Chapter 3: Shadows of the Past
The mist thickened as he moved deeper into Knockturn Alley, the air cooling with every step. The sun barely reached this part of London, choked out by narrow buildings and enchantments that twisted the light away. It was as if the alley itself rejected warmth—just as he remembered.
Tom's polished shoes echoed softly on the damp cobblestones as he came to a slow stop before a familiar façade. The darkened windows were lined with grime, their panes aged and slightly warped. Above the door hung a wooden sign, its once-bold lettering faded with time but still legible in the gloom:
Borgin and Burkes
A place of dark magic and darker dealings. A den of cursed objects, forbidden artifacts, and whispered transactions. It had once been his home—of sorts. His training ground. The place where he'd learned that power could be bought, sold, and buried behind secrets and ledgers.
He studied the entrance for a long moment.
The door looked the same, though slightly weathered. The brass handle was dull, the corners of the frame chipped. But the enchantments were still there—he could feel them humming beneath the surface. Protective, possessive, paranoid. A goblin would've appreciated the craftsmanship.
With one gloved hand, Tom reached out and turned the handle.
The door creaked open.
A familiar scent met him instantly—dust, varnish, candle wax, and decay. Not unpleasant. Just old. Heavy with magic.
He stepped inside.
The shop was dimly lit, just as it always had been. Rows of shelves curved through the space like bones, lined with relics that pulsed with silent curses. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the corner, its pendulum swinging with unnatural rhythm. Strange whispers clung to the air—not voices exactly, but echoes from enchanted items too cursed to remain quiet.
Behind the counter, a pale, wiry man hunched over an open ledger. His gray hair hung lank around his shoulders, and small spectacles balanced on the end of his crooked nose.
He didn't look up.
"Closed," he grunted.
Tom didn't move. "No, you're not."
The man froze.
That voice—it stirred something long buried in memory. Slowly, he looked up from his ledger, blinking behind thick lenses.
The moment his eyes met Tom's, he went still. Mouth parting slightly. Not in recognition of the face—no, it was too young. Too smooth. Too clean.
But the eyes.
The man swallowed hard.
"...It can't be."
Tom smiled faintly. "Hello, Mr. Burke."
Burke frowned, leaning back from his ledger with a tired sigh. His voice, though gruff, carried the weight of recognition, threaded with disbelief.
"Tom Riddle…" he muttered. "You must share whatever youth potion you're hiding, because you look exactly the same as the day you stepped into this shop asking for a job."
His squint deepened, eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. "No wrinkles. No age. Not a day past sixteen."
Tom's expression barely shifted, save for the slight arch of an eyebrow.
Burke gave a soft snort, shaking his head. "Merlin's beard… you even sound the same."
Then, with a casual wave of his ink-stained fingers, he added, "You know… the books you asked me to find back in the '80s—about the Maledictus curse, for that snake of yours—those are still sitting in the back. Covered in dust."
Tom stilled.
His eyes widened, just faintly—but enough.
Of course.
Before the fall. Before the Potters. Before the Horcrux ritual fractured him beyond repair… he had come here, asked Burke—quietly, off the record—to find any surviving tomes on Maledictus bloodlines and dark curse reversals. Back when Nagini's transformation had begun to accelerate, and there had still been the slimmest hope.
He had forgotten.
In his obsession with power, with immortality, he had pushed that aside. Abandoned it.
Abandoned her.
A strange tightness coiled in his chest—foreign, uncomfortable. He masked it with a neutral tone.
"You still keep them?" he asked, voice low.
Burke nodded, already sliding off the stool with a wheeze. "Haven't touched 'em. Took me forever to find copies. Half were banned in Eastern Europe after Grindelwald fell… but you always did ask for the impossible." He shuffled toward the back room, muttering, "You'll find they're more theory than spellwork. But if anyone could make use of 'em… it'd be you."
Tom remained rooted in place, his sharp gaze fixed on the narrow archway at the back of the shop. Behind that crooked frame lay the answers to a question he had once buried—Nagini's curse. The thing he had once tried to solve before abandoning everything in the name of power.
He inhaled slowly, as if the air of the past itself clung to the shelves and dust.
"Sorry, Burke…" Tom finally said, stepping forward with slow, deliberate steps toward the counter. "I was… traveling. Preoccupied. Unable to return to England."
His fingers curled briefly against the counter's edge, the polished wood cool beneath his touch.
"Nagini's curse… she can't turn back."
The words left his mouth quieter than expected. He didn't often speak them aloud—didn't allow himself to. But here, surrounded by relics of his former self, the truth came easier.
Burke waved a hand dismissively, though his glance toward Tom had softened. "It's no big deal. I figured as much. I know how… complicated things must've been. Coming back here? Probably wasn't easy."
He turned slightly, motioning toward the back room. "There is one book I managed to get that might be useful. Came from the Magical Royal Family's archives, actually—took me three years and a favor I didn't want to cash in. It's thick, dense as hell, and half the spells are in ancient rune dialects… but it covers magical bloodline curses, including Maledictus lineages."
Tom's brows lifted ever so slightly. "From the magical royal family?"
Burke grunted. "Apparently, their oldest princess—the first queen or something—was a Parselmouth too. They kept all sorts of records the rest of the world didn't even know existed."
He paused, reaching beneath the counter. With a grunt, he pulled out a wrapped bundle—thick, heavy, wrapped in magically sealed leather.
"Oh, and while I was digging through that shipment," Burke added, setting it down with a thump, "I found another book I figured you'd want to see. Did you know… your ancestor wasn't the first Parselmouth on record?"
Tom's eyes narrowed, flickering with restrained surprise. "What?"
Burke smirked faintly, tapping the second book. "That's right. Salazar Slytherin wasn't the origin. There was someone before him—old royal bloodline stuff. The book references her as Queen Regina the Serpent-Seer. Apparently, Parseltongue was her magic first. Slytherin learned it from her, not the other way around."
The room fell quiet for a moment.
Tom slowly reached out, his fingers brushing the aged leather of the books. Something in his chest tightened. Not fear. Not power. But something older, more personal.
Pieces of the past—his past, and Nagini's—were being laid out before him.
And for the first time in a very long time, he didn't feel like the one in control.
"And apparently," Burke continued, adjusting his spectacles as he tapped the heavy book on the counter, "it's rare… even within the magical royal family. Parseltongue doesn't show up in every generation. But rumor has it, they're pushing to pass some sort of international law—something to end the stigma. Prejudice against snake-speakers, they say. They claim it's not a dark skill to possess."
Tom's gaze lingered on the book a moment longer, but he didn't respond. Not immediately.
It wasn't a dark skill. Not inherently. But like all things—magic, legacy, intent—it depended on the wielder. And too many had feared what they didn't understand.
The faint chime of a backdoor bell cut through the quiet.
"Borgin!" a voice snapped, gruff and irritated. "I told you to close the damn shop!"
Footsteps clacked on the warped wood floor, and a familiar figure appeared from the back corridor. Taller than Burke, dressed in his usual overly formal black waistcoat and gloves, Borgin's face was set in a deep scowl—until his eyes landed on the man at the counter.
He stopped cold.
His mouth opened slightly, and the color drained from his face like a tide being pulled out to sea.
"...T-Tom R-Riddle…?"
Tom turned to him smoothly, offering a soft, composed smile. The kind that made people more nervous than comforted.
"Borgin," he said, as if greeting an old classmate at a reunion.
Borgin stumbled forward a step, still staring. "T-Tom… you should know… about four years ago—yes, it was four years now—Lord Malfoy came into the shop! With your journal!" He looked like he might faint. "He—he tried to sell it to me! Claimed it was just some old relic from his father's collection, but I knew. The magic—oh, it was pulsing off the thing!"
