Chapter 31

The house was steeped in silence now, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the study and the steady rhythm of Tom's breathing. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled as he stared at the untouched glass of brandy on the table before him. It gleamed in the firelight, a relic of habit rather than desire. His thoughts, as they often did these days, revolved around Harry Potter.

Or rather, Hadrian Peters.

That was the name his men had dug up, anyway. Hadrian Peters was a man with no remarkable history—a modest upbringing in the suburbs, average education, a short stint working at a bookstore. A perfectly ordinary man. Yet everything Tom had observed about Harry screamed that he was anything but ordinary.

Tom's sharp grey eyes narrowed as he sifted through the discrepancies. The Hadrian Peters of records bore only a passing resemblance to Harry Potter. The face was similar, perhaps almost the same if compared to the first day they met. But, now? His demeanor, his confidence, his bearing—these were not traits of a man who had lived such an unremarkable life. His appearance, too, was strange. The Hadrian Peters in the few photographs his men had uncovered bore only a passing resemblance to Harry. The shape of the face was similar, but the eyes were wrong. Brown eyes. Soft and unremarkable, unlike Harry's which were an arresting green, sharp as emeralds, holding an intensity that seemed to pierce through whatever they fixed on.

And then there was the scar, faint but unmistakable, etched on Harry's forehead—It was faint now, a jagged line on his forehead like a bolt of lightning, but unmistakable. That scar hadn't appeared in any of Peters's photographs, nor in the life his records described.

"Who are you really, Mr. Potter?" Tom murmured to himself, his voice low and thoughtful.

He leaned forward slightly, his sharp grey eyes fixed on the fire. He didn't believe in coincidences, not on this scale. A man with no discernible past, no connections to anyone of importance, had suddenly thrown himself into the path of bullets meant for his son. And then there was his knowledge—the stories he told Sirius, the way he spoke of magical creatures, time travel, and ancient artifacts as though he'd lived them.

Tom was no stranger to fabrication and manipulation. He'd built his life and career on understanding how to twist truths and exploit weaknesses. But Harry didn't strike him as a liar. If anything, he was too sincere, too idealistic. It grated on Tom's nerves, this mixture of transparency and mystery.

So yes, the stories weren't fabrications; Tom could see that. They were memories, polished and softened for Sirius's young ears.

Since their first meeting, Tom had been unable to shake the sense of… something. It wasn't positive, not entirely—certainly not trust, and definitely not admiration. But it was something. A spark of intrigue, a flicker of fascination that had stubbornly refused to be snuffed out.

Tom wasn't used to this. People were characters to him, puzzle pieces to be analyzed and categorized, tools to be moved across a chessboard. They were narratives to exploit, predictable in their desires and fears, which were nothing more than data points, tools he could manipulate to his advantage. They weren't real, not in the way that mattered.

But Harry wasn't a character in any narrative Tom recognized.

He wasn't just a character in a newspaper article or a pawn on the board. He was… alive in a way that most people weren't. There was something raw about him, an unpolished energy that defied categorization. It was the same quality that had endeared him to Sirius. Tom could see the resemblance between his son and Harry in this regard. Sirius gave his affection freely, trusting without hesitation.

Sirius had taken to Harry almost instantly, his care and admiration given freely and without hesitation. Tom had always envied that about his son—his ability to feel so openly, to trust so completely. For Tom, trust was a foreign concept, a vulnerability he couldn't afford.

Yet, in a strange, infuriating way, Tom found himself mirroring Sirius's sentiment. He had taken a liking to Harry, though he would never admit it aloud. And unlike Sirius, whose affection was as natural as breathing, his own feelings were tangled in a web of caution, suspicion, and curiosity. It was unsettling, this pull toward a man he barely knew. Tom had spent his life building walls, perfecting the art of detachment, but Harry seemed to slip past the defenses Tom had spent a lifetime perfecting.

It wasn't just intrigue, though that was certainly part of it. Harry fascinated him. His stories, his mannerisms, the way he carried himself—it all spoke of a life far removed from the mundane history Tom's men had uncovered. Harry didn't belong here, in this world or in Tom's carefully curated life. And yet, he was here, a mystery wrapped in green eyes and a faded scar.

