Dumbledore was getting desperate.
Harry could see it now—the subtle ways the old man tried to manipulate him. The concerned glances, the soft words, the deliberate attempts to guide him toward the "right" people.
But Harry wasn't stupid.
And the more Dumbledore pushed, the more Harry pushed back.
It started with Granger.
She cornered him outside the library, books clutched tightly to her chest, her expression filled with that unbearable self-righteousness.
"Harry, I need to talk to you," she said, voice too forceful to be a request.
Harry sighed. "You could have just written me an essay instead."
She scowled. "This is serious!"
Harry crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Oh, I know. But go on, Granger, let's hear your concern."
She hesitated, then lowered her voice. "You're changing."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "And?"
"And you're in Slytherin!" she hissed, like it was a curse. "You're associating with people who—"
"Who what, Granger?" Harry cut in, his voice sharper now. "Who don't let Dumbledore control them? Who actually think for themselves?"
She faltered. "That's not what I—"
Harry leaned in slightly, smirking. "But that is what you meant, isn't it?"
Granger flushed. "I just—" She straightened, gathering herself. "Dumbledore is worried about you, Harry."
Harry's smirk vanished.
Of course he was.
Because Harry wasn't falling in line like a good little soldier.
"Well," Harry murmured, turning away, "he should be."
And he left her standing there, speechless.
Weasley was worse.
Because Weasley wasn't just talking anymore.
Weasley was acting.
And that was his biggest mistake.
Harry had been walking to the common room when it happened. A sharp tug on his shoulder, a shove—too forceful, too deliberate—sending him stumbling back into the wall.
Harry barely had time to react before Weasley was in his face, fists clenched, eyes burning with hatred.
"You traitor," Weasley spat.
Harry blinked, lips curling. "Excuse me?"
"You think you're better than us now?" Weasley's voice was shaking, his face red with fury. "You think you're some Slytherin prince, walking around like you own this place?"
Harry tilted his head. "I do own this place."
That was the last straw.
Weasley swung.
And that was his biggest mistake.
Because before his fist could even touch Harry—
The shadow moved.
It wasn't human.
It wasn't natural.
One second, Weasley's hand was aiming for Harry's face, and the next—
Something dark wrapped around his wrist, stopping him mid-motion.
The hallway went silent.
Harry's breath caught.
Because the shadow was real now—solid, wrapping itself around Weasley's arm like black smoke, twisting, tightening.
Weasley screamed.
The pressure was suffocating, crushing—like something ancient and unforgiving had decided that Ronald Weasley was no longer worthy of existing.
Harry should have been scared.
But he wasn't.
Because he knew.
Death had stopped it.
Death had protected him.
And then—
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell knocked Weasley back, the shadow vanishing as Theo stepped in, wand raised, furious.
Harry barely had time to process before Theo was between them, his body blocking Harry completely, his voice deadly soft.
"Try that again," Theo murmured, "and they won't find your body."
Weasley gasped for breath, clutching his wrist like it was still burning. His eyes flickered with something Harry had never seen before.
Terror.
Because Weasley knew.
He had felt it.
He had touched something he shouldn't have.
Theo took a slow, dangerous step forward. "Get. Out. Of. My. Sight."
Weasley ran.
Silence.
Theo turned back to Harry, his breathing still sharp, his wand still clenched in his hand. "Are you hurt?"
Harry, feeling strangely calm, smirked. "Didn't even touch me."
Theo's jaw tightened. "That's not the point."
Harry tilted his head. "What is the point?"
Theo didn't answer.
Because they both knew what had just happened.
Something had protected Harry.
And it wasn't human.
Theo's eyes darkened, his fingers brushing against Harry's wrist, grounding him. "You're mine," he murmured, voice quiet but fierce. "Not Dumbledore's. Not his."
Harry swallowed. "Theo—"
"No." Theo's grip tightened. "You don't see it yet. You don't understand. But I do."
Harry stared at him, heartbeat unsteady. "Understand what?"
Theo exhaled sharply. "You're not just a wizard, Harry." His voice was almost reverent now, something like realization flickering behind his eyes.
"You're something more."
Harry felt the shadow curl around his ankles, unseen.
And deep inside, something in his blood whispered—
"Yes."
Harry didn't speak for a long moment.
Theo was watching him, still tense, still coiled like a viper ready to strike. The air between them was charged—too heavy, too real.
And somewhere, in the edges of the torchlight, the shadow curled around Harry's feet like a loyal beast. Silent. Waiting.
His protector.
His guardian.
Harry let out a slow breath. "You think I'm—what? Some kind of… chosen one?"
Theo's grip on his wrist hadn't loosened. "Not chosen." His voice was quiet. Steady. Sure.
"Claimed."
Harry felt something shiver through his bones.
Because he knew Theo wasn't wrong.
Something had claimed him.
And it wasn't just a title, wasn't just whispers in the dark.
It was real.
The way the shadow had moved to protect him. The way it had stopped Weasley mid-motion, like it had decided his actions weren't allowed.
That wasn't normal magic.
That was something older.
Something stronger.
Something that owned him.
Harry forced a smirk. "You sound jealous."
Theo's fingers curled tighter around his wrist. "I don't share."
And that—the raw certainty in Theo's voice, the way he said it like it was law—sent something sharp and dangerous twisting through Harry's chest.
Because Theo wasn't just possessive.
Theo was protecting something he considered his.
And the worst part?
Harry didn't hate it.
The next morning, the castle was buzzing.
The rumors had spread—Weasley's attack, the shadow that had stopped him, the way Theo had nearly cursed him into next week.
And through it all, Harry walked the halls with his usual lazy smirk, utterly unbothered.
Because he knew something the rest of the school didn't.
He wasn't just Harry Potter.
Wasn't just the Boy Who Lived.
He was something more.
And whatever had claimed him?
It wasn't going to let anyone take him.
Not Dumbledore.
Not Weasley.
No one.
Harry tilted his head, glancing at Theo as they walked together, side by side, through the shifting shadows of the dungeon corridors.
Theo was always there now.
Watching. Guarding.
Waiting.
Harry smirked. "So, what's next?"
Theo chuckled darkly. "Whatever you want, Harry."
And for the first time—
Harry felt like he meant it.