Tom's expression didn't falter, but his jaw tightened slightly. He drew in a long, slow breath, as if measuring the weight of the revelation.
"Is that so…" he murmured, more to himself than them.
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with that chilling calculation that had once made Death Eaters kneel in fear.
"I knew I left it at Abraxas's home years ago… But for his son to try to sell it?"
He sighed, though it was thin, sharp, and devoid of patience.
"Oh, Lucius… You greedy little rat." A faint smirk curled at the edge of his lips. "I suppose I'll deal with him. After my holiday."
Neither Burke nor Borgin dared speak.
The silence in the room pulsed—thick, almost electric—settling between them like a held breath. Neither Burke nor Borgin spoke, and even the cursed trinkets on the shelves seemed to hold still, as if sensing the gravity of who stood among them.
Tom casually broke the tension, voice smooth and deceptively calm.
"All right," he said, glancing down at the leather-bound tomes on the counter. "How much for the books? How much do I owe you?"
His gaze lifted slowly to meet theirs—first Burke, then Borgin.
"And don't you dare cheat me," he added, the faintest edge sharpening his tone. "Remember—I used to work for you two."
Burke stiffened slightly, a flash of old memory flickering across his expression. That young man with a gaze too knowing for his years, who catalogued cursed items faster than any apprentice they'd ever hired. Who never asked permission—only results.
Borgin cleared his throat awkwardly and took a careful half-step back, leaving Burke to speak.
The older man forced a dry chuckle, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it, lad."
He ran a thumb across the spine of the larger book and gave a small nod.
"For you? Let's say… seventy-five Galleons for the lot. That covers the royal archive book, the Eastern block translations, and the older lineage scrolls I bundled in."
Tom studied him for a long, unreadable moment.
Then, he reached into his cloak, retrieving the new Gringotts card with a flick of his wrist. The gold shimmered faintly in the dim light, glowing with silent authority. He slid it across the counter without a word.
Burke's brows rose in surprise. "Ah. One of the new ones." He took it gingerly, almost reverently, and set it against the enchanted reader behind the counter. It glowed green—transaction approved.
"Paid in full," Burke said with a nod, sliding the card back to him.
Tom took it without comment, tucking it away again inside his cloak. He then gathered the books into a neat stack, the enchanted leather covers pulsing softly with age-old power beneath his fingertips.
Borgin, still recovering from the shock, finally found his voice again.
"So… uh… you're really back? I mean—really back?"
Tom turned toward him, the stack of books resting neatly in one hand, and let the faintest smile touch his lips. He could see it in Borgin's eyes—the recognition, the fear. Borgin knew. He had always been a little sharper than Burke, a little more tuned to danger.
Burke, however, remained oblivious, still thumbing through the receipt ledger with a grumble, unaware of the full gravity of the man who had just made a purchase in his shop.
Tom met Borgin's stare directly, his voice calm, cold, and casually precise.
"No," he said evenly. "I'm on vacation."
And with that, he turned toward the door. The heavy air seemed to part around him as he stepped into the alley's mist once more—leaving behind two shopkeepers, one pale with horror, the other still blissfully unaware, and the lingering echo of a power once feared, now walking the world like a ghost in borrowed time.
He reached the archway leading into the Leaky Cauldron, the old brick wall shifting and sliding aside at his approach. Stepping into the dimly lit pub, Tom was met with the familiar scent of butterbeer, roasted meats, and aged wood—comforting in its own, worn-down way.
A few patrons lingered at tables, engaged in quiet conversations over drinks, while the barkeep methodically wiped down the counter. The low hum of magical life buzzed through the room.
And then—he saw them.
The Weasley family sat together, minus the daughter, clustered around a table in the corner. But off to the side—facing away from the group—sat Harry Potter with Ron and Hermione, tucked into their own booth.
Harry looked up—and froze.
His breath hitched, eyes widening as they locked onto Tom's.
Ron and Hermione turned at once, their faces mirroring Harry's stunned reaction.
Tom's smirk was subtle, barely a lift at the corner of his lips. He leaned in just slightly, letting his words slip out in a soft hiss, ancient and unmistakable.
"Potter, enjoy your lovely summer."
The Parseltongue was unmistakable.
Harry blinked. "Y-You too… Riddle." he replied, hesitantly—but clearly—in the same serpentine tongue.
Tom didn't pause to watch their stunned expressions. With long, deliberate strides, he walked through the pub without glancing back, pushing open the doors that led out into Muggle London.
The moment he stepped onto the bustling street, the contrast struck like a slap of wind.
The sharp scent of car exhaust mingled with the mouthwatering aroma of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. The sounds of honking horns, hurried footsteps, and murmured conversations filled the air like a living orchestra of chaos and order.
Tom inhaled deeply, adjusting with effortless grace. It was all so familiar—unnervingly so. He had once walked these very streets under different names, wearing simpler clothes, moving through the world as if he belonged in it.
He glanced briefly at the rows of shops, their colorful signs and clustered advertisements blinking and flashing with Muggle insistence. Chaotic yet orderly. Mundane yet full of strange life.
And then, with a final glance to ensure no one was paying him too much attention, he turned into a quiet alleyway, cloak brushing against the brick as he moved.
With a whispered spell, he vanished—Disappearing into the space between shadows and thought.
Tom stepped back into the quiet stillness of his loft, the familiar sound of the door clicking shut behind him echoing softly through the space. The scent of rain and city grit clung to his cloak, and with a flick of his wand, it vanished from his shoulders and hung itself neatly by the door. He walked in, a small stack of aged, thick books now tucked beneath his arm—the ones Burke had held onto for decades. The weight of them felt heavier than parchment alone, laden with forgotten intentions and long-abandoned hopes.
Nagini was sprawled across the velvet couch, her massive form nestled comfortably in the center like she owned the space. Her body rose and fell slowly with each breath, tongue flicking occasionally even in sleep. She didn't stir as he moved past her, her last rabbit meal likely settling nicely in her belly.
Setting the books down with careful precision on the nearby side table, Tom let out a slow breath and headed for the bedroom. The suit, while elegant and commanding, was no longer necessary. He quickly peeled off the deep green jacket, unbuttoned the shirt, and shed the tailored slacks. Replacing them with something far more unassuming, he dressed himself in slim-fitting black jeans, a fitted black V-neck shirt that hugged his lean frame, and a light green checkered cardigan with a soft drape that swayed as he moved. Casual, but still calculated. Still him. To finish it, he stepped into a pair of black Converse—simple, clean, and strangely grounding.
He glanced once more at Nagini, still deep in sleep, then crossed the loft toward the hidden stairwell at the far end of the hall. Pressing his hand to the blank wall, a seam of light shimmered through the brick, and with a groan of concealed gears, the wall slid open to reveal a narrow, private stairwell leading down.
The underground parking garage stretched out before him like a sleeping cavern—dimly lit, cold, and silent. Concrete pillars stood like sentinels among the rows of cars, most covered in tarps or abandoned to dust and time. But his… his was preserved.
He turned a corner, and there it was.
Parked in the far corner of the garage, beneath a single flickering light, sat his 1968 Forest Green Mustang GT. Sleek, muscular, and timeless. The magical preservation charms he'd cast on it decades ago still held strong—the paint gleamed, the tires looked fresh, and the chrome shone like polished silver. It was a dragon in waiting.
Tom allowed himself the rare indulgence of a smile.
He circled the car slowly, fingers trailing over the polished surface. Opening the door, he slid into the leather seat, the familiar scent of aged leather and gasoline wrapping around him like a memory. His fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, and for a moment, he simply sat there—silent, letting the hum of the city above filter faintly through the concrete.
With his key he placed in ignition and with a soft murmur of wandless magic, the ignition flared to life. The engine roared with a deep, throaty purr, vibrating through the floor like a beast awakening.
