Chapter Text
Chapter One
Dark Marks
The summer after third year passed strangely.
Too quiet.
Percy slept more.
Ate more.
Spoke more at dinner when his mother looked particularly worried.
He even stopped disappearing into isolated rooms for hours at a time.
Outwardly, things improved.
Which only proved how good Percy had become at lying.
Because underneath the surface—
Nothing had truly changed.
The diary remained hidden beneath loose floorboards in Percy’s room at the Burrow.
And every single night after the house fell asleep—
Percy retrieved it.
Like ritual.
Like prayer.
Only now there were rules.
Snape’s rules.
No carrying the diary constantly.
No sleeping with it nearby.
No writing for hours without rest.
And most importantly:
Percy would bring the diary back to Hogwarts in September.
To Snape.
The agreement sat like a chain around Percy’s throat all summer.
Because part of him knew Snape was trying to help.
And another part increasingly resented him for it.
Tom noticed that too.
Of course he did.
—
The Quidditch World Cup felt impossibly bright after months at the Burrow.
Tents stretched endlessly across rolling hills while witches and wizards flooded the campgrounds in national colors and enchanted banners.
The Weasleys arrived alongside the Cedric Diggory family shortly before sunset.
Cedric looked older than Percy remembered.
Taller too.
Confident in that effortless way Percy had once desperately wanted to be.
Now he mostly felt tired watching people like that.
Harry and Ron vanished almost immediately into the crowds while Fred and George loudly attempted illegal betting operations nearby.
Typical.
Percy stayed closer to the adults.
Closer to stability.
To structure.
And secretly—
Further from temptation.
The diary rested hidden back at the Burrow tonight.
The absence felt like a phantom ache beneath his ribs.
Manageable.
But constant.
Cedric eventually wandered over carrying two butterbeers.
“You look miserable.”
Percy accepted the drink automatically.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
Percy snorted softly despite himself.
Cedric smiled faintly afterward.
Easy.
Warm.
Percy had forgotten people could feel warm without it hurting.
The match itself became chaos and brilliance under enchanted starlight.
Ireland versus Bulgaria.
Victor Krum diving through impossible air while the crowd roared loud enough to shake the stadium.
For a little while Percy forgot himself entirely.
Forgot Tom.
Forgot Snape.
Forgot the exhausting sharpness living permanently inside his mind.
There was only light and movement and thousands of voices rising together beneath the night sky.
And then—
Screaming.
The shift happened instantly.
One moment celebration.
The next:
panic.
Masked figures moved through the campsites below blasting tents apart while people fled shrieking into darkness.
Death Eaters.
Cold terror crashed violently through the campgrounds.
Percy’s wand was already in his hand before he consciously realized it.
Green fire exploded somewhere nearby.
Children crying.
Ministry officials shouting.
Chaos everywhere.
And above it all—
The Dark Mark appeared.
Gigantic green skull and serpent burning across the sky.
The symbol froze the entire world.
Silence spread outward beneath it in horrified waves.
Percy stared upward unable to breathe.
Because suddenly Tom felt terrifyingly real again.
Not the boy in the diary.
Not the person Percy spoke with quietly at night.
Voldemort.
The monster who left marks like this burning across the sky.
The realization hollowed Percy out instantly.
Beside him, Cedric whispered:
“Bloody hell.”
Fear rippled through the crowd like something alive.
And for the first time since the Chamber—
Percy truly understood that Voldemort was returning.
—
Hogwarts felt different afterward.
Tense.
Expectant.
Students whispered constantly about the Dark Mark while Ministry officials appeared and vanished from the castle in hurried anxious meetings.
Percy entered his final year already exhausted.
Already unraveling.
And somehow knowing this year would be worse.
Then Dumbledore announced the Triwizard Tournament.
The Great Hall erupted instantly.
Excitement.
Speculation.
Arguments.
International schools.
Dangerous tasks.
Eternal glory.
Percy barely listened.
Because halfway through the announcement—
Snape looked directly at him from the staff table.
And Percy knew immediately:
tonight.
—
Snape’s office smelled sharply of potions and rain.
Thunder rolled softly beyond the dungeon windows while Percy stood rigidly before the professor’s desk.
The diary rested hidden beneath his robes.
Heavy as guilt.
Snape did not speak immediately.
Instead he studied Percy in silence long enough to make dread crawl steadily through Percy’s chest.
Finally:
“You continued writing to him over the summer.”
Not a question.
Percy looked away.
“Yes.”
Snape closed his eyes briefly.
Disappointed.
Not surprised.
That somehow felt worse.
“You lied to me.”
Percy’s throat tightened painfully.
