Chapter Text
June 1st, 1960.
Augustus Rookwood had many things to say about that son of a bitch Harry Potter, and none of them were good. He, for one, was not deluded about what had transpired ten years ago at the Black's disaster of a ball, so when he received a Floo call in the middle of his morning briefings at the Ministry—an alleged fight between his son and one of Potter's brats—he was almost certain it had been no accident. Trust that back-stabbing bastard to pass down his ill-tempered and prickly nature to his spawns.
Headmistress McGonagall had been irritatingly vague on the details of the fight when she'd demanded all parents rush to Hogwarts for an emergency assembly. Apparently, his presence was non-negotiable. Augustus had barely managed to reschedule two critical meetings before stepping into the fireplace, ash still clinging to his suit as he stumbled into her office.
Potter was already there. Naturally. He'd claimed the sofa across from his, expression pinched as if someone had pissed in his tea, his Auror robes rumpled and his tie hanging loose and haphazard around his neck. Draco Malfoy sat beside him, spine ramrod-straight, staring his pointy nose down at Augustus like he was something unpleasant he'd found on his shoe. Behind them stood the pair's respective sons; Scorpius with his hands nervously gripping the backrest of the sofa, Albus with his head ducked just enough to hide the smirk Augustus could practically feel radiating off the little bastard.
The only other student in the room was Edmund Lestrange, slouching against the far wall with half-lidded eyes, seemingly on the verge of dozing off. He'd tried to break up the fight, according to McGonagall's initial terse greeting, which meant Augustus had no quarrel with him. Bellatrix's son knew how to stay out of trouble, at least. Pity the same couldn't be said for the others.
"I am truly sorry to pull you all away from your duties at the Ministry," McGonagall was saying, her tone clipped and professional. "Being Head Auror is certainly no easy task, Mr Potter, and I'm sure you have many pressing matters to attend to. The same goes for you, Mr Malfoy—the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been quite busy of late, I understand."
Augustus resisted the urge to point out that his time was valuable too, but it seemed being Deputy Head of the Unspeakables didn't warrant the same courteous preamble.
McGonagall folded her hands atop her desk, mouth pressed into a thin line. "However, this meeting had to be called. Earlier this morning, the students got into what I can only describe as a barbaric brawl in the third-floor corridor."
"Oh, just a brawl?" Augustus repeated sardonically, lip curling. "My son was ambushed, you mean."
"Your son," McGonagall said, her Scottish brogue sharpening, "was engaged in a verbal altercation that escalated when young Potter took offence to certain remarks. What followed was a mutual exchange of hexes, physical violence, and enough property damage to require—"
"Mutual?" Augustus leaned forward. "He's thirteen. Potter's boy is nearly fifteen; he's got two years on him, and you're telling me—"
"The age difference is irrelevant when both parties were armed and casting spells, Mr Rookwood." McGonagall's expression could have frozen fire. "Now, as I was saying. There was property damage, some major injuries, and language that I will not repeat in civilised company."
Augustus glanced at Potter, expecting—what? Shame? Concern? Some basic flicker of parental worry?
The man had leaned back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, his hand draped over the armrest with the sort of uncaring arrogance that made Augustus’s teeth ache. The slow tap of Potter’s wand against his knee filled the silence between McGonagall’s words—a lazy percussion that only exacerbated Augustus’s irritation.
Potter looked bored.
Spectacularly, infuriatingly bored. Every time McGonagall listed another of Albus’s transgressions—cursing young Rookwood in the back, breaking his nose with a well-aimed elbow when that hadn’t been enough, nearly setting fire to a painting in the ensuing chaos—Potter blinked slowly. Like a cat interrupted mid-nap and couldn’t be arsed to care.
Augustus felt heat crawl up the back of his neck at the sheer dismissiveness of it all. He gripped his armrest tighter.
“I see,” Augustus said between clenched teeth when McGonagall finished her grim recitation. “Does Hogwarts not teach basic duelling code in Defence Against the Dark Arts? I thought hexing a turned back was frowned upon.”
Potter snorted at this, but didn’t say anything.
