#iafyl

The basement door slammed behind her with a crack like thunder.

For a moment, Y/N just stood there, trembling, her breath fogging in the cold air of the corridor.

Her heart was a drum inside her chest, beating too loud, too fast, too alive.

In her hand, the phone still glowed a recording flickering faintly on the screen.

She didn’t dare look at it again.

What she had heard below, in the dark, was a secret never meant for her ears — something that should have stayed buried beneath the manor forever.

And now she knew the truth: her husband had done something terrible.

She stumbled into her room, kicking the door shut behind her. Every step was frantic, every breath shaking.

The wardrobe creaked as she threw it open, reaching for the hidden latch behind her winter cloaks.

A false panel popped loose.

Behind it lay a small, velvet pouch — her emergency stash. Galleons and A folded map to nowhere.

She dumped everything into a small enchanted satchel, its seams shimmering faintly under her touch.

Her fingers trembled as she whispered, “You have to go. Now.”

Down the hall, the manor was asleep.

Shadows danced over the gilded walls, and somewhere in the distance, the grandfather clock tolled midnight.

Y/N pushed open a green-painted door — Mattheo’s room.

Her little boy was fast asleep, his toy snake curled against his chest.

His hair was a mess of dark curls against the pillow, and when he exhaled, it came out as a soft hum, almost like a purr.

She knelt beside his bed, brushing his cheek. Her voice trembled.

“My little love… wake up. We’re going on an adventure.”

Mattheo blinked awake, groggy but curious.

“Where are we going, Mummy?”

She smiled, though her eyes burned with tears.

“To the Starry Kingdom.”

At that, his face lit up with sleepy excitement.

“Really?”

“Really. Just you and me.”

He giggled softly, trying to sit up, but she hushed him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Shh, it’s a secret, darling. Just a dream we have to catch before morning.”

She glanced around the room, mind racing.

The phone, she couldn’t take it with her.

It was too risky.

Her eyes landed on Little Nagini, Mattheo’s toy snake a soft green plush with button eyes.

She whispered a charm under her breath, sliding the phone deep inside the toy’s body, sealing it with a spell.

Her voice broke into a whisper:

“Keep this safe for me, little one.”

Then she scooped Mattheo into her arms, his small hands clinging around her neck, and crept out into the dark hall.

The manor was vast and silent, save for the faint hum of protective wards woven through the air.

Every portrait watched her as she moved Riddle ancestors painted in cold, ghostly oil, their eyes glinting as if they knew what she was doing.

At the foot of the stairs, she froze.

Tom Riddle was crossing the main corridor tall, regal, his coat half-buttoned, his wand in hand.

He didn’t see her, his mind elsewhere, but his presence filled the air like thunder.

Mattheo stirred against her shoulder, his eyes fluttering open.

“Daddy—”

Y/N’s hand clamped over his mouth before the word was fully formed.

Her heart stopped.

“No,” she whispered. “Not now, love. It’s just you and me tonight.”

The boy frowned but nodded, pressing his small face into her shoulder.

Tom passed by, his footsteps fading down the hall.

Y/N pressed herself against the wall, heart hammering, until she was certain he was gone.

A small, hurried gasp escaped her lips.

She darted toward the front doors, clutching Mattheo tightly to her chest, her bare feet barely making a sound on the marble.

But then a voice rang out sharply behind her:

“Tom! She’s running! Y/N—she’s getting away!”

Enzo, Tom’s step-brother, had seen her slip past the shadows and now shouted down the corridor.

The front doors loomed ahead tall and heavy, layered with spells meant to keep danger out… and people in.

Y/N’s wand quivered in her hand as she whispered the counter-charm she had memorised long ago.

Y/N ran, bare feet slapping against the marble, clutching Mattheo to her chest, and threw open the doors, fleeing across the grounds as Enzo’s shout echoed behind her.

The car waited where she’d left it hidden near the iron gates.

She set Mattheo in the backseat, buckled him in, and started the engine.

The wards crackled behind her like broken glass.

“Hold tight, my love,” she said, her voice shaking. “Brace yourself.”

The car roared forward magic colliding with metal as they burst through the invisible barrier that had held them captive.

Sparks showered around them like falling stars.

Mattheo screamed, clutching his toy snake tight.

Y/N reached back, her voice soft, singing through the chaos:

“Hush now, little love, don’t you cry, Mama’s here beneath the night starry sky…”

Her voice wavered, but the melody soothed him. His sobs quieted.

Then, a little after, in a small, sleepy voice, he said,

“Mummy… look! Little Nagini’s flying!”

Y/N turned her head — and her heart nearly stopped.

He’d stuck the toy out the window, the wind whipping at its fabric, her phone faintly glowing through the seams.

“Mattheo, no! Pull it back in!”

But the wind caught it, and the toy slipped free, tumbling into the darkness.

“Oh, Merlin…” Y/N hissed, pulling the car over by the forest road.

“Stay here, little love,” she said, pressing a kiss to his head. “I’ll be right back. Promise.”

She stepped out, running into the woods, her wand glowing faintly in her hand.

Moments later, a dark car appeared behind hers.

Tom stepped out.

He saw the empty driver’s seat — and his son, wide-eyed and trembling in the back.

“Mummy!” Mattheo cried. “Don’t leave me with him!”

Tom’s expression softened with pain.

He opened the door, scooping his son into his arms.

“You’re safe, my little heir,” he murmured, kissing his hair. “You’re safe now.”

Then, louder, his voice echoed through the forest:

“Y/N! My love! Where are you?”

Silence.

His composure broke, voice rising with desperation.

“Y/N! Stop this nonsense now! Let’s go home. Mattheo’s scared. I’ll forget this ever happened. Just come back. We can fix this!”

Still, there was no reply.

Finally, his tone hardened the iron slipping back into his voice.

“Y/N, I will find you. Do you hear me? I won’t give up on you!”

Hidden between the trees, Y/N pressed a hand to her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she heard her husband’s voice.

Her son’s sobs reached her ears soft, pleading.

“Mummy…”

Y/N didn’t wait another second with determination to get away.

She bolted into the trees, branches whipping against her arms and face, heart hammering in her chest.

A familiar voice cut through the rustling leaves behind her — low, dangerous, and amused.

“You know,” Tom drawled, stepping into view at the forest’s edge, wand glinting in the moonlight, “I do love a chase, love.”

Without hesitation, he plunged after her, silent but unstoppable, the forest closing in around them as his footsteps crushed leaves and twigs beneath him.

Y/N spun around, her wand flashing.

A burst of light shot toward him a defensive hex but he deflected it with lazy grace.

“I taught you better than that, darling,” he smirked, eyes glinting with both pride and fury.

“Stay away from me!” she shouted, sending another spell that sliced through the air like a blade.

He dodged it easily, chuckling.

“You can’t outrun me, Y/N. You never could.”

Her heart pounded as she ran deeper into the woods, trees whipping past.

Tom followed at a measured pace hunting, not chasing.

His voice echoed between the branches.

“Come now, my love. Don’t make this ugly. Let’s go home. For Mattheo.”

The name froze her mid-step.

She could hear her son — even from the forrest's edge.

His cries carried faintly through the wind, high and panicked.

“Mummy! Mummy, don’t leave me!”

Y/N’s breath broke, pain flooding her chest.

Tom’s voice softened for just a moment that same deadly tenderness he saved for their son.

“See? Even he knows where you belong.”

He turned back toward the sound of Mattheo’s cries, torn between chasing his wife and comforting his child.

That hesitation that small, human moment was her only chance.

Y/N whispered, “I’m sorry,” and fled.

