistakable edge of nervousness beneath her words.
Jago strained to listen, his head heavy and spinning. He tried to push himself upright but failed. His body felt too weak, too broken. The venom worked its slow magic, rendering him a mere spectacle of agony in the bed.
The matron's voice grew louder, her words reaching him clearly now.
"You cannot have them all, Brigadier. I will not agree to handing over the boys like livestock."
The man—Edward, the Brigadier—laughed, but it was a dry, humorless sound.
"You don't understand, woman. There's a national emergency." His voice lowered, becoming almost a growl. "The Soviets are advancing on the French borders, and Britain is on the brink of an invasion. These boys are valuable. We can't afford to waste time with sentimentality."
"You want to take the sick ones, that's fine, but not the healthy ones. If you do, I'll leak this to the press. You think the public would stand for it? They'll riot." The matron said.
There was a pause, and Jago felt his heart sink. He wanted to call out, to scream at them, to demand they leave him be, but the venom's strength was far stronger than his own. He couldn't even summon the strength to move.
A rustling noise, and then the matron's voice returned, steely and laced with greed.
"You'll also pay me, of course. I've kept this place running—dealt with your little requests—so don't think I'll let you walk away empty-handed. I expect a cut of the hush money. You want these boys, you'll pay for them."
Jago's stomach twisted with disgust, and the poison spiked inside of him in response to the disgusting exchange. He tried to turn his head, to focus, but everything was spinning. His body was betraying him, and his mind was too clouded to make sense of anything.
The next thing he felt was a pair of hands. Rough, uncaring hands, lifting him from his bed.
"We're taking him now," the Brigadier's voice echoed coldly, filled with determination. "No time for pity. Let's move."
Dean. Seamus. Ron. – Forgive me. Those were his last thoughts.
Like Clay I Shall Mould Them
Jago's world had collapsed the moment he was pulled from the orphanage and carted into the cold, sterile belly of the military facility. There were no windows, no daylight, no signs of life, just concrete walls and a suffocating silence that pressed against him, making every breath feel like a labor.
He didn't know how many miles they had driven. The van had been cramped, and he had been too weak to fight back, too disoriented to comprehend the events happening around him. The Brigadier's hands had been rough on his shoulders, guiding him through the winding, dimly lit corridors
He wasn't sure when the tears had started, but the wetness on his cheeks told him all he needed to know. His body was breaking, and the world around him was tearing at the seams, yet all he could do was weep in silence, unable to summon the strength to speak.
And as they laid him out on the cold, metal slab, a sterile, clinical silence enveloped him.
The Brigadier stood nearby, staring at him with an oddly affectionate expression, one that almost seemed to soften in contrast to his cold, military exterior.
"You know, Jago," the Brigadier said, voice low but surprisingly kind, "we don't take any pleasure in this." He patted Jago's shoulder as if offering some sort of comfort. "But it's for the greater good, lad. Queen and country need soldiers like you. You're going to rise to the occasion, and make us proud."
The words felt hollow, distant—a cold consolation for what was coming. But Jago couldn't find the strength to respond, his mind slipping away as the needles went in. He only felt a strange warmth spreading through him, his veins burning as chemicals coursed through his bloodstream. It was too much—too much for any normal boy. But Jago wasn't normal anymore.
The world turned to a haze as the chemicals took hold. He didn't feel a thing as they pumped him full of substances, everything blending into one long blur. It was as if his senses shut down, his body no longer his own. Pain, hunger, fear—all of it vanished. He couldn't feel it anymore.
The first day was a nothingness, a stretch of cold hours where he was simply injected, altered, and left to slip in and out of a fevered haze. But it was the second week when the true horror began.
He was awake when they brought out the scalpels. He had no choice but to watch as they sliced into his flesh, cutting deep enough to implant organs, pieces of him that weren't his own. He had no idea what they were adding, only that it hurt—but it was a different kind of pain. The kind that gnawed at his bones, burrowed deep into his soul. He cried, but no one cared.