“It is,” McGonagall muttered, sending Albus a scathing look. "The fight drew several other students into the fray. Thankfully, Mr Lestrange had the presence of mind to intervene before things escalated further. However, by that point, Scorpius had already entered the conflict and cast several spells of his own." She paused to direct the full weight of her disapproval to the blonde. "And while I understand he only meant to defend his housemate, I have made it clear on numerous occasions that dark magic is explicitly forbidden. Now we have a portrait of Vindictus Viridian severely harmed. The frame itself was—"
"The painting wasn't Albus," Edmund suddenly piped up, straightening. "That was an accident. Rookwood's wand misfired when Scorpius hexed him."
McGonagall's annoyance rose. "Mr Lestrange, you are here as a witness, not a defence counsel."
"Just clarifying the facts," Edmund said with raised hands. "Wouldn't want anyone blamed for something they didn't do."
Draco's posture shifted almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth threatening to curve. He didn't look at his son, but there was a gleam in his eyes. Perhaps pride that his whimp of a kid actually managed to fight back for once.
Potter, on the other hand, frowned. Actually frowned, brows creasing as he finally stopped that infernal wand-tapping and turned to look at Albus properly.
"You didn't even attempt to disarm him?" Potter's voice was quiet, disappointed. "After the first curse was thrown?"
Albus's defiant expression flickered. "I was—we were focused on—"
"There’s no point starting such a mess of a fight if you’re going to allow your opponent to keep his weapon. Forget the code, that’s basic common sense." Potter shook his head, settling back into his seat like the entire conversation had exhausted him. "Sloppy."
He went back to his tapping, missing the way Albus’s face reddened with shame at being publicly criticised.
Augustus couldn’t help but stare at him too, aghast. The bastard wasn't even pretending to care about the fight itself—he was critiquing the boy’s technique. Like this was some sort of training exercise instead of a disciplinary hearing.
McGonagall seemed to be the only one in the room with enough sense to realise the lesson wasn’t getting through their thick skulls.
"Mr Potter," McGonagall said sharply, "I hardly think this is the appropriate time for tactical instruction."
Potter's wand paused for half a second. "You're right. My apologies, Headmistress."
The tapping resumed immediately, completely undermining the apology.
McGonagall tiredly rubbed her temple with a withered hand, the sleeve of her robe slipping down. “That aside, please rest assured that Madam Pomfrey is doing her best to tend to any wounds as we speak. Rookwood may return to classes very soon. As for the other two, I will be organising a week-long suspension in hopes that the next time someone insults them, they go to a professor rather than taking matters into their own hands.”
Augustus waited for Potter or Malfoy to burst out in indignation at this, but neither rejected the order.
"A week is fine," Potter said with a nod. "It’ll give Albus enough time to practise first-year disarming spells."
Albus kept looking at the floor. His hands were white-knuckled where they gripped his robes, and Augustus caught the way the boy's throat worked, swallowing hard. The rumours about Potter favouring his eldest—James, the Gryffindor, the one who actually resembled him—suddenly made a great deal more sense. This second son, the one sorted into Slytherin, the Dark Lord’s house, clearly didn't merit the effort of preserving his dignity.
“Now,” McGonagall said, steepling her fingers. “I believe we have wasted enough time—”
“With all due respect, Headmistress,” Augustus bit out, unable to stop himself, “perhaps if certain parties took their parental responsibilities more seriously, we wouldn’t be wasting said time on schoolyard scuffles.”
Potter's wand went still against his knee. Those green eyes—a vivid and unsettling emerald shade exactly like his son's—slid toward Augustus, and the scar that dominated the left side of his face suddenly turned stark in the warm afternoon light.
No one knew how he’d acquired it, but raised white lines stretched from hairline to jaw like fractures in porcelain, in mirrored glass. The main bolt cleaved through his brow, split the delicate skin of his eyelid, then splintered into a dozen smaller tributaries that webbed across his cheekbone and down his neck, disappearing into his collar. It looked like someone had shattered him. Like lightning had actually struck him and left its path burned into his skin.
“Parental responsibilities,” Potter echoed blankly. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“I’m calling it what it is,” Augustus said, trying hard not to focus on that uncanny scar. “Your boy put mine in the Hospital Wing.”
“Your boy,” Potter fired back, “called my family a joke. In front of half the school. So forgive me if I’m not particularly moved by his broken nose.”