He shifted into gear.
"Let's see if Muggle grocery stores still feel as mundane as ever," he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing slightly as the garage door began to open, the early evening light spilling in from above.
The Mustang growled as it rolled forward, emerging from the shadows like a king returning to his streets.
He had no destination in mind, just a simple task.
But for Tom Riddle, even the mundane… was never just mundane.
Remember how to drive, which luckily thank god he didn't freak out. Finding the closet store, he dove into he parking lot and parked his car. Turning the car off he got out and closed it locking it.
Stepping inside, he was immediately greeted by the sterile brightness of fluorescent lights and the low hum of refrigeration units. The scent of fresh produce and bakery goods filled the air, mingling with the faint artificial aroma of cleaning products. Pulling out a cart.
He started to the Produce section first. He does know how to cook even without magic. Helping in the Orphanage kitchen and even after Hogwarts he had set in couple of cooking classes at a local culinary college. Tante Marie Culinary Academy.
Tom maneuvered the cart with ease, his movements precise and deliberate as he entered the produce section. The bright overhead lighting reflected off the polished apples and neatly stacked vegetables. He glanced over the selection, his sharp eyes scanning for the freshest options.
He reached for a bundle of spring onions, the crisp green stalks bending slightly under his touch. A few tomatoes followed, their deep red hue a mark of their ripeness. He selected a head of garlic, brushing his fingers against the papery skin before placing it in the cart. The sensation was oddly grounding. He had lived without such mundanities for so long, yet here he was, carefully choosing ingredients as if he were any other ordinary man.
His mind drifted momentarily to the past. The orphanage's kitchen had been his first introduction to cooking—a necessity rather than a passion. The matron had been strict about discipline, but she had trusted him enough to help prepare meals. He had learned quickly, memorizing recipes, the ways ingredients worked together. Later, after Hogwarts, he had sat in on several classes at Tante Marie Culinary Academy, blending seamlessly with Muggle students who never suspected what he truly was.
It had been a curiosity at first—how they cooked, how they measured and balanced flavors without magic. But eventually, he had found a quiet satisfaction in it. Cooking was methodical, much like brewing potions. The difference was that potions were for power, for control. Cooking, on the other hand, was… simpler.
His fingers brushed against a bundle of basil, the scent fresh and strong. He picked it up, adding it to the cart before moving on.
Next, he passed through the bakery aisle. He considered picking up a fresh loaf but decided against it. Bread was easy to make, and he preferred his own. Instead, he made his way toward the dry goods section, selecting rice, pasta, and a few cans of preserved food for convenience.
As he placed a tin of soup into the cart, He resumed his shopping, his movements smooth and calculated, though his awareness of his surroundings remained heightened. Every step was measured, every glance deliberate. He maneuvered through the aisles with ease, selecting items with a discerning eye.
At the butcher's counter, the scent of raw meat and fresh cuts lingered in the air. Behind the glass display, thick cuts of steak, fresh beef, and neatly stacked slabs of bacon caught his attention. He nodded to the butcher, who wrapped his selections in brown paper before handing them over. Tom placed them carefully into his cart, mentally taking note of what else he would need.
Moving deeper into the store, he navigated the aisles with purpose. He selected bags of flour and sugar, grabbing a can of cooking spray and blocks of butter. Further down, he retrieved fresh milk and a bottle of caramel coffee creamer.
His gaze flicked toward the coffee section. Among the usual brands, a newer one stood out. Bones Coffee—Dragon's Lair. A dark roast. He picked up the bag, turning it over in his hands, scanning the description. Interesting. He had never heard of this brand before, but something about the name intrigued him. Without hesitation, he added four bags to his cart, securing his supply.
Before heading to checkout, he made one last stop in the home goods section. He moved with the same quiet efficiency, grabbing rolls of paper towels, toilet paper, trash bags, and napkins. A quick glance at the hygiene aisle had him adding shampoo, conditioner, and body wash to his growing collection of necessities.
Satisfied, he pushed the cart toward the front of the store, seamlessly blending in with the morning rush of Muggle shoppers.
Tom maneuvered the cart toward the checkout lanes, his eyes narrowing slightly as they swept across the space. He bypassed the traditional cashier stations without hesitation, instead veering toward the self-checkout section—an invention he found remarkably efficient. Unburdened by social obligation, it allowed him the kind of clean, silent transactions he preferred.
He pulled up to the nearest kiosk and began scanning his items, each motion fluid and controlled. The cart gradually emptied as he placed his groceries into the plastic bags with precise order—meats and perishables grouped together, produce carefully layered to avoid bruising, and boxed goods stacked neatly at the bottom.
Around him, the low buzz of mundane life continued its quiet rhythm. Registers beeped in succession. Somewhere behind him, a child whined until their mother sharply scolded them. A group of teenagers gathered near the frozen aisle, loud and animated, arguing over chips and soda as if the fate of the weekend depended on it.
Tom remained detached, existing in the space but not part of it.
With a final beep, the last item was scanned and bagged. He slid the Gringotts-issued credit card into the reader—a subtle golden shimmer running across its surface as the goblin-enchanted magic did its work. The terminal processed it like any ordinary card, though he knew the enchantments within were far from ordinary.
Transaction Approved.
The words flashed across the screen in bold white text. He plucked the receipt from the tray, folding it neatly and tucking it into his inner coat pocket. He grasped the cart handle once more and turned toward the exit.
As he stepped outside, the air shifted. A cool breeze kissed his skin, threaded with the familiar scent of damp asphalt, oil, and faint exhaust. The sky had dulled to an overcast gray, heavy with clouds that threatened a spring drizzle.
Crossing the lot, he returned to his Mustang, its deep forest green body gleaming despite the dim light. With a flick of his fingers, the trunk opened smoothly. He began placing the bags inside, stacking them with the same care he had shown in the store. Everything had its place.
Once the last bag was secured, he reached for the trunk lid—and paused.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something new.
Adjacent to the grocery store, tucked beneath the awning of a recently renovated storefront, stood a modern appliance store. The name was unremarkable—UrbanLux Home Goods—but the neon "Now Open" sign in the window was bright and insistent.
Tom tilted his head slightly.
He'd already considered updating the loft. His kitchen, charmingly retro, lacked some of the conveniences modern Muggle appliances offered. While he could conjure or transfigure most things, the idea of installing new, enchanted appliances that could blend Muggle functionality with magical adaptability had been lingering in the back of his mind.
He closed the trunk with a solid click, slipped his hands into his cardigan pockets, and began walking across the lot.
There was no rush in his step—only purpose.
He passed through the sliding glass doors of the appliance store as they opened with a mechanical sigh. A cool wave of climate-controlled air rolled over him. The interior was pristine, sleek, minimalist in design. Rows of ovens, stovetops, refrigerators, and high-end espresso machines gleamed beneath pendant lights, each displayed like a jewel in a showcase.
Tom Riddle, former Dark Lord, entered the showroom with the grace of a king inspecting his palace.
Let the upgrades begin.
Tom stepped into the appliance store, the sudden chill of conditioned air brushing over him like a veil. The clean, modern layout of the space stood in stark contrast to the magical shops and shadowed alleyways he had tread through only hours before. White tile gleamed under his polished Converse, and subtle jazz hummed through unseen speakers.
He paused in front of a showroom kitchen set—sleek black stainless steel appliances lined in perfect symmetry. A refrigerator with double doors and a water dispenser, a smooth-top stove with digital touch controls, a wall-mounted microwave, and a dishwasher so minimalistic it practically disappeared into the cabinetry.
He moved closer, fingertips grazing the edge of the stovetop. It was all so different from the 1950s models he had in his loft. The technology had evolved rapidly, blending both form and function into something almost… elegant. His reflection shimmered faintly in the refrigerator's dark glass, and for a moment, he saw not a feared sorcerer but a man standing on the threshold of a world he had once abandoned.
