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On the second floor of the mansion, Liam's cries echoed off the marble walls of the hallway. Four-year-old Harry clutched his bottle with both hands as he carefully made his way to his brother's room. The nanny, Miss Connely, had left early that day, and Mrs. Perez, who usually only took care of the cooking, had stayed longer than usual to finish preparing dinner for Mr. and Mrs. Potter.
From downstairs, the clatter of pots and pans could be heard, but Harry knew the cook wouldn't come up until she was finished. He dragged the little wooden stepladder he used to reach his toys and placed it next to Liam's crib. He climbed up with some effort, holding the bottle firmly. As soon as Liam felt the bottle, his crying stopped abruptly; the baby began to suckle eagerly as his eyes slowly closed. Harry stood there, on tiptoe on the top step, holding the bottle in one hand and rocking the crib with the other.
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Perez went upstairs to check on the children. She found them quiet; Harry had fallen asleep with his cheek against the wooden banister, and Liam was resting with his empty bottle beside him. The woman sighed tenderly, carefully picked up Harry so as not to wake him, and carried him to his bed in the next room before tucking him in.
Around midnight, the sound of the car announced James and Lily's arrival. Mrs. Perez waited for them in the lobby to give them the keys and the report before they left.
—Young Master Harry looked after little Liam tonight —he told them with a smile as he put on his coat—. He gave him his bottle all by himself and fell asleep watching over him in the crib.
Lily gave a small, tired laugh as she placed her bag on the hall table. "How responsible he is," she said, glancing at the grand staircase. "He has your character and your kindness, James."
James nodded distractedly, his gaze fixed on his phone as he checked some last-minute messages. "Yeah, he's a good guy," he replied without looking up.
They said nothing more. They both went upstairs, past the second floor where their children were sleeping, and continued to the third floor, entering their room and closing the door behind them.
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When Harry turned seven and Liam five, their parents decided they no longer needed to pay for a nanny. Lily and James entered the playroom, and without hesitation, Lily placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it so firmly it made him tense.
"Harry, listen up. Mrs. Connolly isn't coming anymore," Lily said shrilly. "You and your brother are too old for babysitters. Liam's in school now, and you're in second grade. There's no point in having someone here looking after you like you're babies."
"But..." Harry looked at his brother, who was playing on the floor, "sometimes Liam cries or is hungry when nobody is around."
"That's what you're here for, Harry," Lily interrupted, fixing him with her gaze. "You're the older one, and it's your responsibility to look after your brother. You're a responsible boy, or at least we hope so. You have your father's temperament, so don't let us down, okay? We know you can handle everything perfectly well until we get back."
Harry looked down, feeling a knot in his stomach, and glanced sideways at the staircase leading up to the third floor, where his parents' room was.
"But what if something bad happens?" she dared to whisper. "What if I don't know what to do?"
James, who was standing to one side, bent down to his level with an impatient gesture.
"Don't be silly, Harry. For emergencies, there's the driver, or you can call one of the numbers on the refrigerator," James replied wearily and irritably. "And Mrs. Perez will be in the kitchen for meals, but she has her own things to do. We trust you, champ; you're the oldest, and you have to prove it. Don't give us any trouble with this, and do your part."
Overnight, the weight of the house fell on the shoulders of a seven-year-old boy. The problem in the mansion wasn't a lack of resources, but a lack of affection and attention. The staff performed their technical duties; Mr. Higgins would drop them off at the door but never cross the threshold. The cleaning staff left the marble floors spotless and departed before sunset. They had clean clothes and expensive toys, but the silence of the three floors became deafening after eight o'clock at night.
The only crack in that coldness was Mrs. Pérez. She was an older woman, a Latina immigrant who had come to the house as a cook but soon became the children's sole emotional support. Unlike the other employees, she didn't anxiously watch the clock. She would stay longer than her hour just to tell them a story or to make sure Harry didn't have to bathe Liam alone. She had a genuine affection for them, the kind that couldn't be bought with the generous salary the Potters paid her.
However, Mrs. Perez also had her own life and a family that needed her in a neighborhood far from the mansion. Her recently divorced daughter was working double shifts, and her grandchildren needed their grandmother. So, when Harry turned ten and Liam seven, Mrs. Perez's presence also began to fade. Although she continued to visit daily, Mrs. Perez could no longer stay those extra hours that had been such a relief for Harry. Sometimes, she even spoke with Lily about changing her schedule to leave earlier; instead of joining them for dinner or helping them with homework, she simply set the table or put the food in the refrigerator, checked that no lights were left on unnecessarily, and said a quick goodbye to catch the bus.
"Call me on my cell phone if you need anything, okay?" she would always tell them, giving Harry's hand a gentle squeeze. "It doesn't matter if it's the middle of the night. I always answer."
And Harry learned to use that phone as if it were a survival manual. It was Mrs. Perez who, over the line, taught him how to measure the correct dose of cough syrup when Liam was burning with fever at eight years old. It was she who explained how to apply pressure to a wound when Liam cut himself on broken glass while they were playing alone. She was his only safety net, the voice that kept Harry from falling apart when the third floor of the house was empty and dark.
One of those nights, Liam crawled onto Harry's bed, seeking refuge. At seven years old, Liam still craved the protection his parents, living a flat away or miles away, couldn't provide.
"Are Mom and Dad coming back today?" Liam asked, snuggling up to his brother.
Harry looked towards the window, where he could only see the reflection of the luxurious, cold room. His parents had mentioned an event or a trip, but in that house, promises quickly faded away.
"Tomorrow," Harry replied, repeating the necessary lie.
—Is it safe?
—Sure. Go to sleep.
Liam closed his eyes, finding peace in Harry's voice. Meanwhile, Harry lay awake, counting the minutes in the silence of the mansion, wishing his parents would come this time to tuck them in and tell them a story like in the movies.
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At ten years old, Harry finally grasped a truth that had taken him a long time to understand: his parents weren't going to be around, and asking them to be was, according to them, an act of ingratitude. He remembered perfectly the last time he had tried to question it, when he was just nine years old.
“Son,” James had said, letting out a sigh of feigned patience as he adjusted his tie in front of the hall mirror, “if we don’t work, how do you think we pay for all this? Your private school, your designer clothes, every toy you own, and this very house. None of this comes from nothing, Harry. Someone has to go out and earn it.”
"But it could be just for a little while," Harry insisted, clenching his fists with the hope of a child who still believes he can change things. "You could come over for dinner tonight, or watch me play on Saturday... Just once."
Lily, who was checking some documents in her briefcase, stopped dead in her tracks and looked at him with an irritation that made him back away.
"What you're saying is incredibly selfish, Harry," she interrupted sharply. "We sacrifice ourselves every day, spend hours away from home, and travel a lot so that you and Liam can have a life other children can only dream of. The least you could do, if you truly cared about us, is be grateful and understand instead of complaining."
James nodded, agreeing with Lily without looking at his son.
—Exactly. Don't make us feel like all this effort is for nothing just because you want us here. You have to be a man, champ.
