Before the War, There was Love

by TheBlueMoonRose

Full Summary in first chapter. Warning this Story will containt Timeline and Era change into modern times of 2024.

20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20: Truth

Then, as silence took hold in the real world... the Locket's eyes opened.

The dim light of early morning bled through the cracks in the cabin's boarded windows, cutting lines across the stone floor and tangled sheets. Dust drifted in the stillness. Magic still clung to the air like a second skin — thick, heady, almost pulsing. The illusion had faded, but the sensations hadn't.

He blinked once.

Then shifted.

A lazy, self-satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as he rolled onto his side, letting one hand trail across the sheets toward her. Jess lay beside him, limp in magical sleep — untouched by the waking world. But not untouched by him.

"Oh," he murmured, voice dark with amusement, "another passionate night... and again, it happened here too."

His palm slid across her waist and settled on her stomach — fingers curving with practiced ease, expecting the smooth flatness he'd known just days ago.

But what he felt made him pause.

The smirk faltered.

His brows drew together as he looked down — really looked.

Her belly wasn't flat anymore.

It wasn't just slightly different — it was exactly the same as it had been in the illusion. The curve. The warmth beneath his palm. The weight of it.

He stared.

Then blinked again, slower this time.

"...Why does it look the same?" he whispered, voice barely audible, eyes narrowing. "Just like... in there..."

Something cold slipped down his spine. Not fear. Not yet. But the beginnings of a realization he hadn't accounted for. Something impossible.

His gaze drifted back to her face — still soft, still dreaming.

The illusion wasn't just in her head.

It was bleeding out.

And it was real.

Biting his lip, he slipped carefully out of the bed, his movements fluid and practiced. With a flick of his wand, the morning ritual began — quiet and precise. Just like last time.

The air shimmered as the lingering mess from the night before vanished into nothingness, absorbed by the spellwork embedded into the room. Sheets straightened. The scent of heat and skin faded, replaced by soft lavender and morning air. Jess floated gently up from the mattress, still asleep, her body limp and trusting as if part of the spell itself.

He didn't rush.

With reverence, almost ceremony, he dressed her in a fresh nightgown — pale ivory trimmed in soft lace. The fabric clung delicately to her curves, ghosting over the small swell of her stomach. Her long hair was smoothed over her shoulders, her breathing undisturbed.

Another flick of his wand cleaned and clothed him next — tailored slacks, a dark button-down, the illusion of control wrapped around him like armor.

When Jess was lowered back down onto the bed, the covers tucked around her with care, he stepped to her side and sat slowly on the edge of the mattress. The air around them felt strangely heavy — quiet, yet alive.

His gaze drifted downward.

To her stomach.

"This shouldn't be possible..." he murmured, his voice low and edged with tension.

Tentatively, his fingers reached forward and brushed over the curve of her lower abdomen. The bump was small, but undeniable. Warm under his hand. Not imagined. Not phantom. Real.

He pressed his palm flat, letting his magic pulse outward, seeking.

And there it was.

The undeniable signature of life — a 8 or 9-week-old aura. A magical fetus, steady and quiet and growing. His breath caught in his throat.

Her pregnancy wasn't just advancing in the illusion. It was manifesting in the real world, syncing with a timeline no one could see but him.

It made no sense.

"...How is this possible?" he whispered, eyes locked to the rise of her belly beneath the thin fabric. "This isn't... it shouldn't..."

The lines between illusion and reality were fraying.

And the rules — his rules — were being rewritten.

Biting his lip, he slipped out of the bed, careful not to disturb her. The floor was cold under his feet, but he didn't flinch. His wand was already in hand. With a smooth, practiced flick, the morning routine unfolded. Just like last time.

The mess vanished in silence — sheets straightened, air freshened. Jess floated gently above the mattress in her deep sleep, suspended by magic. Her limbs were loose, relaxed, still caught in the illusion's pull. He moved through the ritual with reverence, not haste. Her skin was cleansed. Her tangled hair smoothed. And her body dressed in a fresh nightgown — soft, light blue, laced at the collar.

He didn't dress her roughly. He never did.

When she was lowered back onto the bed, now resting above the covers instead of beneath them, he turned his attention to himself. With a precise wave, his body was cleaned and dressed — deep green robes over a black tunic, his hair combed and neat once again. All routine. All silent.

Then, finally, he sat.

He lowered himself beside her, letting the bed dip under his weight. His eyes — dark, thoughtful — drifted to her stomach.

"This shouldn't be possible..." he whispered.

His hand moved, almost on its own. He reached down and gently touched the small bump, letting his fingers rest against it.

He could feel it. Not just the physical weight — but the aura. The subtle magical hum of life. A baby. A nine-week-old fetus. Fully formed in essence, its little soul pulsing softly within her.

Her pregnancy was growing with her — not just in the illusion, but here, in the real world. The connection between them, between illusion and reality, was bleeding over.

"How is this possible...?" he murmured, eyes narrowing.

He looked away from her, toward the dresser.

Another flick of his wand, and a worn paperback floated to him. A book — a muggle pregnancy guide — stolen from a local bookstore miles from the cabin, far beyond any normal reach. It hovered in the air as he flipped through it, stopping at the pages he'd read too many times already.

8 to 9 weeks of pregnancy:

At 8–9 weeks pregnant, your baby is developing rapidly, with facial features, internal organs, and limbs forming, and the baby is starting to move, though you won't feel it yet. You may experience morning sickness, fatigue, and other pregnancy symptoms.

The baby is about 1.2 to 1.7 cm long. Facial features like eyes, nose, and lips are starting to form. The limbs are developing. The tail is shrinking.

He blinked, breathing steady.

He continued reading.

At 9 weeks, the baby is now considered a fetus, with more defined features. Internal organs like the heart, brain, kidneys, liver, and lungs are developing. The fetus can now respond to touch.

His brows furrowed.

Then came the part that made his lip twitch.

Pregnancy Symptoms: Morning Sickness... Fatigue... Frequent Urination... Sore Breasts... Mood Swings... Metallic Taste... Heightened Smell...

She had them all. Even now, in her sleep.

He turned the page.

Twin Pregnancy – Week 9: Twins are now considered fetuses, and rapid development continues. Organs and limbs forming. The mother may experience more severe symptoms, including intense nausea, early weight gain, exhaustion. Ultrasound may confirm twin pregnancy.

His gaze snapped back to her stomach.

He blinked. Bit his lip.

The bump fit the twin profile.

"No," he muttered. "It can't be..."

He paused, trying to recall the first pulse he felt — when he first noticed the pregnancy growing. He had only sensed one.

One life. One aura.

Did he know any spells for scanning a pregnancy?

No. Of course he didn't. Why would he ever learn something like that?

The book snapped shut with a quiet thump. His hands clenched around it, knuckles white.

He didn't want to leave her. Not now. Not with how fragile this thread had become.

But he had no choice.

He needed a spellbook. Something magical. Something real.

He needed to head to the old Magic Alley tucked deep within the ruins of Albania — the one hidden from all modern maps, woven into the bones of crumbling stone streets and shrouded by veils of ancient enchantments. A place where forgotten spells and forbidden scrolls whispered from beneath dust-laden windows and shadowy awnings. He knew where it was. The memory of the path — carved into his soul like a scar — stirred with clarity now.

Slowly, he stood, casting one last lingering glance at the bed.

At her.

Jess lay motionless under the covers, her face as peaceful as moonlight, chest rising in slow, steady rhythm. That small bump beneath the gown still pressed forward, undeniable. He swallowed hard, something tightening in his throat.

"I'll be quick," he whispered, bending down to brush his lips softly against her temple. "Stay safe... my love."

With a quiet sigh, he turned and descended the creaky wooden stairs, each step echoing like a heartbeat in the still silence of the cottage. The air downstairs was chillier, biting slightly through the stone walls, but he paid it no mind.

Reaching the front door, he grabbed his cloak — the one draped with layers of protective glamours — and slid on his shoes with a practiced motion. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, enchantments woven so tightly into its fibers that even the most seasoned Auror wouldn't detect the man beneath. Not as he was.

He opened the door, stepping out into the Albanian dawn. The cold kissed his skin, and the air smelled of damp moss and old secrets. With one last flick of his wand, the lock clicked behind him.

Then, without hesitation, he apparated — the world snapping around him like a shattering mirror.

---

The dim, aquatic glow of the Black Lake filtered through the tall, arched windows of the Slytherin common room, casting a soft green shimmer across the stone walls. Jess blinked awake, nestled under a thick emerald blanket, her body sinking into the familiar comfort of their shared bed. The chamber was cool, quiet — wrapped in the deep stillness that only existed beneath the lake.

A folded note rested on the pillow beside her, placed with precision, written in Tom's unmistakable script.

Stay in the Slytherin common room. I'll fetch you lunch.
Love,
Tom.

She exhaled slowly, brushing her fingers over the parchment. No kiss on her forehead. No whispered goodbye. Just a neat little reminder — and oddly, that was comfort enough.

With a quiet grunt, Jess sat up, stretching her arms as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. A small bump pressed gently beneath her nightshirt, a soft swell just above her hips. She glanced at it in the low light and smiled faintly.

