where 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜
The clashing of spells filled the stone-walled dueling chamber, each crackling impact illuminating the dim space with bursts of light. Harry darted to the side, his wand moving with instinctive precision as Rodolphus sent another streak of crimson energy hurtling toward him.
“Is that the best you've got?” he called, his voice laced with mockery. He crouched low and fired a hex that narrowly missed Rodolphus's left ear.
Rodolphus grinned, a wicked, almost feral smile that promised retaliation. “Watch your mouth, boy,” he growled, his voice carrying both irritation and amusement. “You're still standing because I allow it.”
Harry smirked, his wand raised defensively as he circled his opponent. “You mean you're still standing because I don't want to embarrass you in front of Rabastan.”
That earned him a snarl. Rodolphus flicked his wand with practiced precision, sending a spell spiraling toward Harry like a ribbon of shadow. Harry barely deflected it, the force of the impact driving him back a step.
“Fancy,” Harry said, shaking out his wrist, though his breath was heavier now. “But still no hit. I thought the great Rodolphus Lestrange was supposed to be terrifying?”
Rodolphus's grin widened. “Oh, I'll show you terrifying, Gaunt.”
He stepped forward, his wand glowing with the beginnings of something dark—something Harry recognized but didn't flinch from. Instead, he braced himself, waiting for the perfect moment to dodge.
But before Rodolphus could release the spell, the heavy oak doors creaked open, and Rabastan stepped inside, his presence instantly drawing their attention.
“Interrupting something?” Rabastan asked dryly, his sharp features shadowed in the low light of the chamber.
Harry lowered his wand, rolling his shoulders as if disappointed. “Only Rodolphus's latest attempt to actually land a hit,” he said casually.
Rodolphus shot him a glare. “I was this close, you cheeky brat.”
Rabastan smirked faintly, but his tone was brisk as he spoke. “Close or not, you'll have to finish later. I just received a letter from Lucius. The Dark Lord wants Gaunt at Riddle Manor.”
Harry's playful grin faltered slightly, though he quickly masked it. “What does he want now?” he asked, his tone deliberately casual.
Rabastan shrugged. “Doesn't say. But Lucius was clear—it's urgent.”
Rodolphus waved a dismissive hand. “Go, then. The Dark Lord's business is no matter for delays.”
Harry hesitated, glancing between the brothers and the still-glowing dueling chamber. He had been enjoying this—sparring with Rodolphus was one of the few moments in his life where he felt some semblance of control, even if it was under the guise of training. The lessons were brutal, yes, but there was something satisfying about challenging Rodolphus and walking away unscathed.
With a dramatic sigh, Harry tucked his wand away. “Fine. But I'm not letting you off the hook, Rodolphus.”
Rodolphus raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You owe me a proper duel,” Harry said, smirking as he stepped toward the door. “And if you ever manage to land that hit, I'll take you to a Muggle fast food place. My treat.”
The Lestrange brothers stared at him, one in amused disbelief, the other mildly disgusted. “Muggle fast food?” Rodolphus echoed, his tone laced with disdain.
Harry shrugged, his grin cheeky as always. “Think of it as a cultural experience.”
Rodolphus snorted, shaking his head. “If I ever land a hit, Gaunt, you're paying for something better than whatever rubbish those Muggles eat.”
Harry waved a hand as he followed Rabastan out of the chamber. "Keep dreaming, old man. You've got a long way to go before you can keep up with me."
Rodolphus muttered something under his breath, but there was a faint smile on his face as he watched Harry leave.
Rabastan and Harry walked side by side, the silence between them comfortable but brittle, as if either of them might break it with an offhand comment. Harry glanced sideways at the other man, his sharp profile cast in the flickering light of the sconces on the walls.
“So,” Harry said, breaking the quiet, “what have you been up to these days? I haven't seen you much.”