Well, did he lie? Their family was a mess. Estranged as Potter and the Dark Lord were, what with ten years of separation and that disaster of a trial—Augustus would have called it a joke too if he wasn't terrified of the consequences.
"Perhaps your son wouldn't be so sensitive about such remarks if you'd bothered to provide him with a stable home environment," Augustus said coolly.
Draco’s face darkened. "Rookwood…"
"No, it's fine," Potter said, still in that flat, dead voice. "Let him talk."
McGonagall cleared her throat, eyeing them cautiously from behind her long oak desk. “Gentlemen,” she tried, but the plea for civility fell on deaf ears.
"He's thirteen," Augustus continued, emboldened. "What he said was thoughtless, yes, but children say thoughtless things. They don't usually respond with violence. But I can see why young Albus here would be inclined to such extreme measures." He gave Potter a deliberate look, relishing in the flare of annoyance that flashed across his features.
Before the man could quip something back, Albus lifted his head. He narrowed his eyes at Augustus.
“It wasn’t just thoughtless,” the boy hissed. “He said my dad was a disgrace to the cause. He said—” His jaw clenched. “He said things about my Father he really shouldn’t have.”
The mention of the former Minister had Augustus stiffening. Draco's brow furrowed, McGonagall’s eyes widened, and even Harry Potter’s expression froze for a split second before he forced it into something more neutral. He didn't reprimand his son for speaking out of turn, didn’t even look his way, and instead chose to stare at a random point in the wall.
Yes, he’d worn that same distant look when he’d betrayed his supposed husband too. Like he was trying to drown it all out. No wonder his son called him a disgrace to their cause—he most certainly was. Years of effort, generations of planning, all jeopardised in a single night, and while Augustus initially believed the Dark Lord was too thorough to ever make a mistake, Potter was living proof of his worst one. Why he hadn’t hacked off the man’s head was beyond him.
Augustus swiftly stood up, a disgusted expression on his face. “I will bill you the medical fees,” he said to Malfoy, ignoring Potter entirely. “The only reason I don’t press charges is due to my longstanding respect for your mother, Harry. Have a good day.”
It was a complete lie, of course. Lily Potter despised the pureblood bloc with a vitriol that made her nearly as insufferable as her son. She'd been vocal about it for years, both inside the courtroom and outside of it where she operated as an Unspeakable. Augustus respected her about as much as he respected a particularly vicious hornet's nest. But invoking her name here served a purpose. It reminded Potter exactly where he stood. Loathed by his husband, barely tolerated by his mother, caught in a political no-man's-land of his own making.
Augustus wanted Potter to feel that isolation. Wanted him to remember that for all his power as Head Auror, he had no real allies left. Besides, the real reason he couldn't press charges had nothing to do with respect for anyone. The mark on his arm burned faintly, a reminder. Levying a legal case against the Dark Lord's youngest heir would earn him nothing but trouble when He returned. Better for him to just swallow the bitter pill with his dignity still intact.
Augustus strode toward the fireplace, already reaching for the Floo powder on the mantle. Behind him, McGonagall's voice rang out again. “… Well, now that that’s settled, I'd like to inform you both that after Albus and Scorpius have served their suspensions, all three boys will be assigned detention until the end of the year. Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter, your sons will additionally be barred from Hogsmeade visits. Do you have any objections?”
Augustus stepped into the fireplace, turned around, and for just one moment, glanced back at the room.
Potter had lifted a hand to his throat. His fingers pressed against the side of his neck, rubbing absently at something beneath his collar. The gesture was unconscious, like he was scratching an itch that wouldn't quite go away. His gaze was still fixed on that point on the wall, still hollow and distant, but his jaw had gone tight. And there, just visible above the collar of his suit, Augustus saw a glimpse of what he could only describe as more marks.
Pale lines, thinner than the ones on Potter's face but the same texture, the same soft white tissue. They'd spilled down from the original bolt like frost creeping over a window, wrapping around Potter's throat in sprawling, delicate branches. A necklace of scars choking the breath right out of him—or trying to. Something that had started at his face and was still spreading, still reaching, like an infection, Augsutus wondered, but why would he possibly—
The collar shifted back into place, and the green flames swallowed Augustus whole. The sight in front of him dissolved into a blur before he could make sense of what he'd seen.