Tom's grip tightened around the glass. He didn't like this. He didn't like feeling things he couldn't name, emotions he couldn't dissect and compartmentalize. He was fine with intrigue, with curiosity and wonder. But anything more? No. That was dangerous.

Sirius's adoration of Harry only complicated matters. For Sirius's sake, Tom had hired Harry. The old adage—keep your friends close and your enemies closer—was a principle Tom lived by. He didn't know whether Harry was a threat or an asset, but he would find out. The role of bodyguard and companion served practical purposes, of course. But it also kept Harry within reach, where Tom could observe and, if necessary, neutralize him.

It was safer this way, Tom told himself. Safer to keep Harry close, to unravel his secrets one thread at a time.

And yet…

His thoughts shifted to Sirius. The boy was asleep now, likely dreaming of hippogriffs and time-turners. Tom's chest tightened, a familiar ache that he had come to accept as part of fatherhood. Sirius was everything to him, the only person in the world he truly cared for.

But it hadn't always been that way.

Tom's gaze darkened as memories surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. Bellatrix.

Her name was enough to sour his mood, to make his chest tighten with loathing. She had been obsessed with him, her fixation suffocating. A member of the noble Black family, she had been engaged to another man—a union designed to strengthen their bloodlines. But Bellatrix had wanted Tom.

And Bellatrix always got what she wanted.

He hadn't loved her. He hadn't even liked her. She was cunning, volatile, and manipulative in ways that even he found distasteful. When she realized he wouldn't willingly have her, she took matters into her own hands. She drugged him, ensnared him in a trap he couldn't escape. When she announced her pregnancy, he had been furious.

But there was nothing he could do.

The scandal of an unwed pregnancy with a prominent politician would have been catastrophic. He had no choice but to marry her, tethering himself to a woman he despised.

It had been the darkest period of his life, living under her volatile moods and suffocating control. And when she died giving birth to Sirius, Tom hadn't mourned her. He had felt relief.

At first, he had hated Sirius, too. The boy was a living reminder of Bellatrix's treachery, a symbol of everything Tom had lost. He couldn't look at him without feeling the weight of those chains.

But Sirius had changed him.

He hadn't expected it, hadn't thought himself capable of love, least of all for a child born of such circumstances. The boy's laughter, his boundless curiosity, his unyielding trust—they had chipped away at Tom's walls, forcing him to feel emotions he had long thought dead. Love.

It was a strange, uncomfortable thing, love. It made him vulnerable, exposed. But it was also undeniable. Sirius was his son, his anchor in a world that often felt cold and meaningless.

Which was why Harry Potter—or Hadrian Peters, or whoever he truly was—posed such a problem.

Tom's fingers tightened around the arm of his chair as he thought of Harry's influence on Sirius. His son adored him, trusted him implicitly. And Tom… Tom couldn't decide whether that was a blessing or a threat. He exhaled slowly, setting the glass of brandy down on the desk. Whatever this was, it wouldn't last. It couldn't. He wouldn't allow it to.

There was a part of him—buried deep beneath layers of caution and calculation—that didn't want to control Harry. That wanted to let him exist as he was, unpredictable and unpolished. That part of him was dangerous, a weakness he couldn't afford.

Tom's lips curved into a faint, self-deprecating smile. He had always prided himself on his ability to manipulate emotions, to twist them to his advantage. But this… this was different.

He thought of the election, the carefully balanced house of cards he had constructed over years of meticulous planning. He couldn't afford distractions, not now. Not when the finish line was so close.

Turning away from the window, his expression hardened. There was no room for mistakes, no space for distractions. He had a son to protect, an election to win, and a future to secure.

And if Harry Potter became a part of that future, it would be on Tom's terms. Nothing more, nothing less. Sirius was everything to him. The only person in the world he truly cared about. The only one who could make him question his own motives and actions.

Tom rose from his chair, the brandy still untouched. He straightened his jacket, his grey eyes cold and calculating as they swept over the room. Whatever Harry's secrets were, Tom would uncover them. And when he did, he would decide whether Harry was an asset… or a threat.

But for now, he had to be cautious. For Sirius's sake, he would do whatever was necessary. Because Sirius deserved the best.

And if Harry wasn't the best, then Tom would make sure he never got close enough to hurt him.