— — — — — —
Lucius knew his former master all too well.
The Dark Lord might have seemed generous back then—sharing his glory and power with his followers. For a while, the Death Eaters were unstoppable, a name that struck fear across the wizarding world.
But Lucius knew better. Beneath the grandeur, Voldemort was utterly selfish—a man obsessed with proving he was supreme, unique, untouchable.
After reading the records about Horcruxes, Lucius was certain he had stumbled upon the Dark Lord's ultimate secret.
No wonder Voldemort always boasted that he had conquered death, that he had gone further than anyone else in his quest for immortality.
Now it all made sense.
But the more you know, the sooner you die.
And he had given one of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes to Dumbledore. What kind of madman does something that suicidal?
Voldemort was still alive somewhere—Lucius was sure of it. And when he returned and learned what Lucius had done, the punishment would be unimaginable. But that wasn't even the worst of it.
The real danger was that Lucius now knew what a Horcrux was. Voldemort wasn't the kind of master who valued honesty or forgiveness. He used Legilimency on his subordinates all the time.
And how does a man like Voldemort deal with someone who knows too much?
Lucius would have bet the entire Malfoy fortune that there was only one answer: He eliminates the problem.
That's why Lucius always said Tom had ruined his life. The moment he heard the word "Horcrux," his fate was no longer his own.
"What do I do? What do I do?"
He paced in circles, mind racing for a solution that didn't exist. He was too weak—utterly powerless against Voldemort. And if he died, what would become of Narcissa and Draco? They'd be left defenseless, picked apart by vultures until nothing remained.
"Father! There's a letter for you—from Tom!" Draco's voice called from the library door.
Lucius froze. Then, like a drowning man seeing a rope, he bolted toward the sound.
— — —
Outskirts of London. Royal Botanic Gardens.
"Ice Flower."
Tom stood alone, cradling a budding ice blossom in his hands. As its petals unfurled, the air around him plummeted—cold spreading for miles.
Within moments, frost glazed the green leaves of every nearby plant.
And when the bloom was half-open, Tom closed his hands around it. Shards of blue ice spilled between his fingers, scattering sunlight into tiny rainbows.
Then, as quickly as it had fallen, the chill receded, and the air grew still once more.
In the study space, the two old men and Ariana watched the performance.
Andros was the first to speak, full of admiration. "Tom, if you unleashed that spell at full strength, the entire forest would freeze solid and crumble to dust."
"That's wicked. Way too wicked," muttered Grindelwald, his mismatched eyes gleaming. "You didn't even draw on the astral energy Andros talks about—just your own power. If Albus did that, I'd understand, but…"
"Oh, please," Ariana cut in. "Don't start with 'Albus' again. My brother could never do what Tom just did. He didn't even use a wand! You think Albus could pull that off?"
"Well… using a wand is kind of what wizards do," Grindelwald said weakly. If it had been anyone else insulting Dumbledore, he'd have answered with Fiendfyre—but this was Ariana.
Still, he had to admit it: even a master wizard with a wand would have needed total focus to produce a similar effect. Tom had done it effortlessly, like it was second nature.
"I forget my wand all the time," Andros said cheerfully, siding with Ariana. "Doesn't bother me one bit."
"You're a freak, Andros. Don't pretend you're normal. There's only one of you."
...
Tom listened to their bickering with a faint smile.
His sudden surge in ice magic wasn't the result of divine inspiration—it was because he'd followed the notes of Kel'Thuzad, the great lich, and created within himself a magical circuit known as the Crown of Frost.
When his magic flowed through that circuit, it acted like a turbocharger—massively amplifying every ice spell he cast.
The circuit wasn't even complete yet; he still had to refine the details. Once perfected, the results would be terrifying.
Unfortunately, no one else could learn this method.
Without Merlin's magical perception, it was impossible.
Even with it, Tom himself had struggled to sense the flow of energy precisely enough to shape it. In short, he was the only person alive capable of using it.
He wondered idly—if he faced Dumbledore now, would his ice magic withstand the old man's flames?
Later, when Ariana wasn't around, Tom handed Grindelwald a collection of his experimental notes.
Grindelwald's expression darkened after just a glance. "Tom, who wrote this? Don't tell me it was that wretch, Herpo the Foul?"
"It wasn't him," Tom said simply, offering no more explanation. "Just test it. Let me know if anything's off."
"I understand." Grindelwald hesitated, then couldn't resist asking, "Are you sure I can't see the rest?"
He knew Tom's rapid growth came from a mysterious magical notebook he'd recently found.
"When you reach the level of the Four Founders, I'll let you read it," Tom said evenly. "Until then, it'll do you more harm than good."
Without his system's protection, even a legendary wizard might fall under the notebook's influence. Kel'Thuzad—the lich who wrote it—was almost certainly stronger than the Founders or Merlin.
Tom had once considered weaponizing the book itself, but discarded the idea. A puppet enslaved by that magic would be more dangerous than Grindelwald and Voldemort combined.
