A/N: Absorbed Cards: Ezio Auditore – Assassin's Creed, Shadow Clone Jutsu – Naruto, Force Push – Star Wars, Zuko (Book 3) – Avatar: TLA, Blink-Dishonored, Spirit Armor-Elder Scrolls, Infinite Vault of Holding, Alucard – Hellsing, Rasengan - Naruto, Spirit Gun - Yu Yu Hakusho
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I stare down at the Marauder's Map, watching the little labeled footsteps of Quirrell moving past the edge of the castle grounds.
Middle of the night.
He's heading into the Forbidden Forest.
Perfect.
I fold the map with care and tuck it into my robe. The Weasley twins will never know who stole their precious toy after their prank on me backfired. A little prank war is good fun. But war? That's mine.
I tap my wand twice against my bedpost.
Two shadows peel themselves off the wall.
The clones appear without a sound, alert and ready.
I nod. They know the mission.
They reach into the shared inventory, pulling masks and cloaks from previous pulls. The Stealth Field Generator, despite its damage, will flicker enough to distort their forms in the shadows. Just enough.
Clone P.O.V.
We hit the tree line running, the forest swallowing us whole. The map guided us to Quirrell's direction, and even without it, the lingering traces of corrupted magic would have led us.
No lights. No speaking. Only speed and silence.
We find him just past a thick copse of trees. He is crouched over a silver pool of blood.
Unicorn.
So the rumors were true.
Quirrell moves strangely. Twitching. We recognize why a moment too late.
He senses us.
His body jerks and then stiffens.
The shadow attached to his skull stirs and slithers over his shoulders.
"You think I wouldn't feel you, boy?" says the voice. It's not Quirrell's. It's older, crueler, more alive.
Voldemort.
Fully possessing him now. He turns, wand raised. His eyes glow dim red.
We move.
One clone surges left, darting behind a tree and flinging a handful of explosive throwing cards from Gambit's deck. They flash purple and red, exploding mid-air, forcing Voldemort to shield.
I leap high, fire racing down my arms. Zuko's style. Controlled bursts. I land just behind Voldemort and slam my heel into the ground, launching flames upward.
He counters with a wave of corrupted wind magic, knocking me back.
The first clone blinks forward, appearing behind Voldemort in a whisper. Daggers drawn. Ezio's speed flows through him as he slices low. Voldemort hisses and vanishes into mist, reforming several paces away.
He raises his wand.
"Crucio."
The air warps.
The second clone throws up a shadow shield, Alucard's power thick and deep. The curse rips through it but slows enough for us to scatter again.
I feel the burn in my chest. Time to finish this.
I summon the Rasengan.
Energy coils into my palm. Spiraling. Blinding.
I charge. Voldemort fires a bolt of green light.
The first clone takes the hit—vanishing into smoke and memory. But that bought me the space.
I leap, Rasengan roaring.
And I drive it straight into Quirrell's chest.
There is no scream. Only an echoing blast.
Voldemort's spectral form howls in rage as it's flung from the crumpling body. A cloud of smoke and shrieking soul fragments fly past us, ripping through branches as he flees into the night.
He is not dead.
But he is wounded.
And for now—he's gone.
I retrieve what is left of Quirrell's wand. Snap it. Burn the rest.
Mission complete.
<><><><><><><>
Time becomes slippery after that.
Training intensifies. I wear the weighted gloves daily. My body is leaner. Stronger. Faster. My clones continue developing every skill we have gained. Runes. Spellcraft. Fire. Shadows. Combat.
But I stop rolling the Gacha for now. I have enough. I need mastery, not novelty.
We perform often. Our music has improved. Harry hits every beat with instinct now. Tracey rides the rhythm like she was born to do it.
Hermione introduced us to Neville. Poor boy looked like he expected to be cursed on sight.
…
Neville sits stiffly in the back corner, watching as we tune up.
"Relax," I tell him. "We don't bite."
Harry nudges him. "He's lying. Tracey once tried to."
Tracey just grins from behind her bass. "Still might."
Neville laughs. A little.
Progress.
…
Daphne has become the queen of quiet influence.
She doesn't demand attention, she earns it. Drifting between groups with perfect posture, a calm gaze, and the kind of charm that never feels forced. Slytherin girls nod to her in passing. Ravenclaws ask for advice without realizing they're deferring. Even some Gryffindors have started calling her "Greengrass" with something that almost sounds like respect.
One afternoon, we walk along the Black Lake. The breeze picks at the edges of her robes, and the water catches the silver-blue light of the sky.
"I think your influence is commendable, but have you tried gaining some business experience?," I ask, skipping a stone lazily across the surface. It bounces three times before vanishing.
She looks at me, one brow raised. "Planning to open a black market?"
I grin. "Let's call it… structured redistribution and I think it's a good idea for you to do it."
She hums softly, thoughtful. "If I'm doing that, what are you holding?"
"Options," I say. "And leverage."
There's a silence between us, the comfortable kind.
Daphne glances across the water. "I've always been told to play smart. Quiet. Like influence was a dance you had to perform in whispers."
"And?"
"And lately, I've been wondering what it might feel like to speak louder."
I glance at her.
She doesn't smile, but her eyes flick to mine.
"Keep them guessing, Timothy," she says, voice light again. "But don't ever let them stop watching."
…
Blaise surprises me.
It's late, and the dorm is still. Everyone else is asleep.
I sit at the edge of my bed, half-draped in moonlight from the high windows. He appears in the doorway, silent as always, holding a chessboard under one arm and two mugs of cocoa.