"Interesting," he murmured under his breath, noting how even the oven featured a touchscreen. "They've finally caught up."
After memorizing the model numbers, he turned down another aisle—and then stopped short.
The wall of televisions ahead of him felt almost surreal. Massive, impossibly thin screens stretched from end to end, each displaying a different scene: vibrant forests, news broadcasts, vivid movie trailers. He stared, transfixed, at one that showed a digital cityscape glowing under artificial stars. The screen was so sharp, so alive, it was almost like looking out a window.
Gone were the bulky, rounded sets of his past. These were sleek, commanding, and silent, their power humming just beneath the surface. His expression tightened, not in displeasure—but wonder.
"Mhmmm…" he muttered, eyes scanning the specifications list beside a 45-inch OLED display.
For the first time in a long while, Tom Riddle was genuinely impressed by the Muggle world. And he wasn't leaving this store empty-handed.
"See something you like?" the worker asked. Tom nodded "Yes, this 45 inch. I have a set of waiting for me in the front, still done shopping. Mhmm where are the small appliances?" the man smiled at Tom "Of course! There right down there sir. I'll make sure this TV gets to the front."
Tom gave the young man a polite nod and turned toward the aisle the employee had indicated. His polished shoes clicked softly on the gleaming tile floor as he approached the section marked Small Kitchen Appliances. There, neatly arranged on pastel-colored shelves, sat a collection of retro-style devices that caught his eye instantly.
His gaze settled on a matching mint green coffee maker and toaster—chic, sleek, and undeniably charming. They were modern machines wrapped in vintage appeal, reminiscent of a time when design had flair, yet function still reigned.
He stepped closer, brushing his fingers over the coffee maker's golden dial. The machine had programmable features, adjustable strength settings, and a warming plate—a far cry from the basic brewers he had used decades ago. And yet, its presentation was something that belonged in a painting, or perhaps a 1960s ad.
The toaster beside it blinked gently with a digital display and customizable toasting settings. A defrost button. A reheat button. And of course, a cancel button.
Tom let out a soft hum of appreciation. "Efficient, stylish… and not entirely garish. You're coming with me."
He plucked both boxes from the shelf with graceful ease, balancing them under one arm before heading toward the front counter—only to pause mid-step.
Washers and dryers?
Tom's gaze drifted toward the back corner of the store, where an array of machines stood in pristine rows. He narrowed his eyes slightly and veered toward them, his curiosity unexpectedly piqued.
He didn't have a washer or dryer in his unit.
The loft hadn't come with one—he had relied entirely on magic for laundering his clothes, as he had for decades. Cleaning charms, freshening spells, stain-lifting incantations… efficient, yes. But still, the process was clinical. Detached. Soulless.
Muggles, for all their limitations, had created machines that did more than just wash. They cycled, tumbled, steamed. There was a certain rhythm to it—a hum of life, the spin of modernity, the scent of freshly dried fabric.
He stepped closer.
There it was. A sleek, black all-in-one washer and dryer combo—Equator brand, by the look of it. Compact, efficient, and quietly powerful. A single drum for both washing and drying. No need to transfer loads. No excess. No clutter.
His fingers brushed the smooth, dark exterior, trailing lightly over the display panel. Digital. Precise. Thoughtfully engineered. It suited him.
He imagined it neatly tucked into the utility nook in his loft—silent, stylish, and finally filling the one domestic gap he hadn't realized was bothering him.
He tilted his head slightly and muttered under his breath, "Perfect."
A worker rounded the corner and spotted him. "Can I help you with anything, sir?"
Tom offered a composed smile, nodding toward the all-in-one washer and dryer. "Yes. I'd like this model sent to the front, please."
The employee blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the elegance in Tom's voice and the sharp intensity in his gaze, but quickly nodded. "Of course! I'll have it up there in a moment."
"Excellent," Tom replied, his tone polite but final.
As the worker moved to arrange the transfer, Tom turned away, already resuming his quiet, measured pace toward the front counter—where his television and kitchen appliances waited like newly claimed trophies. A smirk ghosted across his lips.
At the front of the store, Tom approached the register with his usual calm, his presence commanding yet effortlessly composed. A stack of items waited for him—boxed and labeled, ready to be scanned. The clerk, a young man in his early twenties, looked up and offered a polite smile, though it faltered slightly under Tom's gaze.
Tom set the smaller items—his mint green coffee machine and matching toaster—onto the counter with precision. Behind him, another worker wheeled over the washer-dryer combo, while the TV and kitchen appliance set had already been tagged for special delivery, tucked off to the side.
"I'll be taking these with me," Tom said, gesturing to the smaller boxed appliances. "The rest—" he gave a slight nod toward the washer-dryer, the full kitchen set, and the OLED television, "—I want delivered."
"Of course, sir," the clerk replied, pulling up the delivery form on the screen. "We offer delivery and installation. Would you like to schedule a time?"
Tom offered a small, unreadable smile as he slipped the Gringotts credit card from his inner pocket and handed it over. "As soon as possible. I'll be home all evening."
The clerk swiped the card, blinking slightly at the golden shimmer of the embossed dragon and the name it bore—Tom Riddle. He chose not to comment.
"Transaction approved," the screen blinked back at them. "Please add in address for delivery."
"Thank you," Tom said, taking his receipt. He wrote down his address "Have the delivery personnel use the rear entrance of the building. They'll find a service elevator to the top floor. The loft door will be… ready."
"Yes, sir. Everything will be on its way shortly."
Tom gave a single nod, lifting his boxed purchases with one hand as he turned and exited the store. The automatic doors slid open before him, the dull roar of traffic and the cool air of London's evening rushing to greet him.
Behind him, the store staff moved quickly to fulfill the order, none of them aware they had just served a man who had once commanded fear itself. Only now, he commanded convenience.
He eased the Mustang out of the parking lot, the dark green beast gliding onto the road with a low, velvety growl. The engine purred beneath him, loyal and powerful, responding to his touch like an old companion finally stirred from slumber.
Tom kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually against the gearshift as he merged into traffic. The city stretched around him—modern, chaotic, and teeming with Muggle noise and light. Towering LED billboards blinked advertisements, streetlamps flickered in the gathering dusk, and the roads buzzed with the restless hum of life. Yet he cut through it all with ease, the Mustang slipping through lanes with precision.
Muggle London had certainly changed. But the rhythm of the road—its unspoken rules, its calculated aggression—remained the same. He shifted gears with a subtle flick of his wrist, the car responding with a gentle lurch of speed. A smirk ghosted across his lips as the familiar thrill coursed through him.
I haven't lost my touch.
Every turn of the wheel, every calculated merge, reminded him that control—true control—was something he had never truly relinquished. This wasn't just transportation. It was power, raw and simple, wrapped in steel and memory.
The car itself was no ordinary relic. Though its appearance was flawlessly classic, its internals were something else entirely—enchanted, reinforced, preserved through layers of quiet magic. The vehicle could outpace modern machines with ease, and if he so desired, he could lift it from the road and fly above the city skyline in silence. But he didn't. Not tonight. Tonight, he wanted the road.
The glowing city lights danced over the slick finish of the Mustang as he pressed down gently on the accelerator, letting the engine stretch. The familiar roar echoed through the underground tunnel as he took the turn toward his private complex.
Descending into the building's underground parking garage, the tires hummed against the ramp's decline. Cool concrete swallowed the light, casting the interior into deep shadow, broken only by the twin beams of his headlights. Pillars rose like watchmen, and vacant spaces stretched into silence. Tom navigated the turns until he reached the corner—his designated spot, still bearing the enchantments he'd placed on it decades ago.
Untouched. Unseen. Just as he had left it.
