Chapter Text
The study of 12 Grimmauld Place was steeped in darkness, thick and suffocating, pressing against the heavy wood-paneled walls like a living thing. The only source of light came from a single candle perched precariously on a cluttered desk, its weak, flickering flame barely holding the shadows at bay. The air smelled of old parchment, of whiskey and dust, of the ghosts that lurked within the house’s very bones.
Sirius Black sat motionless in a weathered armchair, his usual restless energy drained, leaving behind only stillness. In his hands, he cradled a heavy crystal tumbler, the amber firewhisky inside reflecting the dim glow of the candle. He had yet to take a sip. His grip was tight, knuckles paling around the glass as though it were an anchor, the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.
Something was wrong.
The unease had settled hours ago, coiling around his ribs, constricting like a serpent that refused to let go. The Fidelius Charm had been cast. James and Lily were safe. That was what he had told himself, again and again, forcing the words through his mind like a mantra.
And yet, doubt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, whispering insidious things he could not silence.
The house was too quiet. The kind of silence that made his skin prickle, that raised the hairs on the back of his neck in primal warning.
Then, without warning, the room erupted in silver light.
A magnificent stag burst into existence, its spectral form luminous and breathtaking, its antlers nearly scraping the ceiling. Mist curled from its shimmering body, filling the room with a chill that sent ice sliding down Sirius’ spine.
His breath caught.
James’ Patronus.
The moment recognition struck, James’ voice filled the room, urgent, frantic—laced with a fear Sirius had never heard from him before.
“Sirius—he’s here—he’s found us! I can’t hold him—get Lily and—”
The message cut off as abruptly as it had arrived. The stag flickered for half a heartbeat before dissolving into nothingness, taking James’ voice with it. The room was left in suffocating silence, thick and unnatural, ringing in his ears like the aftermath of a scream.
His heart stopped.
Then, all at once, it slammed against his ribs, hammering wildly, violently.
No.
The tumbler slipped from his grip, shattering against the floor, firewhisky seeping into the worn wood. The sound barely registered. His body had already moved. His chair scraped back violently as he surged to his feet. His wand was in his hand, his cloak thrown over his shoulders in a single, fluid motion. Apparition swallowed him whole before he could even process the thought.
The moment his boots hit solid ground, a scent assaulted his senses—acrid smoke, scorched wood, and something darker, something sickly and metallic.
Blood.
The night was deathly still. The kind of stillness that came after devastation.
His breath fogged in the air as he staggered forward, his pulse a roaring drumbeat in his ears.
The house—James and Lily’s home—stood in ruins.
The front door hung from twisted hinges, barely attached by splinters of shattered wood. The walls were scarred, blasted apart in jagged holes, revealing the charred remnants of what had once been warmth and laughter. Shattered glass littered the ground, catching the moonlight like tiny stars scattered among the wreckage. The air still thrummed with magic, remnants of shattered wards struggling to hold together what had already been lost.
The street was empty. No neighbors had come running. No Aurors. No sign that anyone had noticed the destruction that had torn apart this sanctuary.
Sirius felt bile rise in his throat, his hands trembling as he stepped through the wreckage.
And then he saw him.
James Potter lay crumpled at the base of the staircase, his limbs twisted unnaturally, as though he had fallen mid-motion—mid-fight. His wand was still in his hand, fingers locked around it even in death.
A choked breath escaped Sirius’ lips, something between a gasp and a broken whisper. His knees hit the ground beside his best friend’s body.
“Prongs.”
His voice cracked. His hands hovered over James’ shoulder, hesitant, shaking. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his chest tight. Slowly, he reached out, pressing his palm against James’ robes.
No warmth. No breath. Only silence.
A sound ripped from his throat—raw, anguished, unbearable. Not quite a sob. Not quite a scream. Just grief, unfiltered and all-consuming.
James had always been indestructible. Larger than life. The one who laughed too loud, who threw himself into danger with reckless abandon, who believed in impossible things.
Sirius had never imagined a world without him.
But here he was.
Cold.
Gone.
Something ignited inside him, fury surging through his veins, hotter than dragon fire. It burned through his grief, through his horror, leaving behind nothing but unrelenting rage.
Peter.
Peter, who had begged to be Secret Keeper. Peter, who had always been weak, whose hands had never been steady, whose voice had always wavered.
Peter, the traitor.
Sirius’ breath came in ragged gasps, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.
He will pay.