Branches tore at her arms as she stumbled through the darkness, heart hammering.

She reached the road, breath ragged, tears streaming down her face.

Behind her, she could still hear Mattheo’s faint cries echoing in her mind.

“Mummy…”

She turned and headlights flared.

The world became white light and sound.

The impact threw her into the air, then silence.

Harry Potter stumbled from his car, horror written across his face as he knelt beside her unconscious body.

Blood streaked the asphalt.

Her wand lay just out of reach, its tip still glowing faintly in the dark.

“Oh merlin” he whispered, shaking her shoulders. “Don't worry. You’re safe now.”

He scooped her up, driving off into the night leaving the wand behind.

Tom arrived moments later.

The air still smelled of burnt magic the residue of Y/N’s defensive spells clinging to the trees like smoke.

He stepped over shattered twigs and tire marks until he saw it: her wand, still faintly pulsing with her magic.

He crouched down slowly, his gloved hand brushing the handle as if it were something sacred.

The faint hum of its core the twin to his own vibrated beneath his skin.

For a long moment, he just stared at it, his jaw tight, the muscles in his face shifting between fury and grief.

A small voice broke the silence.

“Daddy…”

Tom turned and walked back to his son.

A few feet away, one of his men — Enzo, his step-brother stood awkwardly beside the car, holding a trembling Mattheo in his arms.

The boy’s cheeks were streaked with tears, his curls matted to his forehead.

In his small hands was something Tom hadn’t noticed before Little Nagini, the toy snake, its stitches half-torn and one button eye missing.

“He wouldn’t let go,” Enzo muttered quietly, setting Mattheo down.

Tom approached slowly, his expression softening despite the cold edge that still clung to him.

Mattheo looked down at the snake, clutching it tightly to his chest as if it were life itself.

His lower lip trembled, and he whispered through hiccupped sobs,

“Mummy…”

Tom’s heart twisted.

For a moment, the Dark Lord the ruthless, feared head of the Death Eaters — was gone.

All that remained was a man, staring at his son and feeling the absence of the woman who held their world together.

Mattheo’s tearful glare met his father’s eyes.

“You made Mummy go away.”

Tom inhaled sharply.

The accusation cut deep far deeper than any spell could.

He said nothing at first.

Then, with quiet restraint, he reached out, cupping the back of his son’s head and pressing a kiss to his hair.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm steady, deliberate but filled with something fierce and unyielding.

“I promise you one thing, little heir,” he said softly, his thumb brushing a tear from Mattheo’s cheek.

“I’ll bring your mother home. No matter what it takes.”

Mattheo sniffled, curling against his father’s chest, clutching the toy snake so tightly it almost vanished between his fingers.

Tom stood, his son in his arms, her wand glinting faintly in his other hand.

Behind him, the forest whispered with the remnants of her magic fading, but not gone.

He glanced back toward the road where she had vanished, his eyes narrowing with quiet conviction.

“You can’t hide from me, love,” he murmured under his breath. “Not forever.”

The Daily Prophet had turned her disappearance into an obsession — splashed across every front page, whispered in tea shops, discussed in hushed excitement across wizarding Britain.

Two months had passed since Y/N Riddle, the elusive and beloved Lady of the Dark Lord, had vanished from public sight.

And the whispers only grew louder, stranger, more fevered.

“Lady Riddle spotted in Turkey!” “Divorce rumours shake the Riddle household!” “Dark Lady missing — marital trouble confirmed?”

Each headline spun a new tale exotic travels, secret lovers, a dramatic separation. But the truth was far simpler… and infinitely more dangerous.

She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t in Turkey. She wasn’t seeking a divorce.

She was walking beside Harry Potter through a quiet forest she didn’t remember.

The forest was still, wrapped in the hush of late autumn.

The air was crisp, tinged with smoke from distant chimneys and the earthy scent of damp leaves.

Thin sunlight filtered through branches overhead, painting shifting patterns on the ground.

Y/N — or Delphini, as the world now knew her walked slowly with her hands tucked deep in her coat pockets.

She kept her gaze ahead, always searching, always waiting for a flicker of memory.

Beside her, Harry walked one measured step behind, his posture alert but gentle.

He watched her silently, as if afraid even his breathing could shatter her fragile calm.

“You’re getting stronger,” he murmured, his voice warm in the cold air.

She offered him a small smile without turning her head. “I still feel like a stranger in my own skin.”

Harry’s steps slowed, concern flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t push. He never pushed.

They walked on until the path curved and she stopped abruptly.

Her breath hitched.

A moss-covered tree stood before her, thick roots curling out like ancient fingers.

Something about it tugged at her chest.

She lifted a trembling hand, brushing the bark.

And the world shattered.

Screams. A flash of green light. Branches tearing at her clothes as she ran.

Her heart pounding so hard she couldn’t breathe.

A forest just like this and behind her, a voice calling her name with chilling familiarity.

He was coming for her.

Her legs wobbled, nearly giving way.

“Delphini?” Harry’s voice cut through the storm in her mind. He was suddenly there, steadying her shoulders. “Hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

“I…” She swallowed hard, eyes wide and darting around the trees. “I’ve been here before.”

Harry’s expression shifted not shock, but a guarded seriousness. “You remember?”

She nodded shakily. “You found me here. You… carried me out.”

The memory was blurry but alive the feeling of arms lifting her, the smell of smoke on his clothes, her own body freezing in terror.

Harry hesitated before speaking again. His voice softened, threaded with something like fear. “You were running from something. Do you remember what?”

Her brow tightened.

She tried to grasp the memory, but it slipped through her fingers like smoke.

“Someone,” she whispered. “I just… I can’t remember who.”

Harry’s gaze softened with relief and dread all at once.

“Then don’t force it,” he said gently, brushing a fallen leaf from her coat. “Memories have sharp edges. If you grab too fast, they cut.”

She exhaled shakily, nodding.

But even as she stepped away from the tree, the faint echo of a voice chased her through the leaves low, smooth, dangerously familiar:

Come home.

The grand estate was no longer quiet.

Riddle Manor once a fortress of order, fear, and flawless routine — had begun to fracture at the edges.

Servants tiptoed through the halls with their heads bowed, whispering behind closed doors, their murmurs slipping through keyholes like smoke.

Rumours clung to every corridor, feeding on the growing tension.

Two Death Eaters were missing.

Barty Crouch Jr. loyal, obsessive, unhinged in his devotion.

Evan Rosier, deadly, unpredictable, and far too close to the truth of Y/N’s disappearance.

Their absence shook the lower ranks, but no one dared say aloud what they feared:

Something is wrong.

In his private study, Tom Riddle sat behind his massive carved desk, the room illuminated only by the restless orange glow of the fire.

Newspapers lay scattered across the desk their bold headlines screaming at him in black ink.

“Lady Riddle Missing: Turkey Sightings Confirmed.” “Has the Dark Marriage Crumbled?” “Lord Riddle’s Wife Rumoured to Have Filed for Divorce.”

Tom’s expression was unreadable, carved in cold marble.

Across the room, Enzo hovered near the doorway, stiff and uneasy. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the floorboards.

“Brother… the papers—” Enzo began timidly.

Tom lifted a hand — a silent command.

The room fell still.

He wasn’t looking at Enzo anymore.

His gaze had locked onto the stack of parchment in front of him.

Divorce papers.

And on the bottom… her signature.

Y/N Riddle.

His wife.

The only person whose signature he knew down to the last flourish.

He reached out, tracing the letters with a fingertip, slow and deliberate like a man touching the cold surface of a gravestone.

But the longer he stared, the deeper the frown carved into his mouth.