He pulled in slowly, shifting into park as the engine gave one final rumble before falling into silence. For a moment, he simply sat there, letting the weight of the evening settle over him. Then he reached down, flicked the trunk release, and stepped out into the cool air of the garage.
The Mustang's doors locked with a flick of his fingers, a nearly silent click of magic sealing it once more. He made a mental note to search for the original keys when he returned to the loft—they were still somewhere in his belongings, stashed away like so many other remnants of a former life.
Turning to the trunk, he waved his wand, and with a soft whoosh, the bags vanished—disappearing to the kitchen upstairs with practiced ease.
Satisfied, Tom shut the trunk with a final push, letting his fingers trail briefly across the glossy paint one last time.
A whisper of motion, a subtle twist of power—and he was gone.
He reappeared in front of his apartment door, the heavy silence of the hallway greeting him like an old friend.
He had returned.
The brass key was already in hand, worn from time but still perfectly familiar. Tom slid it into the lock, the mechanism clicking with smooth precision as he pushed the door open.
He stepped into the stillness of his loft, letting the door close behind him with a soft thud. A flick of his wrist secured it with a quiet click of the lock. He shrugged off his black coat and hung it with care on the wall hook, then slipped out of his shoes with a sense of practiced comfort. The air was exactly as he'd left it—cool, silent, and subtly perfumed with aged parchment, quiet magic, and something unmistakably his.
From the green velvet couch, a familiar shape stirred.
Nagini uncoiled slowly, lifting her head with the grace of a creature forged from shadows and silk. Her golden eyes blinked sleepily, tongue flicking out as she tasted the air.
"Welcome home, Master." she hissed softly. "Did you buy me anything?"
Tom raised a brow in amusement, stepping further into the open space of the loft. His wand was already in hand, and with a smooth, deliberate flick, his groceries shimmered into motion. Bags hovered through the air, their contents gliding out and sorting themselves with practiced elegance. Cans filed neatly into the cupboards. Boxes nestled into drawers. Items requiring refrigeration remained on the counter, waiting to be placed by hand.
He glanced at the emerald-eyed serpent and gestured toward the hallway.
"Not this time," he replied, voice dry but amused. "And Nagini—my room. Stay there. Do not come out."
She tilted her head slightly. "Visitors?"
"Delivery men," he said simply. "Muggles. They're bringing in the new appliances—washer, dryer, a full kitchen set… and a television."
Nagini let out a quiet hiss that might've been laughter. "You really are embracing this whole vacation thing."
Tom gave her a faint smirk as he passed the couch. "I'm adapting, not embracing. There's a difference."
She slithered off the couch in silence, her long form disappearing down the hallway toward his bedroom, the door nudging closed behind her with a soft creak.
With a glance toward the kitchen and a final wave of his wand, the rest of the groceries settled into place. He straightened the collar of his cardigan, his gaze shifting toward the door.
Soon, the delivery would arrive.
And the sanctuary he had long preserved in shadows would begin to evolve—quietly, deliberately—into something altogether new.
Tom turned toward the old refrigerator and outdated microwave that still sat along the far wall. With a simple flick of his wand, both appliances clicked and shuddered softly, disconnecting from their wall sockets. A second, more focused movement severed the gas line to the stove with expert precision, sealing it safely shut without a sound or spark.
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing in slight distaste as he studied the worn surfaces—relics from a time when such things had seemed modern. Another flick, and the appliances began to shrink, shrinking down into neat, palm-sized versions of themselves. They hovered for a moment in the air before floating gently down into a small storage crate near the corner of the room.
Out with the old.
He straightened, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve, and turned his gaze to the loft entrance once more.
It was time to welcome in the new.
The warm, cluttered charm of the Burrow never failed to comfort Harry—but tonight, it couldn't quite chase away the strange weight pressing against his chest.
The Weasley family home buzzed with its usual gentle chaos. Somewhere upstairs, Fred and George were arguing about an experimental charm gone slightly wrong, while Molly moved about the kitchen below, humming softly as she stirred a simmering pot of stew. The scent of rosemary and roast potatoes drifted through the house like a comforting spell, yet it did little to ease the tightness in Harry's chest.
He sat near the open window of Ron's room, elbows resting on the windowsill, his chin propped on his hands as the wind rustled the trees just beyond the garden. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the faint orange smear of dusk on the sky.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he'd have to return to Number Four, Privet Drive.
Back to the Dursleys. Back to locked doors, cold silences, and the ever-present reminder that, in their world, he was a burden—nothing more. The thought settled in his stomach like lead.
"I hate that place," Harry muttered under his breath.
He would've given anything to spend the rest of the summer with Sirius—away from the stares, the judgment, the isolation. Even if Grimmauld Place wasn't exactly cheerful, at least there, he was wanted. Known. Heard.
His thoughts wandered again, drifting back to that surreal moment in Knockturn Alley.
Tom Riddle.
Alive. Young. Different.
And not trying to kill him.
That image haunted him more than any of Voldemort's usual nightmares—the calm way he had spoken, the absence of malice in his voice, the eerie warning: Tell no one you saw me.
Harry rubbed his scar, which—curiously—hadn't so much as twinged since the encounter. That, perhaps, was the strangest part of all.
Behind him, the door creaked open. Ron stepped in with a slice of treacle tart in one hand and a curious look on his face.
"You alright, mate?"
Harry looked over his shoulder and gave a half-smile. "Yeah. Just thinking."
Ron stepped closer and handed him the tart. "About Riddle?"
Harry didn't answer at first. He took the tart, staring down at the flaky crust and golden syrup.
"I don't think he wants to be Voldemort anymore," he said quietly.
Ron blinked, stunned into silence.
"He looked human," Harry added. "He felt human. For once, he didn't feel like a monster."
Ron sat beside him, shoulders tense. "Blimey... I don't even know what to say to that."
"Me neither," Harry admitted.
But deep down, something told him that summer was only the beginning.
Ron shook his head slowly, eyebrows furrowed as he leaned back against the edge of the windowsill beside Harry. "I mean... he's been trying to kill you since you were a baby… so why would he stop now?" His voice lowered with suspicion, the disbelief thick in his tone. "He had that grand entrance at the Ministry—fire, smoke, spells flying everywhere—and now he just decides he wants a holiday from being the Dark Lord?"
Harry gave a dry chuckle, though there was no real humor in it. "Does sound mad when you put it like that."
Ron scoffed. "Mad? It sounds like he's cracked. Dark Lords don't just... take time off. What's next? Is he going to pop up at the beach with a piña colada and a sunhat?"
Harry snorted at the image, but his smile quickly faded. He leaned forward, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "He didn't look... evil, Ron. Not like before. He looked... tired. Different. And for a second, I swear, I didn't feel like I was standing in front of Voldemort at all."
Ron blinked, then frowned deeply. "Maybe he's just playing with you. Messing with your head."
"Maybe," Harry said, but his tone lacked conviction. His eyes drifted toward the horizon again, toward the darkening sky. "But if he's telling the truth… if he really is walking away, even for a little while… I need to know why."
Ron sighed and shoved the last bite of tart into his mouth. "Well, either way, you're not going back to the Dursleys tomorrow without backup. If You-Know-Who's on vacation, I'm not taking any chances he'll send you a bloody postcard."
That earned a real laugh from Harry, and for a moment, the weight in his chest eased—just a little.
The Headmaster's office had never been quiet—not really. The ticking of enchanted instruments, the flutter of Fawkes' wings, the faint hum of ancient magic—but this morning, it was especially tense.
The heavy wooden doors burst open with a groan as Remus Lupin all but dragged Sirius Black inside by the arm.
"You were supposed to be here last night, Sirius!" Remus snapped, clearly out of patience.