“I tried to stop.”
True.
Technically.
Snape extended one pale hand.
“The diary.”
Immediate panic flared through Percy’s chest.
Sharp enough that he physically stepped backward.
Snape noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Percy.”
The gentleness made everything harder.
Slowly—
like surrendering a vital organ—
Percy pulled the diary from beneath his robes.
The moment it left his hands cold loneliness crashed violently through him.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
Percy nearly reached for it again instinctively.
Snape took the diary carefully.
Not touching the pages directly.
And Percy watched something grim settle across the professor’s face as he witnessed the reaction.
Withdrawal.
Again.
“This ends now,” Snape said quietly.
Panic spiked instantly.
“You can’t just take him—”
“Him,” Snape repeated softly.
Percy froze.
Too late.
Again.
Snape looked down briefly at the black diary in his hands.
Then back at Percy.
“He has a name.”
Not a question.
Silence stretched.
“…Tom.”
Snape nodded once like confirmation of something already suspected.
Then very quietly:
“You are no longer permitted unsupervised contact.”
Percy’s chest tightened painfully.
“No.”
“Yes.”
The word cracked like a whip.
“You will attend private lessons with me every evening this year.”
Percy stared openly.
“Lessons?”
“Occlumency.”
“Avoiding manipulation.”
“How to recognize coercive magic before it consumes you entirely.”
Each sentence landed brutally hard.
Snape stepped closer slowly.
“And if you wish to write to Tom,” he said quietly, “you will do so in my presence.”
Horror crashed through Percy instantly.
“No.”
Snape’s expression hardened.
“You are emotionally dependent on a soul-bound magical entity connected to one of the most dangerous dark wizards in modern history.”
Percy flinched violently.
Because hearing it spoken aloud like that made everything sound suddenly monstrous.
Snape’s voice softened slightly afterward.
“And you are seventeen.”p>
The gentleness hurt more than anger ever could.
Percy stared at the diary trapped safely in Snape’s hands.
Too far away already.
Cold emptiness spread steadily beneath his ribs.
And suddenly he realized:
This year was not going to be about hiding Tom anymore.
It was going to be about losing him. Percy’s hands clenched tightly at his sides.
The empty ache beneath his ribs kept worsening with every second the diary remained in Snape’s possession.
Too quiet.
His thoughts felt too quiet.
Snape noticed that too.
Of course he did.
The professor carefully locked the diary inside a dark cabinet beside his desk layered heavily with protective wards.
Each spell sounded like a door slamming shut somewhere deep inside Percy’s chest.
“No,” Percy said again softly.
Snape turned back toward him.
“You mistake this for negotiation.”
Anger flashed suddenly through Percy’s exhaustion.
“I’m not a child! So don’t treat me like one!”
The words escaped sharper than intended.
For one brief moment silence filled the dungeon office.
Then Snape replied dryly:
“Yes, well. You are definitely not an adult.”
Under different circumstances Percy might actually have laughed.
Instead something twisted painfully inside him.
Because the cruelest part?
Snape was right.
Adults were supposed to:
control themselves,
recognize manipulation,
know better.
Percy had spent the last two years emotionally entangling himself with a fragment of Voldemort’s soul.
Not exactly mature decision-making.
Snape studied him carefully.
And unexpectedly his expression softened faintly afterward.
Not pity.
Understanding.
Which Percy increasingly hated because it made leaving harder.
“You are not foolish for wanting connection,” Snape said quietly.
Percy looked away immediately.
“You barely know him.”
“I know enough.”
“Do you?”
The question landed harder than Percy expected.
Because suddenly memories flickered sharply through his mind:
Tom refusing to discuss certain parts of his past.
Tom avoiding questions.
Tom guiding him carefully toward darker magic.
How much did Percy actually know?
Enough to care.
Not enough to trust completely.
The realization hurt.
Snape stepped closer.
“And regardless,” the professor continued softly, “you are currently incapable of distinguishing affection from dependency.”
Percy flinched visibly.
Because yes.
That was the fear living constantly beneath his skin now.
Did Tom care about him?
Or merely need him?
Was there even a difference anymore?
Snape’s voice lowered slightly.
“The fact that you panic when separated from the object is not romantic, Percy.”
The words burned.
Romantic.
Percy’s face flushed instantly.
“I didn’t say—”
“No,” Snape interrupted smoothly. “You did not.”
Which somehow felt infinitely worse.
Because Percy had not said it aloud.
Not once.
Yet suddenly every late-night conversation and desperate protective instinct felt horribly transparent.
Snape watched realization and embarrassment crash together across Percy’s face.