A sound—a choked sob, small and fragile—broke through his spiraling fury.
His head snapped up.
The nursery.
His legs carried him forward before his mind had even caught up. The staircase was a ruin of splintered wood, barely supporting his weight as he climbed. He didn’t care. His heart pounded, his pulse deafening.
And then—
Lily lay crumpled beside the crib, her arms outstretched as if in one final act of defiance, as if she had died shielding her daughter. Her red hair, vibrant even in the dim moonlight, fanned around her pale face. Her green eyes—those fierce, fiery eyes—stared lifelessly at the ceiling.
Sirius stopped breathing.
“Lily.”
His voice barely escaped him, a whisper, a prayer, a denial. He knelt beside her, shaking hands hovering over hers. He wanted to shake her awake, to plead, to bargain with fate itself.
But she was gone. And nothing could change that.
A tiny whimper pulled him from his torment. He turned, and his breath caught in his throat.
A small figure sat in the crib, tiny hands clutching the railing, wild black curls framing tear-streaked cheeks. Wide green eyes—Lily’s eyes—looked up at him with desperate familiarity.
“Pawfoo?”
Sirius felt his heart shatter.
He reached into the crib, and she lifted her arms immediately, her small fingers grasping at his cloak. He pulled her close, cradling her against him, pressing his lips to her soft curls. She was warm. She was alive.
She was the only one left.
Then—he felt it.
A wet warmth against his palm.
He pulled back slightly, eyes widening as he saw the blood trickling down her forehead. A deep, jagged wound, still sluggishly bleeding, pulsed with dark energy.
Sirius’ stomach turned. A curse wound.
With a shaking hand, he raised his wand. A silver dog erupted from the tip, sprinting toward Hogwarts with a single, urgent message:
“Lily is the only survivor. She is wounded. I’m coming to Hogwarts.”
The wrought-iron gates of Hogwarts loomed ahead, their towering forms bathed in the ghostly glow of the moon. Beyond them, the castle stood as it always had—silent, ancient, and unyielding against the passage of time. The warm golden lights from its windows flickered in the distance, a stark contrast to the biting cold that pressed in from all sides.
Sirius barely registered the freezing wind lashing against his skin. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, his body aching with exhaustion and the unbearable weight of loss. His fingers dug into the fabric of his cloak, clutching the small bundle against his chest as though letting go would shatter him entirely.
Lillianne stirred in his arms, letting out a soft, tired whimper, her tiny fists curling into the thick wool of his coat. Instinctively, he held her closer, shielding her from the night’s cruel chill. A deep, hollow ache spread through his chest. She was so small, so fragile—utterly unaware of the nightmare she had survived, of what had been taken from her. From both of them.
A lone figure stood waiting beyond the threshold.
Professor Slytherin-Gaunt—the man who had once been Tom Riddle—watched his approach with an unreadable expression, his sharp hazel eyes reflecting the pale moonlight, their depths unreadable and cold. His dark robes billowed slightly in the wind, yet he remained utterly composed, a figure of stillness in a restless world.
Sirius slowed his steps, swallowing thickly. His pulse hammered in his ears.
He had never fully trusted the professor, but he had respected him. Lord Slytherin had always been a presence at Hogwarts—aloof, enigmatic, and brilliant. He rarely engaged in casual conversation, his words always measured, his gaze always calculating. He was the kind of professor who could silence a room with a single look, who could dismantle a student’s argument with effortless precision. Yet, despite his detachment, he had an undeniable mastery of magic, weaving enchantments with an elegance few could match. Detached, but undeniably competent. He had never been warm, but he had always been there. More present, in many ways, than Dumbledore had ever been.
Sirius tightened his jaw. His grip on Lillianne became just a little more protective, his body tensing like a wolf shielding its wounded packmate.
"Where is Dumbledore?" he asked, his voice rough, hoarse—from firewhisky, from grief, from exhaustion that settled deep into his bones.
Lord Slytherin did not answer immediately. His gaze flickered to the child, lingering for a moment before he finally spoke.
"At the Ministry," he said smoothly. "An emergency meeting. He left without informing the staff why."
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Sirius before he could stop it. His head dropped forward slightly, his breath misting in the frigid air.
"Of course he did," he muttered, voice dripping with resentment.
Of course, in the moment of greatest need, Dumbledore was elsewhere. Just as he had been when the Potters had needed him. Just as he had been when their wards fell.