Sirius stumbled in with a lopsided grin, shrugging off the reprimand. "Come on, Moony, I was celebrating! I found an unopened bottle of firewhiskey in my dad's old study—Merlin, it was older than you! Couldn't let it go to waste, now could I?"
Dumbledore sighed deeply from behind his desk, his fingers steepled together as he regarded them over his half-moon spectacles. "As nostalgic as that sounds, Sirius, this meeting is not one for delay… or intoxicated entrances."
Before Sirius could respond, the doors opened once more with a smooth creak.
Severus Snape strode in, his robes billowing like smoke behind him, expression sharp as a knife.
The instant Sirius saw him, his smile soured. "And what's Snivellus doing here?"
Snape's eyes narrowed, his voice as smooth and venomous as ever. "Still the same stupid mutt, I see."
Sirius growled, stepping forward. "What did you just call me, you greasy—"
"Sirius Black."
The voice that interrupted was calm, powerful, and commanding.
The room fell silent.
Sirius and Remus turned at once—both eyes widening in unison as two new figures stepped through the open doorway.
Jerith Kuran stood tall and unbothered, clad in dark green robes trimmed in deep gold, his long black-and-gold hair draping regally over his shoulders. His golden eyes gleamed with ancient power, piercing directly through the room's tension. At his side stood his wife, Princess Dawn Mikcloud Kuran, her presence radiant yet fierce, her crimson hair cascading over her shoulders like a royal banner.
"I thought we had grown past such pathetic nicknames," Jerith said coolly, folding his hands behind his back. "But perhaps I overestimated your maturity."
Sirius's mouth opened and closed again, words lost for a moment.
"Jerith Kuran…" Remus breathed, almost in disbelief.
Jerith offered a polite nod. "Second Crowned Prince of Celtica," he confirmed. "Married to the First Crowned Princess."
Dawn stepped beside him, her emerald eyes gleaming with restrained fire. "We've come on behalf of the Magical Royal Family to address several failures within this castle... and truths that have been buried for far too long."
Even Severus, who rarely showed anything beyond cold detachment, shifted slightly—his hands folding behind his back as if bracing for what was to come.
Sirius straightened, the lazy grin gone from his face, replaced with cautious curiosity. "Why… are you here?"
Jerith's smile was faint, sharp, and devoid of comfort.
"Because I want to hear your side of what happened all those years ago," he said, his tone even but edged with expectation. "I want to know, directly from you, if Harry and his friends were telling the truth… about Peter Pettigrew being alive. About your innocence."
Sirius's mouth opened, but Jerith raised a hand slightly.
"I've read the reports. Heard what the boy said. But I want to hear it from you," he continued. "Because it seems Cornelius Fudge decided to ignore it all. Of course he did. Foolish man."
There was venom in the last word—controlled, but unmistakable.
Dawn's gaze flicked toward Dumbledore, who had thus far remained quiet behind his desk, fingers steepled and expression unreadable.
"The truth will be acknowledged today," she said firmly. "One way or another."
And for a moment, the room held its breath.
Sirius exhaled slowly, shoulders tense, the room's weight finally settling around him. He glanced at Remus, who gave a single, encouraging nod.
"Alright," Sirius said, voice rough but steady. "You want the truth? Then here it is."
He stepped forward, placing his hands on the back of one of the velvet chairs before the Headmaster's desk—not to sit, but to brace himself.
"Thirteen years ago, I wasn't the Secret-Keeper. Everyone thought I was, including Voldemort. That was the plan. I was the decoy. The real Secret-Keeper… was Peter Pettigrew."
He paused, scanning their faces—Jerith, Dawn, Severus, even Dumbledore—making sure they were listening.
"He betrayed James and Lily. Not me. Him." His voice cracked slightly, the memory still raw. "I went to find him after their deaths. I knew. I knew he'd run. When I caught up with him, he staged that explosion in the middle of a Muggle street—blew up the road, killed twelve people, cut off his own finger and vanished into the sewers in Animagus form."
Jerith's brows lifted. "Animagus?"
Sirius nodded. "He's a rat. Literally. Scabbers. That was his name when he was hiding as the Weasley's pet. For years."
Remus finally spoke up, stepping beside him. "It was Harry, Ron, and Hermione who discovered him in the Shrieking Shack during their third year. I was there. We had him. Alive."
Sirius's jaw tightened. "But he escaped. Snape was unconscious. The Ministry never saw him. Fudge—of course—refused to believe the word of three students. And I went on the run again."
Jerith folded his arms slowly, golden eyes darkening. "So, the Ministry had no trial, no evidence, no use of Veritaserum, no Dark Mark confirmation—and simply tossed you into Azkaban?"
"Yes," Sirius replied, voice low. "No trial. Not even a bloody question. Just chains and Dementors."
Dawn's eyes narrowed, her voice calm but cutting. "That violates multiple international magical accords, including those signed by the British Ministry under Magical Royal Law. Fudge's recklessness runs deeper than incompetence—it borders on criminal."
She turned her head sharply toward Dumbledore. "And what did you do to stop it?"
Dumbledore's hands tightened just slightly, but his voice remained measured. "At the time, I believed my efforts were best spent protecting Harry. I had no authority over the Ministry's rulings—"
"No authority?" Jerith cut in, his voice suddenly sharp, enough to make Severus flinch. "You, the most powerful wizard in Britain, sat back and let an innocent man rot in a cell surrounded by soul-draining horrors without raising so much as a public protest?"
"I tried," Dumbledore said quietly, "in my own way—"
"Your way," Jerith interrupted coldly, "has led to a child being manipulated by a prophecy, a man's life stolen by silence, and a Ministry that now belongs in shackles."
The room fell into a charged silence.
Sirius, chest heaving from the rawness of memory, slowly stood straighter. "That's it. That's what happened. I've got nothing to hide."
Jerith studied him for a long moment.
Then, with deliberate steps, he walked to the center of the office and drew his wand.
"Dawn."
She nodded, raising hers in unison with his.
"By decree of the Magical Royal Family," Jerith said, his voice echoing with authority, "we invoke Rite 14-L under Royal Law."
Their wands glowed with interlacing golden light, and a gentle shimmer pulsed outward, blanketing the room.
Severus blinked, confused. "What… what is this?"
"A truth-binding spell," Jerith said. "Not Veritaserum. Not torture. Magic—older than any court. It reads the essence of memory, of intent. Only those without deception may remain within its hold."
Sirius stood still, the light flickering over him—and did not waver.
Neither did Remus.
Dumbledore's lips pressed into a hard line, but he remained seated. Snape shifted again but was silent.
And when the glow settled… there was only one result.
Truth.
Jerith exhaled, satisfied.
"Then it's settled," he said firmly. "Sirius Orion Black… is innocent."
Dawn stepped forward. "His records will be cleared. Officially. And as for Pettigrew…"
She turned to Severus. "The magical royal family will be hunting him now."
Sirius blinked, stunned.
Remus clapped a hand on Sirius's shoulder, barely able to hide the growing grin that tugged at his lips. And for the first time in over a decade… Sirius Black felt free.
His knees nearly buckled under the weight of it. His face, so often twisted in grief or defiance, cracked—tears slipping freely down his cheeks as he clutched at the back of Remus's robes for support.
"F-Free…" he choked, voice raw and shaking. "Oh my god…"
Dawn's expression softened at the sight, a faint smile curling on her lips as she stepped forward. Her poise remained regal, but there was unmistakable warmth in her eyes as she extended a document, bound in deep green ribbon, sealed with the golden crest of the Magical Royal Family.
"You may take this to Gringotts," she said gently. "These are official royal documents—naming you Lord Black, and clearing you of all charges. It bears the signatures of both the Crown and the International Magical Tribunal. From this moment forward, you are no longer a fugitive, but a recognized noble of your house."
