Act I, Chapter 2 - pt 1
The pen clicked absently in Draco's hand as he hunched over the notebook, his sharp script filling the page in even lines. Numbers and runes danced across the margins, constantly rearranging themselves in his mind into various different sequences. He tapped the pen against the edge of the desk, his lips pressing into a thin line of irritation.
The calculations weren't adding up—not yet, at least. The timeline's behavior was erratic in ways that didn't quite fit the models he'd developed. It was a subtle deviation, not enough to raise alarm, but just enough to unsettle him. His Arithmantic formulae were sound, his runic diagrams precise, but something about the data being displayed was off.
So far, it had behaved as expected, imbuing them into personas of no particular consequence—Rigel Black, an unassuming French cousin of the British Blacks, and Cassian Devereaux, his worldly guardian. These identities gave them enough leeway to gather information and extract themselves without causing ripples. The timeline had been stable.
Until now.
Draco frowned, his pen pausing mid-stroke. He leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze fixed on the faintly glowing runes in the margins of his notebook. His first instinct was to revisit Harry's decision to open that ridiculous soup kitchen in Muggle London. It had been a rash move, as usual, born out of Harry's insatiable need to save everyone who crossed his path. Draco had argued against it—loudly—but Harry had been stubborn.
And then, of course, there was him.
Tom Riddle.
Draco tapped his pen against the desk, his lips thinning as he considered the possibilities. Harry's brief encounter with an anchor—a key figure, no less—had been an unnecessary risk. Even cloaked and careful, Harry's presence around someone as pivotal as Riddle could leave traces, especially in a timeline as delicate as this one.
But Harry had assured him there was nothing to worry about. He'd claimed Riddle thought he was a Muggle, nothing more, and that their conversations had been brief and inconsequential. Certainly, feeding a starving orphan and offering a few kind words wouldn't unravel the fabric of reality.
Would it?
Merlin, what would breaking the timeline even look like?
Draco shook his head, dismissing the thought even as unease prickled at the edges of his mind. It wasn't enough. A little kindness shouldn't shift the timeline, not in any way that mattered.
So Tom Riddle didn't go hungry for a few weeks. So he made a friend.
Draco scowled, irritated with himself for even entertaining the notion. That wasn't the reason for the inconsistencies. It couldn't be. He'd accounted for minor deviations, and this one—whatever it was—would sort itself out in time. It had to.
Draco pushed the notebook aside with an irritated sigh, his gaze shifting to the pen still clutched in his hand. He clicked it twice, letting the sound punctuate the silence.
The envelope in his robe pocket grew warm, tugging him back to the present. Draco reached for it instinctively, his irritation ebbing into reluctant acceptance. It was nearly time.
He flicked his wand, Vanishing his work into a disillusioned pouch with practiced ease. Rising from his chair, he crossed the room to the mirror, straightening his robes as he went.
Cassian Devereaux stared back at him and Draco's lips curled in faint disdain as he smoothed the lapels of his robes.
He looked in the mirror and, in a brief moment of vanity, was hit with an intense longing for his own long, pin-straight platinum locks. Instead, Cassian's shorter, golden curls mocked him from the reflection. With a resigned sigh, Draco reached for a jar of gel and worked the curls into a sleeker style, taming them with deft fingers.
"Needs must," he muttered under his breath, though his tone lacked any real bite. He wouldn't dare mention it to Harry, of course. That prat would laugh himself sick.
The envelope pulsed again, growing hotter. Draco pulled it from his pocket and slid it open retrieving the thin black chain inside. His pocket watch clicked open with a faint chime as he checked the time.
It was almost a relief, he told himself. The Portkey would activate in seconds, whisking him away to Bulgaria and the meeting he'd been dreading for weeks. A necessary evil. Moving up in Grindelwald's ranks was vital to their mission, even if the thought of it made his stomach had divided the work as logically as they could, and Draco got the unenviable task of ingratiating himself with Grindelwald's inner circle. Dangerous, but necessary.