The lines were clean. Too clean. Too careful.

Y/N’s handwriting was elegant but alive — her letters leaned slightly, her curves softened, her strokes carried emotion.

This was… mechanical.

A forgery.

His voice dropped to a whisper, low and dangerous. “Interesting…”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Enzo flinched.

And then impossibly Tom’s expression shifted.

The tension melted into something else entirely.

He smiled.

A small, sharp, terrifying smile.

“She’s alive,” he breathed, his eyes glowing with a feverish certainty. “She must be.”

Enzo swallowed hard, the truth clawing up his throat.

Because Tom was right.

Because the signature he forged under Bellatrix’s command was nowhere near perfect.

Because his mother’s instructions were rushed, furious, sloppy.

And because in that fleeting smile on Tom’s face, Enzo saw something he had never seen before:

Hope.

Cold. Obsessive. Relentless.

But hope nonetheless.

The kind that meant only one thing.

Tom Riddle would tear the world apart, stone by stone, until he found her.

His wife was alive.

And he would not rest until she was home.

A memory flickered through Enzo’s mind, sharp as broken glass.

Bellatrix’s voice cold, clipped, and venom-sweet whispered through the echo of that moment:

“Do it, son. Sign it for her. He’ll never know.”

Her hand had gripped his shoulder too tightly, nails digging in like claws.

Her eyes had burned with a feverish gleam not maternal, not affectionate, but commanding. Demanding.

Enzo had swallowed hard then. He swallowed again now.

Because the truth pressed against his ribs like a blade:

Tom had noticed.

And if Tom ever learned the signature was forged…

Enzo’s stomach twisted painfully.

Before he could gather the courage to speak, a shrill, metallic scream ripped through the manor.

The alarm.

Red lights pulsed along the corridor, illuminating the stone walls in blood-bright flashes.

A servant skidded into view, pale and shaking. “Sir — the basement! Someone went in!”

Enzo dragged a hand down his face. “Again? That’s the third maid this month.”

He turned toward the stairs, grumbling under his breath as he snatched his coat from the railing.

“At this rate, no one in Britain will want to work here,” he muttered. “We’ll have to start hiring from Romania. Or the moon.”

From above, the sound of heels clicked sharply.

Bellatrix descended the staircase like a dark omen, her robes trailing behind her, her expression carved from disdain and impatience.

Her lips curled into a wicked smirk. “Oh, do stop whining, Enzo.”

She lifted her chin toward the hallway where the alarm still blared.

“If they can’t follow orders, they deserve what happens to them.”

The words dripped with delight not cruelty born of necessity, but cruelty for pleasure.

Enzo stiffened, his jaw tightening. He didn’t argue; no one argued with Bellatrix Lestrange.

But as he trudged toward the basement toward the terrified maid who had likely opened the wrong door looking for linens he couldn’t help thinking:

This house doesn’t need a maid. It needs a miracle.

And somewhere miles away, under a false name and a new face, the only person capable of providing one was walking unknowingly back into the same storm she had fled.

In a cramped, dimly lit office tucked between a flour shop and a dingy apothecary, the hiring manager for Riddle Manor dragged a tired hand down his face.

Stacks of parchment towered around him like unstable pillars. Every page looked the same: Application denied. Application incomplete. Application disqualified.

Riddle Manor had become infamous for its impossible standards, strict rules, and… incidents with previous staff.

Half the wizarding world refused to work there.

The other half was too afraid to try.

He sighed and lifted the final application in the pile.

The handwriting was neat, elegant, precise.

Name: Delphini Y/L/N

The manager squinted. “No photograph?” he muttered. “Again?”

He checked the form. No attached image. Not even a sketch.

Normally, that meant an automatic rejection.

But Riddle Manor had burned through three maids this month alone, and if he sent Bellatrix Lestrange another pile of No Suitable Applicants Found, he’d likely be hexed into a chair.

He exhaled sharply.

“Well… she looks qualified enough.” He reached for his quill. “No photo probably means she’s shy. Or disfigured. Or—Merlin help her—pretty.”

He stamped it with a heavy thud.

APPROVED.

Back in Harry’s clinic, Y/N burst through the doorway with a lightness Harry hadn’t seen in weeks.

She practically glowed.

Her cheeks were flushed from the cold outside, hair windswept, eyes sparkling like she’d been holding in the news the entire walk back.

It wasn’t just happiness. It was hope the kind she rarely allowed herself.

“Harry!” she called, breathless.

She clutched a folded parchment to her chest as though it were something sacred. “I—I got a job.”

Harry froze mid-scribble. The quill hovered above an open medical chart, ink pooling on the corner of the parchment.

“A job?”

Her smile blossomed fully now warm, bright, almost radiant. “Something steady. Something real. A chance to… finally start over.”

Her voice trembled at the end, just slightly.

His breath hitched before he could stop it. “Start over?”

She nodded, a shy excitement flickering across her features. “I think… I think it’s time I move out.”

The quill slipped from his hand and clattered loudly onto the desk.

Move out.

He stared at her, trying and failing to mask the sudden rush of panic, the sting of loss.

“Move…” His voice cracked, and he hastily forced it back under control. “…move out?”

She shifted her weight, wringing the parchment between her fingers. Almost apologetic.

“Harry, you’ve done so much for me,” she murmured. “More than anyone ever has. I can’t stay here forever. I can’t keep imposing on you.”

Imposing. If only she knew.

Something heavy twisted deep in his chest, so sudden and sharp he had to swallow against it.

He shouldn’t feel that. He had no right to feel that. But he did.

Still, he managed a soft, warm smile one that hurt his jaw to hold.

“That’s… great, Delphini. Really.”

Her joy should’ve soothed him. It didn’t.

She stepped closer, standing barely a foot away. He could feel her warmth. Her breath. Her hope.

He didn’t move away.

Her grin widened, cheeks glowing with an innocence and trust he didn’t deserve.

And Harry felt his resolve crumble entirely.

He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

It lingered longer than it should’ve. Longer than he should’ve let it.

“Then we’ll celebrate,” he murmured, voice low, intimate in a way he couldn’t take back.

She giggled a light, airy sound that brightened the entire room. “Celebrate? For a job?”

“And for a successful surgery,” he said, forcing a smile that felt half real and half aching.

Her laughter light, bright, beautifully alive filled the small clinic like sunlight piercing through fog, warming everything it touched.

For a single, fragile moment, Harry let himself bask in it.

Let himself believe she wasn’t running from someone who wanted her back.

Let himself forget she belonged to another life a life she couldn’t remember.

Let himself forget that another man, far more dangerous than he could ever be, still called her wife.

Let himself forget that Tom Riddle would burn the entire world to ash to get her back.

Let himself pretend he wasn’t falling for her.

Her joy, her warmth, her presence…

They made him forget everything wrong in the world.

Even if only for a moment.

The restaurant glittered with candlelight, each small flame mirrored in crystal glasses and polished silverware.

Soft music drifted from an enchanted violin in the corner, blending seamlessly with the quiet hum of conversation.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Y/N looked almost ethereal beneath the warm lights hair softly curled, cheeks flushed from the cold outside, eyes bright with something he couldn’t quite name.

Every time she laughed, something inside him stuttered.

The way her hands moved when she talked, animated and gentle it was all becoming far too easy to love.

She lifted her wine glass, then paused mid-motion.

“I remembered something,” she said suddenly.

Harry set down his own glass, instantly attentive. “What is it?”

“My perfume.” A small, proud spark lit her eyes. “I used to make it myself—with potions.”

He blinked. “You didn’t buy one?”

“I didn’t have to.” She pulled a tiny vial from her pocket and dabbed a drop on her wrist.