Harry felt small, as if he had done something very wrong. A knot of guilt settled in his chest; he thought that if he hadn't asked them to come back, his parents wouldn't be so tired and so angry with him. He convinced himself that wanting to see them was a bad thing that only bothered them.
He looked down at his shoes and didn't ask again. He understood that, for his parents to be "proud," he had to learn to do things on his own and never ask for anything again.
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At fifteen, the silence of the mansion ceased to be peaceful and became suffocating. Harry was no longer the boy who settled for a white lie; now he saw reality with a clarity that burned in his chest. One night, after Lily's assistant called to say that his parents would be staying at a hotel near the airport to "optimize their time" before their upcoming trip, something inside Harry broke.
When James and Lily showed up two days later to exchange their suitcases, Harry was waiting for them in the great hall.
“You know what? It’s always the same,” Harry said, his voice trembling, but it didn’t stop him. “They’re never around. Liam’s twelve and he looks for them at every door that opens. I’m fifteen and I can’t remember the last time we had dinner together without someone checking their fucking phone.”
James placed his leather briefcase on the marble table with a thud that echoed throughout the room.
"Don't use that language in this house, young man. We've given you a privileged education, so don't go around talking like a criminal."
"So what are you going to do?" challenged Harry, taking a step forward. "Punish me? Not come in for another week? You do that anyway!"
Lily approached him. She didn't look at him with anger, but with a condescension that hurt far more. She adjusted his shirt collar with exasperating calm, looking him in the eye with an expression of profound disappointment, as if Harry were a project that wasn't yielding results.
"Harry, honestly... what a disappointment to hear you speak like this," she whispered, shaking her head slowly. "We give you a life other children can't even dream of. You wear the best clothes, you go to the best school, you have everything you ask for. And you dare to complain? It's so ungrateful it shames me."
"I want parents!" Harry shouted, the shout hurting in his throat. "I want them here because they love us, not because it's their duty!"
Lily let out a dry, almost inaudible laugh and gave him a couple of gentle pats on the cheek, a gesture that felt more humiliating than a slap.
"Love doesn't pay the bills, Harry. Not your school, not this house. Stop being so selfish. We work ourselves to the bone so you don't lack anything, and you repay us by asking us to waste time sitting at a table. If you don't appreciate what you have, it's because we've spoiled you too much."
James, who was already climbing to the third floor, stopped halfway up the stairs and looked down at him, with a superiority that made the distance between the two levels seem like an abyss.
“If this ‘lifestyle’ bothers you so much, the door’s wide open, Harry,” James said, shrugging with an indifference that stung more than a punch. “You can go and see what the real world is like without our money. We won’t stop you. But you’d better forget about this family name and our accounts. I don’t think you’ll last an hour outside this bubble; let’s see how long your ‘need for family’ lasts when you’re sleeping on the streets. Grow up already, will you?”
Harry stood there in the middle of the corridor, feeling tears burn his eyes but refusing to let them out in front of them. He understood with bitter clarity that, to his parents, he wasn't a son but an investment that was becoming too "noisy" and unprofitable.
The threat of leaving him on the street hung in the cold air of the lobby. James and Lily turned away calmly, convinced that Harry wouldn't leave for fear of losing his luxury and comforts. What they would never understand was that Harry didn't care about money. If he stayed, if he lowered his head and swallowed his pride, it was solely for Liam. He knew perfectly well that if he walked through that door, his twelve-year-old brother would be left alone in that glass desert, rotting away in the silence of a mansion that had never been a home. For Liam, Harry was willing to live in a gilded cage.
Before leaving for the airport, James placed a black credit card on the marble table in the hallway, sliding it down without even looking at his son.
"It's a supplementary card. It has a limit of one million euros per month," he said flatly, pulling out his own phone to check some emails. "Use it for whatever you want, buy yourself friends, video games, or anything else you need to stop bothering us with these crises. We're so tired of this, Harry."
Harry took the cold piece of plastic between his fingers. That gesture hurt more than any previous insult; it was the price they were putting on his silence. At first, he felt a deep disgust, and the weight of the million euros felt like a chain, but he didn't throw it away. As he clenched it in his fist, he understood that this plastic was the only tool he had to build Liam the home his parents were denying him.
From then on, she began using it for the things that truly mattered. She bought books Liam wanted, vinyl records to fill the mansion with noise, and food that wasn't just Mrs. Perez's leftovers in the refrigerator. She knew that if she couldn't give them a real family, she would at least use their money to buy her brother a life where he wouldn't feel so alone.
Mrs. Pérez still went to the mansion, though not as often as before. She was older; her hair had turned translucent white, and her steps were short and slow on the marble floor. Yet, despite the years, her eyes remained the only warm place in that entire three-story house.
One day, Harry waited for her at the kitchen entrance before she finished her shift. On the floor beside him was a bag from an expensive store, but filled with things he had selected himself: top-quality medicine for her joints, new clothes that kept out the cold, and a thick envelope with enough money so his daughter could afford to work fewer hours.
"Boy, no..." Mrs. Pérez shook her head, her eyes misting over. "You didn't have to buy me anything, my boy."
"You did more for us than the people who live on the third floor, Mrs. Perez," Harry whispered, hugging her with a force that betrayed how broken he was inside. "You're the only one who never put a price on us."
In that embrace, Harry closed his eyes and ceased to be the fifteen-year-old teenager in charge of a fortune and a brother. For a minute, he allowed himself to be that four-year-old boy again, who just wanted someone to stay by his side until his fear of the dark was completely gone.
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At seventeen, Harry was one of the most popular boys in school. He was charismatic and had that natural knack for making friends that he'd had since childhood. No one who saw him laughing in the hallways or being the life of the party would imagine that, as the sun set, Harry quietly returned to a mansion, prepared dinner, and organized his brother's schedule for the next day.
His friends, like Ron, knew that his parents were never around and that Harry was the one who ran the household. They tried to give him advice or invite him out to take his mind off things, but none of them delved too deeply, something Harry was deeply grateful for.
One afternoon, while Harry was helping Liam set up some amplifiers in his room, the younger boy stopped playing his acoustic guitar. Liam was obsessed with rock stars and wanted an electric guitar with a huge amplifier, but Harry had stood firm: "First learn the technique on the classical guitar, prove you're serious, and then I'll buy you whatever you want." And with his parents' credit card, Harry not only bought the instrument, but also the best equipment and private lessons.
Liam was scratching the strings with some frustration, but stopped when he saw Harry reject another call on his cell phone.
"You should have gone, Harry," said Liam, putting the guitar down on his lap.
—Don't worry, I'd rather stay and see how you're doing with that guitar solo—Harry replied, trying to downplay it.
“I’m serious. Ron’s right, you need to get out more,” Liam insisted, putting his guitar back on its stand. “I’m thirteen now, I’m not going to burst into flames if you go away for a few hours. Besides, why don’t we invite some people over? I could invite my friends over on Friday, have a sleepover, and show them how I play the guitar. That way you can go out and party in peace without having to check your phone every five minutes.”