Sirius blinked, eyes wide as he reached out, almost afraid the parchment might vanish in his grasp.
"And," she continued with a slight chuckle, "we'll see to it that Frank delivers the full statement to the Daily Prophet. By morning, the entire magical world will know. You will be a free man, Sirius Black. Properly, and publicly."
Sirius stared down at the parchment in his hands, his fingers trembling as they curled around the edges. The weight of everything—the years in Azkaban, the shadow of doubt, the fear, the shame—it all began to lift, piece by piece.
He laughed. It was wet, choked, somewhere between a sob and a bark—but it was real.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, eyes shining. "I don't even know what to do now…"
Jerith gave him a half-smile, his voice steady and resolute. "You live, Sirius."
Dawn let out a quiet, musical laugh. "And of course," she added, brushing an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve, "Harry will no longer be returning to his Muggle relatives."
Dumbledore's expression faltered. His hands folded tightly on the desk, a crease forming between his brows. "Just wait a moment, Your Highness…" he began, his voice carefully measured. "Harry must return there for his protection. There are ancient wards in place—blood magic—his mother's sacrifice—"
Jerith's expression shifted in an instant. The warmth vanished, replaced by a regal coldness that could silence armies. His voice was low but thunderous in presence.
"I think not," he snapped. "You are his headmaster, Dumbledore. Not his guardian. That status was officially revoked the moment the Magical Royal Court reviewed your actions—and inactions. Sirius Black is Harry's legal godfather, the rightful guardian, and the moment he was cleared, that right was restored. He has every authority to remove Harry from that house."
Gasps echoed through the office like a ripple of shattered glass.
"Abusive?" came a stunned whisper. It was Severus. He blinked, his brows furrowed in shock. "You… you left him with Tuney? Petunia Dursley? Are you—are you mad?"
The words hit the air like a slap.
Even Sirius turned, his eyes narrowing. "Wait—you knew her? Snape?"
Severus barely nodded, still staring at Dumbledore. "We grew up in the same neighborhood. She loathed magic. Always did. Always treated Lily like filth for having it. You left Harry with them?"
Dawn's voice sharpened, colder than ice. "Harry Potter spent ten years in a home where he was treated like a servant. Starved. Locked in a cupboard beneath the stairs." Her gaze cut toward Dumbledore like a dagger. "And you call that protection?"
"I had no choice—" Dumbledore began, but Jerith stepped forward, voice slicing through his defense.
"You had every choice. You chose to use the boy as a keystone for your warding magic, while denying him a childhood, a family, and dignity. That is not protection. That is negligence disguised as strategy."
Sirius clenched his fists, trembling with rage. "If I had known… If I had known what you did—I would have broken out sooner and taken him myself."
"You will now," Jerith said firmly, his golden eyes locked on Sirius. "You will take him. Today, if you wish. He will not spend another night in that house."
The room was silent.
"And you're wondering how we knew?" he continued, his voice cold with authority. "Please, Albus, do not insult my intelligence. Did you truly believe a boy coming to you with signs of abuse would not be brought to me?" Jerith's eyes narrowed. "The Hat told me. Dobby—the house elf—told me today while you were absent from Hogwarts."
Dumbledore flinched, his expression a mixture of guilt and fading justification.
"I should replace you," Jerith added, "but I won't. However, this coming year will be your last, Albus Dumbledore. Your final year as Headmaster."
Gasps filled the office again, louder this time—staggered breaths of disbelief from Remus, Sirius, and even the portraits lining the walls.
Jerith smiled faintly, a satisfied glint in his eyes. "The torch will pass to Minerva. She is more than ready and more than deserving. And as for Deputy Headmaster…" He turned slightly. "Severus will take her place."
Snape, who had been watching in stunned silence, blinked rapidly. "Jerith… that's not bloody funny."
Jerith laughed, warm and familiar now, like old friends ribbing each other at a firelit table. "Oh please. You deserve it. You've been the brains behind half the castle's functioning spells for years now."
Severus looked slightly horrified. "I didn't ask for this—"
"No," Jerith interrupted smoothly, "but your goddaughter will be thrilled. You're still coming to the Kuran estate in four weeks, yes?"
Severus's lips parted, caught somewhere between a glare and an exhale. "I… suppose."
Jerith chuckled, clapping a hand on Severus's shoulder with the fond exasperation of a father halfway between pride and irritation. "Good. Jess has been living in Muggle London," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Rebellion at the age of twenty… like she's a bloody teenager again. Skipping palace dinners, dodging protocol, charming Muggles with that damn smirk of hers—honestly, I think she's testing me."
Dawn laughed lightly beside him, her emerald eyes gleaming with mischief. "She just wants to live a normal life, my love. A life free of titles, cameras, formal bows and endless curtsies. Can you blame her? She is the second-crowned princess, but that doesn't mean she wants to feel like royalty every second of the day."
Jerith sighed in surrender, muttering, "She's going to drive me grey."
"Too late for that," Severus said dryly, raising a brow.
Dawn turned her attention to Severus with a playful smile. "You do have a Muggle cellphone, don't you?"
Severus looked mildly offended at the question. "Of course I bloody do. I just don't… use it often." He frowned slightly, arms folding across his chest. "Why?"
Dawn grinned, that familiar spark of mischief blooming in her voice. "Jerith, give him Jess's number. They should text. Or better yet—video call."
Jerith stared at her. "Video call? You're assuming he knows what that is."
"I know what it is," Severus huffed. "I'm not a bloody caveman."
Jerith laughed again, already pulling his phone from his coat pocket. "Alright, alright, here—her number. Just… don't let her convince you to go to a Muggle concert. Last time, she dragged her cousin and one of the royal guards into some… thunder bass rave madness. They came back covered in glow paint and moral confusion."
Dawn laughed harder, and even Remus cracked a grin.
Severus stared at the number now saved in his contacts, his expression unreadable. "I'll message her later," he said quietly.
Jerith smirked. "Just remember—she bites with words. You bite with sarcasm. It's going to be hilarious."
And in the swirl of politics, legacy, and the weight of magical war, a sliver of something lighter shimmered between them—hope, connection, and the quiet anticipation of what was still to come.
Sirius and Remus stood frozen for a moment, stunned by the flood of revelations and royal decisions that had just shifted the course of everything.
Then Sirius took a step forward, his voice tight with emotion but edged with hope. "Can I go get my godson now?"
Dawn chuckled softly, her smile warm and genuine. "Of course you can, Sirius. He's your family, and he belongs with you. Take him home."
Jerith added with a nod, "We've already arranged for a few palace house elves to assist you. They'll help clean, redecorate, and bring life back into Grimmauld Place. No more moldy curtains and creaking shadows."
Sirius blinked, surprised. "House elves? Palace house elves?" His tone turned skeptical. "They won't try to burn the place down with all the old Black heirlooms, will they?"
Dawn smirked. "No, but they will scold you if you leave your clothes lying around. They're trained to keep royal residences in order. You'll be amazed at how fast they work."
Remus laughed under his breath. "You're going to be living in the cleanest house in London, mate."
But then Jerith's tone shifted, softer, more serious. "We'll also begin searching for your brother."
Sirius's breath caught. "Regulus?"
His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed hard. "But… the tapestry—"
Dawn stepped forward, her expression gentle but firm. "Sirius, love… does it say he's dead?"
He paused. Eyes darted around the room as if searching for some long-forgotten truth.
"No," he admitted in a whisper. "It doesn't."
"Exactly," Dawn said. "The tapestry only shows disownment, not death. And believe me, the magical royal family has resources far beyond what the Order or the Ministry ever tapped into. If he's out there—we'll find him."
Sirius stared at her, a storm of emotions playing across his face. Then, with a trembling breath, he nodded.
"Thank you," he said hoarsely. "Both of you."