The scent rose between them, warm and floral with a whisper of spice.

She held her wrist out to him. “Here, smell.”

Harry leaned in.

It was intoxicating… strangely familiar in a way he couldn’t place. “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought so too.” She smiled, almost shyly.

Then she stood, gathering both their coats in her arms. “I’ll take these to the stand.”

Her dress swept behind her like a whisper as she crossed the room.

Across the Room

The restaurant doors swung open with a rush of cold night air. Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks.

“Lord Riddle!” someone shouted.

Tom Riddle stepped inside impossibly elegant in a dark tailored coat, his posture rigid with aristocratic precision.

He moved like a shadow given shape, every step slow and deliberate.

Reporters swarmed instantly, microphones thrust forward like daggers.

“Lord Riddle, is it true your wife filed for divorce?”

He paused mid-step. Every camera lifted.

Tom turned his head slightly, gaze sharp enough to silence a crowd.

“My wife,” he said clearly, voice smooth but cold, “has been mine for over six years. And she will be until death do us part.”

The room fell into a reverent hush. Flashbulbs erupted again.

And then his eyes snagged on movement.

Harry Potter had risen from a nearby table, straightening his jacket.

Tom’s expression barely shifted, but his tone cooled into something almost polite.

“Potter,” he said, extending a hand. “Good to see you.”

Harry shook it cautiously. “Likewise.”

The cameras clicked frantically.

The Dark Lord and the Chosen One standing together as if the world made sense.

But while the reporters buzzed, Tom’s attention drifted.

Something brushed past him soft, almost ghostly.

A scent.

Sweet. Floral. Spiced.

Her perfume.

His body went still.

He inhaled again slow, controlled, but his heart jolted against his ribs.

He turned his head.

Across the room, a woman stood at the coat stand, her back to him. Her hair spilled over her shoulders just so, catching the golden candlelight.

The fall of her coat, the delicate slope of her neck…

Her perfume.

His wife’s perfume.

His pulse kicked unwelcome, unstoppable.

She shifted slightly, just enough to see the curve of her cheek, not enough to reveal her face.

But it was enough to set his blood alight.

She didn’t see him.

Instead she walked back toward her table, brushing a stray curl behind her ear in that familiar way her way and slid gracefully into her seat beside Harry Potter.

Harry leaned toward her, smiling softly.

Her smile trembled just barely as if she felt something. Watching her. Following her.

Her hand pressed gently to her chest.

A flicker of unease crossed her features.

Tom didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But he watched. Every step she took. Every tilt of her head. Every breath.

He watched her until the moment the crowd swallowed him again and he was forced to leave.

On the walk out, his face betrayed nothing.

But inside?

Inside, something dangerous stirred.

He no longer felt grief. Or doubt.

Only certainty.

Y/N was alive.

And whether she remembered him or not…

He was going to find her.

will try to release a chapter a day from 12th Nov 2025. But let's see lol.

⋆ CHAPTER ONE

⋆ CHAPTER TWO

⋆ CHAPTER THREE

⋆ CHAPTER FOUR

⋆ CHAPTER FIVE

⋆ CHAPTER SIX (coming soon)

⋆ CHAPTER SEVEN (coming soon)

Y/N’s hands shook violently as she pushed open the door to Harry’s surgical clinic.

The faint antiseptic scent mingled with the tang of healing salves, yet to her it felt like the only refuge in a city determined to hunt her down.

Her wand stayed tucked safely beneath her coat, but the fear had already settled into her bones.

Harry looked up from his desk, eyes locking onto hers immediately.

Something unspoken passed between them a flicker of recognition buried beneath memory and time.

He didn’t speak at first, only studied her, taking in the way she trembled, the desperation etched across her face.

The crease in his brow deepened, and his lips twitched as though he were holding back words he had no right to say.

“I… I need your help,” she stammered, voice barely audible, trembling with urgency. “You have to… you have to change my face.”

Harry’s gaze softened, but a sharp edge of disbelief cut through his expression.

“Y/N… you’re… you’re literally the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said slowly, each word weighted, almost reverent. “How… how could you ask for a different face? Why would you even think you need—”

She shook her head, cutting him off, her shoulders hunched, eyes darting around as if the walls themselves could betray her.

“I don’t have a choice,” she whispered, voice breaking. “They… they’ll find me. I can’t… I can’t let them.”

Harry leaned back, exhaling sharply, his hands tightening on the edge of his desk.

He searched her face, trying to measure the danger, the desperation, the impossible reality she was asking him to create.

“Who are you running from?” he asked, voice low but insistent. “Who chased you that night at the hospital?”

Y/N’s lips trembled, words failing her. Her throat tightened, and tears threatened to spill.

“Please…” she croaked, voice small, broken. “I just need… I need to be safe. I… I need to disappear.”

Harry shook his head, conflicted, his gaze dropping to his hands for a moment.

“I… I can’t just erase you,” he admitted, voice heavy. “Not like that. Not someone like you.”

She threw herself onto her knees, hands clenching his desk as if she could physically pull the answer from him.

“Please, Harry! I’ll do anything! Anything you ask! I just… I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t… I won’t let them take him!”

Harry’s eyes softened, but the incredulity remained.

He leaned forward, searching her eyes, reaching for the humanity she was clutching so desperately.

“You’re already perfect,” he said, his voice almost trembling. “I’ve known you more than you remember and you’re perfect. How could you ask me to… to change that?”

She shrugged off his words, the compliment sliding off her like water.

“I don’t care about perfect,” she said, tears streaking down her cheeks. “I care about surviving. I care about getting to him. You don’t understand they’ll kill me. I need you… please, Harry, please.”

Harry swallowed, torn between wanting to argue and the raw, urgent plea in her eyes.

He leaned back slightly, his jaw tight, conflicted between logic, morality, and the undeniable pull he felt toward keeping her alive.

The clinic was quiet except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights.

Y/N sat in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the floor as the weight of what she’d just asked sank in.

Her fingers trembled, brushing over the cold metal of her phone in her pocket her last fragile tether to a life that was slipping away.

She took a shaky breath and pulled it out, the screen lighting up her pale face.

There was only one person she could trust enough to tell someone who might understand, if only a little.

She scrolled through her contacts until her thumb hovered over one name: Lily Y/L/N. Her twin. Her mirror. Her backup plan.

“Please pick up,” she whispered, pressing the call button.

The phone rang once. Twice.

Then

“Y/N?” Lily’s voice cracked through the static, breathless, panicked. “Oh—Twinny! Merlin, is it really you? Everyone’s been saying you disappeared! Tom’s been searching—he—”

“I know,” Y/N cut in, voice shaking. “I know he has.” Her throat burned, but she forced the words out. “I’m okay, Lil. For now.”

“Where are you? What’s going on? You sound—”

“I have a plan,” Y/N interrupted again, though her voice wavered. “I’m going to change my face. Take Mattheo and disappear. Start over somewhere he’ll never find us.”

There was a stunned silence on the other end.

Y/N could almost picture Lily standing in her tiny London flat, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide.

“Twinny…” Lily whispered finally, her voice trembling but steady underneath. “You’re sure about this? You’re really going to do it?”

Y/N nodded even though her sister couldn’t see her. “It’s the only way. He’ll never stop. Not until he finds me.”

The line crackled.

For a moment, there was just breathing Lily’s soft, uneven inhale, and Y/N’s barely contained sob.

Then— Ding-dong.

A doorbell.

Y/N froze. “Lily?”

On the other end, there was a pause. Then Lily’s quiet gasp.