"Guess we're staying in," she murmured.

She changed into something simple and cozy — a loose lavender tee with rolled sleeves, fitted black pants, and soft black flats. The clothes hugged gently at her midsection, just enough to remind her how far along she truly was in this illusion-turned-reality.

With her hair quickly brushed and braided down one shoulder, she stepped out into the common room.

Empty. Still. The Slytherin common room remained cloaked in its usual eerie tranquility — serpent motifs coiling along the carved archways, green velvet furniture arranged in perfect symmetry, untouched. A soft fire cracked and hissed in the hearth, casting dancing golden light that played across the emerald-tinted windows, their glow tinted by the lake's ever-moving waters outside.

Jess padded quietly across the smooth stone floor, the soles of her flats whispering against the ancient surface. She curled up on one of the sleek leather couches, tucking one leg beneath her and hugging a cushion to her chest. The flicker of the fire was soothing, but there was something oddly heavy in the air today — a hush that felt too still.

Then—

"Morning, Princess."

Jess nearly screamed, gasping as she shot upright, her heart slamming against her ribs.

A head popped up from behind the couch — tousled auburn hair, amused crimson eyes, and that maddening smirk.

Rick.

The boy laughed, clearly delighted by her reaction. "Sorry," he said, unconvincingly, "didn't mean to scare you."

Jess flushed, crossing her arms as she glared at him. "I was not scared! You vampires are sneaky ninjas! Appearing out of nowhere like that—"

He grinned wider. "Someone trained by the 2nd Grand Knight herself, River... You're a little rusty, aren't you? Didn't even sense me coming."

Her expression froze. She blinked at him. "H-How do you know that...?"

Rick just chuckled softly — a sound far too knowing. "I just do," he replied coolly.

With unnatural grace, he vaulted over the back of the couch and landed beside her like a shadow melting into place. He moved with effortless elegance — like his limbs belonged to another era entirely — then patted the spot next to him.

Jess hesitated, brow furrowed, but eventually slid back down beside him with a tiny pout.

"Why aren't you in class?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

Rick leaned back and folded his arms, the firelight catching the edge of his smile. "I have the morning free today," he said easily. "Thought I'd spend it somewhere interesting."

His eyes met hers — bright, curious, unreadable — and Jess felt the pull again.

That odd, flickering sense of recognition.

She still didn't know who he really was.

And that made her stomach twist.

"So... you can't leave the common room?" Rick asked suddenly, the question catching Jess off guard.

She blinked, turning to him with a furrowed brow. "Excuse me?"

Rick leaned in just a little — not enough to be inappropriate, but enough to stir a flush of heat up Jess's neck. That smirk was back, effortless and sly.

"You can't leave because your husband said so?" he repeated, softer this time.

Jess bit her lip, eyes narrowing slightly. How did he know that?

"He asked me to stay here until lunch..." she said slowly, unsure why she was justifying it to him.

Rick hummed, tilting his head. "Ahh, I see. So... would you leave if I asked you to?"

Jess glanced away, suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze. Would she? It was just a question. And yet—

"I..." she hesitated, the answer not coming.

Rick didn't press her further. Instead, he shifted topics, his voice smooth and even. "So you saw Nagini, then?"

Jess turned to him again, confused by the sudden change. "Yeah, I did..."

"Strange, isn't it?" he mused aloud. "The moment you questioned her absence, she appeared."

Jess stared at him, a little stunned. Her magic fluttered beneath her skin again. What was he?

Before she could form a reply, Rick stood, brushing down his robes with casual ease. Then he extended a hand to her — palm up, inviting, not demanding.

"Come with me," he said, voice gentler now. "I want to show you something."

Jess frowned, looking from his hand to his face. What was it with this vampire? Was he seriously flirting with her?

"I'm married," she said firmly, tone laced with warning.

Rick only raised a single brow, amused but unbothered. "I'm not asking you to cheat on your husband, Princess," he said, the nickname lingering on his tongue like silk. "I just want to show you something outside the Slytherin common room."

His eyes gleamed in the firelight — not malicious, but curious. And behind that curiosity... something else. Something hidden.

Something waiting.

Biting her lip, Jess hesitated for only a second before placing her hand in his. The moment their skin touched, she felt a strange, familiar pulse — not exactly the same as Tom's, but something hauntingly close. It was warm and steady, like the beat of something ancient stirring beneath the surface. Rick smiled faintly, his crimson eyes soft in the low light of the Slytherin common room as he gently tugged her forward.

Without much resistance, Jess let herself be guided, her mind a haze of curiosity and confusion. Together, they crossed the room and moved toward the main entrance — the arched stone threshold that typically responded only to bloodline and password. She frowned as she watched him walk confidently toward the sealed doorway.

"It won't open," she said quietly, watching as the stone stood resolute, unmoving.

Rick chuckled softly under his breath, his voice like velvet laced with mischief. "How very smart of you... Locket."

She blinked in surprise. "What?"

But he said nothing more. Instead, he stepped forward and whispered something under his breath — something ancient, in a tongue older than Parseltongue itself. The stone shimmered like disturbed water, then faded, revealing the passage beyond. Jess stared, wide-eyed.

"What... what did you mean by locket?" she asked again, but Rick only turned and offered her a roguish grin.

"Come on."

And like a fool — no, like someone enthralled — she followed.

The air changed the moment they stepped beyond the boundaries of the common room. It felt colder, quieter. They ascended through the dungeons, moving past stone corridors that should've been bustling with students — but there was no one. No footsteps. No chatter. Just silence and shadows. The absence made her stomach twist with unease, but she didn't stop.

They reached the second floor, and Rick finally paused in front of a familiar doorway. Jess blinked again, realizing where they were.

"The girls' lavatory?" she asked, confused. "What are we doing here?"

Rick didn't answer right away. Instead, he placed a hand on the door and gently pushed it open, stepping inside like he owned the place. Jess followed close behind, her brow furrowing.

"This is a girls' bathroom, you know," she said, her voice low as she crossed the threshold. "You really shouldn't—"

"No one comes in here," Rick interrupted calmly, turning to face her near the central sinks. "Not anymore. Not since the ghost that haunts this place vanished."

He glanced back toward the row of sinks, his expression shifting into something far more serious — reverent, almost. Jess stepped beside him and followed his gaze.

"This," Rick said quietly, "is the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets."

Her breath hitched.

Jess stared at the sink. She'd heard the stories. Everyone had. But those were just that — stories. Legends passed down over the years. And yet... standing here now, next to this strange boy who seemed to know far too much, it all felt real.

Too real.

Her fingers hovered protectively over her stomach — not consciously, but instinctively, as if something within her sensed the weight of what stood before her. The silence hung thick in the dimly lit bathroom, the ancient stone walls holding their breath.

"Why are you showing me this?" she asked, voice barely more than a whisper, her green eyes wide, questioning.

Rick turned toward her slowly. His expression softened into something unreadable — a careful balance of warmth and something hidden beneath the surface.

"Because," he said, voice low and steady, "you deserve to know that he is not who he appears to be, Jess."

Her heart skipped.

"You've seen glimpses... haven't you?" he continued, stepping closer, eyes gleaming with subtle intensity. "Little cracks in the perfect world. The pieces that don't quite fit."

Jess hesitated, unsure what to say, and he gave her no time to dwell.

"Open it," he said simply. "You are a Parselmouth. You don't have to be the Heir of Slytherin to unlock the entrance. Harry Potter did it in his second year."

Jess bit her bottom lip, glancing back toward the sink with unease — and curiosity.

Could she really...?

She took a step closer, feeling the cool air thicken around her as if the magic in the room stirred at her presence. She took a breath, tilted her head, and hissed in Parseltongue.

"Open."

The word slipped from her lips like a whisper woven with magic. And in response, the carved porcelain basin shimmered. Grinding stone echoed through the room as the sink began to sink downward, revealing a gaping hole into shadow — ancient, untouched, and waiting.

The Chamber of Secrets was real.

And she had just opened it.

—

Far away from cabin — in a crumbling alley cloaked in centuries of forgotten spells — the Locket stepped into the waking world, disguised beneath his glamour.

The enchanted cloak hung around his shoulders like woven shadow, dulling his aura, hiding every trace of his true self. To the outside world, he was just another wizard browsing the old magical streets of Albania — not a Horcrux, not a thief of reality, not the parasite with Jess curled beside him like a dream he never wanted to end.

This wasn't Diagon Alley, with its polished windows and bustling charm. This was the alley behind the alley — the kind where doors didn't have signs, and shopkeepers didn't ask questions.

He moved with purpose, boots clicking softly on uneven cobblestones. Eyes scanned the aged signs, most written in old dialects or covered in grime, until they landed on one familiar storefront. The lettering was barely legible, but he knew it well — an old bookstore tucked between a shuttered apothecary and an even older wand repair shop.

There.

He pushed open the creaking door and stepped into the shadows beyond, the scent of musty parchment and candle smoke welcoming him in.

He had one goal.

He needed a spellbook.

Something that could scan for magical pregnancies — and perhaps confirm the impossible truth unraveling before his eyes.