Harry looked at his brother. Liam didn't just want him to go out; he wanted the mansion to stop being a closed-off refuge and feel, for once, like a normal boy's house.
"A sleepover with your friends?" Harry asked with a grin. "They're going to make a mess of the kitchen."
"Leave it alone. I'll clean it," Liam replied proudly. "But go, Harry. Ron and the others are waiting for you. If I learn this song properly on the classical guitar, you owe me the electric one next month, deal?"
Harry laughed, ruffled his brother's hair, and for the first time in a long time, felt he could loosen his grip a little. He changed his clothes, gave Liam a few quick instructions, and left the mansion. That night, as he enjoyed himself with his friends, he didn't feel the urge to rush back; he knew that at home, Liam was fine, clutching his classical guitar and planning his own night out with friends.
It was at one of those parties, amidst the noise and heat of the music, that she met Tom Riddle.
Tom was a year older but in the same grade at a prestigious local private school. He was tall, with sharp features and a gaze so intense it seemed capable of silencing a room the moment he entered. He was tall, with sharp features and an elegance that seemed out of place at a teenage party. However, it wasn't just his bearing or his good looks that captivated Harry. It was his gaze. Tom watched him with dark, penetrating eyes that made him feel something he couldn't quite put his finger on, a mixture of vulnerability and a strange rush of adrenaline he'd never experienced before.
Tom approached calmly, holding two glasses, and stopped in front of him, ignoring the rest of the people.
"Harry Potter, right?" said Tom, offering him one of the glasses. His voice was low, with a certainty that sent shivers down your spine.
"Himself," Harry replied, regaining his usual charm and holding his gaze. "Do we know each other, or are you one of those people who approach strangers with drinks of dubious origin?"
Tom let out a short, dry laugh, without taking his eyes off him.
—No, we don't know each other. But I like to observe, and you're the most interesting thing that's happened in this house all night.
"Oh, what an honor," Harry smiled knowingly, taking a sip of his drink. "I hope I haven't disappointed your expectations as an observer."
"Well?" Harry raised an eyebrow knowingly. "Have you finished analyzing me, or do you need me to take a walk so you can complete your report?"
Tom let out a brief, almost imperceptible laugh, but he didn't take his eyes off him.
—I'm afraid a look isn't enough for someone like you. I would need much more time.
"That sounds like a proposal," Harry replied, taking a sip of his drink without breaking eye contact.
"Take it however you want," Tom murmured, taking a step into his personal space, just enough for Harry to feel his presence. "But there are too many people here, and the music is annoying. Let's dance, Harry. I want to see if you can move with the same confidence you have when you speak."
Harry was surprised by Tom's confidence, but he accepted the challenge. He set his glass aside and let Tom lead him to the dance floor. They danced through the crowd, but for Harry, the rest of the party became a blur. The way Tom held him and that fixed, dark gaze made him feel completely exposed and, strangely, alive.
At the end of the night, after exchanging numbers, Harry returned to the mansion. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor in the usual silence, his phone vibrated.
"It was nice meeting you, Harry. I get the impression you're not someone easily forgotten. I hope it's not the last time."
It wasn't the last time.
They began seeing each other frequently. Tom would look for him after school and always found an excuse to extend their afternoons together. They wrote to each other daily; what started as a banal message about their day would end in deep conversations that lasted until the early hours. Tom was brilliant and arrogant, with a coldness that kept the rest of the world at bay, but with Harry he was different: he was patient, observant, and possessed a tenderness that seemed reserved only for him.
"We've been seeing each other for months and your parents don't even know I exist," Tom remarked one afternoon as they walked through a park near the mansion. "Why the secrecy, Harry?"
Harry looked away. Liam knew nothing about Tom; only Ron and his closest friends knew.
"My parents are never around, so it doesn't matter. And my brother... well, I prefer things to stay this way for now," Harry replied.
Deep down, Harry had an irrational fear. Although Liam was open-minded and they respected each other a lot, Harry was afraid that telling him he was dating someone would change something between them. He was afraid of losing the only solid bond he had in that house, and he preferred to protect that secret at all costs.
Over time, Harry began to tell Tom more about his life: the loneliness in the mansion and how his life had revolved around Liam since he was seven. For Harry, this was normal; it was his way of loving. But Tom, with his sharp clarity, began to point out things Harry had never questioned.
"Don't you realize?" Tom said one day, as Harry checked the clock because it was time for Liam's dinner. "You've sacrificed your entire teenage life for him. It's not fair that you should carry a responsibility that belongs to your parents."
"He's not a burden, Tom. He's my brother, I do it because I love him," Harry replied, a little defensively.
"You can love him without losing yourself, Harry. You can be his brother without being his slave. He's growing up, and you have a right to a life of your own, away from that house."
Those words began to swirl in Harry's head. It wasn't an immediate change, but little by little he understood that Liam was no longer the little boy who needed constant supervision. Liam was no longer a toddler who always came to his room whenever he had nightmares; now he was a fifteen-year-old teenager who also needed his own space.
Under the quiet influence of Tom's words, Harry began to loosen up a little. When Liam asked him to start going out on weekends with his friends, Harry, making an internal effort, agreed.
"Hey, Harry," Liam said one day, while tuning his electric guitar (the one Harry had finally bought him), "I've noticed you're... different lately. Less stressed about what I do. I like it."
Liam looked at him fondly, unaware that behind that change was the shadow of Tom Riddle.
“I know you’re worried,” Liam continued, “but I’m grown up now. You have to live your life too, brother. Go out and have fun. I’ll be fine here.”
At that moment, Harry felt something release in his chest. For the first time in ten years, he felt he could breathe without having to watch his brother's every move, even though Tom's secret remained locked away in his heart.
Tom and Harry kept their relationship a secret from the Potter family and Liam, but things were different in Tom's circle. His friends, used to his intellectual arrogance and that icy indifference that made him seem unattainable, had noticed that something was changing in him.
"What's wrong, Tom?" Abraxas Malfoy asked one afternoon, as they shared drinks in their private circle. "You're different. More... human? If it weren't you, I'd say you were distracted."
"Shut up, Abraxas," Tom replied, though the sharpness of his voice no longer carried the threat it once did.
"It's because of someone, isn't it?" another of his classmates insisted, observing him curiously. "Who has managed to capture your attention for more than five minutes?"
Tom didn't reply. He preferred to keep his private life a sanctuary, far from ridicule or scrutiny. However, months later the secret was out. His friends showed up unannounced at Tom's house, an elegant, minimalist place usually shrouded in silence due to his constantly traveling parents. This time, upon opening the door, they found Tom on the sofa with a green-eyed boy laughing on top of him.
The silence that followed was absolute. Tom's friends stood frozen in the doorway, processing the image of their leader sharing his personal space so naturally.
"Tom," said Harry, breaking the ice with a mischievous laugh at the look of astonishment on their faces, "don't be rude and introduce me to your friends."
Tom rolled his eyes, sighing with a mixture of annoyance and resignation, but he made the introductions. When the friends, still incredulous, cautiously asked what exactly they were, Harry didn't hesitate. He didn't beat around the bush or make excuses.