“Someone’s here,” Lily whispered. “It’s late, I—I’m not expecting—”

“Don’t open it,” Y/N hissed, panic flaring. “Lily, please—don’t—”

But it was too late. The creak of a door echoed through the phone.

Y/N’s blood ran cold.

“Good evening,” came a voice she would know anywhere. Smooth, rich, deceptively calm the kind of voice that could caress or kill.

Tom.

Lily’s breath hitched audibly. “T–Tom…”

Tom’s footsteps clicked slowly across the floor. “I was hoping I might find my wife here,” he murmured. “You see, she’s… misplaced herself.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “Lily, hang up,” she whispered frantically. “Please, hang up—”

But Tom’s voice had already turned toward the phone. “Ah,” he said softly. “There she is.”

“Tom,” Y/N breathed, tears blurring her vision.

“Where are you, my love?” His tone was velvet and venom, every word measured, controlled. “Come home. We’ll talk about this.”

“I… I can’t,” Y/N whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, Tom… just let me go.”

There was a pause just long enough for her to think, maybe and then his voice sharpened, the chill slicing through the line.

“You dare leave me and our son?” he hissed. “Mattheo cannot sleep without you near. I cannot sleep without you.”

At that, Y/N crumpled, her sob breaking free. “Tom, please—”

Lily’s voice cut in, desperate. “Stop it! You’re scaring her!”

There was a scuffle a thud and Tom’s voice, lower now, darker. “You have her eyes, Lily. The same fear.”

Y/N’s fingers spasmed. “No—Tom, please don’t hurt her!”

But all she heard next was Lily’s muffled cry, and that was enough.

She hung up, her hands trembling so hard the phone nearly slipped from her grip.

Her knees gave out, and she staggered back against the cold brick wall outside Harry’s clinic, sobbing into her palms.

A shadow fell across her.

Harry stood in the doorway, the faint blue light of the clinic spilling over his shoulders.

His jaw was tight, eyes wide with something between anger and heartbreak but his voice was steady when he spoke.

“I’ll do it,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I’ll change your face.”

Y/N looked up, startled, her vision blurred with tears.

Harry’s expression softened as he crouched down in front of her. “I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered.

And for the first time in a long while, she almost believed it.

The procedure began just as the clinic settled into silence.

Hours passed in meticulous, tense work magical incantations humming softly as Harry blended them with surgical precision.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and enchanted salves, a sharp contrast to the fear gnawing at Y/N as she drifted under the anesthesia.

When she finally stirred, panic exploded in her chest.

Her reflection in the polished silver tray beside the bed was a stranger.

Her hands, trembling, reached up to touch a face that didn’t feel like hers.

She screamed, a raw, piercing sound that echoed off the sterile walls.

Harry hovered nearby, trying to coax a laugh from her, his brow furrowed with worry.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay. You’re awake,” he said softly, kneeling beside the bed.

“I… what… why… why do I look like this?” Her voice cracked, a mixture of fear and disbelief.

Harry’s hand moved instinctively, brushing a lock of hair from her face.

“No… you’re beautiful. You’re… perfect,” he said, his tone soft, lingering longer than it should, a possessive edge threading through the warmth.

“Perfect?!” Y/N spat, panic sharpening. “I don’t even… who am I?”

Harry hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“You… you asked me to change your face. That’s why. You’re running from someone.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “And… your name… it’s Delphini.”

The word lingered in the air, weighted.

He said it almost too deliberately, a subtle pause that made Y/N’s stomach twist with unease.

“I… Delphini?” she whispered, confusion and fear coloUring her voice. “Who… who am I? What happened?”

Harry’s eyes softened, but there was an edge to them she couldn’t ignore. “That’s all I know for certain. You asked me to hide you… and your name is Delphini. That’s it.”

Something about the way he said it careful, deliberate, almost wary sent a chill through her.

Yet, despite the warning in his gaze, she nodded, trusting him, because there was no one else.

She blinked rapidly, trying to anchor herself. “I… I can’t remember… anything else?”

Harry shook his head, voice low, almost reluctant. “I guess not.. but you’re safe. That’s what matters now.”

Y/N sank back into the pillows, trembling, a fragile shell of herself. Her mind felt foggy, disjointed, and foreign.

A knock at the door pulled Harry's attention.

“Come in,” He called weakly.

Ron leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Harry’s head snapped toward him, defensive, voice clipped. “I did what I had to. She’s in danger, Ron. This wasn’t… personal.”

Ron rolled his eyes, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Totally professional. You did a non authorised magical face surgery because you’re hopelessly smitten, right?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further.

A soft knock followed, this time from her.

Dressed in carefully chosen, comfortable clothes, Y/N approached the doorway, a tremor in her hands, yet a spark in her gaze.

“Want to… go for a walk with me?” she asked hesitantly. “Maybe… seeing the city… might help me remember things.”

Harry rose immediately, offering a small, gentle smile.

“Of course,” he said, his eyes lingering on her as he followed, warmth blooming quietly in his chest.

But there was also that shadow that subtle unease, the sense that he knew more than he let on, that some pieces of her story were still dangerous to tell.

The evening air was cool and crisp, brushing against Y/N’s—no, Delphini’s cheeks as she walked beside Harry down the narrow cobblestone street.

The city hummed softly around them distant laughter, the faint clatter of shop signs swaying in the wind, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting through the air.

Harry kept a careful pace, close enough to catch her if she stumbled, but far enough to let her breathe.

She’d been quiet most of the walk, eyes wandering, searching for something she couldn’t name.

Then she stopped.

Something pale fluttered was in the back of her pants, a small, folded square of fabric.

It was a handkerchief soft, expensive silk, the kind someone important might carry.

Her breath hitched when she saw the letters embroidered in dark thread at the corner:

T. R.

Her thumb lingered over the stitching, tracing the letters like a ghost of recognition stirring somewhere deep in her chest.

The world seemed to narrow for a heartbeat, her pulse loud in her ears.

“Delphini” Harry’s voice was soft, cautious. “You okay?”

She blinked, eyes flicking up to him, then back to the handkerchief. “Yeah… I just—” She hesitated. “It feels… familiar. I don’t know why.”

Harry stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “Maybe it belonged to someone you knew before.”

“Maybe,” she murmured, her voice distant, almost a whisper.

As she spoke, her gaze drifted to her hand.

The faint light caught on her nails short, uneven, one chipped near the edge.

On the smallest one, the remnants of black polish still clung stubbornly, forming two faint letters she hadn’t noticed before.

M. R.

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t know why, but the initials on her hand and the ones on the silk felt connected like pieces of a puzzle her mind refused to reveal.

“Who… who are you?” she whispered under her breath, staring at the letters, not realizing she’d spoken aloud.

“Delphini?” Harry’s voice cut through her trance, gentle but firm.

She startled slightly, blinking up at him. He was watching her carefully, that same wary tenderness in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a small, uncertain smile.

Harry didn’t look convinced, but he nodded, gesturing toward the street ahead. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s keep walking.”

As they moved on, Y/N slipped the handkerchief into her coat pocket, her fingers brushing the embroidered initials one last time.

T. R. M. R.

Names she didn’t remember — but her heart did.

Meanwhile, back at Riddle Manor, the grand bedroom felt unusually quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the fireplace and the flickering light from an old laptop screen.

Tom sat in a high-backed chair, Mattheo curled up on his lap, tiny arms draped over his chest as the boy’s wide eyes tracked the scenes on the screen.

“That’s me, Daddy,” Mattheo murmured, pointing to a younger version of himself, wiggling in his mothers lap as she tries to feed him.