The moment he stepped inside, the scent of old paper and wax polish hit him like memory. Shadows clung to the high shelves, each one groaning under the weight of forgotten knowledge. A single enchanted lantern floated lazily near the rafters, casting dim golden light across the cramped space. Dust motes danced like secrets in the air.

Behind the counter sat a hunched woman with parchment-thin skin and eyes that glinted like polished obsidian. Her wiry hair was pinned back beneath a moss-green shawl, and she watched him with the careful stillness of someone who had seen too much — and trusted even less.

The Locket stepped forward with quiet purpose, the glamour over his features holding steady. His voice, when it came, was low and smooth — spoken fluently in the native tongue of Albania.

"Excuse me," he said, giving a polite dip of his head. "I'm looking for spellbooks on magical pregnancy care."

The old woman didn't blink, didn't stir. But her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, studying him — measuring the words and the weight behind them. After a moment, she turned and gestured with one gnarled finger toward the far end of the shop, beyond the creaking staircase and a curtained alcove.

"Third aisle," she rasped in the same tongue. "Behind the red ledger bindings. If it's not been stolen yet."

He nodded his thanks and moved through the narrow passageways with precision, each step measured, purposeful. His fingers ghosted across ancient tomes — the leather bindings cracked, the titles fading in languages long buried — until he found the shelf. His eyes scanned until they caught what he needed.

Hidden between two unmarked black books was a faded tome, the title barely visible in glimmering silver ink:

"Arcane Healer's Guide to Magical Pregnancies"

His fingers curled around the spine as he slid it free, the cracked leather binding cool beneath his touch. It was heavy, solid — older than it looked. Promising.

He opened the book and carefully flipped through the fragile pages. The script was tight and written in an elegant, looping hand, annotated in the margins by long-forgotten healers. Diagrams of womb-scanning charms and advanced fetal diagnostics spread across the yellowed parchment, accompanied by detailed magical runes for use with wands or wandless enchantments.

His eyes narrowed in on one spell:

Maternus Revelare — a scanning enchantment designed to detect not only the presence of a fetus, but to read its magical core, development progress, aura resonance, and — most critically — the count of magical life signatures.

Exactly what he needed.

The adjacent page listed instructions for casting:

Requires wand precision and clear maternal access point (belly or side). Respond more accurately with paternal magical blood or magical soul resonance. Twin pregnancies may not show immediately unless performed under a silent-focused casting. No potions required. Pure spell work. Safe.

He let out a slow breath, closing the book halfway as he ran a thumb across the etched spine.

No illusion lore.

No wild theories.

Just healer magic — clean, simple, exact.

Exactly what he'd come here for.

With a final glance to ensure the shopkeeper was still seated, he tucked the tome under his arm and made his way to the counter. The weight of what he was about to confirm — or deny — pressed at the back of his mind.

He had to know.

Because whatever Jess carried... it was growing faster than expected.

And he was starting to wonder if one heartbeat had somehow become two.

Jess's eyes widened in confusion as the sink remained still — no grinding of stone, no shimmering shift of ancient enchantments. The silence in the lavatory was deafening, and her heart pounded in her chest.

"Why... why won't it move?" she whispered, stepping back slightly. "You said I could open it..."

Rick tilted his head, lips curling into a faint, knowing smirk. He didn't answer her right away. Instead, he turned toward the porcelain basin with that same unreadable calm and stepped forward.

Then, in a voice low and fluid — ancient and serpentine — he hissed.

"Open."

The word left his lips in pure Parseltongue, coiling through the air like smoke.

Jess gasped.

The sink groaned. Stone shifted and clicked, and before her eyes, the basin began to descend, spiraling away into darkness as the chamber entrance revealed itself — just like the stories. Just like the legend.

"You..." she breathed, staring at him. "You just spoke Parseltongue..."

Rick didn't deny it. He merely turned his head, casting her a sly glance over his shoulder. "Stairs," he said simply, gesturing toward the black hole in the floor.

Jess took a trembling step closer, peering down at the descending tunnel hidden beneath the lavatory. She could feel the magic now — dense, cold, ancient — like the breath of something long asleep finally stirring again.

But what stirred within her was more complicated.

He could speak Parseltongue.

And he'd never told her that before.

Her stomach tightened. A thousand questions rose behind her lips, but none of them left her tongue.

Rick extended a hand again, this time not teasing, not playful — but steady.

"Do you trust me?"

She looked at him, at the way his eyes shimmered with memory... and something else.

"I don't know," she whispered. "But I'm still here."

He smiled.

And together, they descended.

Their descent into the darkness was slow, but deliberate. The ancient staircase spiraled downward, lit only by the eerie green glow that pulsed faintly along the stone walls — as if the castle itself remembered this place, and had no intention of forgetting.

The deeper they went, the colder it became.

Jess's steps echoed quietly behind Rick's, each one laced with hesitation. She wasn't scared — not exactly — but she was unsettled. Rick wasn't like the other illusions. There was something solid about him... something real.

When they reached the base, the cavern greeted them with silence. The heavy air clung to them, and the path ahead stretched forward into the shadows — damp, glistening stone leading toward the great chamber that had lived in legend.

Jess's breath caught as her eyes fell on the massive stone door.

The carving of Salazar Slytherin's face loomed above, his expression carved in cold grandeur, the serpents curled and coiled around him like protectors.

Rick stepped forward, calm and unbothered, and raised his hand.

"Open," he hissed.

The serpents slithered away in response — not in motion, but as stone sliding over stone, ancient enchantments groaning as the door unlocked and shifted open, revealing the long, echoing corridor of the Chamber of Secrets.

Jess stared, her heart racing.

"I don't understand..." she said softly, her eyes not leaving the serpents as they settled back into place. "How can you speak it? Parseltongue isn't something you can just learn."

Rick turned toward her with that ever-steady smirk, but this time, his gaze was softer — laced with something deeper, almost fond. "There's a lot about me you don't understand yet, Jess."

Then, with no warning, he leaned down, one arm sliding behind her knees, the other around her shoulders.

She gasped as he picked her up effortlessly.

"H-Hey! What are you doing?!"

"Helping you," he said simply, and with a graceful hop, he landed across the stone ledge separating the antechamber from the tunnel below. Gently, he set her on her feet again.

Her cheeks still red, Jess adjusted herself and looked down at the long, narrow pathway ahead — water lapping gently at either side, the dim glow of ancient magic reflecting against the walls.

"Come on," Rick said, already moving forward, his hand brushing along the damp stone as they walked.

Jess hesitated for a heartbeat — then followed.

They passed through the winding tunnel, and just beyond the curve...

She stopped short.

The Chamber of Secrets lay before them in all its haunting glory.

Giant serpentine pillars lined the path like ancient sentinels, each one carved with runes and worn by time. The colossal face of Salazar Slytherin stared down at them from the far wall, its stone beard tangled in shadows.

Jess stood frozen.

The air here was heavy with age... with memory. A place not just forgotten — erased.

And yet, here she was.

"You... you brought me here?" she whispered, stunned.

Rick didn't answer at first. He just stepped beside her, folding his hands behind his back as if presenting a great museum piece.

"I wanted you to see the truth," he said finally, his voice low. "Not the one he wrapped you in. Not the illusion he tailored. But the truth beneath it all."

He looked at her, eyes gleaming in the gloom.

"Tell me, Jess... how much do you really remember?"

Jess frowned, her brows knitting together. "What do you mean?"

Rick's eyes, still full of mischief and something far deeper, held hers. "Nagini," he said carefully. "What do you remember of her?"

Her expression didn't shift at first. She folded her arms lightly over her middle — more protective than defiant. "She's Tom's snake. A living Horcrux... one he can't absorb without hurting her."

A soft, low chuckle escaped him — a sound full of irony and bitter amusement. "That's only half the truth."

Jess's frown deepened. "What are you talking about?"

"And me..." he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, his tone gentler now. "I'm not Rick."

Before she could speak again, something in the air shimmered.

Her breath caught in her throat as the glamours that cloaked him began to unravel — peeling away like silk caught in the wind. One by one, the enchantments melted off of him, until the illusion of Rick dissolved completely.

What stood in front of her now wasn't a redheaded boy in Slytherin robes.

It was him.

Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.

But not the man she knew — not her husband. No. This was the boy from the diary. The version of him forged in ink, rage, and brilliance. Still in his youth, untouched by time, and yet so devastatingly magnetic it made her breath hitch.

Jess stumbled back half a step, lips parting. "T-Tom...?"

A slow, knowing smile curved across his mouth. "Hello, my lovely wife."

Her thoughts reeled. She couldn't breathe for a moment. Everything about him was the same — and yet, wrong. Not her Tom. But still him.

"I... I don't understand..."

He stepped closer, hands folded behind his back with the elegance of a practiced aristocrat. "Normally, like every Horcrux, we despise the name we were given. It ties us to the past. Chains us to him."

He paused, then tilted his head slightly.

"But when you say it? When you call me by his name?" His voice dropped. "I love it."

Jess swallowed hard, every cell in her body aching with confusion and something else she couldn't name.