Rabastan smirked faintly but didn't immediately answer. He adjusted his pace, his long strides slowing to match Harry's. “Oh, the usual,” he replied. “Tasks for the Dark Lord. Keeping Rodolphus from strangling himself in his own arrogance. And, of course, waiting for you to stop running off with him long enough for us to resume our own lessons.”
Harry snorted, shoving his hands into his robes. “You've been avoiding me. Admit it.”
Rabastan chuckled, the sound low and mirthless. “Avoiding you? Hardly. I've just been busy. But perhaps later—if the Dark Lord decides not to keep you until morning. Though, knowing him, he'll likely find some way to occupy you.”
Harry rolled his eyes, his annoyance evident. “Yeah, well, let's hope it's quick. I don't need another endless lecture about 'potential' and 'loyalty.' I get enough of that from everyone else.”
Rabastan didn't respond, though the corner of his mouth twitched. They stepped out into the biting chill of the manor grounds, the vast expanse of the Lestrange estate stretching out before them. Harry glanced up at the darkened sky, his breath misting in the cold air.
As they reached the edge of the apparition wards, Harry waved his wand lazily, his robes shifting and reforming. By the time they stopped, he was fully dressed for the occasion—dark, formal attire that fit him like a second skin.
“You're getting better at that,” Rabastan commented, his tone neutral.
Harry shrugged, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from his sleeve. “I've had practice. You'd be surprised how much time you can save when you don't have to stop and change.”
He adjusted his collar, tapped his cheeks, and tousled his hair before speaking again.
“You know,” he glanced over at Rabastan, “for all his talk about efficiency, you'd think Voldemort would unlock the bloody Floo network at Riddle Manor. Would make things easier, wouldn't it?”
Rabastan's expression didn't change, but Harry caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Perhaps he likes to see who's willing to make the effort to get there. Or perhaps he just enjoys inconveniencing everyone.”
“Figures,” Harry muttered, shifting his weight impatiently.
Rabastan extended a hand toward him. “Ready?”
Harry sighed dramatically but took Rabastan's arm. “Just don't splinch me,” he said, smirking slightly. “I'd hate to arrive in pieces.”
“Hold on tight, then,” Rabastan replied dryly.
────────────────────
The towering structure loomed before them, its dark windows like empty eyes watching their every move. Harry straightened his robes and ran a hand through his hair, his reluctance hidden beneath a practiced mask of indifference.
“Well,” Rabastan said, brushing his sleeves as though brushing off dust, “I'd wish you luck, but you'll need more than that with him.”
Harry snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Rabastan's lips quirked in the faintest semblance of a smile before he turned on his heel and disapparated, leaving Harry alone on the path to Riddle Manor.
With a casual flick of his wand, his glasses shimmered briefly before shifting into a sleek, black mask that curved smoothly around his face, obscuring his identity. Only a select few had seen Gaunt's face—just as only a select few knew that the boy who had once been their enemy now ranked among the Dark Lord's most trusted.
The moment he stepped inside, the familiar cold seeped into his bones. A stark contrast to the heat of his rising irritation. The corridors stretched out before him, dimly lit and lined with figures cloaked in black. Each death eater he passed bowed their head slightly in acknowledgment, some muttering brief greetings.
Harry caught the subtle differences in their responses—some stiff with respect, others laden with weariness or even envy. He saw it in the way their shoulders tensed, the way their gazes lingered too long or darted away too quickly. He was a reminder of their failures, a boy who had risen faster and higher than most of them could dream.
Harry offered nothing in return, his stride measured and purposeful. He had long learned to keep his emotions buried under layers of indifference. Let them envy him. Let them fear him. It was better than the alternative.
By the time he reached the Dark Lord's office, his irritation had reached its peak. He pushed the door open without hesitation, his steps deliberate as he strode inside.
“You know,” Harry began, his voice sharp with exasperation, “for someone who claims to value efficiency, you've got a remarkable talent for calling me at the most inconvenient times. I was in the middle of a—”
He stopped abruptly, his words catching in his throat as his eyes swept across the room.