Slytherin’s gaze returned to Sirius, sharp and calculating. "And the Potters?"
Sirius hesitated. His throat tightened, the words lodging there like shards of glass. His grip on the child tightened unconsciously, as if he could somehow hold onto what little remained of his family.
Then, with a sharp breath, he forced them out.
"James and Lily are dead."
The words felt foreign in his mouth, like they belonged to someone else, to some other world where this nightmare wasn’t his own. Saying them aloud didn’t make them real—it only hollowed him further, carved deeper wounds into the marrow of his soul.
"Voldemort attacked," he continued hoarsely. "But—" He adjusted his grip on the child, shifting her carefully. "She survived. I don’t know how, but she did. She has a wound, though. It’s... wrong. I don’t know what kind of magic is clinging to it, but I can feel it."
His own magic recoiled every time he looked at it—the pulsing darkness of the scar made his skin crawl. It was foreign, unnatural, something that did not belong in the body of a child.
Lord Slytherin took a step closer. "May I?"
Sirius hesitated. It was brief—but it was there. His arms instinctively tightened around the child, as though for one last time, before he reluctantly extended her.
The professor took her with a steady, practiced grip, ensuring the thick blanket covering her remained firmly in place between them. His movements were smooth and controlled, his hands never brushing against her skin.
The moment his arms wrapped around her, a curious thing happened. Sirius stiffened, his breath catching as he watched her tiny body relax. The child who had clung to him so desperately, who had whimpered in his arms, now nestled against the professor with quiet trust. It was unexpected, unsettling even, and for a moment, a pang of something bitter twisted in his chest—jealousy, grief, or perhaps just the sharp realization that she was finding comfort in someone else’s hold. He swallowed hard, pushing the feeling away. This wasn’t about him.
Lillianne calmed.
Her small fingers, which had been grasping at Sirius’ robes, relaxed slightly. Her breathing evened out. The tension in her tiny frame melted away as she nestled deeper into the bundle of fabric wrapped around her.
Sirius felt an odd pang in his chest. Relief? No. Something sharper. Something that stung at the raw edges of his grief.
Slytherin observed her with a keen eye, running a careful hand just above her forehead, never quite touching her skin.
"Dark magic lingers," he murmured, his tone unreadable. "This is not a wound that will heal on its own."
Sirius dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Can you fix it?"
"I can try," Lord Slytherin said simply. He lifted his gaze, studying Sirius carefully. "You are on the verge of collapse, Black. Give yourself a moment."
Sirius scowled, but the protest died in his throat. He knew he looked terrible—felt worse. His limbs were shaking from exhaustion, his magic dangerously low after everything that had happened. The grief clung to him, weighing down every breath, every thought.
But still—
"She’s all I have left," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.
Slytherin didn’t look away. "I know."
Silence stretched between them. The wind howled through the iron gates, whispering through the trees.
Sirius exhaled, a heavy, bone-deep breath. His shoulders sagged just slightly.
"Fine," he muttered at last. "But if anything happens to her—"
Lord Slytherin merely gave him a cool look. "You forget who you are speaking to."
The words carried no arrogance—only certainty.
Without another word, he turned toward the castle, the child resting calmly in his arms, still wrapped securely in her protective layers. His pace was unhurried, but his grip on her was firm, steady.
Sirius watched them go, his throat tight, his hands clenching at his sides. He felt like a man left behind in the ashes, staring at the remnants of what he had once known, once loved.
For the first time that night, he let himself breathe.
The halls of Hogwarts stretched before him, quiet and empty. Shadows flickered along the cold stone walls as torchlight danced against them. The air smelled of old books, damp stone, and the magic that had been part of the castle for centuries.
Lord Slytherin-Gaunt walked with steady steps, his long robes moving with him. He carried the child carefully, making sure the thick blanket wrapped around her stayed in place, keeping a barrier between them.
She hadn't moved. Her breathing was slow and steady, her tiny fingers twitching once in a while. Most children would be restless after going through something so terrible. They would cry, tremble, or seek comfort. But she was unnaturally calm, as if something beyond exhaustion was holding her still. It was... strange.
His sharp hazel eyes glanced down at the small figure in his arms. Lily Evans’ child. A Potter. She looked like her parents—her father’s messy dark hair, her mother’s striking green eyes. But that wasn’t what had his attention.
The scar.