"I'm the diary," he said simply. "That's who I am. Not Rick. Not your professor husband. And this..." He gestured around them — to the serpentine chamber, the echo of enchantment still humming in the air. "This is an illusion world. I learned of it at the start of my sixth year — a hidden branch of magic I found buried in the Restricted Section. But I didn't create this world."

His eyes darkened slightly.

"He did. The Locket. He's the one who took you from the Kuran estate. The one who spun this place into reality around your sleeping mind and body."

Jess stared at him, lips parted, breath shallow.

It was too much — and not enough.

Jess stood rooted to the damp stone beneath her feet, the chill of the chamber air brushing her skin, but not enough to quiet the thundering in her chest.

"W-Why...?" she asked quietly, voice trembling through the dim green light.

The Diary stepped closer. Shadows clung to him like old promises, the echo of truth in his crimson eyes sharp and sad.

"He's the one with the most possessive behavior," he answered gently. "The Locket. He wanted you all to himself. To submit. To forget the rest of us — especially the main piece. So, he took you and wrapped you in a world of silk and shadows. One where only he exists."

Jess's lips parted, confusion rippling through her. "But... why would I believe any of this?"

"He's been manipulating your memories," the Diary said, his tone patient, low. "He had to. Otherwise, you'd remember. You'd question it. The Riddle Manor was his first move — a place you once knew, rebuilt just enough to be familiar... but that house no longer stands. Right? You know that. After rescuing the Cup, the real Riddle Manor was torn down."

Jess's brows knit together as pieces started to shift in her mind — not breaking apart, but... rearranging.

"And Nagini," the Diary added, softer now. "Think. She's not a snake anymore, is she? She's a little girl now. She calls you Mama. She chose you."

Jess inhaled sharply, her hand drifting unconsciously to her stomach — to the life growing inside her. "But I saw her... she was a snake again. She talked to Tom..."

"A fabrication," he murmured, stepping into the light at last. "A patch to fix a flaw. The Locket caught your suspicion... so he rewrote it. As long as he keeps you believing — you'll stay. But you haven't truly forgotten, Jess. You're just... buried."

She stared at him, silent. Her magic tugged toward him with aching familiarity. Her breath hitched.

"You're not just a piece of him, are you?" she whispered, the words barely audible over the distant dripping of water in the stone corridor. Her voice trembled, not with fear — but with the weight of something deeper. Recognition.

The boy before her stood in the glow of the chamber's green-hued light, no longer cloaked in illusion. His youthful form was carved from memory and shadow — sixteen, yet timeless. Crimson eyes met hers, steady and calm.

"In away yes I was the first to ever be created," he said simply, quietly. "I'm me. But I still know what we are."

He took a single step closer, hands loose at his sides, voice softening with something that felt... real.

"And I want you back in the real world — with him. The true him."

Jess's breath caught.

"I'm willing to be reabsorbed by him," he continued, gaze unwavering. "What the Locket's been doing — it isn't right. To do this to our wife... he doesn't realize he's doing more harm than anything else. And worse... it breaks the laws of magical marriage."

Jess blinked, her lips parting, the words striking a chord inside her.

"He's bonded to you," the Diary went on. "We all are — through him. And yet he's forcing this illusion on you, warping your sense of time, of self. That's not devotion. That's control. And somehow, he's getting away with it..."

His expression shifted, eyes flicking down to her belly.

"...Especially with what's happening to you here."

But he kept going, a smirk curving onto his lips — sharp, but playful. "Those passionate moments? They leaked into the real world. And I must say... I'm jealous."

Jess flushed instantly, her face going red. "Please don't—"

He chuckled lightly, the sound echoing faintly off the damp chamber walls. But behind the amusement was a thread of longing — real, raw.

"I envy him, Jess. Not for the power. Not for the illusion. But for the touch," the Diary whispered, voice low and velvet-smooth, barely above the sound of the chamber's ancient stillness. "For the part of you he's claiming... while the rest of us wait in shadows."

He stepped closer, the space between them vanishing until he was just a breath away. His hand lifted, fingers brushing the edge of her cheek, and then cupping it with a gentleness that betrayed the sharpness in his gaze. His thumb skimmed along her skin, and his presence, though young, radiated a hunger deeper than simple curiosity.

"I want to experience it too," he murmured. "After all..."

He smirked, a flicker of teasing glinting in his red eyes.

"You did make out with the Cup, didn't you?"

Jess's breath hitched. Her eyes widened, her heart thudding as heat rushed to her cheeks.

"And had two rough, passionate nights with the Locket..." he added, the amusement curling in his voice like smoke.

Her lips parted to protest, but no words came out.

"And me?" he continued, voice darkening into something far more intimate. "I want some too."

The moment stretched.

Her magic pulled toward him, fluttering with that same ancient recognition it always had when it sensed him— no matter which piece. It was electric. Real.

But then his expression shifted.

He blinked, and his eyes sharpened as he turned his head slightly, like a predator catching scent.

"...He's back," he said, more to himself than her. "I can sense him walking up to the cabin. The one he's hidden you in."

Jess's brows furrowed in alarm, but before she could speak, the Diary reached for her wrist.

"I need to get you back to the Slytherin common room. If he finds you missing — or worse, senses me — this entire illusion could collapse. And if it does..."

His grip tightened gently.

"You might not wake up."

Jess's eyes widened as he suddenly scooped her into his arms, bridal-style. "W–Wait—!"

But she never finished the sentence.

Black smoke erupted around them like a living veil, wrapping around their bodies in a pulse of magic that hummed through her bones. She gasped as the air warped, their forms vanishing into mist. Then — motion.

They flew.

Not through air... but through shadow. The Chamber blurred around them in streaks of green and black stone as they rocketed forward. The great serpentine pillars were gone in seconds, each archway sealing shut the moment they passed through it — as if locking behind them to erase any trace.

The cavern twisted, narrowed, and opened again. At the base of the old sink, the bricks shimmered once more, and the tunnel ejected them with a burst of breathless speed.

The sink snapped closed just as they cleared it.

Jess clung to him, heart racing, arms tight around his shoulders as they soared through the dungeons. No students. No portraits. Nothing stirred — as if time itself had frozen just for them. The heavy stone halls parted before the Diary's magic, the walls seeming to breathe as the entrance to the Slytherin common room shimmered into view.

It opened.

A door of green light.

They passed through, and in a blink, he gently lowered her onto the familiar leather couch by the fire — her breathing quick, her hair tousled, her mind still spinning.

The black smoke faded from around him, but he didn't move away just yet.

"It will be alright," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His voice was softer now. Steady. Real. "I promise you, Jess... I'll get you out of this."

And before she could say his name, before her hand could rise to stop him—

He kissed her.

Deeply.

It wasn't rushed — it wasn't stolen. It was claiming, and desperate, and full of something she hadn't been prepared for. Her lips parted with a quiet moan, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Then — nothing.

He was gone.

Only the scent of smoke and candlelight lingered, and her heartbeat thudding too loud in the quiet of the common room.

---

The soft crunch of leaves broke the morning hush as Locket-Tom stepped out of the shadows, the dense Albanian forest stretching behind him like a forgotten dream. The faded leather-bound book was tucked firmly under one arm, the glamoured cloak drawn tight around his form — still humming faintly with layered concealment spells.

The wards shimmered at his approach, responding to his aura with gentle pulses of welcome. No alarms. No resistance. No change.

Everything was as it should be.

He stepped through.

The soft hum of ancient Parselmagic greeted him like an old friend as he crossed the threshold. The air inside was warm, still, and pleasantly quiet — untouched since he left. No sign of movement. No hint of intrusion. His spells had held.

He set the book down on the main table with a faint thump and slipped off his enchanted cloak, placing it over the back of a nearby chair. With a flick of his fingers, the fire reignited in the hearth, casting golden light over the cabin's modest interior.

Then he moved upstairs.

Each step was measured, quiet. He wasn't in a hurry. The illusion was holding perfectly — the illusion had to be holding. Jess had been deeply asleep when he left, completely under the sway of the dream-world crafted for her.

Still... he wanted to see her.

He opened the bedroom door.

And there she was.

Exactly where he'd left her — tucked neatly beneath the quilted covers, her breathing even and slow. Her face relaxed, soft with sleep. The magic around her pulsed gently, steady as a heartbeat.

A smirk touched his lips.

He stepped closer, sitting at the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over her stomach. Slowly, he pressed down — just enough to feel the curve beneath her nightgown. The same curve that shouldn't be there.

Still there.

Still growing.

He drew back with a breath, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Then turned to the dresser and retrieved the book — the one he'd retrieved from the dark healer's alley in the Albanian magical district.

He flipped it open, scanning past the tables of contents and illustrations, until he reached the section on advanced diagnostic charms.

Maternus Revelare.
A womb-detection and magical fetal aura reading. Designed to confirm stage, health, and anomalies.

"Yes," he murmured to himself, wand already in hand. "Let's see how far you've come, my love..."

He lifted his wand slowly, fingers tightening around the familiar hilt. The pages of the book beside him whispered faintly as the cabin settled into silence once more. Only the steady crackle of the fire downstairs broke the quiet.