"We're dating," Harry replied with a nonchalance that disarmed everyone. "We've been together for a while."
Tom's friends were speechless. Tom Riddle, the cold, distant one, the one who had never shown the slightest romantic interest in anyone, had a boyfriend. And the most shocking thing wasn't the relationship status, but the way Tom looked at Harry, with a gentleness and protective possessiveness they had never seen in him before.
"If even a single rumor of this reaches anyone outside this room," said Tom, regaining his dangerous voice and fixing his dark gaze on each of them, "I will make sure they regret it."
"We won't say anything, Tom," they replied almost in unison.
And they kept their word. Not out of fear, though that was part of it, but because they understood that Harry was the only person who had managed to find the pulse beneath Tom Riddle's iron skin.
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At eighteen, Harry had a secret refuge: drawing and painting. On his canvases, he poured out all the pent-up emotions he couldn't express with words.
He had spent months preparing, encouraged by Tom's quiet support and the words of his friends, to claim his own future. The opportunity came when his parents, in a rare display of "interest," forced him to attend a dinner at a fancy restaurant to discuss his next steps.
Harry arrived with his heart pounding, determined to be brave. But the dinner was not a space open to dialogue, but rather a warning of his fate.
"I want to study Fine Arts at university," Harry announced during a moment of silence, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "It's what I love, I want to paint, to dedicate myself to creation..."
Lily abruptly placed the cutlery on the porcelain with an icy clinking sound and sighed with a mixture of frustration and contempt.
"Arts, Harry? Really?" she said, looking at him as if he'd said something stupid. "And what do you plan to do with that? Teach at a school or end up begging for money? Don't be ridiculous."
—It's my passion, Mom. I've worked really hard and...
“What matters to us is that you have a stable future, not that you waste your time,” James interrupted, without looking up from his wine glass. “You’re going to study Business Administration. It’s practical, it leads to jobs, and it’s what we need so you can help us with the family business. We’re not going to throw money away on a degree that’s useless.”
"But that's not what I want," Harry insisted, feeling his courage slipping through his fingers.
"We're not asking you what you want," Lily stated sharply. "We're already doing enough to pay for your studies without you wasting them backpacking. If you want our support, you'll study what we decide. End of story."
Harry looked down at the white tablecloth, feeling small and trapped once again in that glass bubble. He accepted the blow with his usual silence, but then something made him look up.
"And Liam?" she asked quietly. "Will he have to study what you all say too?"
James and Lily exchanged a look of utter indifference, shrugging their shoulders at the same time.
"Liam can study whatever he wants," Lily replied with a nonchalance that hurt more than any insult. "He's different; he has time to decide his own path."
Harry felt a knife pierce his chest. He understood the hierarchy of that house: Liam had the right to dream because Harry was there to uphold the structure that allowed them to. His brother wanted to study music production, he loved his guitar, and his talent grew every day, and Harry was happy for him, but the injustice was unbearable. Liam could choose to be an artist because Harry was being forced to be the administrator.
However, as soon as the thought crossed his mind, a suffocating weight of guilt washed over him. He felt like the most despicable person in the world for having felt, even for a second, resentment toward his brother. Liam wasn't to blame for being the favorite or for having freedom; Liam didn't even know what was happening at that table. His brother was still that boy who admired him and played guitar to make him smile.
"He doesn't know anything" Harry repeated to himself, swallowing the bitterness of envy. "It's not his fault they're like this" He internally scolded himself for comparing their fates, promising that even if his own wings were clipped, he would make sure Liam never had to endure such humiliation. But the pain, though hidden beneath layers of brotherly love, remained, burning.
That night, as they drove back in the car's deathly silence, Harry began to dream of more than just paint. He began to dream of traveling, of escaping, of exploring every place he had discovered in books while caring for Liam. He allowed himself to imagine his desires in detail, holding them tightly one last time, only to be able to let them go afterward so that saying goodbye to his own life wouldn't hurt so much.
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Harry turned twenty living a double life. By day, he attended business administration classes, memorizing balance sheets and laws he hated out of sheer obligation; by night, under the dim light of his lamp, he became himself again. He filled entire notebooks with sketches of landscapes he'd never set foot in and portraits of Tom that would never see the light of day. Tom looked at these drawings in silence, with a mixture of admiration and anger, knowing that each stroke was a cry for help from a Harry who was fading away.
That's when the call came. Her parents weren't asking for a meeting, they were demanding it.
“We have a proposal you can’t refuse,” Lily announced, crossing her legs with the elegance of someone who had just closed the deal of a lifetime. “The Mulcibers are looking for a strategic alliance. Their daughter, Walburga, has been very clear about her interest in you.”
Harry felt the air become heavy in his lungs.
"Walburga Mulciber?" Harry gave a bitter laugh. "We've barely exchanged two words at charity events. She looks at me like I'm a trophy she wants to hang on her wall."
“She’s a girl of impeccable lineage and from a family with assets we need,” James continued, ignoring his son’s tone. “They’ve offered benefits that would put our company at the top of the European market.”
"I'm not going to marry her," Harry's voice trembled, but this time with pure indignation. "I don't love her. I don't know her. I'm not going to give my life to someone just because you decide it."
James slammed his fist on the table, making the porcelain cups rattle. The sound was like a gunshot.
"It doesn't matter what you want!" James shouted at him with a chilling coldness. "Enough of this childish selfishness, Harry. This is for the family. For the name. And above all, it's for Liam."
Harry was petrified.
It was always Liam.
They used their love for their brother as a weapon, knowing it was the only place where he had no defenses.
“The Mulcibers have connections at the best music and production academies in the world,” Lily added, softening her voice but still maintaining her venom. “If you accept this arrangement, we’ll make sure Liam studies wherever he wants. London, New York, Berlin… the doors will be wide open for him. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? For him to be free?”
"In exchange for my freedom?" Harry whispered, his voice cracking, feeling the mansion walls close in on him.
“Walburga’s infatuated with you,” James said, standing up and ending the conversation. “Her parents have practically given us carte blanche. To refuse would be an insult we can’t afford. You have a week to come to terms with it. Be a man and do your part, just like we’re doing by paying for your life of luxury.”
Harry left the meeting heartbroken. He walked down the corridor toward his room, past Liam's door, from which the cheerful sound of an electric guitar drifted. He paused for a second, his hand on the doorknob, feeling a violent mix of adoration for his brother and a dark resentment burning inside him.
He felt dirty for envying Liam's ignorance. He hated that his brother was the bargaining chip for his own downfall. Harry reached his room with his lungs burning, as if the air in the mansion had turned to ground glass. He locked the door, and the sound of the latch clicking felt like the final seal of his own grave.
For the first time in years, she didn't reach for her paintbrushes. Her hands trembled so much she couldn't have held anything. She slumped against the wooden door, sliding to the floor as she clutched her knees desperately, as if trying to stop her soul from spilling out onto the floor.
A violent sob, the kind that rises from deep within, climbed in his throat, but Harry buried his face in his legs and bit his arm to stifle the sound. He wanted to scream. He wanted to roar against the walls, shatter the mirrors, demand of the world why his love for Liam always ended up being the rope with which his parents strangled him.