Jerith stepped closer and placed a steady hand on Sirius's shoulder. "Bring Harry home. We'll handle the rest."
And just like that, the future—once so uncertain—began to open. Grimmauld Place would live again. Harry would be where he truly belonged. And maybe, just maybe, the past wasn't finished giving up its ghosts.
At Tom's loft, all his new appliances were finally in place. The once-static kitchen now gleamed with sleek black finishes and modern enhancements, each piece humming softly with magic and precision. With a fluid flick of his wand, Tom set the final spell into motion—groceries hovered gently through the air, responding like trained soldiers to his unspoken commands.
Fresh meats and dairy products glided into the fridge, settling themselves neatly onto the gleaming glass shelves. Frozen items zipped into the freezer, stacking themselves with perfect spacing. In the pantry, rolls of paper towels and toilet paper folded themselves into tidy towers, while bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and laundry detergent slotted into place, every item aligned with meticulous care.
From her spot on the green velvet couch, Nagini remained curled and still, golden eyes watching the orchestrated magic in contemplative silence. When the final cabinet door shut with a soft thud, she finally stirred—her body shifting languidly across the cushions, tongue flicking once before she spoke.
"I'm sorry, Master… but may I have another rabbit?"
Tom turned slowly from the kitchen, one brow arching with visible amusement. The red in his eyes gleamed faintly in the low ambient light, and though his mouth remained neutral, there was unmistakable mirth playing behind his gaze.
"Another one already?" he said dryly, slipping his wand into his hand. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head with theatrical exasperation. "You do realize you are utterly spoiled, don't you?"
Nagini merely flicked her tongue again, entirely unbothered.
"I am your most loyal companion, am I not?"
A low chuckle rumbled in Tom's throat, quiet and rare. With a casual yet precise motion, he raised his wand and cast a small, effortless incantation. A soft crack split the air, and a plump brown rabbit appeared on the loft floor, frozen mid-motion, its wide eyes blinking rapidly in confusion.
Nagini's coils tensed immediately.
"Try to pace yourself," Tom remarked lightly, already turning his back just as the serpent struck—swift and silent, wrapping her long, gleaming body around the prey in one practiced lunge. He didn't look back. The sound was familiar, the natural order of predator and prey playing out behind him like background music.
Returning to the kitchen, he adjusted the position of a spice rack with a flick of his fingers, his mind already shifting gears. There were still things to sort. Letters to review. Notes to rewrite. Perhaps he'd prepare a small late dinner. The night was still young—and now, for once, he had time.
After ensuring every item had been properly put away—each jar, bottle, and parcel in its rightful place—Tom made his way toward the bedroom. The suit he had worn all day came off in deliberate, efficient movements, each piece neatly folded and draped over the back of a nearby chair. The fabric still carried the faintest scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of oud and peony lingering in the air. Once stripped of the refined exterior, he stepped toward his wardrobe and chose something far more relaxed: a soft black T-shirt paired with dark lounging pants. Comfortable. Casual. Uncharacteristically domestic.
Padding barefoot through the loft, he made his way into the living room, where the new OLED TV now stood proudly against the wall. The screen was dark for now, but the magic he had carefully weaved into the wiring earlier had already begun leeching off a neighboring WiFi signal and a Muggle cable provider. He didn't fully understand how it worked—only that it did. The built-in Roku system had come with its own guidebook, which he had skimmed earlier, intrigued by the technological advancements Muggles had made since the early 2000s.
Everything was unfamiliar yet oddly fascinating. He didn't own a cell phone. He had no email address, no social network accounts. Not even a digital footprint. And yet now, he had access to everything: movies, streaming services, channels upon channels of mindless entertainment, and a vast internet that had grown far beyond the primitive dial-up era he once remembered.
For now, it was his.
He settled onto the plush green velvet couch, draping a soft throw blanket over his legs and dimming the room with a lazy flick of his fingers. Only a single warm lamp illuminated the space. The television screen glowed to life, and he turned the volume up too loud at first, flinching slightly before adjusting it with the remote. Some Muggle television show played across the screen—bright colors, laugh tracks, actors performing melodrama—and while it didn't hold his full attention, it was... oddly comforting.
In his lap sat the largest book of the collection he had picked up from Borgin and Burkes. Its leather cover was worn from time, gilded in faded gold leaf and marked with the ancient seal of the Magical Royal Archives. It had been buried in the shop's back room for decades, and now, it rested in his hands—weighty, powerful, and possibly full of answers.
As he flipped through the first few brittle pages, a familiar slither whispered across the floorboards. Nagini, having finished her latest meal, slid up onto the couch beside him and coiled close, her head lifting curiously as she eyed the tome.
"Master, what is that?" she asked, her voice a silken hiss, barely louder than the rustling pages.
Tom glanced down at her, his expression uncharacteristically soft. "Books about your curse, my dear," he replied. "This one in particular is from the Magical Royal Archives. It contains knowledge that dates back centuries—maybe even something useful. If there's a chance, even a sliver, that this can help you regain your human form… I will find it."
Nagini stared at him, stunned. Her golden eyes flickered with something more than surprise—hope. Real hope. For so long, she had accepted her fate as a Maledictus. She had buried the pain, the longing, the memory of her humanity… and the man she had once loved.
"Credence..." she whispered under her breath, so faint it was nearly lost beneath the low hum of the television.
Tom's gaze didn't lift, but he heard it. He always did. His fingers paused mid-turn across the delicate edge of a page, and without looking up, his voice followed like a soft current.
"Didn't you tell me his real name was Aurelius?"
His tone was not unkind—merely curious, detached, as though threading two names together in his mind like pieces of a puzzle that had been separated by time.
Nagini let out a soft hiss—not the aggressive kind, but a sound threaded with nostalgia. Her coils shifted slightly, her head resting just a bit closer to the warmth of his side.
"Oh yes… that is his real name. Aurelius Dumbledore." Her voice trembled, caught between memory and mourning. "But I came to know him as Credence. That's who he was to me… before the name, before the bloodline. He was gentle. Lost. And so was I."
She paused, her golden eyes reflecting the flickering light of the TV screen, which now displayed some sitcom laugh track that neither of them paid any mind.
"I'm surprised," she continued quietly, "that my curse hasn't stolen those memories. I thought, over time, the longer I remained like this… I would forget what it felt like to be human. But I haven't."
Tom slowly turned a page, the parchment whispering beneath his fingers. He didn't respond at first—not out of indifference, but because her words had struck something in him. Something cold. Something familiar.
Finally, he murmured without looking up, "The curse doesn't want your memories. It wants your soul. Slowly. Quietly. It twists, not rips. Leaves just enough for you to ache, but never enough to heal." His voice was low, sharp with quiet understanding. "Losing your memories… that would be mercy. And curses don't deal in mercy."
Nagini was silent for a long while. The rain outside began to patter faintly against the tall windows, as if even the sky were listening in. Her head sank slightly onto the couch cushion beside him.
"Master..." she asked, her voice suddenly smaller, more fragile than he had ever heard it. "Do you think I'll lose my humanity?"
Tom didn't speak immediately. He turned another page, scanning the ancient text with practiced ease, even as her question lingered in the air like a ghost that refused to leave. When he finally answered, it wasn't with cold certainty or arrogant dismissal.
It was quiet. Steady.
"Not if I can help it."
The words settled between them, heavier than any spell. And though neither said anything more, Nagini's coils subtly relaxed, the tension leaving her muscles. She closed her eyes, her breathing slow and steady once more.
Tom kept reading.
Outside, the world went on—cars passed, lights flickered, people lived their oblivious lives. But within the loft, time stilled again. A snake who had once been a girl, and a man who had once been a boy, both burdened with curses not of their choosing, sat in silence… searching for something neither had dared to believe in for a long time.
Hope.