“At least we know where Albus got his temper from,” Draco said, eyeing him meaningfully.
Harry leaned against the gate, watching students trickle back toward the castle in clusters. Albus and Scorpius had disappeared inside already, hauled off by a prefect to collect their things. The suspension wouldn’t officially start until tomorrow, but McGonagall had made it clear she wanted them off the grounds by nightfall.
“Thankfully Scorpius inherited nothing of yours,” Harry shot back, rubbing at his throat. Why was it getting worse? He used those stupid healing creams Hermione kept mailing to his door, and they were doing fuck all to help.
Draco narrowed his eyes at him. “For someone who’s kid just got my kid into trouble, you’re awfully rude. I’m even shouldering the financial burden of his delinquency.”
"Your kid jumped into a fight that wasn't his," Harry pointed out. "And Albus was handling it just fine on his own."
"Well, if your kid had any self-control, there wouldn't have been a fight to jump into." Draco brushed imaginary dust off his robes, the gesture as prissy and insufferable as it had been during their school years. "And breaking someone’s nose isn’t handling it, that's assault."
“Look, I’m not saying it was an appropriate response, but the boy insulted his family. And brought up his Father. What did he think Albus would do, write him a strongly worded letter?"
"Perhaps not commit violence in front of witnesses?" Draco suggested kindly. "That's usually considered poor form."
Harry turned to him. "Your kid shot three separate curses, all with the intention of fatally harming someone."
"No, my kid was defending yours," Draco said, glaring at him from the other side of the bridge.
"Oooh, is that how one of his spells hit a portrait?"
A muscle in the blonde's jaw twitched. "Rookwood's wand misfired—"
"After Scorpius hexed him. So really, still your kid’s fault."
"My kid," Draco said through gritted teeth, "was trying to keep yours from getting expelled, or even arrested!"
Harry rolled his eyes. “Fat load of success he had with that.”
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, face going a little red from rage. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"Being insufferable."
"I'm just standing here," Harry said. "You're the one who started talking."
"I was making an observation about your son's temperament—"
"Which you blamed on me—"
"Because it is your fault—"
"Scorpius threw curses, Malfoy. Dark ones. Where do you think he learned that?"
“You unbelievable rat bastard. So now it’s my fault?”
"Well, he didn't learn it from his mother," Harry said.
"Astoria has been dead for six years, Potter. Show some fucking respect."
Harry winced. That had been a low blow, even for him. Not like he’d take it back, though. Malfoy had started this, dragging his son's temperament into it like Harry had personally taught Albus how to break noses. Which—fine, maybe he had, but that wasn't the point.
An uncomfortable and tense air hung in the silence between them. Harry's throat stung again. He flattened his palm against it, trying to ease the ache unfurling beneath his collar. The scars felt worse today. Angrier. Like something underneath was trying to claw its way out.
Doing his best to ignore it, he let his gaze drift past the bridge, toward the Great Lake. The water rippled in the distance, glistening under the setting sun. Beyond it, the Forbidden Forest pressed densely against the shore, the wind swaying its branches, ruffling its leaves. Even now, he could envision himself standing in the very centre of the thicket, the place where the trees grew so tall he couldn’t see the sky. Wand against his jaw. Cold wood. A coppery taste on his tongue. Red eyes, mesmerised and contemptuous all at once. He'd said the words without hesitation. Meant them, too, and he would have...
Footsteps echoed from the castle.
Harry blinked to clear the memory, and saw Albus emerge with a trunk hovering behind him. Scorpius followed, shoulders hunched, looking thoroughly miserable.
Harry pushed off the gate. "Scorpius."
The boy looked up, startled.
"Thank you for looking out for him," Harry said, trying his best not to sound too severe. "Though I hope next time you stop Albus rather than join him."
Scorpius’s ears went red. "Oh. Uh. You're welcome, sir."
Draco stared at Harry as if he'd just grown a second head. He gave him an irritated look that said why’d we spend the past five minutes arguing then? but Harry just ignored him and turned back to Albus.
The boy was staring at his shoes, jaw set in that stubborn way that meant he wasn't sorry and wouldn't pretend otherwise. Fine. They had a week to hash that out.