Voldemort sat at the head of the room, his serpentine features impassive, though a hint of amusement flickered in his crimson eyes. But it wasn't the Dark Lord's presence that silenced Harry.
Standing off to the side, cloaked in dark robes and wearing a mask not unlike his own, was someone else. The figure stood rigidly, their posture tense but composed. Harry's eyes flicked over them briefly, taking in the way they carried themselves—proud, deliberate, but also guarded.
His partner.
Rosier.
That's it, just Rosier. He doesn't like being called by his ‘first’ name.
Well, he doesn't like his own identity's first name either.
His partner, known as the son of Evan Rosier, who went missing during the first war.
Strange.
He could feel the shift in the air, the way the Dark Lord's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than usual, as though silently challenging him to betray any sign of unease.
Harry straightened, forcing himself to speak again. “I see I'm interrupting something.”
Voldemort's thin lips curled into something that might have been a smile. “Hardly, my serpent. You are precisely on time. I have a task that requires the two of you.”
Harry's jaw tightened beneath his mask, but he nodded.
“You will work together once more. Efficiency is paramount. I trust there will be no... complications.”
Harry forced himself to focus, but as the Dark Lord began to outline their mission, he couldn't help the faint prickle of curiosity that settled in the back of his mind.
But trust or not, it didn't matter. This was the Dark Lord's will. And Harry had long since learned that there was no room for questioning that.
The Dark Lord's words were familiar, the same directives and expectations he had heard countless times before. He could recite the spiel in his sleep—precision, loyalty, success.
His partner stood a few feet away, rigid and silent, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Rosier's posture spoke of confidence, maybe arrogance. The way he carried himself reminded Harry of someone who had never been told "no," someone used to control. But there was a coldness to it too, a sense of detachment that Harry couldn't help but notice every time they were sent on a mission together.
Long strands of blond hair would peek out from under his hood every time.
It was impossible not to notice.
He had always been curious about him. From the very first mission, there had been something about that reserved demeanor, the calculated precision, that had drawn his attention. They worked well together—too well, sometimes. It had taken only a handful of missions for Voldemort to start pairing them exclusively, their efficiency praised and rewarded.
And yet, the irony of it all was that he didn't know who he was. Couldn't know.
Harry had found it ridiculous at first, the whole cloak-and-dagger secrecy. The Lestranges and Voldemort already knew who he truly was, what more just one guy?
He had even considered voicing his frustration to Rabastan or Rodolphus. But the logic behind it had become painfully clear soon enough. If one of them were captured, tortured, or otherwise compromised, the other's identity would remain protected. It was a precaution, a safeguard against the many enemies who would do anything to tear them apart.
Harry understood it now. Respected it, even. But that didn't make it any less maddening.
He had pieced together fragments over time, details that slipped through the cracks in their carefully guarded exterior. The slight sneer in his partner's voice when he spoke to inferiors. The way he would pause, just for a fraction of a second, before executing a curse with surgical precision. The aura of control he exuded even when things went awry.
It all painted a picture that felt achingly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory tugging at the edges of his mind.
Still, he knew better than to dwell on it too much. Curiosity was dangerous in their line of work. Too much questioning, too much wondering, and you'll start to lose your focus.
And focus was the only thing keeping him alive.
“Do I have your attention, my serpent?” Voldemort's sharp voice cut through Harry's wandering thoughts.
Harry blinked, his gaze snapping back to the Dark Lord. He dipped his head slightly.
“Of course, my lord,” he said smoothly.
Voldemort's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, as if sensing his distraction, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention back to the both of them, continuing to outline the mission.
Harry let his gaze flicker briefly to his partner once more. Rosier hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. But Harry could feel his presence as surely as if he was standing right next to him.
It doesn't matter who he truly is, Harry reminded himself. All that matters is the task.
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