Tom’s lips quirked into a soft, rare smile. “Yes, son. That’s you.”

Mattheo’s gaze shifted, lingering on a clip where a young Y/N laughed, leaning comfortably against Tom during a prefect patrol.

“She’s so… pretty,” he whispered, awe in his small voice.

“She is,” Tom admitted quietly, the edge of steel in his voice softening.

"I miss mummy"

His jaw tightened as his eyes glimmered with something rare: longing. “I miss her too, little one. I miss her too.”

Mattheo leaned closer into his father’s chest, small fingers tracing absent-minded patterns over Tom’s arm, his voice soft, earnest.

“Do you think… she misses me too?”

Tom’s eyes softened, though he didn’t answer immediately, letting the warmth of the moment fill the room.

Outside of the video, memories of her laughter, her gentle touch, swirled around him like a whisper he couldn’t catch.

In the shadows, unseen by father or son in the next clip stands a familiar face, Harry Potter, who watched from afar, heart clenching painfully.

He clenched his fists, watching the couple longingly.

Bellatrix, perched elegantly in the corner with arms folded, rolled her eyes, unimpressed by such display.

“Pathetic,” she muttered, her voice carrying that signature mix of disdain and sharp wit.

Enzo, standing slightly behind her, swallowed hard, eyes glued to his brother and nephew.

Meanwhile, Bellatrix’s mind remained cold, calculating, focused on power and strategy, not the tenderness consuming her son.

Mattheo yawned softly, snuggling into Tom’s chest, and Tom’s hand instinctively ruffled his hair.

Y/N pressed herself into the shadows of a narrow alley, the cold stone walls pressing close around her.

Her wand was tucked carefully into the folds of her cloak, hidden, but ready.

The night smelled of rain and smoke, and every distant footstep echoed like a threat.

She pulled out her phone with trembling fingers, dialing the one person she trusted inside the Riddle Manor — her best friend, Pansy.

Her pulse hammered in her ears as the line rang.

Click.

“Y/N? Is that… is it really you?” Pansy’s voice broke, trembling with disbelief.

Y/N swallowed, a tight knot forming in her chest. “It’s me, Pans. I’m… I’m alive.”

On the other end, a strangled sob tore from Pansy. “I thought… I thought—Oh Merlin! I—I thought you were gone!”

“I’m so sorry,” Y/N whispered, her own voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark.”

Pansy’s tone softened, but there was still a hint of frustration beneath the relief. “I would have come with you! Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

Y/N hesitated, the truth burning her tongue.

She hadn’t wanted to admit that Pansy had been part of the reason she’d had to leave.

But now, in the quiet of the alley, she allowed herself to trust her.

“I… I couldn’t,” she murmured. “But… I need to speak to him. To Mattheo.”

“Of course, love,” Pansy said, gentleness threading through her voice.

The line went silent for a moment, and then the small, muffled voice of Mattheo came through, fragile and broken. “Mummy… I miss you!”

Y/N’s chest tightened, her eyes closing as tears threatened. “Shh, my little love… listen. Mama’s here. I’m here.”

She sang to him softly, the same lullaby she had whispered countless nights when he was just a baby, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear, relief, and longing.

Gradually, his cries softened, and she felt his tiny hands clutch the phone like it was a lifeline.

Pansy’s practical voice cut through the lull in the conversation. “Don’t forget the charity event tonight. Tom insisted Mattheo attend. He knows you’ll try something.”

Y/N let out a soft, frustrated sigh. “Tom’s too clever for his own good.”

A faint laugh passed through the line. “That’s why you married him, love,” Pansy teased, but there was warmth beneath it, a reminder of steadiness Y/N had always depended on.

Y/N’s lips twitched into a weak smile, though her heart felt like lead. “I’ll see him soon,” she promised softly.

“Mummy… you promise?” Mattheo’s small voice wavered, trembling with hope and longing.

Her throat tightened, and she blinked rapidly, swallowing back the tears that stung her eyes. “I promise, my little love.”

She would see him.

She had to.

By evening, Y/N was ready.

Every detail had been planned her hair pinned back, simple yet precise, her wand tucked carefully beneath the folds of a plain waiter’s apron.

Each step she took felt measured, her breath steady despite the storm of nerves underneath.

The grand hall gleamed like a dream — golden chandeliers sparkled, crystal glasses caught the light, and the murmurs of the aristocracy and magically influential mingled with the soft strains of music.

She slipped silently through the crowd, invisible, unnoticed, her eyes scanning, calculating.

Tom stood near the center, effortless and magnetic, every motion a display of charm and control.

Beside him, Bellatrix leaned back against the wall, her black curls framing a sharp, assessing gaze.

Mattheo sat near the front, absorbed in a drawing, while Pansy lingered at the edges, uneasy.

Enzo drifted gracefully among the guests, eyes sharp but unaware of his sister in-law hiding just feet away.

And Y/N? She was a ghost among them.

When a reporter from the Daily Prophet approached Tom, the question came with a pointed edge. “Where is Mrs. Riddle tonight?”

“She’s researching mythical creatures in Turkey,” Tom said smoothly, smile flawless, confidence radiating from every angle.

The press murmured, skeptical, but his influence was enough to dissolve any doubt.

Y/N pressed herself behind a pillar, chest tightening as she watched him work the room.

She let her gaze slide over Enzo, circling the room like a sentinel, suspicious yet oblivious to Y/N’s presence.

Then her breath caught.

Across the hall, standing confidently at the podium, was Harry Potter — the same man who had carried her to the hospital only days ago.

Harry… he was here, showing the world the results of his work — healing, restoring, reshaping lives.

His presentation was meticulous.

He spoke of magical prosthetics and subtle facial reconstruction, of careful incantations that could reshape bone and skin, erase trauma marks, and allow people to start over.

Every word, every gesture, carried the quiet authority of someone who had dedicated his life to repair, to restoration.

The irony bit sharply.

Tom and his followers, the very people responsible for countless injuries, many of them severe burns, were now seated here in their finest robes, smiling and nodding, cloaked in the veneer of public goodwill.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her mind spinning faster than the magician’s spinning crystal orbs on the display tables.

As she watched him detail a spell to reshape a patient’s face, a thought crystallized in her mind like ice forming over a still pond.

He could help me.

He could change my face.

She could escape Tom. She could disappear from his control and influence, leave the Manor, with her son.

Her heartbeat quickened.

Harry might lead her to freedom.

Her gaze flicked to Mattheo, absorbed in his drawing, oblivious to the tension in the room.

Her son was so close, yet so far.

If Harry could help, if she could reach him without Tom noticing… maybe, just maybe, she could get her son back safely.

And with that thought, a plan began to take shape in the shadows of her mind, fragile but alive, as dangerous and necessary as the night itself.

Her gaze shifted to Mattheo.

The small boy leaned over his drawing, tiny hands holding a pencil with care.

He showed it to his father, but Tom barely glanced, absorbed in Harry’s presentation.

Pansy leaned closer, eyes widening in a soft gasp as she realised what Mattheo had drawn unmistakably Y/N, captured in a child’s perfect, simple lines.

Y/N’s chest constricted, a lump forming in her throat.

A little later,

Y/N’s eyes flicked across the room, taking in every detail, every movement.

Tom was engaged in a low conversation with Harry Potter, completely absorbed, nodding and laughing at some story she couldn’t hear from her hidden vantage point.

Pansy, ever attentive, was up getting Mattheo a little plate, helping him with some food, distracted by keeping him fed and quiet.

A surge of hope quickened Y/N’s pulse.

This was her chance.

She leaned just enough from behind the pillar, letting her voice slip out like a secret breeze.