"Ready?" Harry asked.
Albus nodded, and soon, the four of them were walking down the bridge, toward the area where the anti-apparation wards wouldn't stop them from departing. Draco took Scorpius’ arm and vanished first with a sharp crack that echoed across the grounds. Harry reached for Albus, then paused. His attention snagged on the forest again. The darkness between the trees. The clearing he couldn't see from here but knew was there—had always been there, waiting, with its sickly green light. It’s coldness that would seep through his chest, his limbs, his throat, like ice in his veins—
"What are you looking at?" Albus abruptly asked, following his gaze and squinting at the horizon.
Harry blinked to dispel the image. "Nothing," he whispered hoarsely, taking his arm. "Lets go."
May 2, 1998.
The embrace of the Forbidden Forest had never been a warm one, but it felt frostier tonight, a spring wind kissed by winter.
Harry didn’t hesitate before stepping into the woods, ducking beneath a branch. He put one foot in front of the other, urging himself to focus, to keep going, to persist until the very end. He was so close. In just a few moments, all of it would be over. The war, himself, and most importantly, Voldemort—if the others could get to the snake in time.
They will, Harry scolded himself. They’d find a way. His only task now was ridding himself of the one his own body carried.
As he kept walking, the roots sprawling through the grounds pressed themselves to the hems of his invisibility cloak, each one rain-slick with moss and black soil, eager to keep him, to pull him down into the cradle of bark and rot where all things came to rest.
Harry stepped over their curling bodies in silence, though the thought came to him, rather morbidly, that the earth would have his body soon enough—unless of course Voldemort, ever the careful hunter, chose instead to claim him for a trophy, to mount him on a wall and display what was left of his prophesied nemesis as something conquered and stripped, more valuable to him in death than he had ever been in life.
Harry found himself hoping, foolishly, that that would not be the case. Better, he thought, to be discarded. Better to be left broken in the dirt, unnamed and untouched, swallowed by the same earthly coffin that held his mother.
He clenched his hands into fists and kept pushing through the dark, the edges of his wand biting into his palm. The resurrection stone was somewhere far, far behind him now, and overhead, branches had knotted themselves into a tangled canopy, their gnarled fingers curling inward, welcoming him deeper into the forest. Moonlight slipped through the gaps in their leaves, catching on the curve of his shoulder, the tips of his fingers, the torn laces of his battle-worn sneakers as they pressed softly into the undergrowth.
So the boy must die?
Yes, and Voldemort himself must be the one to do it.
No bitterness rose in him. Surprising, that. But he had lived too long without the luxury of choice to begin loathing its absence now. What was one Harry against everyone else? Only a fool would fail this equation.
“I had thought he would come,” a voice further up ahead said, their words drifting to him like a dark melody. “It seems I was mistaken…”
Harry paused to gaze into the distance. Bellatrix, Lucius, Dolohov… An entire crowd standing like vultures, eagerly awaiting this final act, trying to soothe their Lord’s mild disappointment with murmurs of flattery.
Harry licked his bruised and bleeding lip, feeling strangely detached about it all. They’d get their show, alright. No need to fret. He had been made into a container, and like all containers, he was going to be emptied. The Dark Lord wouldn’t know what he was ruining until it was too late, and that vindication was what propelled him to take the last step, shedding his cloak, finally revealing himself.
“You weren’t,” he told him. “I’m here, just as you asked of me.”
The crowd around the Dark Lord immediately parted, many of them taking several steps away from the confrontation, allowing their master all the space he desired. Harry ignored them, gaze seeking only one. And there, at the very centre of the clearing, ringed by ancient oak, stood Voldemort.
Robe black as tar, sleeves falling like funeral veils from bone-white wrists, his hands brought together, steepled in a gesture that mimicked prayer. His head was tilted just slightly, as though he were listening to something only he could hear, or admiring a painting that had taken years to finish.
The latter, probably.
“Harry,” Voldemort greeted, uncharacteristically tender.
Harry’s breath misted in the night air as he looked away. He lowered his wand further until his arm hung limply at his side, eyes glued to the ground. Not on him. Never on him. If he looked up, if he met those red eyes, it would be over before he could finish what he came here to do.