The logic was sound. Grindelwald had found one Hallow and sought the others; there was no better source of information. But knowing that didn't make the prospect any less grating—or any less risky.
Draco closed his eyes, fingers tightening around the chain. He took a steadying breath, letting the now familiar wave of Cassian's consciousness take the forefront.
The magic flared, twisting sharply in his chest as the Portkey activated. The room vanished in a rush of wind and light, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of bergamot hanging in the air.
...
Back at Grimmauld Place, the days seemed to blur together. Harry found himself swallowed by the monotony of routine: long hours spent buried in the vast Black family library, poring over books with any mention of Death as an entity. In the process, he'd inadvertently learnt more about necromancy than he'd ever care to.
Evenings were different. Supper was a strict affair, an unspoken rule drawing everyone to the dining room at precisely seven. The air was heavy with etiquette and the weight of centuries-old tradition, only slightly eased by the hum of small talk as family members caught up on each other's lives.
Harry tuned out most of it, his mind preoccupied with plans and fragmented thoughts. The others assumed his reticence stemmed from struggling to keep up with the rapid flurry of English conversation—a misconception he was content to let stand.
But beyond those evenings, Harry was mostly left to his own devices. He could come and go as he pleased within the bounds of their cover, but no matter how much he wanted to, he did not go back to Muggle London.
He did not see Tom.
The first time he'd been in Muggle London, weeks ago, it had been on impulse. A morbid curiosity had led him to Wool's Orphanage.
Harry exhaled softly, leaning against the cool stone of Grimmauld Place's library. The memory played itself in his mind, clear as day.
He had stood at the gates of that austere, unwelcoming building, hidden beneath the Cloak, feeling strangely empty. There was no anger. No sorrow. Not even the satisfaction he might have expected at gazing upon the roots of Voldemort's misery.
He'd just stared.
The place wasn't sinister, not in the way he'd imagined. It was ordinary in its bleakness, a product of its time—gray bricks, narrow windows, and an air of emptiness that seemed to seep through the iron gates.
For all that Tom Riddle would become, this place was just… sad.
Harry had been about to leave when movement caught his eye. His gaze had drifted to the far side of the street, where a child—skinny, with a mop of unwashed hair and clothes patched to near disintegration—darted between shadows.
The boy paused near a pile of crates, crouching low as he glanced around furtively. Then he snatched something—a bruised apple from a discarded sack—and bolted into the alleyway.
Harry's breath hitched.
He knew that desperation. The way hunger made you reckless. The way it made you sharp and dull all at once.
Without thinking, he'd reached into his satchel and pulled out the sandwich he'd packed for himself. His fingers tightened around the waxed paper for a moment before he sighed, stepped out from under the Cloak, and moved closer to the alley.
The boy startled when Harry approached, his eyes wide and wary. Harry said nothing, offering the sandwich with a small, sad smile—a look he hoped conveyed understanding.
The child hesitated, his thin frame coiled tight like a spring, before snatching the sandwich and disappearing deeper into the shadows.
Harry might have left it at that, but curiosity tugged at him. He lingered at the mouth of the alley, watching.
The boy hadn't gone far. Just around the corner, where two smaller children—siblings, Harry guessed—sat huddled together. The boy split the sandwich carefully, giving each of them an equal share before taking his own bite.
Harry swallowed hard, his chest tight.
For a moment, he wasn't in London. He was back in Privet Drive, hiding scraps of food under the loose floorboard of his cupboard so he wouldn't wake up to an empty plate.
He shook the thought away, but his mind was already spinning. This wasn't Privet Drive, but it might as well have been for these kids. How many more were out there? How many others would steal bruised apples and go to bed hungry tonight?
The idea came to him then, sudden and sharp.
It started as a thought—small and quiet, an urge to do something for them. But as Harry turned away, leaving the alley and its hidden children behind, the thought lingered.
He could make a difference here. Quietly. Without upsetting the timeline.
