"Good morning, Madam Black," I said with a bow, my pureblood instincts tightening around me like a well-tailored cloak.
The painted woman turned her gaze on me, sharp as a blade polished with centuries of judgment. Her eyes flicked down, then back up, scanning my posture, my clothes, the slight smirk at the corner of my lips.
"Yes… yes," she murmured slowly. "You must be a Rosier. You look so much like Seryna. Especially that calculating look in your eye. Cold. Intelligent. Unapologetic." She sighed wistfully, the stiffness in her painted shoulders easing for a moment. "What I would give to have had a daughter marry a pureblood like you."
Sirius made a choking sound. Harry looked at me like I had sprouted horns.
"It would have been an honor to join our families together," I replied smoothly, clasping my hands behind my back like a well-trained heir. "Alas, it was not meant to be."
She inclined her head, looking almost pleased, almost maternal. "Carry yourself well, boy. You are what the Black name once stood for."
"I must take my leave, madam," I said with a faint bow, giving her the courtesy she craved. "I have Slytherin things to plot."
The painting gave an approving nod, regal and imperious.
As we stepped away and the door creaked shut behind us, Harry turned on me with a hissed whisper. "What was that, Tim?!"
I grinned, lowering my voice just enough to match his panic. "That was me getting into the good graces of a painting that may very well listen to my advice in the future, if I am successful, my padawan."
Harry groaned. "Do not Star Wars me right now."
I only raised an eyebrow. "You loved it."
He scowled, but not seriously. "That was a long time ago."
"You cried when Obi-Wan died."
"I did not!"
"You did. Even Mr. Granger noticed."
Harry muttered something under his breath, but his shoulders relaxed. As we walked through Grimmauld Place, I could not help but admire what Sirius had done to the house. Gone was the dark, oppressive gloom. The wallpaper had changed. There were windows now, actual working ones, and the portraits no longer muttered curses under their breath. There were books stacked on tables, laughter echoing from the next room, and even a faint scent of cinnamon and polish in the air.
It felt like a home.
"That was disgusting to watch," Sirius called out, stepping into the hall with two mugs of tea and an amused look on his face.
"I was being polite," I replied, accepting one of the mugs.
"You were being charming, manipulative, and weirdly effective. Just like your mother."
"Flattery," I said, "will get you everywhere."
Sirius laughed and thumped me on the back. "Good to finally have you over. Been hearing all sorts of things from Remus about your little band of chaos wizards."
"I prefer the term artists," I said modestly.
He rolled his eyes. "Nice shirt, by the way."
I blinked, then noticed what he was wearing. A black t-shirt with silver runes styled into electric lettering: Wand and Riot. Millicent's design. She made three hundred of them after our last performance. We sold out before the night ended.
Sirius tapped the front proudly. "Comfiest shirt I own. Got three."
Harry groaned in the background.
We were soon introduced to Remus Lupin, who greeted me with a tired but genuine smile. He had the look of someone who had seen too much but had not yet given up on kindness.
"You're Timothy," he said, offering his hand. "I've heard a lot."
"Only the good bits, I hope."
Remus chuckled. "Mostly the impressive ones."
We spent the afternoon playing broom games in the back garden, which was far too narrow for real Quidditch but perfect for mock duels. I beat them all, of course.
Sirius complained dramatically from where he was slumped against a bush. "I am still in my healing phase, you arrogant little gremlin."
"I am pretty sure your 'healing phase' has lasted longer than most wizarding wars."
Harry snorted. Remus gave me a very quiet high five when Sirius looked away.
Later, as the evening settled and the others made tea in the kitchen, I wandered through the house again, letting my senses stretch.
I could feel it before I even reached the room. The cold pulse of magic, bitter and ancient, tucked behind thick layers of dust and shadow. A Horcrux.
I opened the cabinet door carefully. There it sat. Slytherin's locket. Gold. Arrogant. Evil. It pulsed once, almost like a heartbeat.
"Sir should not be touching that," came a voice behind me.
I turned.
Kreacher stood there, small and shaking. His large eyes looked torn between fear and duty.