But I couldn't .
A few meters away, on the other side of the corridor, the sound of Liam's guitar continued to flow, cheerful and detached. If Harry screamed, if he allowed his pain to be heard, Liam would come. Liam would ask. And Harry would have to watch the light in his brother's eyes go out when he realized that his freedom came at the price of Harry's life.
That was the cruelest torture: having to suffer in absolute silence to protect the ignorance of the child for whom he was selling himself. He stood there, trembling in the darkness, tears soaking his trousers and his teeth digging into his skin to avoid alerting his brother. He understood, with a clarity that shattered what little heart he had left, that this "bright future" was nothing more than a gilded cage where Walburga Mulciber would be his jailer, and where he would have to smile while bleeding out inside, just so Liam could keep playing his music.
Tom arrived the next day. He didn't knock; he stormed in with a rage that made the air in the hall feel electric and heavy. He entered Harry's room like a raging storm, slamming the door behind him with a force that made the pictures on the walls shake.
"Tell me it's a lie," Tom spat. His voice was a steely thread. "Tell me it's not true that you're going to sell yourself to the Mulcibers."
"I have no choice, Tom. My parents have been clear..." Harry whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes vacant.
" Your parents? " Tom let out a dry laugh, devoid of any humor. "It's always them, isn't it? Always their approval, their rules, their damn company. You told me you loved me, Harry. You told me it was you and me against this shitty world."
"And I love you!" Harry shouted, leaping to his feet. Tears began to flow, hot and furious. "But I can't leave Liam out on the street! I can't let his future be taken away because of my selfishness!"
"Don't use your brother as a shield for your cowardice!" Tom roared, closing the distance between them and gripping his shoulders tightly. "This isn't about Liam. It's because you don't have the guts to say no to them. It's because you'd rather be their lapdog, the perfect heir who marries whomever they tell him to, than the man you promised me you'd be."
Harry felt the sting of those words in the center of his chest. The pain transformed into a black poison.
"Cowardice?" Harry shoved him with all his might, his face contorted with anger. "You don't know what sacrifice is, Tom! You only love yourself, your intellect, and your pride. It's easy to judge me when you have no one depending on you. At the end of the day, you're just a cynic who looks down on others to avoid admitting you're alone. Go back to your London apartment and stay there with your arrogance, because you have no idea what it means to love anyone but yourself!"
Tom recoiled as if Harry had slapped him. His dark gaze turned icy, filled with a hatred Harry had never seen in him before.
“You’re right,” Tom whispered, his voice crueler than any shout. “I’m alone. But I’d rather be alone than with someone who has no backbone. Look at you, Harry. You’re going to walk down that aisle, slip the ring on that woman’s finger, and spend the rest of your days as an empty shell. You’re going to paint pictures no one will ever see, and you’re going to die inside every time she touches you, knowing you chose them over us.”
"Go away..." Harry sobbed, pointing at the door with a trembling arm. "Go away!"
“I’m leaving,” said Tom, walking toward the exit. “You stay with your parents. You keep your torment. But don’t come looking for me when you realize that the ‘future’ you bought for Liam is the grave you buried yourself in. I hope it’s worth it, Harry. Because as far as I’m concerned, you just died today.”
The door slammed shut. Harry stood there, gasping, the bitter taste of his own words burning his tongue. He wanted to run after him, wanted to beg his forgiveness for what he'd said, but his legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor. He covered his mouth with his hands, trying to stifle the screams that escaped him, as his body convulsed in agonized sobs.
Across the hall, Liam sat trembling on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest. He had heard Tom's cruelty and contempt, and his brother's despair. He had heard that he was the reason Harry was destroying his life. And for the first time in his life, Liam hated the guitar he had loved so much.
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Liam didn't act impulsively. From the moment he heard Harry fall apart over Tom, something inside him hardened. He waited patiently until after his eighteenth birthday, hatching a plan. He knew that once he came of age, his parents would no longer have any legal power over him, and, more importantly, Harry would no longer be "obligated" to buy his custody with his life.
Three days after his birthday, the tension in Potter Manor was palpable. The four of them were in the great room. Lily, oblivious to the chasm opening up beneath her feet, chattered incessantly about the wedding flower arrangements and silk decorations. Harry sat in an armchair, his gaze distant and his face growing increasingly rigid, as if he were struggling to breathe in his own skin.
—...and of course, Walburga wants white peonies, although I prefer lilies. Harry, what do you think? Harry, are you even listening to me? —Lily's voice was an irritating buzz.
Suddenly, Liam stood up. The sound of his feet against the marble was like thunder.
" That's enough !" Liam's shout echoed off the walls of the room.
Lily trailed off, and James lowered his newspaper, frowning. Harry, frightened, tried to stand up to defuse the situation.
"Liam, please, this isn't the time..." Harry whispered, trying to put a hand on his shoulder.
"This is the only damn time, Harry!" Liam gently pushed him away, his eyes shining with a mixture of anger and tears. "I'm sick of this charade! I'm sick of watching you wither away every day because of these two bastards!"
"Liam!" James shouted, jumping up in a rage. "Show some respect for your mother and for everything we're doing for your brother!"
"Doing it for him?" Liam let out a laugh that sounded more like a broken sob and turned to Harry, who had gone pale, like a marble statue about to collapse. "I heard your fight with Tom, Harry! I heard every damn word! I know this marriage is the price you're paying for my freedom. I know you're selling yourself like an object because you think I'm incapable of standing up for myself!"
Liam took a step towards him, his face bathed in tears of pure rage.
"It's not fair! It's not fair that you're tearing your soul out because of me! I don't want a future that reeks of your sacrifice, Harry! I don't want a career paid for with your agony in that house with a woman you can't even look in the face!"
Harry staggered, feeling the floor disappear beneath his feet and the air in the room harden. The secret that had been suffocating him, the weight that had been slowly killing him month after month, had just exploded in the middle of the room, leaving his nerves and his misery exposed before his parents' icy eyes. There was no mask left to protect him; the silence had been shattered, and what remained beneath was only a broken boy who no longer had the strength to keep lying.
"Liam, please... I just wanted you to have the best, to lack nothing," Harry managed to say. The mask of perfection he wore shattered completely, and the tears he had held back for months began to stream down his face, hot and bitter.
"You're the best thing about me, Harry! The best thing is having my brother alive, not a music career paid for with your unhappiness and misery!" Liam shouted, his fury making him tremble from head to toe. He turned to his parents, pointing an accusing finger at them. "You're monsters! Using your own son like he's some damned property... You disgust me. I'm ashamed to have your blood."
"Shut your damn mouth right now!" James roared.
Blinded by rage and the humiliation of being exposed in his own room, James lost all semblance of decency. He took three violent strides toward Liam, his fist clenched, intending to silence him by force.
Harry was still in shock, the world spinning after his brother's screams, but his body reacted before his mind. The protective instinct he had cultivated since he was seven years old sprang into action. Without hesitation, without considering the consequences, he threw himself into the empty space between his father's fist and his brother's face.