Many of the others—the other boys, all soldiers in training—died. Some from the infection that spread through their bodies, others from the organ failure. Jago didn't understand how he survived. He could only feel a disconnect from the others, as if his body had stopped being human altogether.
In the weeks that followed, they altered his genes. He didn't feel the needles, the tiny cuts that injected strange compounds into his DNA. They replaced his bones, too—strangely foreign material weaving itself into his body, harder than steel, stronger than anything he could imagine.
His muscles reacted better than the others. He felt stronger, faster, more alive than he ever had, and yet it was all wrong. Every part of him had been changed, distorted beyond recognition. The poison that had once burned inside him seemed like a distant memory, as though his body was no longer made of flesh, but of something else entirely.
There was no end to the experiments. The doctors, cold and indifferent, worked with mechanical precision, as if he were simply an object to be altered, a piece of machinery to be perfected. But with every cut, with every injection, with every new alteration to his body, Jago felt his mind crack under the weight of it.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Days? Weeks? Months? His body had ceased to be his own. But in his fractured, aching mind, one thought kept surging forward: Spite. Pure undulated spite.
Jago lay on the bed, his body still feeling the effects of the horrific procedure, the foreign organs inside him, the hardened bones. He barely recognized the reflection of himself in the polished metal of the lab equipment, the face staring back at him one of a stranger
Jago lay on the bed, his body still feeling the effects of the horrific procedure, the foreign organs inside him, the hardened bones. He barely recognized the reflection of himself in the polished metal of the lab equipment, the face staring back at him one of a stranger
He had been broken.
But the worst part of it all? They expected him to feel grateful.
The Brigadier's cigar smoke filled the room.
"Too many boys in the world, you see? God's own truth. We're not made for peace; no, we're made for battle. And there aren't enough women to keep the world balanced, so what happens? The boys, they get rowdy. They get reckless. They get lost." The Brigadier paused, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with a twisted kind of satisfaction. "And that's where we come in. The army—for the greater good. It's a sacrifice we make. War. To keep the peace. And your service, Jago, is part of that divine plan. You'll serve the Queen, the country… the future."
Jago said nothing.
"A man doesn't complain. A man endures. Always." The Brigadier said. "They will call you a pawn. A sheep. A goat to be herded on the alter of foreign policy. But remember, we are made for a higher calling in life. No wives await us and no babes for us to care."
Jago could feel his jaw tighten, his teeth grinding together. The blood inside him burned, seething as the venom fought against the changes in his body.
The Brigadier, oblivious to the storm brewing inside Jago, leaned back in his chair, grinning as though he were imparting wisdom onto a grateful pupil.
"You should feel proud, lad. The heavens will reward you for your service. You're a hero now. The Queen's hero."
Jago's hands clenched into fists. Pride? Reward? What was this? He had become nothing more than a puppet for a system he didn't believe in. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a soldier. He was a weapon—nothing more, nothing less. And this… this man, this Brigadier… he had the audacity to speak as if Jago should be grateful for what had been done to him.
The magic that had always been a part of him, that had been suppressed for so long, rose.
In that moment, everything seemed to still. Time slowed.
With a cry of raw power, Jago's hand shot out, gripping the Brigadier's throat with an invisible force. He didn't know how he did it, but the magic surged through him like an unstoppable tide. He watched, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and savage triumph, as the Brigadier gasped for breath, his hands clawing at his throat, trying to pry free of the invisible force.
"W-what are you doing?" The Brigadier's voice was choked, panic creeping into his tone.
"I am not your tool," Jago growled. "Not your hero. Not your soldier."
The Brigadier's face began to turn purple, his eyes bulging as he gasped for air, his arms shaking as he struggled, but it was too late.
Escape
Jago sat in the cold, dim-lit cell, the rough stone beneath him as hard as the bitterness gnawing at his soul. His muscles burned with the exertion of days spent training with the most brutal military forces in Britain.