“Hi, little love…” she whispered, barely audible.

Mattheo’s head snapped up, eyes widening, and his face lit with that pure, innocent joy that only a child could muster at seeing his mother.

His lips parted, ready to cry out, “Mummy!” but Y/N gently pressed a finger to them.

“Not yet, my love,” she murmured, voice soft but urgent. “Shh… listen to me. Meet me in the bathroom. Tell Aunt Pansy to walk you there.”

He blinked rapidly, comprehension dawning, and then nodded, eager and obedient — a silent promise that he would follow her plan without hesitation.

Y/N let out a quiet breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

With Tom distracted and Pansy elsewhere, the path was open.

She would reach her son. She would get him out.

But fate had its own timing.

Tom, oblivious, strode past, his presence almost like gravity pulling against her.

Y/N’s heart lurched violently as she bent to pick up a spilled drink, only to collide with him accidentally.

Her hands trembled, brushing against something familiar — a tiny drawing Mattheo had made, the initials M.R. in a heart, painted on her pinky nail, just as she had worn earlier.

Tom’s eyes narrowed instantly, sharp and piercing. “Love?”

The sound of his voice snapped Y/N out of the moment.

She dropped everything the glass, her composure and bolted, weaving through the crowd toward the exits.

“Mummy! Nooo! Don’t leave me again!” Mattheo’s scream cut through the music, raw and panicked, as he wriggled in Pansy’s arms.

Pansy’s hands tightened around him, shushing and soothing, though her own worry was clear in the lines of her face.

Tom surged after Y/N, dark and relentless, but she vanished into the night, her cloak snapping behind her like shadowed wings.

Somewhere in the crowd, Bellatrix’s eyes flickered — a silent signal passed to her followers, sharp and deadly.

The game had begun, and once again, Y/N disappeared into the storm of the night, determined to reach her son no matter the cost.

Evan Rosier moved like a predator through the darkened streets, his wand held at the ready, eyes glinting with cold intent beneath the flickering lamplight.

Each step was measured, silent, but the air around him seemed to hum with the danger he carried.

Enzo lingered a few paces behind, tension written across his face.

He couldn’t bring himself to raise a wand against Y/N — his brother’s wife, the mother of baby Mattheo.

A flicker of guilt crossed his sharp features, tangled with fear.

“You’re the Riddle’s wife, huh?” Evan’s voice cut through the night, low and mocking.

He stopped a few feet from her, tilting his head as if weighing her against some invisible standard.

“Finally meet you… You look exactly like Y/M/N.” His gaze sharpened, piercing. “Y/N. Merlin’s sake… you’re Reggie’s?”

Y/N’s throat went dry.

She swallowed hard, heart hammering against her ribs.

Her wand felt like an extension of herself, but her mind raced she had to buy time, had to survive, had to get to Mattheo.

Evan’s face darkened, the faint sheen of anger glinting in his eyes.

“He betrayed me,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Tell him I said hi.”

Without another word, his wand flicked sharply, and a jet of green light shot toward her.

Y/N dropped low, spinning aside as the spell hissed past her shoulder.

She countered with a quick, precise shield charm, the magic crackling and illuminating her features in brief flashes.

Her heart pounded, adrenaline surging through every vein.

Spells collided around her in a dangerous dance, sparks scattering across the cobblestones like fireflies.

Y/N’s movements were fluid, instinctive, each dodge and block honed through years of practice and fear.

Her mind, despite the chaos, remained clear: survive.

Outrun him. Reach safety. Reach her son.

She bolted, weaving through narrow alleys and shadowed doorways, the night swallowing her as Evan’s footsteps and curse-laced shouts echoed behind her.

taglist: @sweetstrawberrianne @suckahhfornerdss @peri-meter @tomarry321 @ifsf @jo1818 @livwtfhaha @lolalleins

The sterile glow of St. Mungo’s lights flickered weakly against the black stretch of night, the faint hum of magic vibrating in the air.

Then the doors burst open.

Harry Potter stepped inside, his breath ragged, his coat soaked through with rain.

In his arms, he carried a woman limp, cold, and frighteningly still. Her head lolled against his shoulder, a trail of blood matted in her hair, streaking down to her jaw.

Her robes were torn, smeared with grime, her wand nowhere in sight.

“Hit by a car — bring a Healer!” he barked, his voice sharp with urgency, slicing through the stillness of the ward.

Nurses gasped, springing into motion.

The floor came alive with the shimmer of magic — diagnostic spells lighting up like fireflies, stretchers floating swiftly to meet him, charms whispered in panicked haste.

But Harry didn’t let go.

He held her as though the world might shatter if he did, his fingers gripping her a little too tightly.

Her pulse faint but steady beat weakly against his wrist. Her face, though battered, struck something deep and unspoken within him. There was something hauntingly familiar about her.

The shape of her mouth.

The way her lashes trembled even in unconsciousness.

He swallowed hard, throat tight. No… it couldn’t be.

Still, he didn’t release her when the Healers approached.

He carried her himself, through the gleaming corridors of the hospital and into a private ward, ignoring the nurses’ protests.

Her head rested against his shoulder, strands of her hair brushing his collar.

“Please,” he said quietly, “just… make sure she lives.”

The door closed behind him, the hum of magic deepening and for the first time in years, Harry Potter felt that old ache in his chest, the one that came from saving someone he wasn’t sure he could bear to lose again.

Across the city, the Riddle Manor was no longer silent.

The vast corridors, usually filled with an almost sacred stillness, now trembled with the sound of a child’s sobs.

Mattheo’s cries echoed through the marble halls, bouncing off portraits of ancestors who watched in cold, painted indifference.

The toys lay untouched, the little wooden broom discarded on the carpet, and on the bed sat a boy whose small shoulders shook with grief.

Tom Riddle sat beside him, one hand absently stroking his son’s curls as Mattheo pressed his tear-streaked face into his father’s chest.

The boy’s sobs came in uneven hiccups, fragile and raw.

“I want Mummy,” Mattheo whispered between tears, his voice breaking. “She always sings… she hugs me to sleep.”

Tom’s face remained composed, every emotion carefully leashed beneath the surface.

Yet when he spoke, his voice came low, dangerously gentle like silk stretched over steel.

“I know, little heir,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along Mattheo’s cheek. “I can’t sleep without her either.”

For a moment, the great Dark Lord was just a father — a man holding his son in the ruins of his own control.

Mattheo sniffled again, clutching tighter at Tom’s robes, small fingers twisting in the fabric. “Then bring her back, Daddy.”

The words pierced the air like a spell.

Tom’s hand stilled. His jaw tightened, shadows deepening under his eyes.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze dark, calculating, and glinting with something far more dangerous than grief.

“I will,” he said softly, a promise that sounded more like a vow than comfort. “No matter who stands in my way.”

Bellatrix’s chamber smelled faintly of jasmine and smoldering oil. 

The heavy curtains had been drawn, leaving the room a wash of lamplight and shadow. 

She stood by the mantel like a small, contained storm dark curls haloing her face, eyes cold and hard.

Across from her, Enzo hovered near the hearth, shoulders tight, eyes darting. 

He hated the way his mother looked at him when she was displeased; tonight the weight of that look felt almost physical.

“You let her get away, Son,” Bellatrix snapped without preamble. 

Each syllable cut through the quiet. “Do you know what she is? What she can do?”

Enzo swallowed and avoided her gaze. “I closed the gates, Mother. I did everything I could—”

Bellatrix leaned against the dark wood of the mantel, eyes narrowing as she watched her son fidget nervously.