"You looked like you were thinking too hard," he says, voice low. "Figured I'd break the tension with sugar and strategy."
He sets the board between us. The cocoa steams gently.
We play in silence for a while. He doesn't press. He never does.
I make a risky move with my bishop. He raises an eyebrow.
"I don't know how you do it," he says finally, not looking up. "Everything always seems to move in your favor."
I shrug. "I plan."
"Plenty of people plan. You execute."
I glance at him. "Is that your way of saying I'm intimidating?"
"No," he says, then sips his drink. "That's my way of saying you're alone more often than you let on."
I don't reply at first. The fire crackles in the distance. Somewhere above us, the school creaks softly in its sleep.
"I'm not trying to be," I say.
"I know," he says quietly. "But people like us? It happens anyway."
I move a pawn forward.
He smiles faintly. "You're good in the dark, Timothy. Just… don't forget there are people willing to stand beside you in the light, too."
I don't say anything.
But I don't forget it either.
…
Tracey has grown in ways few people notice—because they don't know how to look.
It's in her posture. Her tone. The way she stands straighter when talking to older students. The way she questions things now, not just jokes about them. Still sharp, still sarcastic, but something more is taking root beneath it.
We sit by the common room fireplace, the flames dancing low and warm. Her legs are curled under her. I'm leaning back in one of the armchairs, tossing a chocolate frog between my hands.
"I don't want to be the funny half-blood girl," she says suddenly, voice soft. "I want to be someone people listen to. Someone who matters."
I glance over. She's not looking at me. She's watching the fire reflect in the glass.
"You already are," I say, no theatrics, no smile.
She shrugs. "I want to earn it anyway."
I nod slowly. "Good. Because I plan to change the world. And I need people like you with me when I do."
She looks at me, eyes sharp and uncertain. Then she sighs, leaning her head back against the couch cushion.
"You know what scares me most?"
"What?"
"That you'll actually do it."
I smirk. "Then you'd better keep up."
Her smile is small. But real.
And this time, she doesn't look away.
<><><><><><><>
The Great Hall is awash with floating candles and banners of every house.
Dumbledore stands.
"Before we close the year, I must announce the winner of the House Cup."
Gryffindor students begin to shift with expectation.
"While all houses have displayed admirable effort, one house has exceeded expectations not only in grades, but in leadership, innovation, and cooperation."
He pauses, eyes twinkling.
"Slytherin."
Our table erupts.
Tracey shouts. Daphne smiles like a queen. Blaise just raises his goblet to me.
I nod once.
Harry claps from his table. So does Hermione.
Ron doesn't. Harry notices this but lets it go.
Whatever.
The music plays. The banners shift.
We won.
And this—this is just the beginning.
<><><><><><><>
The Great Hall had emptied not long ago, leaving only the echoes of laughter and the last floating candles drifting gently toward the rafters. Another year closed, another chapter written.
Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office, fingers steepled beneath his chin, a single silver instrument on the desk whirring quietly to itself. The half-moon glasses perched low on his nose did little to dim the sharp glint in his blue eyes.
He had not missed it.
The change.
Slytherin had taken the House Cup, and for once, it felt earned—not by last-minute points, but by performance. By influence. By connection.
By Rosier.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly, the soft scent of lemon drops and old parchment drifting in the air. Fawkes stirred on his perch, feathers ruffling with a low trill.
"Curious," Dumbledore murmured, tapping the edge of his desk.
Timothy Rosier.
A name with weight. Legacy. Shadows.
The boy had arrived under a cloud, a Rosier by blood, a child of a fallen family with roots buried deep in the old ways. And yet… from the moment he stepped through the doors of Hogwarts, he had defied expectation.
Smart. Clever. Charismatic.
Too clever.
And now, he had made fast friends with Harry. Not the kind born of circumstance, but the kind forged in music, trust, and shared laughter. A bond that ran deeper than house colors or whispered warnings.
It unsettled some.
Minerva had voiced concerns. Severus had been more blunt.
But Albus… Albus had watched.
He had seen the boy guide, not lead. Support, not smother. Timothy didn't speak for Harry—he made space for Harry to speak for himself. That, more than anything, was what gave Albus pause.
Because it meant influence. Quiet. Subtle. Intentional.
He did not believe Timothy was malicious. Not yet.
But the potential…
He reached for a crystal basin on his desk, brushing his wand lightly against the surface. A ripple of silver light shimmered, revealing flashes of the boy: Timothy singing with his friends, laughing with Tracey Davis, whispering quietly with Daphne Greengrass beneath a frost-laced tree. The way he walked like someone who already knew which doors would open before they were knocked on.
Albus closed the vision.
Children were rarely what they appeared to be. But that did not mean they could not be more.
He wanted to believe in the boy.
He chose to believe in the boy.
But faith, as always, was best paired with preparation.
He had already instructed the portraits to alert him of unusual movements in the castle during the summer months.
There were too many questions still unanswered. Too many threads spinning beneath the surface.
Still… he allowed himself a smile.
Harry had friends now. Real ones. That mattered more than most would understand.
Dumbledore stood, robes whispering around him as he crossed to the window.
The castle lights flickered softly in the distance. The Black Lake gleamed with moonlight. And somewhere in the Slytherin dormitory, two boys—two very different boys—were probably still laughing about a prank they had yet to be caught for.
Albus closed his eyes and whispered softly.
"May your secrets protect you… and may your truth find the light before the shadows do."
He returned to his desk, flicked his wand to dim the lights, and let the silence of Hogwarts settle around him like an old friend.
The game was already in motion.
But he, as always, was willing to play.