Voldemort had all the space in the world to cast his curse, the same one he’d carelessly said the day he’d murdered his mother and father, but he surprised Harry when he took a step forward, a brittle twig snapping beneath his boot.
Harry’s head jerked up at the sound, every nerve in his body primed for danger.
Voldemort paused at his alarmed reaction. His hood was pulled low over his face, but Harry could see the scarlet slits of his eyes glowing in the darkness, lacking the vigour they usually burned with. His gaze had softened with uncertainty, like Harry was the wild animal here and he was trying very hard not to spook it.
The next time Voldemort moved, Harry forced himself to stay still, perfectly still, warily eyeing the way the hems of those dark robes swept over the ground. The hood shifted, revealing more of that inhuman face—the sharp cheekbones, the lipless mouth, a creature more monster than man. With each step closer, Harry’s heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his fingers, in the scar on his forehead that burned and burned and burned.
Voldemort stopped an arm's length away, and still Harry refused to look at him.
A wand touched his chin.
The pressure was light, almost gentle, but it made him freeze. The tip pressed in, cold and unyielding, tilting his face up. He tried to resist, tried to keep his eyes down so that his thoughts would not bleed out for Voldemort to read, but the wand was insistent.
Lime-coloured light bloomed at its tip, seeping into Harry's skin, illuminating the bluish veins beneath his neck like he was made of glass. He could feel the magic thrumming through the wood, could feel the curse gathering at the end of the wand, ready to spill out and end him. All the while, Voldemort regarded him curiously, thoughtfully, like a mathematician trying to parse a new formula. Glimmers from his rising curse dabbed the underside of his face with the same poisonous green, and Harry stared up at him, confused and terrified and angry and exhausted.
Just do it, he wanted to spit.
The Dark Lord’s gaze travelled over his face, his mouth, his nose, his eyes, momentarily settling on the singular bolt that ran down his brow. His scar.
All at once, Harry’s heart seized. He ripped himself away, stumbling backward. His arm lashed out, wand shaking in his fist, pointed at Voldemort's chest even though he knew—knew—it was useless.
Voldemort lowered his own wand slowly, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his thin mouth. He cocked his head, the silk of his hood caressing his cheek as he regarded Harry like one might consider an insect pinned to a board.
He knows, Harry thought, clawed by panic. He knows, he knows, he knows. He would have never waited or hesitated if he didn’t. How does he fucking know—
"Really?" Voldemort's voice was soft, amused. "I asked you to come to me. Your life for theirs. And now you're..." He paused, gaze dropping to Harry's trembling wand. "Having second thoughts?"
Someone behind Harry erupted into laughter. High-pitched, mocking. Bellatrix, probably. The sound was shrill, and soon, everyone gathered there was looking at him like he was— like he was some—
Harry blinked furiously, mind racing. His wand shook harder. Voldemort was watching him with that same pensive expression, like he was waiting to see what Harry would do. Like this was entertaining for him.
A shot of all-consuming hatred and rage pierced through Harry. He bit down on his tongue, understanding with a visceral sort of certainty that there was no escape from this. If Voldemort would not kill him, then he would keep him, and Harry’s well aware of how Voldemort treats his possessions—how he locks them up in caves teeming with the undead, in vaults brimming with gold, in shacks of the family members he’s murdered, in the forgotten acloves of castles, left there to collect dust over decades—
And he’ll do the same to me.
The solution came to Harry out of nowhere.
He pressed his wand to his own throat.
Voldemort's expression froze. The amusement drained from his face, shock flickering across his features. For the first time since Harry had known him, the Dark Lord looked genuinely horrified.
“Do not,” he hissed, raising his own wand, but a spell had barely left his mouth before Harry said his own.
You have to mean it, Barty Crouch Jr had once said when teaching them unforgivables in Defence class.
Harry meant it. With his whole heart, he meant it. If Voldemort would not kill him, then Harry would do it himself.
A viridescent burst of light exploded across his vision like lightning from the sky, like bits of emerald fractured and then individually gouged into his irises. The forest floor rushed up to meet him, a shock of numbness blasting through his limbs. The last thing he saw before everything went dark was Voldemort’s face, twisted in carnal fury as he watched him fall.