His voice was low and controlled.

"Maternus Revelare."

A soft hum of ancient spellwork rippled through the room. Golden light bloomed in the air above Jess's still form, concentrating into a sphere just inches above her gently rising stomach. For a moment, the magic wavered — opaque and shimmering like fog caught in sunlight — then it cleared.

The breath caught in his throat.

Inside the softly spinning bubble were two small forms, curled and glowing faintly in their watery world. Two. Not one.

Two tiny fetuses, no larger than ripe cherries or grapes, already forming distinct shapes — limbs budding, heads bowed forward in early development, pulses of light fluttering faintly where hearts were beginning to beat.

His eyes widened.

His hand trembled slightly, wand lowering but still locked in place as if he couldn't quite bring himself to look away.

"Twins..." he whispered, almost reverently. "Oh god. Twins..."

The words hung there like a spell all their own.

How? The thought echoed sharply inside him.

He'd scanned her before. He knew he had. There had only been one presence. One flicker of life nestled inside her when she first arrived. But now — now there were two, as clear and undeniable as starlight in the void.

Biting his lower lip, he took a small step backward and sank into the nearby chair, his mind reeling through timelines, through memory.

Was it from that night?

The first time they'd come together in the illusion. When she had only just arrived — barely two weeks pregnant, her body still fragile and adjusting. Their bond had been instant, overwhelming... undeniable. And what they'd done hadn't just stayed in the dream.

He remembered waking in the real world after it, sweat-drenched and raw from the magic that tied their souls. Her body had responded to it. So had his. But he hadn't questioned it then — not enough.

Now, his breath hitched again.

"...Is it possible?" he whispered, staring at the forms above her.

Could one of them be his?

And the other... from the main soul?

His eyes widened further, the thought like a knife twisting into his stomach. A crack forming in the perfect mirror of control he'd so carefully polished. The idea made his chest burn — not from jealousy, but from something deeper. Something more primal.

One child he had created.

The other... was a reminder.

That no matter how beautiful this illusion was, how carefully crafted every wall and whisper, she had still come here carrying someone else's future. A piece of the main soul — the original.

His fingers trembled slightly as he reached toward the golden bubble, though he didn't dare touch it. His heart pounded louder in his ears as he whispered, more to himself than to her, "One of them... is mine."

He swallowed hard.

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a hope. It was a truth.

He had touched her. Loved her. Claimed her. Not just in the illusion — but in ways that were now bleeding out into the real world. No matter how deeply the illusion had wrapped itself around her, the spellwork had responded to him. Had made it real. And one of the souls within her...

He leaned down, brushing his lips softly against the curve of her stomach, reverent.

"You're mine," he murmured against her skin. "You're both mine... but you..." he whispered to the child he believed was his, "I helped create you. I brought you into being."

Technically, yes — they were both fragments of the same whole. Still Tom Riddle. But this? This child... was his claim. His legacy. Not the main soul's. Not the version of himself still waiting in England, clawing at containment room doors and whispering at sealed wards.

This child was Locket-Tom's alone.

He smirked, rising slowly. Already, plans were forming in his head.

"She should visit the hospital wing..." he mused aloud, crossing the room, thinking quickly. "Poppy there. Well—an illusion of her. But real enough. Skilled enough. What would she say when she sees twins?"

The mere thought of Jess's reaction made his pulse quicken. Her shock. Her flushed cheeks. That glow in her eyes when she found out there were two. Would she cry? Laugh? Touch her stomach the way she did in her softer moments?

He had to know.

He had to see it.

Then a small sound caught his attention.

A twitch beneath the sheets. A weak shiver. He turned sharply — just in time to see Jess's head shift against the pillow, her brow creasing.

And then her hand jerked up, pressing against her mouth.

She looked green.

"Ah..."

A flick of his wand summoned the same polished silver bucket from earlier, placing it beside the bed just in time as she turned, still asleep — and threw up.

He sighed softly, though his smile didn't falter.

"Morning sickness at nine weeks. Charming."

His fingers smoothed her hair back from her clammy forehead. He whispered a soft spell — freshen breath — and cast another to soothe the nausea. She relaxed again, her body slumping back against the mattress.

He brushed her cheek lightly. "Maybe I'll bring you a ginger tonic before I take you to Poppy... That sounds like something you'd love."

And with that, he reached for the book again, flipping to the next chapter — already preparing.

---

The midday sun filtered softly through the grand kitchen windows of the Kuran Estate, bathing the room in a warm golden hue. Outside, birds flitted between the trees, and the gentle sway of enchanted garden blooms filled the air with faint traces of lavender and mint.

Inside, the kitchen was calm. Peaceful, but subdued.

Amara sat at the head of the table, her teacup nestled between graceful fingers, its delicate porcelain catching the light. Her long silver-blonde hair was pinned back in soft waves, and her expression, while composed, carried the weight of someone far older than she appeared.

Nagini sat across from her in one of the smaller chairs — silent, still, her small hands curled tightly around the edge of the table. Her chin was propped against her folded arms as she stared out the window, her large, dark eyes glassy with thought.

Dawn moved quietly around the kitchen in the background, humming softly to herself as she prepared lunch — a rich tomato stew brewing in the pot, the scent curling comfortingly through the room. She stirred with the grace of long practice, though her shoulders were tense.

Amara's eyes flicked to Nagini.

The child hadn't spoken much since breakfast. She hadn't wanted her usual treats. No spells. No questions. Just that quiet, faraway stare.

She missed her mama.

The promise whispered in her dreams — the one made by a sixteen-year-old boy with too-old eyes — lingered behind her gaze.

"Don't tell anyone... not yet..."

So she hadn't.

Amara gave her a soft smile, voice gentle as she reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "I'm sure the others will find her, little one. Your mama's strong. She's just... lost right now."

Nagini only nodded, eyes never leaving the window.

But then Amara paused mid-sip of her tea. Her fingers tightened faintly around the handle.

Something...

A ripple. A pull in her core magic.

She straightened in her chair, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The subtle hum that threaded the estate's oldest spells — wards wrapped around Kuran blood, centuries-deep — had changed.

Faintly.

Quietly.

But undeniably.

She set the teacup down and rose to her feet.

"Dawn," she said, not loud, but firm.

Dawn glanced up from the pot, instantly alert. "You feel it too?"

Amara nodded once. "The tapestry room."

Nagini looked up, confused but curious. Her eyes followed Amara's form as she moved toward the door, her silken emerald robes trailing behind her like whispered magic.

The tapestry room — sacred, ancient, and enchanted — recorded only the truth of bloodlines and family fates.

And something... had shifted.

Dawn didn't hesitate. The spoon slipped from her fingers into the stew with a soft splash as she flicked her wand, muting the stove's flame. A protective charm shimmered over the pot, keeping the heat steady in her absence.

She wiped her hands quickly on a towel, grabbed her wand, and followed Amara out of the kitchen without a word.

Nagini remained behind, still watching the window, though her little eyes flicked toward the open door — brow furrowed. She could feel it too. A subtle weight in her chest, like the air pressing inward just slightly.

Upstairs, the corridor of the old wing grew cooler.

The walls here were carved with ancient stone, veined with dormant runes and inlaid silver threading that pulsed only under direct Kuran magic. Their footsteps echoed softly on the marble floors as they climbed. The stairwell curved toward the eastern wing, where the oldest rooms were hidden behind spellwoven doors.

At the end of the long hall, the tapestry room waited.

The door was tall, dark mahogany, and enchanted to reveal itself only to those of Kuran blood. Amara raised a hand, palm glowing faintly with green-gold magic, and pressed it flat to the wood.

The door unraveled like threads being pulled from fabric, vanishing without a sound.

They stepped inside.

The room was quiet. As always.

The ceiling stretched high above, draped in floating silks that shifted with unseen breezes. Candles flickered in floating sconces, casting long shadows over the massive tapestry that adorned the far wall — a living portrait of Kuran bloodlines.

Threads shimmered and moved, names glowing faintly beneath each ancestor. Generations wound down and branched out like a family tree carved from starlight.

Dawn inhaled slowly, her eyes scanning the familiar strands. "Nothing's flickering. No frays..."

Amara took another step forward, her gaze sharpening. "No. But something's been added."

And there it was.

A new thread.

Faint, but alive.

Two new lines gently spun from Jess's glowing name — not just one.

Dawn's breath hitched audibly. "She... she's having twins."

Amara didn't move. Her brows drew slightly together, the regal calm on her face giving way to a shadow of confusion.

"That's impossible... We would have sensed that before." Her voice was soft but firm, layered with quiet concern. "The wards... they should've shifted earlier. Unless..."

"Unless her magic has been muted somehow," Dawn finished, glancing at her mother-in-law, unease rising in her chest. "Or the room is doing something to her."

Amara nodded slowly, eyes never leaving the glowing strands. "We thought she was just sealed in... but this is more than stasis."

A pause passed between them, heavy with unspoken worry.

"She's alive," Amara said quietly, eyes fixed on the glowing threads beneath Jessica's name. "But something... something has changed."