A jagged, dark wound marked her pale forehead. It pulsed faintly, an unnatural rhythm that didn’t belong to a child so young. The magic around it shifted, uneasy and restless.
This was no ordinary curse.
Lord Slytherin had seen many dark spells, ones that left scars that never truly faded. But this... this was different.
He had his suspicions about what had happened in Godric’s Hollow. Powerful, ancient magic had been unleashed that night—magic beyond normal spells, something tied to life and death itself. The Killing Curse had rebounded on its caster. That alone was unheard of.
But what had Lily Evans done?
She had been an Unspeakable, a witch who studied the most secret and dangerous branches of magic. The Department of Mysteries did not take in ordinary wizards; they chose those willing to go beyond the limits of known magic. And Lily had been brilliant—perhaps too brilliant. In her desperation, had she used something forbidden? Had she tapped into forces that should have remained buried?
The thought unsettled him. What had she discovered? What spells had she cast in her final moments? She must have known she was going to die, yet she had fought anyway. And in the end, she had left behind a living child and a scar that defied explanation.
This was not just fate. This was intentional.
And yet, this child lived. But at what cost?
He would not jump to conclusions—not yet. He needed proof.
At last, he reached his office door.
A flicker of movement caught his attention. From the portrait beside the entrance, Salazar Slytherin watched him with sharp, knowing eyes. The Founder sat in a tall chair, his robes rich with emerald and silver. His gaze drifted to the child, curiosity flashing in his painted features.
"An unusual guessst," he remarked, his voice calm and smooth.
Lord Slytherin did not reply. "Open," he commanded, his tone firm as he spoke in the flowing, ancient language of Parseltongue.
The portrait did not move right away. Instead, Salazar smirked. "No explanation, my heir?"
"You will learn sssoon enough," Lord Slytherin said shortly.
Salazar chuckled softly. He reached for the silver snake coiled around his wrist, running a finger over its gleaming head. "You bring a myssstery into thessse hallsss. I hope you intend to sssolve it."
Before Lord Slytherin could respond, something unexpected happened.
A second voice. Small. Soft. Curious.
"Open," the child hissed.
The corridor fell into silence.
Lord Slytherin froze. His grip on the child stayed firm, but his mind sharpened into focused precision. Slowly, his gaze dropped to her.
Lillianne Potter blinked up at the door, her expression sleepy and distant, as if she had only repeated what she heard.
A perfect imitation.
In Parseltongue.
Salazar’s laughter rang through the hall, rich and amused. "Well, that is sssomething I did not expect!"
Lord Slytherin’s jaw tightened. She had spoken his language. But that was impossible. The Potter bloodline had no connection to Salazar Slytherin. He knew that for certain. Their magic had always been linked to fire, stags, and honor—not serpents.
Salazar’s eyes gleamed. "Ssshe is not yoursss, yet she sspeakss our tongue. Curiousss, don’t you think, Tom?"
Lord Slytherin’s face remained unreadable, but his mind was racing. If she spoke Parseltongue, there were only a few explanations, and none of them were comforting.
Could it be a rare trait buried deep in her ancestry? Unlikely. The Potters were not his blood.
Had Voldemort’s attack left an imprint on her? That was more likely—and far more troubling.
This was a new factor, one he had not accounted for. He glanced at the child again. She did not even realize what she had done.
Salazar smirked. "You clearly ssshare some kind of bond, my heir. If not blood, then sssomething deeper."
Lord Slytherin’s fingers twitched slightly. The idea was absurd—but the way she had spoken the language so effortlessly, so naturally, gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. He dismissed the notion, but a flicker of unease settled in his chest, something unspoken, unexamined. This was an anomaly, and anomalies required answers.
"Do not be ridiculousss," he said flatly.
Salazar hummed in amusement, clearly enjoying the moment.
Lord Slytherin would not waste time on speculation. Not yet. There were too many unknowns—too many questions left unanswered.
For now, he would focus on what was certain. First, the child had survived something impossible. Second, she carried a wound that no magic could heal. And third, she spoke his language.
A mystery that needed solving.
He exhaled slowly and turned to the portrait. "Enough. Open the door, Sssalazar."
The portrait, still smirking, obeyed.
The heavy wooden door swung open, revealing the dimly lit study beyond. Without hesitation, Lord Slytherin stepped inside, the warm firelight casting flickering shadows on the stone floor.
As the door shut behind him, sealing them in solitude, he allowed himself a single thought. The weight of the night pressed upon him, the flickering flames reflecting the questions swirling in his mind.