And to Percy’s absolute horror—
The corner of Snape’s mouth twitched upward briefly.
Not mocking.
Almost fond.
“Oh dear,” Snape murmured.
Percy wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“He’s not—”
“It’s not—”
“You are seventeen,” Snape said dryly. “Everything feels catastrophic.”
The gentleness in his tone made Percy’s throat tighten painfully.
Because no one else would have said that kindly.
Everyone else would hear:
Voldemort.
Dark magic.
Obsession.
Snape somehow heard:
lonely teenager.
And that—
more than anything—
was what nearly made Percy cry again. Percy stared at him in exhausted disbelief.
“A schedule?”
“Yes,” Severus Snape said flatly, as though this were the most obvious solution imaginable. “You have spent the better part of two years spiraling into magical codependency with a cursed object.”
“It’s not cursed.”
Snape gave him a long look.
“It contains a soul fragment of a homicidal dark wizard.”
“…fair.”
“Progress at last.”
Percy folded his arms tightly across his chest, suddenly feeling far younger than seventeen.
Snape moved behind his desk again, pulling open a drawer filled with parchment.
“I am going to regret this enormously,” he muttered.
“You say that a lot.”
“Because you are consistently regrettable.”
Percy almost smiled.
Almost.
Snape began writing rapidly across a piece of parchment.
“Anyway,” he said without looking up, “you are now going to exist on a schedule.”
The dread in Percy’s stomach deepened instantly.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a child.”
Snape snorted softly at that.
“You attempted to emotionally imprint on a sentient magical parasite because it gave you attention.” He glanced up briefly. “You are absolutely a child.”
Percy flushed crimson.
“I did not—”
“You named it.”
Silence.
“Tom has a name,” Percy muttered defensively.
“That is unfortunately not helping your argument.”
Snape continued writing.
“You will eat three meals a day.”
Percy blinked.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I already eat.”
“You consume tea and occasional toast like a depressed Victorian ghost.”
Honestly rude.
“You will attend classes,” Snape continued, “complete your schoolwork, sleep a minimum of six hours—”
“Six?”
“I am attempting realism.”
Percy frowned deeply.
“And,” Snape added pointedly, “you will spend time around actual human beings.”
Percy looked horrified.
Snape ignored this completely.
“Mr. Potter. Your siblings. Miss Granger. I do not particularly care.” He set the quill down sharply. “But you will not spend every free moment isolated in abandoned classrooms whispering to a diary.”
Heat flooded Percy’s face instantly.
“I was not whispering.”
“You were absolutely whispering.”
Mortifying.
Snape slid the parchment across the desk.
Percy stared down at it in disbelief.
There was genuinely a schedule.
Meal times.
Study blocks.
Mandatory sleep hours.
Occlumency sessions.
Even:
social interaction.
“Oh my god.”
“You may call me Professor.”
“This is insane.”
“No,” Snape said calmly. “What was insane was allowing a teenage boy suffering from emotional neglect and obvious obsessive tendencies unrestricted access to soul magic.”
Percy froze.
The words landed painfully hard.
Emotional neglect.
Snape said it so clinically.
So matter-of-factly.
Like Percy’s loneliness was something observable.
Documented.
Real.
Not weakness.
The realization unsettled him deeply.
Snape’s voice softened slightly afterward.
“You will not write in the diary again until I believe you can do so without experiencing severe withdrawal symptoms.”
Cold panic flared instantly through Percy’s chest.
“What?”
Snape’s expression remained unmoved.
“The shaking.”
“The panic.”
“The compulsive touching.”
“The emotional distress upon separation.”
Each observation made Percy want to disappear completely.
“You are experiencing withdrawal.”
The word sounded humiliating spoken aloud.
Percy looked away immediately.
Snape sighed softly.
“I am aware you dislike me at the moment.”
“I don’t dislike you.”
The answer escaped too quickly.
Both of them froze slightly afterward.
Percy stared at the floor in horror.
Because somehow that was true too.
Snape looked startled for approximately half a second before smoothing his expression back into neutrality.
“How unfortunate for your standards.”
Percy laughed once despite himself.
Small.
Tired.
Real.
And something in Snape’s posture eased very slightly at the sound.
The professor leaned back against his chair afterward, studying Percy carefully.
“You are not being punished.”
Percy’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
Because part of him genuinely thought he deserved punishment.
For:
Tom.
The Chamber.
The dark magic.
The Imperius Curse.
Snape seemed to read at least part of that from his face.
“You are being stabilized,” he said quietly.
The words settled strangely in Percy’s chest.
Not condemned.
Not feared.
Stabilized.
Like someone believed he was still salvageable.