Trapped

Blood Adoption.

"Seeing as Dumbledore's out of the question," Isadora said, her voice low but certain, "let's talk to Remus. He'll know what to do."

Harry shook his head, sharp and immediate.

"No."

One word, carved in stone. His eyes, usually so calm, flickered with pain.

"Anyone associated with us will die."

Isadora blinked at him, expression unreadable, but she didn't interrupt.

"Peter betrayed my parents and sided with Voldemort... and they died." His voice wavered, but only for a second. "Sirius died because of Bellatrix. Cedric was murdered in a graveyard. Killed by Tom."

Silence dropped over the room like a heavy shroud.

The Marauders sat frozen, their youthful faces pale and still, all laughter and boyishness drained away.
Peter's hands trembled under the table. He stared at them as though they belonged to someone else. His future self had committed the ultimate betrayal—against friends, family, everything they stood for. The weight of it settled like lead in his chest.

How? he thought bitterly. How could I ever do that?

Sirius and Remus exchanged grim glances, words catching in their throats. The boy in front of them, haunted and angry, was James' son—and they'd failed him without ever realizing it. Dumbledore had failed him too. That truth settled uncomfortably among them.

Abraxas, polished and composed, furrowed his brow. Orion Black said nothing at all, but his silence was full of concern and remorse, seeing the downfall of his own house. None of them had anticipated this.

Tom Riddle, seated calmly among them, had killed.

A chill passed through the group. Some even slightly shifting further away from him.

Euphemia clutched Monty's hand, her voice cracking, "They're just children... They shouldn't be worrying about survival."

Narcissa looked on, her face unreadable, but her voice was soft.
"Ignored by the light. Chased by the dark. What choice do they have?"

Amid the chaos, Harry leaned slightly toward Isadora.

He didn't touch her. He didn't need to.

"You're not alone," he said, voice low. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Isadora met his gaze. Calm, clear. No dramatics, no outburst. But there was something behind her eyes—a quiet, fierce care that didn't need to be spoken aloud.

After a pause, she turned to him.
"We'll figure this out tomorrow." Her voice was firm, no room for debate. "For now—get some sleep."

Harry crossed his arms, exhaling sharply.
"Fine. But I'm not sleeping alone."

Isadora raised a brow, a ghost of a smirk playing at her lips.
"Scared, Harry?"

He sputtered, nudging her shoulder with faux indignation.
"No, I'm not!"

She gave him a look that silenced him instantly.
"I'm tired too. Don't push it."

No further words were needed.

They stood and walked out together, steps matched without thinking.
Not touching. Not talking. But solid. Unshaken.

The scene changed to later on that night.

Isadora woke to the sound of muffled, broken gasps. She sat up without a word, eyes adjusting quickly in the moonlight. Harry's body twisted beneath the covers, fists clenched, face contorted in silent agony.

The air crackled faintly—his magic reacting to his fear.

"Harry," she said, voice steady, not urgent. She didn't flinch.
"Harry. Wake up."

No response.

She leaned forward, placing a hand gently on his chest, eyes narrowing in concentration. A soft pulse of her magic flowed into him—warm, steady, deliberate. Not forceful. Not invasive. Just... present.

"Come on," she murmured. "Snap out of it."

His breaths came hard and fast. He whimpered once—raw, guttural. But then the tension began to ease. His shoulders slumped back against the mattress. His breathing slowed. Eyes blinked open, glassy and dazed.

"Was it Voldemort?" she asked after a pause. "Another nightmare?"

He shook his head slowly.
"No... Just memories." His voice was barely audible, hoarse from screaming.

Isadora didn't press further. She simply sat, legs crossed on the bed, posture loose but alert.

"I'm fine now," Harry added, too quickly.

She didn't move.
"You're not fine," she replied evenly. "But I'll stay on the bed."

In another room, behind a flickering enchanted screen, James and Lily sat in silence. Watching. Powerless.

Lily clutched James' arm, her expression strained. "She stays. She doesn't ask questions. Doesn't panic. She just... stays."

James nodded slowly.
"She's like a mirror," he said. "Doesn't speak much. But she reflects what he needs."

Back in the quiet bedroom, Harry turned toward Isadora, the panic gone but the weariness still etched across his face.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," she said. Simple. Flat. But true.
"You're allowed to fall apart sometimes. Just don't shut me out."

Her hand brushed his—just once. Not holding. Not clinging. Just there.

Harry looked at her hand on his. His voice was rough when he spoke again.
"I won't do it again. I promise."

She didn't hesitate.
"You're my blood-adopted brother. That means something. Don't hide from me."
A pause. Her tone sharpened just slightly.
"Don't be like the Rosiers."

From beyond the closed door, a breath hitched—followed by murmurs.

Blood-adopted?
Bound by magic?
They're real family?

The whispering crescendo-ed. A ripple across the halls of Hogwarts.

Tom sat straighter in his seat, his gaze sharpening with sudden interest.
Abraxas leaned in toward Orion, exchanging a few low words neither of them voiced aloud—but the suspicion was unmistakable.

What was the connection between the Dark Lord and this boy?
How did Isadora know so quickly?

Turning to Harry, her voice returned to its usual calm.
"Lie down."

He obeyed without a word, exhaustion pulling at him like gravity.

She stayed seated, watchful, unmoving. After a moment, she broke the silence.

"Want to rest your head on my lap?"

Harry blinked up at her.
"Are you offering comfort?" he asked with a tired half-smile.

Her expression didn't change.
"Don't ruin it."

So he lay his head on her lap, closing his eyes as her fingers combed gently through his hair—absent-minded and rhythmic.

She didn't say anything else.
She didn't need to.

And in that quiet, steady space, something unspoken rooted itself between them. Strong. Unshakable. A bond built not from words, but from presence.

"They're good for each other," Mary whispered, peeking from the doorway.

Frank, arms folded, nodded beside her. "They don't even have to say it."

But they knew.

Even if Harry and Isadora never said it out loud, it was there.

And it was real.