He was alone with the child now—away from speculation, away from prying eyes. The puzzle she represented demanded his full attention. The scar, the language, her unnatural stillness—each piece wove together into something that defied explanation.
And for the first time in years, Lord Slytherin felt something unsettling stir in his mind.
Curiosity, laced with the faintest edge of unease.
This child was a mystery. And he did not leave mysteries unsolved.
Lord Slytherin-Gaunt stepped into his study with calculated precision, the torches along the stone walls flickering in deference to his presence. Their golden glow stretched elongated shadows across the towering bookshelves, which housed tomes older than the castle itself. Dark oak cabinets guarded relics imbued with power, whispering of ancient magic that still hummed in the air, undisturbed by time or touch.
The room bore the distinct scent of aged parchment, ink, and lingering enchantments—an extension of himself, a sanctuary of intellect and control, untouched by anyone but him.
With deliberate care, he set Lillianne Potter down upon the polished ebony surface of his desk.
The child blinked up at him, her expression unnervingly aware despite the lateness of the hour. Lord Slytherin’s gaze lingered, scrutinizing the sharpness in her green eyes. She should have been exhausted, disoriented by trauma, and yet she sat with quiet intent, absorbing her surroundings like a scholar dissecting an ancient text. Was it the residual magic within her that made her different? Or was this an inherent trait—an unwavering composure that defied expectation? She did not whimper, did not cry—she observed. Her small fingers pressed against the wood as she straightened, as if asserting her presence, as if demanding to be understood.
Then, without hesitation, she reached for him.
“Up!” The command was clear, expectant.
Lord Slytherin hesitated.
There was an ease in her demand, an unshaken certainty that he would comply, as though she had already decided he belonged within her sphere of influence. He nearly obeyed, the instinct to lift her back into the security of his arms catching him off-guard.
Fascinating.
And yet—something restrained him. The way she looked at him, with that quiet certainty, unsettled him in a way he could not yet define. There was an unspoken demand between them, a weight pressing into the silence. And yet—his gaze drifted downward, toward the scar.
The wound had yet to close, raw and dark, blood still welling faintly at the edges. But it was not the physical injury that drew his attention—it was the magic buried within, a residue both ancient and unnatural, shifting beneath her skin like a force refusing to be expelled.
No.
This took precedence.
“You are injured,” he stated, his tone devoid of warmth yet not unkind. “I need to heal you first.”
Lily frowned, scrunching her nose in mild displeasure, but she did not protest.
Unusual child.
Satisfied, he withdrew his wand. His movements were precise, elegant—a master duelist’s control honed through decades of refinement. A flick of his wrist sent golden runes swirling above her scar.
The diagnostic charms fractured instantly.
Lord Slytherin’s eyes narrowed. No conventional curse left a mark like this.
The dark magic was not simply residual—it was active. Shifting. Anchored within her very being.
His fingers twitched at his side. This was not a mere imprint—it was something far deeper. And there was only one way to be certain.
Lowering his wand, he pressed two fingers lightly against the wound—clinical, controlled. A flicker of hesitation stirred in his mind, an instinctive warning he refused to acknowledge. Would he encounter resistance? Pain? Something entirely beyond his understanding? He braced himself, preparing for the unknown.
And the world shattered.
A pulse of raw connection surged through him, a collision of fire and ice racing through his veins. His senses ignited, stretched taut as if struck by an unseen force. This was not merely magic—it was something deeper, more fundamental, an intrusion that coiled through his mind, momentarily stealing his breath. The force of it was suffocating, searing through his consciousness in a clash of presence and thought, something neither of them had willed into existence.
His breath hitched. His Occlumency shields—constructed through years of discipline—buckled beneath the weight of the connection. Reality wavered at the edges of his vision, as though he stood on the precipice of something vast and inescapable. He clenched his fists, grounding himself, forcing control before he lost himself in the unraveling.
And he felt it.
Not just the dark magic. Not just the scar.
But him. Voldemort. His Horcrux.
And—by extension—his own.
The connection was undeniable, an intricate thread woven through the very fabric of their existence. He could feel her—her thoughts, raw and unguarded, brushing against his own, entwined in a way that defied possibility.
Her emotions—wild and flickering—bled into him. Confusion drifted like mist in her young, untamed mind.
Her magic—unrefined, instinctual—responded to him, syncing like a second heartbeat, aligning.