He could help, it won't be hard to set up something like a soup kitchen, perhaps in the schoolhouse he passed on his way here. Something simple and safe.
The thought of maybe seeing Tom there flickered, unbidden, at the edge of his mind. He ignored it.
...
...
Unplottable, Somewhere in the mountains,
Bulgaria
The Portkey released Cassian with a final, sharp twist, depositing him in a dimly lit room. He straightened at once, his expression settling into a mask of calm detachment. Around him, the air crackled faintly with residual magic as other arrivals followed in quick succession—twin whooshes of Portkeys activating, punctuated by the sharp pops of Apparition.
Men and women, mostly young but with a scattering of seasoned faces, gathered in small, murmuring clusters. The variety in their robes and the snatches of unfamiliar languages revealed their international origins. Cassian's gaze swept the room, noting its emptiness compared to previous gatherings—fewer had been summoned this time.
A woman in the far corner caught his eye. Tall and imposing, her sharp, calculating gaze swept the room, taking in everything at once- she was clearly the one in charge, likely one of Grindelwald's key operatives. It was rare for someone of her rank to attend a mid-level Acolyte gathering.
So this was no casual gathering.
Her dark robes swept the floor as she stepped forward, her wand flicking lazily to close the heavy oak door behind her with a definitive thud, an unneeded action, but one that silenced the crowd.
"Welcome," she began, her voice smooth and measured, carrying easily in the silence. "You are here because you have proven yourselves... capable."
Her gaze swept over the room, lingering on each Acolyte just long enough to make them squirm.
Her voice had an odd quality to it, a low hum of magic, the result of a charm, probably one that ensured everyone was hearing her voice in the language they understood her the best in. Ingenious.
Cassian didn't flinch under her scrutiny. He stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture of poised indifference.
"You are the future of our cause," the woman continued. "But loyalty and capability must be tested. "Tonight's gathering is no mere social event. It is a battlefield—perhaps the most critical most will ever face."
With a wave of her wand, a shimmering illusion of a grand dining hall unfolded behind her. Tables laden with silver platters and crystal goblets stretched as far as the eye could see. Figures milled about—some acolytes, some not—and their indistinct murmurs filled the air like static.
"You will mingle with guests who have yet to prove their allegiance," she explained. "Some are sympathetic to our cause, others are neutral, all are potential key international players. Your task is to determine who among them can be swayed and who might pose a threat."
Her gaze sharpened as she continued. "Do not waste my time with obvious platitudes or meaningless chatter. We require actionable information. Who among them has influence that can be utilised in the short or long term? Who wields power quietly? Who might be turned—or turned against us?"
The illusion vanished with a snap of her wand, leaving the room in heavy silence as her words settled like a shroud.
"There will be no overt displays of magic," she added, her tone icy. "Subtlety is key. His Excellency values intellect and discretion above all else. If you cannot navigate this, you are not worthy of your position."
Cassian's lips curled in the faintest smirk. He could do subtlety.
"At the end of the evening, you will report your findings to me," she finished. "Those who prove themselves will be… rewarded."
That was a threat.
"Now," she said, her voice softening into a deceptive silkiness. "Prepare yourselves. The Portkeys will activate in five minutes. Do not disappoint me. Everything we do here is for the Greater Good"
...
A/N: I decided to break this chapter into 2 to make it more manageable. The original turned out quite long—19 pages and over 5K words and I wasn't even done! Do you prefer longer chapters, or would you rather I break them into smaller sections? Let me know in the comments!
(edit) Hopefully this doesn't become a habit, but I made an edit to Ch. 1, instead of Harry joining Alphard and Cygnus in their sixth year, he'll be joining them in their seventh year. Apologies, initially I was under the assumption that Fall, 1943 Tom would be in fifth year, when actually he'd be in his sixth, Harry was always supposed to be a year above.
Part 2 will be up soon, I'm still working out an update schedule.
As always thank you to my lovely beta.