"What is it?" I asked gently.
Kreacher shuffled forward. "Master ordered me to destroy it, but… Kreacher could not. Kreacher failed Master Regulus. Bad Kreacher. Weak Kreacher."
My heart twisted, just a little.
I stepped closer, letting my magic whisper into the air. A thread of shadow coiled around me, brushing against Kreacher's magic like a breeze.
"I can destroy it," I said.
Kreacher looked up sharply.
"No tricks," I added. "No lies. I swear on magic."
He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Try."
I did not touch it. I did not need to. My shadow magic gathered like storm clouds. I whispered words that did not belong to any known spell. Words my clones had developed in secret. Words meant to unmake.
The locket shuddered.
A scream echoed in the back of my skull.
Then the locket cracked.
Then shattered.
Another Horcrux gone.
Kreacher dropped to his knees, sobbing.
I stepped back, letting him approach what remained. The pieces of the locket still shimmered faintly, the dark energy gone but the history lingering.
Kreacher reached out, trembling, and touched the fragments. His sobs grew quieter. More peaceful.
"For Master Regulus," he whispered.
I nodded and turned to leave, giving him the moment he had waited years for.
As I stepped into the hallway, the door clicking softly behind me, I exhaled.
Just Harry remained now.
And I already knew how to help him.
<><><><><><><>
We all step out of the Hogwarts train as new second and third years. We chat, bicker, and joke like fresh teenagers.
Puberty is going to suck.
Once we pass the Hogwart gates something I have anticipated pops up.
Astral Focused Pull
Feature: High-tier fatebound draw — focused and powerful
Cost: 100 GP
Pulls: 10 cards
Drop Pool: Only Rare, Epic, or Legendary
Guarantees: 3 Rare+ and 1 Epic+
Bonus: No Common or Uncommon filler
"You have stepped deeper into the weave of fate. Luck now listens. Power now watches."
I read it quickly and grin as I catch up to my friends. Finally, I can get much better powers. Powers I may give to my friends as we grow closer.
We feast and Dumbledore gives us a new speech after the sorting. A little bubbly blonde girl joins our group.
Astoria Greengrass.
Daphne's little sister. Energetic, chatty, and sticky in the way only younger siblings could be. She latched onto my arm like she'd done a dozen times during our summer breaks, eyes wide and shining.
"Timothy!" she sang, wedging herself between me and Daphne as if she belonged there. Daphne sighed like it was a daily burden, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
The Carrow twins raised their eyebrows in unison. Tracey snorted into her goblet. Millicent muttered something about sugar highs.
Astoria beamed up at me, holding my arm with both hands like it might disappear.
What a manipulative child. I approved entirely.
I patted her head. "Welcome back, Lady Koala."
She giggled, then proceeded to tell me how she had 'definitely seen a bowtruckle on the train' and that she planned to be top of her class in Herbology. I nodded solemnly at all of it.
She was dangerous in a way I respected. Too adorable to question, too sharp to ignore.
We ate. We laughed. We survived dessert.
And then we filed off to our dorms.
I am strong enough already. I will finish my mission by the end of the week.
<><><><><><><>
The castle was quiet.
That strange kind of quiet that made the torches feel dimmer, the portraits more watchful, and your footsteps impossibly loud.
Harry had not meant to wander, not really. He had just woken up from a restless dream and needed air. But the further he walked, the more he felt something pulling him. Or someone.
And then he heard it.
A whistle.
Soft. Unhurried. A rising, lilting tune that danced like breath through the empty corridor. The kind of sound that clung to corners and made shadows stretch too long.
Harry paused. The melody continued.
He followed.
Second floor. Just above the Charms classroom. The corridor where the moonlight slanted through the windows at just the right angle to make the stone glow silver.
And there, in the middle of it, was Timothy Rosier.
Hands in his pockets. Shoulders a little slouched. Whistling that eerie tune with the confidence of someone who had walked this same stretch of floor a thousand times in silence. The same way someone might pace before a performance or a decision.
Harry slowed as he approached.
"Mate," he said softly.