The impact was brutal. James' fist connected squarely with Harry's cheekbone with a dull crack that seemed to stop time. The force of the blow hurled him against a carved wooden cabinet, shattering the porcelain ornaments around him into a thousand pieces.
—Harry! —Liam's scream was a tear of pure terror.
The pain was instantaneous, a burst of searing heat that blurred his vision, but Harry refused to let it break him. Ignoring the ringing in his ears and the metallic taste of blood beginning to seep from his split lip, he stood at once. He stumbled for a second, but then stood firm in front of Liam, extending his arm to pin him behind him, using himself as a human shield once more.
He wiped the trickle of blood with the back of his hand and fixed his green eyes on his father's. There was no fear in them anymore, no submission, no trace of the son trying to please them. There was only icy, absolute contempt.
"Not him," Harry declared. His voice didn't tremble; it was a deathly whisper that cut through the heavy air of the room. "They did whatever they wanted to me. They used me, sold me, and broke me piece by piece while I let them. But they'll never lay a hand on my brother again in his damned life."
James took a step back, shocked by the gaze of a son he no longer recognized. Lily stood frozen, her hand over her mouth, finally processing that the thread holding her world of appearances together had just been severed forever.
"We're leaving," Harry continued, without taking his eyes off the table. "And this time, there's no deal, no company, and no family name that will make me come back. Keep your filthy money and your misery."
Harry took Liam's hand with desperate strength. They didn't need suitcases; the weight of that house was already burden enough. They left the mansion without looking back, letting the torrential rain pound Harry's wounded face, as they walked toward a freedom that, though painful, was finally theirs.
They left the mansion without a single suitcase, without wallets, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the keys to the London apartment, which Harry clutched in his pocket like a lifeline. The torrential rain caught up with them before they reached the main gate, soaking them in seconds. They walked along the dark road, the cold seeping into their bones, until Harry managed to flag down a taxi with a desperate gesture.
The journey to London was a trip into emptiness. The inside of the car smelled of dampness and the blood that continued to trickle from Harry's lip. Liam was curled up in the back seat, sobs shaking his body, while Harry stared out the window at the blurred city lights, feeling his cheekbone burn, swell, and the world spin around him.
When the taxi pulled up in front of the exclusive building in London, Harry realized he had no way to pay.
"Sir..." Harry cleared his throat, feeling the sharp pain in his jaw. "The doorman... he knows me. He'll pay you. Please, let us down."
The taxi driver, seeing the pitiful state of the two boys, nodded silently. Harry helped Liam out and they walked toward the glass entrance, water dripping everywhere. Seeing them, Arthur, the receptionist who always greeted them with a smile and comments about the weather, jumped to his feet, his face contorted with dismay.
"Young Harry?" Arthur came running out from behind the counter. "Good heavens! What's happened? You're... you're bleeding."
"Arthur, please..." Harry's voice broke, and he had to lean on the counter to keep from falling. "I don't have any money for a taxi. Could you...?"
"Don't worry about it, son. I'll take care of it," the man interrupted, taking some bills from his pocket and handing them to the driver while his eyes remained fixed on the enormous bruise that now covered Harry's cheekbone. "Come here, you're shaking. Do you need me to call an ambulance? The police?"
"No, no... none of that," Harry whispered, his gaze distant and his lips blue from the cold. "Just... just let us go upstairs. I need to get into Tom's apartment."
"Of course, of course. Mr. Riddle didn't tell me you were coming, but please come in." Arthur led them toward the elevator, supporting a Liam who could barely stand. "Young Harry, your face looks terrible. You should have it examined by a doctor."
"I just need to rest," Harry replied as the elevator doors began to close. "Thanks, Arthur. Really, thanks."
The apartment door closed behind them with a click that sounded like freedom, but also like defeat. The place smelled like Tom—of wood, old books, and that expensive cologne Harry used to inhale to calm himself—but at that moment the scent only brought a pang of bitter nostalgia. They didn't have the strength to turn on the lights; they walked blindly to the living room where the cold moonlight and the neon signs of London filtered through the enormous window, bathing everything in blue and gray.
Harry didn't make it to the sofa. His legs gave way and he collapsed onto the wooden floor, pulling Liam down with him. They sat there in the shadows, rainwater dripping onto the expensive carpet that Tom cared for so much.
“Forgive me, Harry… God, forgive me for putting you through this,” Liam sobbed. He clung to his brother’s soaked shirt, his fingers stiff, burying his face in his chest like when he was a child. “It’s all my fault… because of my stupid music, because I didn’t realize sooner…”
Harry groaned as Liam's hug involuntarily pressed against his injured cheekbone, but he didn't pull away. With trembling fingers, he cupped his brother's head, cradling him as his own tears began to mingle with the rainwater and the dried blood from his lip.
"Shhh... don't say that, Liam," Harry whispered. His voice was shaky, made difficult by the swelling in his face. "There's nothing to forgive. There never was anything to forgive."
“He hit you, Harry! You sold yourself for me, and he laid a hand on you!” Liam looked up, his tear-filled eyes meeting the wreckage on his brother’s face. The bruise was already turning a deep purple. “I couldn’t bear it, brother. I couldn’t live knowing this is the price of my life.”
Harry rested his forehead against Liam's, closing his eyes. The physical pain was a rhythmic, agonizing pulse, but for the first time in ten years, the weight in his chest felt a little lighter.
"It's finally over, Liam," Harry murmured, a broken, painful, genuine smile appearing on his lips. "No more wedding. No more company. No more parents to please. It's just us at last... even if we have nothing, we have each other."
They lay there, embraced like two castaways on a deserted island, waiting in the silence of the night for the apartment owner to arrive and claim what remained of them. Harry allowed himself to close his eyes, letting exhaustion overcome him, lulled by Liam's sobs that gradually faded into heavy breathing from sheer weariness.
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As soon as the indicator showed the elevator was going up, the silence of the lobby returned. Arthur stared at the closed doors, his heart racing. He had seen Harry many times; always polite, always radiant, the perfect complement to the young and serious Mr. Riddle. Seeing him like this, his face shattered, fleeing like a wounded animal, filled him with a pang of anguish.
Without hesitation, she ran to the reception desk and dialed Tom's private number in Cambridge. It was almost ten o'clock at night.
"Hello?" Tom's voice sounded on the third ring, cold and distant, like someone who didn't want to be bothered.
"Mr. Riddle... this is Arthur, from the London building." The man lowered his voice, looking towards the stairs. "I'm sorry for the hour, but... this is young Harry. He's just arrived."
On the other end of the line, the crumpling of paper being crushed could be heard.
"Harry? What are you doing there?" Tom's voice immediately became tense.
“Sir, I don’t know what’s happened, but he’s in very bad shape,” Arthur said urgently. “He’s come in with a young man, both of them soaked. Young Harry has a terrible bruise on his face, his cheekbone is swollen and his lip is split… they look like they’ve escaped from a war, sir. He was so pale I thought he’d faint in my arms.”