There were no records of human Horcruxes. No documented studies. No theoretical framework.
And yet—she existed. A fragment of Voldemort, branded upon her soul. An echo of something neither living nor fully dead. His thoughts raced, colliding with the impossibility of it all. A human could not be a Horcrux.
And yet, she was.
And then—
Her small fingers curled around his hand, her touch startling in its quiet warmth. Lord Slytherin stiffened, an unfamiliar tightness settling in his chest. Such a simple, unconscious act, yet it carried weight—an unspoken trust, an expectation of safety he was not certain he could provide. The contact sent an unsettling ripple through him, reinforcing a bond neither of them had chosen, one he was neither prepared for nor willing to confront.
The connection intensified.
His breath caught—the force of it inescapable.
He felt everything.
A surge of impossible understanding.
A heightened awareness of her presence.
Her mind—open, unguarded—brushing against his own, solidifying a link he could not sever.
She felt it too. She lacked the words to explain it, but he saw the recognition in her eyes. Something foreign yet familiar, a presence she had never known yet instinctively understood.
Her green eyes widened, shimmering with an unreadable emotion. “Wow,” she whispered, her voice hushed, reverent, as if glimpsing a truth beyond comprehension.
Lord Slytherin wrenched his hand away.
His shields slammed into place, his mind reinforcing barriers so impenetrable that the bond was shoved into the farthest recesses of his consciousness. The overwhelming flood of sensation dulled, retreating to a distant hum at the edge of his awareness.
Manageable. Containable.
Not now.
He could not afford to dwell on this. The priority remained the same.
Exhaling sharply, he refocused. His wand flicked through the air, golden runes forming as he wove his magic into the wound. The dark energy twisted, recoiling from his intent, lashing out in resistance.
It clung to her, desperate, seeking purchase. But he was stronger.
He could not extract the fragment, but he could strip it of its corruption.
A low hum reverberated through the room as the malignant force unraveled, dissipating like smoke. He siphoned the toxicity into himself, neutralizing it thread by thread, until what remained was silent, dormant. The scar was no longer a wound—it was an anchor, an immutable tether. But it would not harm her. Not anymore.
The bleeding ceased. The edges of the wound closed. The scar remained—thin, jagged, irreversible.
Lord Slytherin took a measured step back, his breathing controlled. His pulse, however, betrayed him.
The child was no longer in danger.
And yet—this was no victory.
His mind reeled, questions spiraling too fast to be answered.
This was not the end.
It was only the beginning.
The dungeons lay steeped in silence, their cold stone walls absorbing even the faintest whisper of movement. The air, dense with the weight of centuries, carried the distinct aroma of damp stone, aged parchment, and the lingering traces of alchemical potions long since brewed. Candlelight flickered in defiance of the darkness, casting restless shadows upon the towering bookshelves that lined the chamber, filled with tomes bound in cracked leather and arcane symbols.
Lord Slytherin-Gaunt sat in his high-backed chair, his posture a study in control and composure. The soft, golden glow of candlelight gleamed off the polished mahogany of his desk, illuminating scattered parchments and aged manuscripts—fragments of research interrupted. Each item on the desk was meticulously arranged, yet his attention was not on them.
For in his lap, nestled against the fine fabric of his robes, Lillianne Potter slept, her tiny form curled against him as though she had always belonged there.
She had been persistent. Unrelenting.
"Up," she had insisted, tugging at his sleeve with small, determined hands. The demand had come repeatedly, her green eyes locked onto his with unwavering certainty, until at last, he had relented.
Now, she lay against him, her warmth seeping through the layers of fabric, her tiny fingers still gripping the folds of his robes.
It should have felt unnatural. It should have been an unwelcome distraction.
But it wasn’t.
Not entirely.
The connection between them, though forcibly suppressed, remained a quiet hum at the edges of his consciousness. His Occlumency shielded him from the deluge of emotions that might otherwise overwhelm him, yet even with his mental defenses in place, he could feel it—a quiet, undeniable pull at the back of his mind.
Lily, too, felt it. Though she lacked the words to articulate it, she was aware. She nestled deeper against him, her small fingers curling tighter into his robes, as though anchoring herself there. A quiet, contented sigh escaped her, the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath a testament to the comfort she had found in his presence. It was fleeting, yet undeniable—an instinctive recognition of safety, of something unspoken and yet immutable.
