Chapter Text
The fire crackled softly in the cold, stone chamber beneath Riddle Manor. A single candle flickered on the far wall, casting long shadows over ancient runes carved into the floor. It was there that Thomas Gaunt—known to the fearful and foolish alike as Voldemort—stood in silence, his red eyes narrowed.
He had just killed her.
Not Sybill Trelawney, not the fraud who would deliver Dumbledore his half-truth a year too late. No—this one had been real. Mad, yes. Starving, yes. But she had spoken with the weight of something true in her voice, even as her body shuddered under his Imperius Curse.
“He who bears both bloods—your blood and the lion’s—shall rise beside or raze you. One path is the boy. The other is ash.”
Voldemort had listened carefully.
And for once, he had not chosen destruction.
⸻
The air in Godric’s Hollow was bitter and sharp that Valentine’s night. Snow lined the streets in soft white silence, masking the horror that unfolded inside the Potter home.
James fell first—his wand still raised, heart still charging forward, as if love and loyalty could stop death.
Lily had screamed, begged, pleaded—and then hissed when her shield spell ricocheted uselessly from his Protego Maxima. He didn’t bother offering her a second chance. Her blood painted the nursery floor where she’d thrown herself between her son and fate.
And then there was the boy.
Nearly seven months old. Wide green eyes, blinking in confusion, a wisp of raven-black hair curling at his forehead.
He did not cry.
He reached out instead.
Toward him.
Toward Tom.
Something strange twisted in the Dark Lord’s chest as the child’s tiny fingers wrapped around the edge of his robe. The boy did not flinch. He looked at Voldemort as if he were… expected.
“Hydras,” Voldemort murmured after a pause. “Hydras Gaunt.”
He vanished into the night, leaving behind only a broken cottage and two cold corpses.
⸻
Years passed.
Hydras Gaunt was raised in seclusion at Riddle Manor. There were no nursery rhymes. No photos of Lily, or James, or lullabies hummed in a mother’s voice.
But there was order.
There were spellbooks, handwritten in looping, obsessive ink. There were dueling lessons in the atrium and runes carved into garden stones. There were long walks through the overgrown estate grounds, shadowed always by two presences: one silent, cold and dark like smoke—his father. The other quieter, sterner, but warm beneath the surface—Severus.
To the world, Thomas Gaunt was an eccentric recluse with old family gold, a scholar of bloodlines and ancient magic. His ward, Hydras, was rarely seen, but always spoken of in whispers at the Ministry and pureblood balls.
To Hydras, they were simply: Father and Severus.
And he adored them both.
⸻
On the morning of his eleventh birthday, Hydras awoke to find a letter on his bedside table—ivory parchment, green ink, and the Hogwarts crest.
But he already knew it would come.
Because the night before, he had dreamed of a lion made of fire—and a phoenix screaming in rage.