The silence that followed on the line was absolute, but Arthur could have sworn he heard the breathing become heavy, almost animalistic.
"Stay near my apartment door, Arthur," Tom ordered, his voice no longer cold, but a simmering storm. "If they need anything, give it to them. Anything. Don't let them leave."
—Yes, sir. Will you be coming?
"I'm on my way right now. I don't care how long it takes to get on the next flight. Make sure they're safe, Arthur. If anyone comes looking for them, don't let them past the lobby."
Tom hung up the phone without saying goodbye. In his Cambridge bedroom, the world shrank to a single image: Harry's wounded face. Pride, the fight from weeks before, and the pain of betrayal vanished, replaced by a protective fury that burned within him. He grabbed his jacket and car keys, ready to drive through the storm at any speed to reach him.
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The next morning, the silence of the apartment was shattered. The sound of the key turning in the lock was followed by a violent slam of the door against the wall. Tom burst into the living room, still wearing his damp coat and breathing heavily, his hair disheveled by the wind and the urgency.
His eyes scanned the dimly lit room until they found them on the floor. When the faint light illuminated Harry's face, revealing the cheekbone deformed by the blow, the split lip, and the exhausted look in his eyes, Tom froze for a second. Then, a murderous, icy, and absolute fury erupted from him.
He strode towards him, and if James Potter had been standing in front of him at that moment, Tom would have destroyed him with his bare hands.
"I'm going to kill him," Tom declared, his voice not a shout, but a lethal hiss. "I'm going to take everything from you. I'm going to drag your name, your company, and your lives through the mud for laying a hand on you."
Tom leaned toward him, his hands trembling not from cold, but from a rage that threatened to overflow. He was ready to turn and carry out his revenge, but before he could stand, Harry reached out.
“No…” Harry whispered, stopping him by placing his hand on the center of Tom’s chest. His fingers were icy and trembling, but his touch was enough to anchor Tom. “Please. Not now, Tom.”
"Harry, look what they've done to you..." Tom grumbled, trying to look away from the bruise on his beloved's cheekbone, because seeing it hurt him more than any of his own injuries.
"It doesn't matter anymore." Harry shook his head slowly, letting out a small groan of pain. "I don't want you to talk about them. I don't want you to think about them. Just... stay. I need you here. Please don't leave me alone now."
Tom closed his eyes and clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, suppressing the urge to go looking for blood. He took a deep breath, swallowing the bile of rage, and let his shoulders slump. Slowly, he knelt in front of him, ignoring the fact that his designer clothes were being ruined by the water on the floor.
She looked at Harry with painful tenderness, then looked at Liam, who was still asleep on the sofa with his face swollen from crying, and nodded.
"I'm staying," Tom murmured, putting his arms around Harry. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe now, Harry. I promise."
In that embrace, beneath the London morning dew and the echo of the drizzle against the windowpane, Harry finally allowed his eyes to close completely. He knew the war with his parents wasn't over, but for the first time, he had the man he loved and a home that wasn't a cage.
A week after the escape, when the bruise on Harry's face was beginning to turn greenish-yellow, they received a text message from an unknown number. It was Mrs. Perez, informing them that James and Lily would be out of town on a quick business trip and that she had the keys to the locked closets.
They returned to the mansion as if they were thieves in their own house. When the service door opened, Mrs. Perez said nothing; she simply hugged Harry and Liam with a force that reminded her of genuine affection and then handed him a small bag with her most valuable belongings that she herself had hidden.
"Quick, children," she whispered, watching the hallway. "Don't let them take your memories too."
They went up to their rooms in tense silence. Harry didn't look for expensive clothes or luxury watches. He went straight to the back of his wardrobe and took out the wooden boxes containing his first sketches, the paintbrushes Tom had secretly given him, and a small photograph of his grandmother, the only person who had ever told him his art was worthwhile. Liam, for his part, retrieved his guitars and, in a suitcase, clothes and things he cherished, along with the notebooks where he wrote songs he never dared to play aloud.
As they descended the stairs for the last time, Harry paused before the large family portrait that hung in the living room. He gazed at his parents' cold faces and, for the first time, felt not fear, but a profound pity.
"Thank you for everything, Mrs. Perez," Harry said, kissing the woman on the cheek. "I promise we'll be okay."
"I know, my child," she replied, her eyes glistening. "You are free now. Don't look back."
They left there with their backpacks heavy with the past, but with their hearts set on the future. Back at the apartment, Liam shut himself away to play that old guitar, and Harry spread out his canvases in the corner Tom had cleared for him.
That night, as Harry organized his paintings, the silence of the apartment struck him again. He glanced into the living room, where Liam was trying to compose a melody, and felt a pang of bitterness. He felt deeply guilty for having dragged his brother into this life of escapism . He reproached himself for having thought, in those dark moments, that Liam was responsible for his unhappiness.
"He knew nothing," Harry thought, pressing a paintbrush to his chest. "He was just a boy who loved his brother, and I saw him as a chain."
It pained him to know that Liam wasn't to blame for his parents' cruelty, the wedding plans, or James's coldness. He felt small remembering how he had envied his brother's freedom, when Liam would have given it up in a heartbeat for him, had he known. He vowed to himself that he would dedicate every day of his life to ensuring that Liam never learned how close Harry had come to resenting him, carrying that secret alone as his final act of protection.
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The following days were a whirlwind of reality. Harry and Liam decided they would never return; they preferred the weariness of honest work to the suffocating weight of that family name.
"I don't want you to pay for everything," Harry told Tom one afternoon when he brought up the subject of expenses. "We can do it ourselves, Tom. We have to learn how."
“I know. I know you can,” Tom replied, looking at him with a mixture of pride and tenderness. “But let me help. This apartment is empty most of the time while I’m in Cambridge. Stay. It’s not charity, Harry… it’s just that I finally have a reason to want to come back. It’s to have you close.”
Harry hesitated, but seeing Liam tuning his old guitar on the sofa, he agreed. He got a job at a downtown café and switched to Fine Arts. The university, after seeing his portfolio, awarded him a partial scholarship; by transferring credits for the Management courses he hated so much, he discovered that at least that time hadn't been wasted: now he knew how to manage his own future. Liam, meanwhile, got a job at a music store and a full scholarship for Music Production.
They didn't have the luxuries of before. Tom's apartment was comfortable, but not a mansion. They shopped at ordinary supermarkets and celebrated when they found bargains. But at night, when the three of them ate dinner, Harry would see his brother genuinely laugh and Tom smile at him with that gentleness reserved only for him, and he felt that finally, after twenty years, he was home.
Tom came back whenever he could. And when he wasn't there, he found ways to be present: daily calls, messages, and little things that seemed to appear out of thin air.
"Tom," Harry said once on the phone, after checking the grocery bill, "there's a thousand euros too much in the grocery budget. This is excessive."
"My finger slipped when I made the transfer," Tom replied, and Harry could hear the lopsided smile in his voice.