They had put him through hell—hours of grueling exercises, weapons drills, and combat tactics designed to break him down and remake him into something they could control. But nothing they did had broken him.
What they didn't understand—what they couldn't fathom—was that Jago had already been remade. He had been re-forged into something beyond their comprehension. And still, they sought to control him, to harness what he was. To turn him into another mindless tool for their wars, their agendas. They were no better than Dumbledore or Voldemort.
Every night, Jago lay awake in the darkness of his cell, staring at the concrete walls. The memories of the experiments—the pain, the changes in his body—spun in a fevered loop in his mind. Every time he shut his eyes, all he could see was the Brigadier's smug face, the way he had patted Jago on the shoulder, as if what had been done to him was some kind of favor, some gift.
Jago clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms, his body trembling with the raw frustration that simmered inside him. There was nothing more he wanted than to break free of this nightmare. Nothing more than to escape this hell and find a place where he could finally be at peace.
But peace seemed as distant as the stars.
And then, as if the universe had been listening, it happened.
Without warning, a wild scream ripped through the air from his throat. A guttural sound that seemed to come from deep within him. Magic, pure and untamed, burst from his core, a raw blast of energy so powerful it tore through the facility. Concrete walls cracked and splintered as if they were made of paper, steel beams twisted and bent, and everything around him was engulfed in a violent explosion of force.
The men around him shouted in panic, some diving for cover, others too stunned to react. The instructor tried to call for backup, but his voice was drowned out by the deafening roar of the magic Jago had unleashed.
Jago's vision blurred with rage and exhaustion, the weight of what he had just done sinking in. He had lost control, and now the entire training facility was falling apart around him.
With a wild, feral scream, he pushed himself up, feeling the power within him continue to surge, uncontrollable. He couldn't stop it, couldn't control it anymore.
But then, something clicked inside him. A thought. A fragment of the safety magic that had been drilled into him back at Hogwarts, back when he had tried to hold onto the last remnants of who he used to be.
With a sharp, focused breath, he willed himself to focus. He thought of safety, of escape. And with a sudden, loud pop, the air around him shifted. The facility, the chaos, the destruction—it all vanished.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in the middle of a quiet street, the cold wind whipping around him. He blinked, disoriented, the remnants of magic still swirling around him like a faint, lingering storm.
Hogsmeade.
Vae Victis
Narcissa's voluptuous, naked body pressed against Tom's youthful frame. Since had regained himself, he had felt an overwhelming desire of lust – something Narcissa was all to eager to satiate. Lucius bloodied form groaned in agony. Tom had nailed him to a cross and castrated him with Nagini for his treachery.
Sleeping with his wife infront of him was just the added bonus.
Since he hadn't completely absorbed Ginny, Narcissa was all too eager to present Lucius as an alternative. With his considerable magic absorbed, Tom would soon return to full strength. He smiled as he fondled Narcissa's pale ass.
Dumbledore had been unable to locate the chamber of secrets due to the fidelius charm. Meanwhile, Lockhart now had the distinct honor of being the first defense professor to work a second year in the post. What a coincidence.
Still, he had let Neville slip through the ranks. Killing him would've raised all sorts of alarm bells he didn't want raised. Draco had reported to him that Dumbledore had made no mention of his return so far. Meanwhile, credit to Lockhart, Ginny's death was already being treated as a suicide.
A house elf popped in, announcing that Severus Snape was here to meet Mr. Malfoy. Voldemort dismissed him and prepared his coup de grace against Dumbledore.
Paying Debts
The heavy wooden doors of Malfoy Manor creaked as Severus Snape stepped inside.
He had been summoned by Lucius, likely for another round of ridiculous potion orders. The man always seemed to need something more for his endless experiments or his various schemes. Snape was used to it. Atleast, he paid handsomely.
What he wasn't used to be the unnerving silence that greeted him. There was no bustle, no servants moving around. He frowned, his senses sharpening as he made his way deeper into the manor. The walls were eerily quiet, the place devoid of life except for the faint, unsettling scent of decay hanging in the air.