“If Tom finds her first,” she said, voice low but cutting, “he’ll forgive her. He always does. That woman can do whatever she wants, and he’ll bend himself around her. And the rest of us are left picking up the pieces.”

Enzo shifted uneasily. “Maybe that’s just… him caring? She’s his wife.”

Bellatrix snorted. “Caring? Don’t be foolish. Obsession is not love, Lorenzo. It clouds judgment. He’s blind to everything else.” She straightened, pacing a few steps. “And if we act before him… we control the outcome.”

She stepped forward, the lamplight catching the hard line of her jaw. “If we act before him, we control the outcome.” Her voice dropped, pragmatic and sharp. “We take the decision away from his hands.”

Enzo’s frown deepened. “You mean—”

“I mean find her,” Bellatrix said. “Make sure she never comes back.” Her eyes bored into him. “Do what must be done.”

Enzo’s stomach clenched. “And then what? You want me to—to take his place?”

Bellatrix’s smile was thin. “Ideally, someone more capable would lead — someone like your brother Mattheo. Stronger, truer to a hard line.”

She let the name hang between them. “But he ran off to the Muggle world after the war. He’s not here.” She shrugged as if it settled everything. “So, by default, the role falls to family. To you, if you prove yourself.”

Enzo’s face drained. “I don’t want that title, Mother. I never asked for it.”

“You don’t get to ask,” she replied flatly. “You were born into this. The question is whether you take it, or let a stronger hand seize it. I intend to remain the Dark Lady — that won’t change. You would merely carry the name.”

The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows over her face, sharp and calculating.

“Find Y/N before Tom does. Make sure she never has a chance to interfere. And maybe, just maybe… we’ll see if you’re capable of handling what’s left.”

Enzo’s jaw tightened.

For a long moment Enzo just stared at the floor, the weight of the order settling into his chest.

Back at St. Mungo’s, the sterile hum of magic filled the quiet ward. Soft, glowing charms drifted across the ceiling, bathing the room in a cold white light.

Y/N stirred, her lashes fluttering open to the brightness.

For a moment, everything was a blur the echo of screeching tires, headlights cutting through rain, a flash of red light and then pain.

A nurse hurried to her bedside, relief washing over her face. “You’re awake! Oh, thank Merlin. Can you tell me your name, dear?”

Y/N blinked, dazed.

Her mind was fogged, fractured memories swimming just out of reach.

She hesitated, lips parting as if to speak her real name but instinct stopped her.

“Delphini,” she said softly. “Delphini Y/L/N.”

The nurse smiled, oblivious, jotting it down on her clipboard. “Good, good. Try to rest, Miss Delphini. You’re safe now.”

Safe. The word rang hollow in her chest.

Delphini.

It wasn’t just a name.

It was the one she and Tom had whispered once, years ago, for the daughter they never had a name meant for something pure before everything fell apart.

Harry stood near the doorway, watching quietly. His posture was casual, but his eyes betrayed something else recognition. Worry. A familiarity he couldn’t quite explain.

When the nurse left, Harry stepped closer, voice low and careful. “Are you… alright?”

Y/N looked up at him, confused for a heartbeat.

His face was kind, open the same man who had carried her here, blood on his jacket and panic in his eyes.

“Yes,” she murmured, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Thank you for… helping me.”

Harry exhaled softly, trying to sound casual, but there was an edge of emotion in his tone. “It’s fine. I just— I’m glad you’re okay.”

She caught that hint of concern, that flicker of something she didn’t want to name.

Her brows knit, but she only offered a small nod, brushing off the weight of his gaze.

“Thanks again,” she said quickly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “But I really need to go.”

Harry frowned. “Wait — you’re not supposed to leave yet. You’ve barely—”

She was already standing, pulling her torn coat over her hospital gown, ignoring the IV tugging painfully at her arm. “I can’t stay here,” she whispered, eyes darting toward the door. “He’ll find me.”

“Who?” Harry asked, taking a step closer, his tone gentle but urgent now. “Who’s after you?”

Y/N froze for a heartbeat her pulse thudding in her ears then met his gaze.

There was a softness there, a trust she could almost fall into. But she couldn’t. Not now.

“No one you can save me from,” she said quietly.

Before Harry could stop her, she slipped past him, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

The automatic ward doors opened with a hiss, letting in a rush of cold night air.

By the time Harry reached the entrance, she was gone — swallowed by the darkness outside.

Meanwhile, deep within Riddle Manor, Bellatrix’s command had already taken root.

Enzo hesitated before carrying it out — his mother’s voice still ringing in his ears but in the end, obedience won over hesitation.

A message was sent.

And somewhere beyond the manor’s wards, in the bitter cold of the night, one Death Eater answered the call.

Barty Crouch Jr. apparated near the hospital gates, the pop of displaced air swallowed quickly by the rain.

His wand was already drawn, his expression sharp the look of a man who had long buried whatever humanity he had left.

The order was simple. Brutal. Find her. End her.

He’d done worse. He told himself this would be no different.

But when he saw her standing beneath the flickering lamplight, coat torn, face pale and haunted — he froze.

For the first time in years, Barty couldn’t move.

“Y/N? or Lily?” The names escaped him before he could stop it, rough and unsteady.

She turned, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. “Please… don’t.”

The tremor in her voice hit him like a spell.

He’d heard that tone before the same fear in her father’s voice the night Regulus Black confessed to being a father.

Barty’s wand faltered.

He stared at her as if seeing a ghost. His chest tightened painfully, and his next words came out hoarse. “You’re… one of the twins.”

Y/N froze.

The title pierced her — a reminder of who she used to be, before the war, before the Manor, before Tom.

No one had called her that in years.

“You look so much like your mother,” he said softly, voice cracking under the weight of old familiarity. “You’re one of Y/M/N’s twins right?”

Her throat constricted.

Slowly, she nodded, her breath unsteady. “You knew my mother?.”

A bitter smile flickered across his lips. “no, but your your father was my brother in all but blood. Regulus… he—” He stopped, his voice catching. “He saved my life once. I owed him everything.”

The air between them shifted no longer hunter and prey, but something achingly human.

“Berkshire didn’t tell me it was you,” Barty muttered, half to himself, lowering his wand a fraction.

Rain dripped from his hair as he stared at her, torn between duty and something dangerously close to guilt.

Y/N’s hands lifted in quiet surrender. “You have to do it, don’t you? That’s your order.”

He looked at her — really looked at her and for a heartbeat, she could almost see the young man he had once been.

His jaw tensed. “You’re Regulus’s daughter,” he said, as if repeating it could anchor him. “My best friend’s little girl. I—” His voice cracked. “I can’t.”

The wand in his hand trembled.

He glanced down the street, the echo of approaching footsteps growing louder. “Go. Now. Before the others find you.”

But it was too late.

Two Death Eaters apparated in a sharp crack of thunder — shadows coalescing into men with glowing wands and cold, empty eyes.

“Crouch!” one barked. “Where is she?”

Barty’s expression hardened instantly, slipping back into the mask of control.

“You’re late,” he snapped. “I’ve got it handled.”

The others didn’t buy it. Their wands rose.

Barty’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Bloody fools…” he hissed.

He turned to Y/N, his tone low, urgent. “Run. go!.”

For a moment, she hesitated her eyes locking with his and something passed between them.

Then she ran.

Harry Potter burst through the hospital doors just in time to see her vanish into the storm, her cloak whipping behind her like smoke.

And in the chaos, Barty Crouch Jr. the man sent to kill her stood between her and the Death Eaters, wand blazing, defying his own.

When the last spell struck the ground and the air settled with the smell of ash, Harry stood frozen at the edge of the street, staring after her.

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