The tapestry shimmered faintly under the late morning light, casting its glow across the polished floors of the ancient Kuran room. Jess's name pulsed steady — and beneath it, two soft threads had emerged. Not one. Two.

Dawn's fingers tightened on the edge of the tapestry's wooden frame. "They weren't there before," she whispered. "That second thread... it wasn't there yesterday."

Beside them, Nagini's silence finally broke.

"It's the Locket..."

Both women turned toward her, startled — not by the words, but by the certainty in her voice.

Nagini stood perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her little dress. Her dark hair framed her face, and her eyes — those deep, knowing eyes — were fixed on the glowing lines before them.

"He did something to Mama," she said. "That's why she's carrying twins now."

Dawn took a step closer. "Nagini... how do you know this? You've said things before but—"

"I've known," she said quietly. "Since the night she disappeared."

She looked up at them, her voice soft but steady.

"There's something I haven't told you. Because I promised the Diary I wouldn't. He said he needed more time — that telling too soon might ruin everything. But now..."

Her small shoulders lifted in a slow breath.

"I think I have to say it."

Amara crouched slightly, folding her arms and leveling her gaze. "Go on."

Nagini swallowed hard.

"They aren't in the containment room anymore," she said. "You already know that. You saw it. But that's not just because the Locket escaped."

She paused.

"He took Mama with him. And the Diary. But Mama didn't leave awake."

Dawn's eyes widened.

Nagini continued.

"He used a spell... a special kind of illusion. He made a world — not here, not there — just for them. Just for him and Mama. He's feeding off the magic that was left behind, twisting it to keep her inside. But she doesn't know. She thinks she's awake. She thinks she's living her life."

Amara's face was stone. She said nothing. Not yet.

"In that world... they're together," Nagini said. "And she's already weeks along. She doesn't know it's not real. But the pregnancy is still growing here too."

She pointed at the tapestry. "That's how I know. And the Diary knew it would happen eventually. That it would bleed into the real world."

Dawn pressed a hand over her mouth. "Two babies..."

Nagini nodded.

"One of them might be his."

Amara turned toward the glowing names on the tapestry again, her jaw clenched.

"And the Diary?"

Nagini's voice softened.

"He's still with her. He said he'll bring her back. When it's safe. When she's strong enough to remember."

A long silence followed.

Then Amara said firmly, "We have to tell Tom."

---

Far across the sea, hidden deep within the rolling green hills of Ireland, the wind rustled the tall grass like whispers from the earth itself. A narrow dirt path wound between the fields, leading toward an old stone cottage nestled against the base of a gentle slope. Its roof was shingled with slate, half-covered in creeping moss, and a small green door stood bright against the weathered white exterior. Though it appeared abandoned to the untrained eye, magic clung to the land like morning mist.

Tom led the way through the grass, his coat fluttering lightly in the breeze. His eyes were sharp and distant, lost in thought, until he finally spoke.

"I should warn you," he said calmly, glancing over his shoulder at Jareth and Severus. "A family of leprechauns watches over this place. It's part of an old agreement. They are a nice for leprechauns."

Jareth raised a brow, hands in the pockets of his black jacket. "Charming."

Severus, dressed in a dark gray sweater and matching slacks, rolled his eyes. "Wonderful. Misleading directions and spontaneous explosions. Just what I needed today."

Tom smirked faintly, but his expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't worry. They like me."

He stopped at the front door, pausing for a moment. The silence was oddly heavy, as though the land itself was holding its breath. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small charm carved from polished stone — a token, gifted years ago. He placed it on the doorframe and whispered something in Parseltongue. A soft shimmer passed over the door, and it creaked open.

Inside, the cottage was warm and quiet, sunlight spilling through small windows onto a modernized but rustic interior. Wooden beams lined the high ceiling, and the scent of dried herbs clung faintly to the air. The kitchen was sleek yet simple, filled with touches of greenery, while the adjoining room held a pair of green-cushioned sofas facing a fireplace that had just started to crackle to life.

Tom stepped inside first, his gaze scanning the space instinctively. "They've kept it just as I left it."

Jareth followed, pulling off his jacket as he looked around. "This place is actually... nice. You could've mentioned it wasn't a dungeon."

"I like to keep some places secret," Tom said coolly.

Severus shut the heavy wooden door behind them with a soft click, his sharp eyes sweeping the room like a predator. "She isn't here either..." he muttered, his voice low with frustration. "Your Horcrux knows how to disappear."

Tom's frown deepened. His jaw tightened for a beat before he whispered, "Mary."

There was a soft pop — sharp and clean, like air being cut in half — and in the center of the living room appeared a small figure no taller than the kitchen counter. Draped in a patchwork vest and brown breeches, stood a female leprechaun, arms crossed and face unimpressed. she had her red bright hair tiped up in a bun with bright green eyes and slight green skin.

"Well, well, well," she drawled, her accent thick and whimsical. "If it isn't the Dark Lord himself. Back from the dead again, are we?"

Tom sighed. "Mary, please..."

Her mossy green eyes narrowed.

He stepped forward a little, his tone gentling as he asked, "Has another version of me been here? Someone who looks like me... but older, and with a girl — raspberry red hair, about this tall—" he gestured mid-chest.

Mary blinked once. Her gaze sharpened.

"No," she said slowly. "No one but you's come to this house since last spring. And certainly not with a girl like that."

Tom's face shifted, something in his chest tightening. He looked away, jaw clenching briefly.

"Why?" Mary asked, softer this time, sensing something was off.

Tom's voice came low, almost hollow.

"A soul piece of mine has kidnapped my wife."

Even Mary — mischievous, sharp-tongued Mary — went quiet at that. Her posture straightened, the levity gone from her expression.

"Oh, Tom..." she whispered.

A shrill ringtone cut through the quiet cabin, sharp and abrupt. Mary yelped, nearly tripping over her own boots as she jumped back. "By the stars!" she exclaimed, clutching her chest. "A Muggle device... I never thought I'd see the day you used one, Dark Lord or not."

Tom exhaled a long breath and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the slim black phone. Its screen glowed faintly in the dim room, the name blinking across it catching his attention instantly.

He answered with a sharp, "What?"

A soft voice came through, small and familiar. "Papa..."

He froze. "Nagini...?" he said, startled. "Whose phone are you using?"

"Nana's," came her gentle reply. "Papa, you need to come home... It's Mama. There's something you need to hear — in person."

Tom's brows furrowed as his throat tightened. Something in her tone felt wrong. Off. Urgent.

His voice softened. "Alright. We'll leave tomorrow morning. These two are getting tired," he added, casting a glance toward Jareth and Severus.

Snape gave an exaggerated sneer from the armchair where he sat, clearly over the side quest. "How very gracious of you to notice," he muttered.

Jareth just chuckled behind him. "I second the vote to sleep in a proper bed tonight."

Tom didn't respond. His mind was already turning. Fast.

Something had happened. And it was time to go home.

Mary blinked in surprise, then clapped her small hands together with a sharp pop. "Well then... Family!"

In a flurry of shimmering magic, over ten leprechauns appeared throughout the cabin, popping into existence like sparks from a wand. Some were tall and wiry, others short and round, and several were children with mischievous grins and wild, copper hair. They filled the space instantly with warmth and noise.

"We have guests staying with us," Mary announced, straightening her patchwork vest with an air of importance. "This place does belong to the Dark Lord here—" she gestured to Tom with a smug tilt of her chin, "—who was kind enough to let us stay on these grounds."

She turned to him then, hands on her hips, expression softening. "Now then. Rest. You three look like you've been hexed sideways. I'll make my famous stew. And try not to drink Grandpa's Irish whiskey..."

Her gaze flicked to the far corner where a squat, red-nosed leprechaun with a shock of white hair was already tipping back a carved wooden flask.

"He made it extra strong this year."

The old leprechaun hiccupped, wobbling on his feet with a grin that showed off three missing teeth. "I-it's not strong! It's p-perfect!"

"You're already drunk, you old leprechaun!" Mary barked, snatching the flask from the elder's hand with a quick, practiced swipe of her small fingers. The old leprechaun hiccupped indignantly and stumbled into a chair, muttering under his breath as the others chuckled.

Tom stood with his arms folded across his chest, eyes scanning the room with that unreadable calm he wore so well. He didn't smile, but something about the corners of his mouth hinted at a restrained smirk — as if the chaos reminded him, faintly, of home.

Jareth let out a rich chuckle as he shrugged off his coat, glancing around the room with ease. "Well, at least there's some hospitality here. Even if it's tiny and shouting."

Severus, meanwhile, looked one sigh away from vanishing entirely. He slipped to the far corner, folding himself into an armchair like a shadow melting into the upholstery, and muttered something about madness and stew under his breath.

Mary turned back to Tom, brushing her curls from her face. "One day, you must bring your wife here," she said with a smile, genuine warmth in her voice now. "She sounds lovely. And I'll admit, I'm still surprised you finally settled down."

Tom's gaze softened just slightly.

Mary clapped her hands again. "Now sit. Minni's already started the fire stove for warmth, and the stew's nearly on."

The air filled with the sound of crackling wood and bubbling broth as the family of leprechauns bustled about in the kitchen. For a moment — just a fleeting moment — there was comfort in the chaos.