She was no longer afraid. No longer hesitant. She had chosen.
Lord Slytherin did not move, did not shift her away. He merely sat there, adjusting to the foreign sensation of warmth, of attachment—
Then, suddenly—a knock at the door.
Soft. Controlled. Yet in the oppressive stillness of the chamber, it may as well have been a thunderclap.
Lily stirred but did not release her grip on him.
Lord Slytherin’s expression remained impassive, though there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—annoyance, perhaps. Or something more elusive. A hesitation. A reluctance to be disturbed.
"Enter," he commanded.
The heavy door swung open, and Sirius Black stepped inside.
His posture was rigid, his robes slightly askew—evidence of the night’s unrelenting toll. Fatigue clung to him, yet his gray eyes were sharp, scanning the room until they landed on Lily.
And then, he froze.
For a long moment, he simply stared.
Lord Slytherin did not move. He watched as emotions flickered across Sirius’ face—shock, confusion, and then something darker. Suspicion.
"...That’s not natural," Sirius muttered, almost to himself. His gaze darted between Lily and the professor, as though trying to reconcile what he was seeing. "She’s only just met you."
Lord Slytherin’s hazel eyes remained unreadable. "She is a child, Black. She finds comfort where it is given."
Sirius’ jaw tightened. "You’re not exactly the comforting type, Professor."
A flicker of something—amusement?—passed through Lord Slytherin’s expression before vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared. "I have been a professor for decades. I am familiar with children."
Sirius did not look convinced.
This was wrong. Lily’s easy acceptance of Slytherin gnawed at something deep inside him, something raw and unresolved. He had seen the man operate—detached, calculating, precise. Never cruel, never needlessly cold, but certainly not warm. Not like this.
It wasn’t right. The sight of Lily so at ease with him clawed at Sirius’ chest, unearthing a deeper, more insidious fear. Fear that he was losing her. Fear that this was slipping beyond his control. Slytherin was an enigma, and Sirius had never trusted enigmas—especially not those who so easily wove themselves into the lives of the people he loved.
But before he could press further, a soft, familiar voice shattered the tension.
"Pawfoo!"
Lily had seen him. She reached for him, arms outstretched.
Sirius moved before he could think, crossing the space in two quick strides. The suspicion, the unease—everything else faded in an instant.
Lord Slytherin did not move at first.
For the briefest of moments, there was something hesitant in his stillness. A fraction of a second where his fingers curled subtly against the fabric of his robes, as though his body had not quite decided to let go.
But logic dictated his next move. With a measured breath, he released her, allowing Sirius to take her into his arms.
The moment Lily was with him, Sirius exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders. She buried her face into his shoulder, her small hands gripping at his robes with the same trust she had shown Slytherin.
Lord Slytherin forced himself to focus, to set aside the unfamiliar sensation curling at the edges of his consciousness.
"This brings us to the question of guardianship," he stated, his voice slipping easily back into its usual detachment. "Was this matter ever formally arranged? Do we know what the Potters’ will dictated?"
Sirius’ grip on Lily tightened.
"Yeah," he said after a beat, adjusting her slightly. "James and Lily updated their will before going into hiding. I’m her legal guardian now."
Lord Slytherin inclined his head. "Then I suggest you act quickly to ensure that remains the case."
Sirius frowned. "What are you—"
"You are currently suspected of treason," Lord Slytherin cut in, his voice measured yet firm. "As far as the Ministry is concerned, you were the Potters’ Secret-Keeper. And now they are dead."
Sirius went rigid.
"They will not ask questions first," Lord Slytherin continued. "They will assume guilt and act accordingly. And if you are taken into custody before ensuring your guardianship is recognized…" His hazel eyes sharpened. "The child will be left vulnerable."
Sirius' pulse hammered in his ears. His mind reeled. He had been so consumed by vengeance, so focused on hunting down Peter, that he had overlooked the most immediate threat.
He needed to move. Now.
A knock at the door.
Soft. Deceptively polite. But the presence beyond it carried the weight of inevitability.
The very air in the room seemed to constrict, a shift in magic pressing against them like an unspoken warning.
Lord Slytherin inhaled slowly, his mind already anticipating the next sequence of events. He knew how Dumbledore would approach this, the calculated words, the carefully veiled concern.
This was no longer a matter of magic—it was a battle of strategy.
And Lord Slytherin never entered a game unprepared.
Albus Dumbledore had finally arrived.