Timothy stopped whistling. The silence returned so fast it made Harry's ears ring. Timothy turned, offering a half-smile.
"Couldn't sleep?" Timothy asked.
Harry shrugged. "Bad dream. You?"
Timothy hesitated, then nodded. "Something like that."
They walked slowly side by side, their footsteps the only sound for a while. The moonlight made the castle look older, more haunted. Yet something about it felt… peaceful.
"Funny," Harry said quietly, "I used to hate this time of night. Too quiet. Too much thinking."
Timothy glanced at him but said nothing.
"I used to think I had to do everything on my own," Harry continued. "The war. My parents. Voldemort. I thought if I let anyone else get close, they'd either die… or leave."
Timothy looked down at the floor, his expression unreadable.
"But then you came along," Harry said, smiling faintly. "Wearing a suit. Talking like a Slytherin Shakespeare. And somehow, you made me laugh when I didn't even know how to anymore."
Timothy chuckled, but it was soft. Quiet.
"I mean it," Harry pressed. "You've been a good friend, Tim. One of the best. Even when you're being annoying. Especially then, really."
Timothy didn't answer right away. He looked ahead, his eyes glinting under the moonlight. Then he spoke — low, almost as if to himself.
"You're brave, Harry. But you're also kind. That's the part most people miss."
Harry blinked at him.
Timothy continued. "You carry so much, and you still find time to worry about others. Even when you're the one bleeding."
Harry laughed awkwardly. "You're getting sentimental on me."
"Maybe." Timothy gave a small smile. "Maybe I just… wanted to say I'm proud of you."
That made Harry stop walking.
"What's going on with you tonight?" he asked, a little wary. "You're acting like it's goodbye or something."
Timothy shook his head quickly. "No. Nothing like that."
But something flickered in his eyes. Not fear. Not guilt. Something sad. Something tired.
"I just… I wish I could take some of it from you," Timothy said quietly. "The weight. All of it."
Harry looked at him for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, resting a hand on Timothy's shoulder.
"You already have," he said. "You've been here. That's more than enough."
Timothy's eyes softened, and for a moment, the sadness behind them deepened — but he said nothing. Only nodded.
They stood there a little longer, two boys in the moonlight, not yet men but shaped by cold knowledge that childhood was already behind them.
Then Harry yawned, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I should head back," he said. "I don't want to catch Filch again."
Timothy smiled. "Go on. I'll stay here a little longer."
"Don't stay out too late. McGonagall's already suspicious enough."
"Story of my life."
Harry rolled his eyes and turned, heading back toward the stairs.
He never noticed the slight shimmer in the hallway behind him.
He never saw Timothy exhale sharply the moment he rounded the corner.
And he never realized that he had not spoken to the real Timothy at all.
Meanwhile, in the Undercroft
The real Timothy knelt beside Harry's sleeping body, heart hammering as the last notes of the illusion faded in his mind.
Cantus Mirare still hung around them, the final hum of the spell coiling through the air like dying wind. But the illusion had worked. Harry never noticed.
And now, the Horcrux — nestled somewhere deep within Harry's scar — was exposed.
Timothy's hand hovered above his friend's forehead, glowing faintly with a combination of light magic and Alucard's curse sense. A flicker of black, a thread of soul. He could see it now. Feel it squirming. Weak. Vulnerable.
He whispered a word. A word no one else in the world knew. A word created in the dark with his clones, refined in shadow, wrapped in purpose.
The magic surged.
The curse cracked.
For a brief, agonizing second, Harry twitched — but did not wake. A soft breath escaped his lips, and the shadows vanished.
The Horcrux was gone.
Timothy fell back, breathing hard, forehead damp with sweat.
He had done it.
Harry would never know.
He looked down at his best friend. At the boy who had become family.
And he whispered, "You are free now."
He stood, shoulders trembling slightly. He wanted to cry, or laugh, or collapse. But he only watched Harry sleep for another minute, then turned toward the exit.
By morning, Harry would wake with no memory of the conversation or the whistling. Just a faint sense of peace he could not explain.
Timothy would never tell him.
Some truths were not secrets.
They were gifts.