But even that comfort couldn't distract Tom for long.

---

The fire crackled softly in the Slytherin common room, casting dancing shadows across the green velvet furnishings and serpent-carved mantels. Jess sat curled on one end of the long leather couch, knees pulled up beneath her, eyes fixed on the flames. But there was no comfort in their warmth today.

Because none of it was real.

The thoughts swirled, quieter than usual but no less heavy. The common room, the flickering sconces, the ripple of enchantments in the air — it was all too perfect. She had been ignoring the signs for weeks. Letting herself believe. Letting herself feel...

But now?

Now she knew.

And she had to play along.

Her fingers idly rubbed small circles against the soft bump beneath her shirt, grounding herself. This part was real. Somehow, impossibly, the baby — or babies — were growing with her even beyond the illusion. Her magic hummed with it.

A sound broke her focus — the shuffle of shoes across stone. She looked up, blinking.

Finally, a few students drifted into the common room — Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, oddly enough. Strange, but she didn't question it. Not out loud. One or two waved. One whispered and giggled. The illusion had clearly caught up to make it seem alive again.

And then she saw him.

The familiar figure approaching with unhurried steps, his posture relaxed and charming. That signature smile pulled at his lips as he neared her — the one she had memorized too well.

The Locket.

Tom.

"Afternoon, my love," he greeted smoothly, bending just enough to place a kiss on her temple. "Before lunch, I was thinking we could go see Poppy for a check-up. It's been a while since you had one."

Jess blinked, forcing a small smile as she looked up at him.

"Of course," she said gently, her voice even. "That sounds... like a good idea."

Inside, her thoughts spun like threads tangled in a loom. Poppy Pomfrey. Would this version of her know what was happening? Could she help? Would she help? Or was she just another illusion — another finely stitched piece of this beautifully crafted lie?

No.

The diary had made it clear. Crystal clear.

This world was nothing but a fabrication. A fantasy conjured by the Locket — meticulously built, painfully perfect... and entirely false.

Still, Jess rose from the couch, smoothing her hand over her bump out of instinct rather than need. The motion was slow, thoughtful. She reached for his hand — his illusioned hand — and felt the soft pressure of fingers lacing through hers.

He didn't take her hand.

He took her arm — like a gentleman, like a husband — gently guiding her toward him.

"You okay?" he asked softly, searching her face. "You look sad..."

Jess glanced up at him. The warmth in his expression was convincing. Too convincing. It made her heart ache in strange ways — not because it was real, but because a part of her still wanted it to be.

"I've been feeling sick," she replied, keeping her voice quiet. "Just... a crappy pregnancy day."

His hand instinctively rubbed her back as they walked, concern written across every line of his face. But to her... it was scripted. Perfectly acted.

She kept walking anyway. Because for now, the only way out — was through.

The castle was quiet again as they walked, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly against the stone floors. Jess's fingers curled loosely around the crook of Tom's arm, her eyes trained ahead even though her thoughts spun elsewhere. Every wall, every painting, every suit of armor — it was all just a painting in a frame. A mimicry of home. Of Hogwarts.

And the man beside her?

She didn't dare look at him too long.

He looked like her husband. Spoke like him. Smiled with that smooth, dark confidence that always used to make her weak in the knees. But now? Now it felt like shadow puppetry — too smooth. Too polished.

"This won't take long," he said gently, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "Just want to be sure everything is progressing nicely. You've been feeling sick lately, haven't you?"

Jess nodded once, tight-lipped. "Yeah. A pretty crappy pregnancy day," she echoed.

He hummed, opening the heavy doors of the hospital wing for her.

Madam Pomfrey — or rather, the version of her this illusion had conjured — was already waiting near one of the beds, adjusting a tray of potions. Her appearance was just as Jess remembered from her Hogwarts years: tightly pinned hair, healer's robes, and a warm but no-nonsense energy.

"Oh, there you are," the matron said briskly, offering a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Come, dear. Sit up here — let's take a look at that little one, hmm?"

Jess sat slowly on the edge of the bed, glancing at Tom who stood nearby, arms folded, expression calm and unreadable. Just like always. Too much like always.

Pomfrey hummed a tune under her breath as she lifted her wand and murmured an incantation. A soft golden light glowed above Jess's stomach, and slowly... a shimmer formed.

Two tiny, grape-sized shapes curled side by side — floating in the bubble of magical projection.

The healer blinked. Then blinked again. "Well," she said, a note of surprise coloring her voice. "Would you look at that. Twins."

Jess's heart skipped.

She looked at the illusion-Tom — who blinked once, slowly, but otherwise said nothing.

"Oh," Jess murmured, feigning shock, pressing her palm gently to the bump. "I thought there was just... one."

Pomfrey chuckled, tapping her wand again to run another diagnostic. "No, no. There are two. Healthy heartbeats. Wonderful growth for nine weeks along. But you need to rest more, dear. No stress, no overexertion, and drink the tonic I gave you each morning."

Jess nodded slowly, her hand still hovering over the soft rise of her stomach, but her eyes never strayed from the glowing projection. The shapes were clear. Distinct. Two tiny figures nestled in the safety of her womb, their faint outlines curling in on themselves like delicate blossoms still waiting to open.

Two.

The diary had been right. This illusion wasn't just a dream or a spell-crafted fantasy. It was affecting her — bleeding out into the real world, leaving traces behind in her body and magic. It defied everything she knew about enchantments and soul fragments. And yet... there it was. Right in front of her.

Real.

Impossibly, dangerously real.

And she had to get out.

She felt him before he even touched her — the shift in the air, the quiet hum of magic she was beginning to distinguish from the true Tom's presence. When his hand settled on her shoulder, it was warm, familiar, even gentle.

But not his.

"Twins...!" he said, a soft breath of surprise that carried an almost boyish laugh. "Well, that's a shock."

Jess blinked up at him slowly, schooling her features into something that looked like warmth, like wonder.

He leaned in just slightly, eyes fixed on the golden projection. "Looks like the nursery back home will need a bit of an update, hm? Two bassinets instead of one... double the toys, the clothes..."

He chuckled low under his breath, and Jess managed a small sound — a hum that might've passed for agreement.

But her thoughts were already slipping away, calculating, reaching. The diary said it would help her. That it would wait for the right moment. And now, with confirmation that this illusion wasn't just mental — that it had consequences, physical ones — she realized time was running out.

She let her fingers brush over the magical image once more, then let her hand drop to her lap, her eyes finding his again.

"Guess we'll have our hands full," she murmured softly.

"More love to go around," he replied, smiling.

Jess nodded, keeping her expression smooth even as her heart raced behind her ribs.

Yes. She had to get out.

And now, more than ever, she had something to fight for.

Two somethings.

The halls of Hogwarts carried that familiar buzz as the lunch hour approached — distant chatter, clinking dishes, laughter echoing off high enchanted ceilings. Jess walked quietly at Tom's side, his hand resting at the small of her back with practiced affection. Her mind, however, felt anything but still. The check-up had confirmed it again: twins. A detail so impossible it screamed for reality beneath the illusion's veil.

They stepped into the Great Hall, where the long tables stretched out in orderly rows beneath the charmed sky, today a soft, cloudy gray. Jess's steps slowed instinctively. Her eyes swept across the tables as they passed — Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, then Slytherin.

She froze.

There, seated near the end of the Slytherin table, Harry Potter sat beside Draco Malfoy, the two sharing quiet conversation over their plates. Draco gestured with a roll, and Harry was halfway through an exaggerated eye-roll when he spotted her.

Jess stared.

Harry. Still unmistakably him, though dressed in the green-and-silver of Slytherin. The illusion had placed him here, beside Draco — still a couple, just as they were in the real world. But this Harry wasn't real. He couldn't be.

And yet, when he saw her, he smiled.

"Hey Jess, what's up?" he greeted casually.

Jess's lips parted, her breath catching slightly. She managed a small smile, then spoke — not in English, but in Parseltongue. Soft, fluid, like silk sliding through stone.

"H-how's your godfather? Have he and Rodolphus set up a date yet?"

Behind her, Tom's steps faltered. He didn't speak, didn't interrupt — but she could feel the shift in his energy. The subtle twist of annoyance. A flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

Harry blinked at her for a moment, then returned her smile, responding in Parseltongue with a slight shake of his head. "No, not yet."

Jess nodded slowly, then tilted her head. "And you and Draco? Are you both okay? I hope Ron's not still accusing you of being hexed or potioned."

Behind her, Tom didn't move, didn't correct her. But Jess could feel his presence sharpening. Listening more closely now.

Harry blinked once. Then let out a short laugh, just sheepish enough to feel convincing.

"Nah," he said in Parseltongue, shaking his head. "He's chilled out. Took him a bit, yeah, but... he's good now. Still gets twitchy if Draco sits too close, though."

A near-perfect answer.

Too perfect.

Jess gave a slow, measured nod. Her smile stayed in place, but a flicker of unease settled deeper in her chest. That answer had been... polished. As if the world itself had adjusted around her question in real time — rewriting memory to fit the story.

That's when she knew.