His tone was deadly serious, and Grindelwald's curiosity finally ebbed away. He chuckled bitterly. "This is the first time I've actually felt… weak."
"You're not weak," Tom said. "The notebook's author was simply too strong—and far too evil."
As they spoke, the air above the living room shimmered with firelight.
With a flash of flame, Fawkes appeared, letting out a cheerful trill.
"Chirrp—!"
'Little brother, I've come to visit!'
"From Dumbledore?" Tom took the letter tied to Fawkes's leg and opened it. "Since you're here, stay a while," he told the phoenix. "In a few days I'll be heading to North America."
Newt had already written ahead—he was somewhere out east and expected to recover the Panda soon. Once that was settled, Tom would be off to New York.
"Chirrrp!" Fawkes brushed his warm feathers against Tom's cheek in a cheerful nuzzle.
'No problem. I'll drop off the message and be right back.'
Tom finished the letter quickly. Dumbledore was inviting him to attend a hearing in three days' time—Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew's case was being reopened.
But Tom wasn't the least bit interested. He sent Fawkes back with a polite refusal.
He'd rather spend that time shopping with Daphne.
...
Tom didn't care what happened to Sirius, but Harry did. Every day, the boy waited anxiously for news.
Whenever Hedwig brought the morning paper, Harry would devour every word, hoping for any hint that his godfather might finally be cleared. But the papers stayed silent.
Until that morning.
The doorbell at Number Four, Privet Drive rang, sharp and unexpected.
Severus Snape stood on the doorstep, expressionless.
"You?!"
Petunia Dursley blinked at him in shock. At first, she only felt an odd sense of recognition—but when her gaze dropped to his long black robes, it hit her.
Her old neighbor. Her sister's classmate.
"What is it, dear?"
Vernon hurried from the living room, alarmed by his wife's shriek.
"Who are you? What are you doing on my doorstep? We don't want your kind here!" he barked, eyes flicking nervously to the wand-shaped bulge beneath Snape's cloak.
The robe said it all—wizard. And the Dursleys wanted nothing to do with that world. If not for that boy, they would never have had to endure such freakish company.
Snape's face didn't so much as twitch. His voice was calm and flat. "I'm not here for you. I need to speak with Harry Potter."
"No!" Vernon puffed up like an angry boar. "That old man promised me! The boy stays under our care during the holidays. I won't have any of you weirdos hanging around my house!"
"Snape?"
Harry had crept from his cupboard at the sound of shouting. The sight of Snape standing in his doorway made him freeze.
"Manners," Snape snapped automatically, his mask of disdain slipping neatly into place. "Even on holiday, I'm still your professor. How do you greet a teacher, Potter?"
Harry swallowed his annoyance. "Sorry, Professor. You just… surprised me."
As much as he disliked the man, Snape was the first wizard he'd seen all summer—and he might have news.
"I'm taking Potter with me," Snape said simply.
Seeing Harry behave for once, Snape's tone softened a fraction as he addressed the Dursleys. "I need him to attend to an important matter."
"I already told you—no!" Vernon thundered. "He stays here. You can talk to him when school starts again!"
Snape ignored him. His dark eyes turned toward Petunia, his voice quieter now, but heavier. "Evans. One of the men responsible for your sister's death has been caught. I'm taking the boy to witness his trial. Do you really mean to stop me?"
"The man who killed Lily…" Petunia's voice broke. Her eyes widened. "But wasn't he already—? The Dark Lord killed her. I saw the scar…"
She glanced at Harry, at the lightning mark on his forehead. For the first time, Harry realized Aunt Petunia knew far more about the wizarding world than she ever let on.
"She was betrayed," Snape said evenly. "And the traitor has been found."
"Who was it?" she whispered.
"Peter Pettigrew."
Petunia's breath caught. The name conjured a memory—an awkward, rat-faced man she'd met at Lily's wedding. She hadn't stayed long, but that one face had stuck with her.
"That little man… I knew he was no good the moment I saw him," she muttered, eyes glassy with emotion. Then she turned to her husband. "Vernon…"
"I know, dear." Vernon wrapped an arm around her shoulders with uncharacteristic gentleness. "All right, boy. Go. But if you're not back by midnight, don't bother coming home."
Harry could hardly believe his luck. He nodded furiously, heart racing, already imagining the Ministry of Magic and Sirius's freedom.
"Professor, how are we getting there?"
"Don't ask pointless questions," Snape said curtly. "Just follow me."
As they walked, Harry hesitated, recalling the way Snape had called his aunt by her maiden name. "You… know my aunt?"
Snape gave a short nod. "The Evans family were my neighbors. Your aunt once wrote to Dumbledore, asking to attend Hogwarts. He turned her down. She's hated magic ever since."
Harry stared, stunned. He'd never imagined Aunt Petunia had ever wanted to be part of that world.
After that, Snape said nothing more. He led Harry through town in silence—onto a bus, then a packed underground train—until they reached a narrow, deserted alley in central London.
Without a word, Snape stepped into a battered old red telephone booth and beckoned Harry inside.
.
.
.