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Over time, Harry learned to accept, he learned that love wasn't always a sacrifice or a silent martyrdom; sometimes love was simply letting yourself be cared for. He understood that for Tom, giving was a form of language, a way of saying "you're safe," and that he, after a lifetime of giving everything, also deserved to receive.
But the Potters didn't give up easily. The calls began a few days later, filled with a fury that sought to punish.
"If you leave now, don't come crying when you realize what real life is like," Lily spat out furiously in one of the few calls Harry dared to answer. "We're not going to pay for your whims."
"We're not going to cry, Mum," Harry replied with a calmness that surprised even him. "And most importantly: we're not coming back."
He hung up without waiting for a reply. It was the last time he heard her voice. They blocked the numbers, locked the doors, and erased all traces. However, when his parents' fury failed, the stage of bewilderment arrived, and finally, the stage of desperate bribery. The calls stopped, but things started arriving at Tom's apartment.
New clothes arrived from brands Harry and Liam liked; prepared dinners from expensive restaurants appeared on their doorstep at lunchtime. Then the gifts became more personal: top-quality canvases, professional paints, games released early, and special editions from Liam's favorite artists.
Harry knew perfectly well where they came from. He knew that each package was an attempt by James and Lily to claim a place in his life, an attempt to buy a forgiveness they couldn't ask for in words. But Harry didn't call to say thank you. Nor did he return the things. He simply accepted them silently. If they sent food, he had a good dinner that night; if they sent paints, he used them to create the art his parents had always despised. He no longer gave them the power to react, neither to hatred nor to gratitude.
However, on quiet nights, guilt still haunted Harry. He would look at Liam's hands, sometimes tired from working in the music shop, and think how unfair it was that his brother had lost his "inheritance" because of a war that wasn't his. He felt responsible for having taken away his absolute comfort, for having made him aware of the weight of bills and the exhaustion of double shifts.
"He didn't do anything wrong," Harry told himself in the darkness. "He knew nothing about the dealings with the Mulcibers. Maybe I dragged him into my misery."
But that feeling faded every morning when he saw Liam. Harry watched him laugh with his new university friends, listened to him compose songs without fear of judgment, and saw the sparkle in his eyes when he told him he'd sold his first amplifier at the shop. Liam was happier than Harry had ever seen him in the cold, pristine rooms of the mansion. There was no trace of the subdued shadow he used to be; now Liam was a man in control of his own life.
One day, Harry received a notification from the university. The remainder of his scholarship and Liam's entire degree had been paid in full. There were no notes, no letters, no calls, just a zero balance.
“It’s them,” Liam said one afternoon, checking his email. There was no hatred in his voice, no trace of the bitterness that used to consume him; only a mature indifference. “They want to feel less guilty. They think a check can erase the bruise on your face and the weeks of silence.”
Harry looked at the payment receipt and then at his brother. For the first time, he didn't feel the weight of obligation; he no longer felt that this money chained him to his parents.
"Let them feel however they want," Harry replied, placing the paper on the table. "If they want to pay for their conscience, let them. We'll get on with our lives."
And that's what they did. They studied with a passion they would never have had under James and Lily's watchful eyes. They worked to earn their own way and lived with the freedom of those who no longer had anything to hide. The guilt Harry used to carry completely evaporated as he watched Liam blossom into a bright young man who no longer needed protection, but simply love.
Two years of shared effort and routines, though exhausting, felt like a gift. The London apartment, which had always been Tom's, became the center of their lives. While Harry juggled shifts at the cafe and his canvases, and Liam lost himself among cables and sheet music at the music shop, Tom finished his degree at Cambridge. Since his falling out with his parents, he only had two years left to achieve total excellence, and he lived them with fierce discipline, driven by the promise of returning home for good.
When graduation day arrived, Tom wouldn't take no for an answer. He took care of every detail himself, paying for travel and suits for Harry and Liam to accompany him. He wanted the two pillars of his life to be there, watching him reach the summit he had so longed for, but this time with a different purpose.
"You look amazing," Harry whispered as he adjusted her graduation gown in the university gardens.
Tom looked at him, noticing that Harry no longer had any trace of that chronic tiredness in his eyes. He was still working hard, yes, but his gaze had a unique and beautiful sparkle.
"I wouldn't be here without you," Tom replied, ignoring protocol to kiss Harry's hand. "You two are the only ones who matter at this ceremony."
After the celebration, the change Harry had longed for finally arrived. Tom didn't return to Cambridge that night. He packed up the last of his university room and moved permanently into the London apartment. He was no longer a weekend visitor; no longer the absentee landlord. He was the man who shared morning coffee and the quiet moments of the night.
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The years passed with the sweet rhythm of freedom. Harry graduated with honors in Fine Arts, and his paintings now reflected light instead of shadows. Liam finished his degree in Music Production and soon found his niche in a recording studio, creating the sounds he had always longed to hear. They attended their graduations with their heads held high, surrounded by friends and Tom's unwavering support.
What they never knew was that among the crowd of anonymous faces, two people were watching them from the back row. James and Lily attended every ceremony. They saw Harry receive his diploma with genuine pride; they saw Liam hug his brother with a gratitude that pierced the air. They saw Tom always by his side, like a silent guardian. They didn't approach. They didn't call out. They just watched, bearing the weight of their own silence, and left before the lights came on.
More years passed and success came, but not in the way James and Lily had planned. It was a hard-won success, forged with sweat, paint on their hands, and nights spent studying in the penthouse Tom had bought two years earlier; a space filled with light and windows overlooking all of London, a far cry from the gloom of the mansion.
Tom was no longer just a brilliant businessman; he had founded his own company, separate from his family, by merging them, and it was doing incredibly well. Harry, for his part, no longer painted in dark corners; his paintings hung in the most prestigious galleries in the city, and his exhibitions were highly anticipated events. Liam, the one who had once been the reason for the sacrifice, had just signed his first major contract as a singer and was already preparing to move into his own apartment, ready to fly solo.
One afternoon, while Liam was finishing packing his last boxes and Tom was pouring some wine to celebrate his brother-in-law's new contract, a man knocked on the penthouse door.
"Harry and Liam Potter?" he asked, handing them a leather folder.
They signed with an indifference that only true independence can bring. When they opened it, silence filled the room. It was the will. James and Lily were leaving them everything: the mansion, the accounts, the properties. Everything they had once used to suffocate them.
"Why?" Liam asked, looking at the document that made him a millionaire before starting his tour. "Why give it to us now that we have our own lives?"
Harry looked at the papers and then at Tom, who was still by his side, and at Liam, who was now a free man. London glittered below him from the window.
"I don't know," Harry replied with absolute calm. "And it doesn't matter anymore."
There was no emotion, no relief, no hatred. They simply put the papers away in a drawer. The mansion could continue to gather dust; they had already built their own empire. That night the three of them ate dinner, laughing and talking about Liam's upcoming start and Harry's new series of paintings.
They were no longer anyone's pawns. The Potters had sent a kingdom on paper, but it arrived too late; Harry and Liam had already built their own world. They sat down to dinner not as abandoned children in an empty mansion, but as masters of their own destinies, celebrating a future owed to no one but their own courage.
END