He's watching me closer now. Adjusting things based on what I say. Maybe even listening through the illusion.

She gently squeezed Harry's shoulder. "That's good," she said softly, switching back to English.

Then turned to follow Tom again, her stomach twisting with quiet determination.

The Locket had passed her little test.

But now Jess had proof — this world could react. Could evolve.

Which meant it could be broken.

Jess eased into her seat at the High Table, the enchanted ceiling above reflecting soft afternoon light. The murmurs of the students echoed below, but her focus narrowed to the warm bowl in front of her — chicken noodle soup, just the way she liked it. Simple, comforting. A flicker of warmth touched her expression.

She smiled gently, her voice laced with soft surprise. "Did Cherry make this, Tom? I haven't seen her."

She hadn't meant much by it. The question slipped out before she had the chance to second guess it — but the response was instant.

Tom froze.

It was slight — the way his spoon paused just above his plate, how his eyes didn't blink right away. Jess caught the stillness, the sudden stiffness behind his pleasant mask.

"Cherry?" he echoed carefully, his tone far too neutral.

The name hadn't registered.

Not immediately.

Jess's heart gave a soft, warning thud in her chest.

Tom's brow twitched, just barely. "Cherry...?" he repeated, slower this time, as if tasting the word, testing it.

She blinked at him, the smile beginning to fade. "Tom? You okay?"

He looked at her — eyes narrowing just slightly, as though recalculating something. Then he laughed, smooth and practiced, the kind that tried to cover uncertainty.

"Of course, love. I just... didn't expect you to bring up Cherry. She hasn't been around much lately, has she?" he said, voice casual — but she felt it. The falter. The scrambling beneath the surface.

Jess smiled faintly, but her stomach twisted.

He didn't know who Cherry was.

Not really.

He adjusted. Adapted. Covered.

But for a moment — a flicker of a second — the illusion had cracked again.

She reached for her spoon, giving the soup a stir, though her appetite was fading.

Keep playing along, she reminded herself. Keep smiling. Keep watching.

Because the moment he truly slipped — the moment he couldn't cover the cracks fast enough — that would be the moment she'd strike.

"Uncle Sev?"

Jess's voice was light, sweet as honey drizzled into tea, but beneath that warmth was something pointed — a quiet blade wrapped in silk. She turned toward the man sitting beside her, her eyes soft with familiarity.

Severus lifted his gaze, his fork pausing midway between plate and mouth. "Yes, Jess?" he said, his tone neutral, but his eyes studied her a little too long. As if he were reaching for something just beyond memory's grasp.

She gave a playful little smile, the kind that always coaxed a story from him when she was younger. Her fingertips brushed lightly across the linen tablecloth, and she leaned in, lowering her voice just enough to sound conspiratorial. "Can you tell me how you met..." She giggled softly, cheeks tinged with amusement. "Lily. I've always loved that story."

It was a test — another thread pulled against the seams of this too-perfect world.

And it landed like a stone dropped in still water.

Tom, seated beside her, froze. His hand hovered midair, just inches from his goblet. The muscles in his jaw twitched. For a moment, his expression remained pleasant — too pleasant — and then it cracked.

He bit his lip.

Hard.

A whisper, low and sharp, slid past his clenched teeth.

"What the fuck."

Not loud enough for Severus to hear. But Jess did. And that was enough.

She didn't look at him. Not yet. Instead, she kept her gaze on Severus, whose brow furrowed slightly. His hands slowly lowered his silverware to the table. A pause. A flicker of something behind his eyes. Not confusion — no, not exactly. More like he was waiting for a cue he hadn't been programmed with.

As if he wasn't real enough to remember.

As if the Locket hadn't bothered to fill in the memory she'd just asked about.

Tom's hand reached across, covering hers gently — deceptively.

"Jess, love," he said, voice carefully smooth, dipping into that low register she'd once associated with tenderness. "Eat your soup. For you and the twins."

Jess's spine straightened slightly. She turned toward him, slowly, her expression unreadable.

Twins.

He said it with such practiced ease, as if it had never been a secret. As if it wasn't something she'd only learned this morning.

Across from them, Severus stiffened.

"Twins?" he repeated, his voice quieter than before — almost flat, but with the slightest edge of something... wrong.

Jess looked back at him, watching the way his dark eyes flicked between her and Tom, calculating. Like he was trying to align pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit.

"No," she murmured softly, staring at Tom now. "You didn't tell me."

That was the truth. And her words hung there — brittle and bare — suspended in the space between the illusion and her rising doubt.

Tom's smile strained, just slightly, the warmth behind it cooling by a few degrees. But he didn't correct her. He didn't apologize. Instead, he reached for his own spoon and stirred his untouched soup with idle precision.

Jess finally looked back down at her bowl, the scent of herbs and steam rising like a gentle fog. But it didn't comfort her. The moment had passed, but the unease lingered.

Because she wasn't sure what disturbed her more — the cracks in the illusion, or how much effort he was putting into holding them together.

You're unraveling, she thought silently.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Jess felt her strength return — a tiny ember igniting in her chest.

She'd play along.

But not for much longer.

She stood up so abruptly the bench groaned beneath her, dragging a long, grating echo across the stone floor. The suddenness of it startled several nearby students — forks froze halfway to mouths, goblets paused mid-sip. The murmur of lunch in the Great Hall faded like a fading breeze, leaving a hollow quiet in its wake.

Tom looked up at her, his brow furrowing. "Jess, what are—"

He didn't get to finish.

The soup bowl in her hand was warm against her trembling fingers, the steam still curling from its surface — a carefully prepared comfort in a world built entirely on lies.

She poured it.

The liquid hit his chest with a smack, splashing hot broth down the crisp lines of his tailored black shirt. Droplets sprayed across the polished table, soaking into napkins, splattering bits of chicken and herbs onto his untouched plate. The moment was so sudden, so violent in its quiet fury, that the entire hall collectively forgot to breathe.

Gasps rippled through the students. Plates were set down. Severus blinked at her. Draco's mouth fell open. Even the enchanted ceiling above seemed to dim.

And then, without hesitation, Jess let the bowl drop.

It clattered across the table's smooth surface — bouncing once, then twice — before it teetered to the edge and fell. The sound of it shattering on the stone floor rang out like a bell. Final. Jarring. Unmistakable.

Jess didn't look at him.

Didn't glance once at the soup now soaking his shirt. Didn't turn to see the stunned expressions following her every move. Her shoulders were squared, hands fisted at her sides. Her heart thundered in her ears. Every step she took away from the High Table echoed like thunder in her chest.

She could feel his stare burning into her spine.

"JESSICA!"

His voice bellowed across the Great Hall, shaking the walls, crackling with a possessive edge that might've once thrilled her.

But not now.

Now, it made her skin crawl.

She kept walking. Faster. Her boots struck the floor with heavy, urgent strides. Her braid swung behind her like a crimson banner of rebellion. A few students leaned back in their seats to avoid her path, wide-eyed and whispering, but she didn't see them. Her vision blurred — not from magic, but from tears that threatened to break free.

No.

Not yet.

She pushed open the tall oak doors and stepped into the corridor, the noise of the Great Hall slamming shut behind her like a door to a cell.

The breath she'd been holding slipped out of her lips in a broken gasp.

Every fiber of her ached. Her heart, her head, her soul — all straining against the invisible threads of this illusion. She had tried. Tried to believe. Tried to give herself fully, because she wanted to trust him — but it was a lie. Every smile, every kiss, every whispered promise had been soaked in illusion.

And now?

Now she only wanted to be with the one who had never lied.

The one who knew the truth and didn't try to hide it behind silk and scripted fantasy.

The Diary.

Her footsteps echoed through the corridors as she fled — not in fear, but in grief.

Grief for the part of herself that had believed she could be happy here.

She didn't stop walking. Not until she felt her magic pulsing outward, desperate to find him.

Not the Locket.

Him.

Her flats echoed sharply against the cold stone as she reached the second-floor corridor, heart still thudding with too many emotions to name. Fury. Grief. Longing. The ache of betrayal twisting into something unshakable.

The familiar, forgotten door loomed ahead — the entrance to the abandoned girls' lavatory, where whispers spoke of ghosts and secrets. Jess's hand reached out before she fully realized what she was doing, fingers curling around the worn brass handle. She pushed the door open.

The hinges creaked softly.

Cool, stale air greeted her — the scent of water, mildew, and old stone lingering in the shadows. The bathroom was dim, only one lantern flickering above the cracked mirrors. She stepped inside.

But before her foot could fully touch the tile—something shifted.

The air warped.

A soft rush of wind coiled around her ankles, then up her legs, cold as a grave's breath. Her eyes widened.

Darkness, thick and swirling, bled into the corners of the room. Inky tendrils slithered along the walls and dropped from the ceiling like smoke reversed. The mirrors fogged instantly. The sink cracked down the center.

Jess spun, reaching for the door—only to see it vanish.

The floor pulsed under her feet.

A soundless hum filled her ears, louder and louder, until it became everything.

"No—" she managed, breath catching in her throat.

And then the black swallowed her whole.

A sudden, final silence.

Everything went dark.