And then, he saw it.
Lucius Malfoy's body was pinned to the wall of the meeting hall, nailed by his hands and feet. The pale, lifeless form hung limply, his eyes wide open in death's final gaze. Blood had pooled beneath him, staining the floor below. The sight was grotesque, yet, in a way, it made Snape's stomach churn only slightly less than it might have years ago.
He had seen death in many forms, after all. But this was something different, something raw.
A message.
"It's been a while, Severus."
Snape froze in place, his heart stopping for a moment as he slowly turned toward the voice. His hand instinctively reached for his wand, though he knew it was pointless. The figure in front of him had far greater power than any spell he could muster.
The figure stepped forward from the shadows, cloaked in a deep black robe, his red eyes glowing with an unnatural light. Voldemort.
The air around them seemed to crackle with dark magic as Snape felt his knees buckle. He didn't even try to hold himself up. The fear that gripped him in that moment was not the same fear of death he had known before; it was something much older, deeper—a terror of the unknown, of the unimaginable.
He fell to his knees, his body trembling as his voice caught in his throat. "My Lord—" he sputtered, words failing him.
"No need for the theatrics, Severus. You are in no danger… for now."
Snape swallowed hard.
"I trust you are aware of my... recent endeavors?" Voldemort continued. "Lucius was a loyal servant, but his usefulness has expired. I needed... to make a statement."
Snape nodded weakly, understanding the unspoken threat.
"However," Voldemort said, his voice softening as he moved closer, "I do believe I owe you a bit of an apology."
Snape looked up at him in confusion. An apology? For what?
"I promised you something once, didn't I, Severus? I promised you that Lily Potter would live. That she would be spared," Voldemort said, his voice becoming slightly pensive, almost reflective. But his eyes never lost their malice. "Yet I failed her. I failed you."
Snape's throat tightened, a cold pit forming in his stomach. He had never expected Voldemort to acknowledge his promise, much less apologize for breaking it. But before he could form a response, the Dark Lord raised a pale hand, silencing him with a single motion.
"No need for apologies, Severus," Voldemort purred. "I intend to make amends."
With a slow clap, Voldemort summoned something from the shadows. The air shifted, growing colder as a figure stepped into view. Snape's breath hitched as his eyes widened in disbelief.
The woman who entered was beautiful, but she was horribly, grotesquely altered. Her long auburn hair was perfect. Too perfect.
A satin lingerie exposed skin that was pale as death, but what struck Snape the most were the jagged scars criss-crossing her body, as though she had been torn apart and stitched back together again.
Her eyes were a sickly green, but they were unmistakable.
"Lily?" Snape gasped.
Voldemort's grin widened. "Oh yes, Severus. I had my own means of defeating death long ago. I thought I'd give her back to you, just for a bit, as a gift. She will be yours… for a price."
Snape's head spun and he felt his heart race.
"Why?" he choked, struggling to find his voice.
"Why?" Voldemort's voice turned mocking. "Because you always wanted her, didn't you, Severus? You wanted to save her. Now she's yours, in whatever way you see fit."
"How? How did you—"
Voldemort stepped forward, taking Snape's chin in a vice-like grip, forcing him to look at the woman—Lily—standing before him. "You can claim your prize, Severus. In return, I want you to do something for me. Tell Dumbledore that there are no signs of my return. Lie for me. Say that you've seen no evidence of my existence. Do this, and Lily is yours to do with as you please."
Snape could feel his heart pounding in his ears.
Snape lowered his gaze, unable to look at Lily any longer. He had been given a choice—a horrible, twisted choice. A life with her, or a life without. There was no escape. He knew what Dark Lord would do it him should he refuse.
"Come to me, Sev." The "woman" spoke in a horribly accurate voice.
"I will do as you ask," Snape said softly, weeping into his hands.
Voldemort clapped his hands together, his grin growing even wider. "Good. You are far more useful than I thought, Severus."
Fin
Author Notes: Read and Review