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Chapter Text

It was a punch to the gut.

Understanding. Knowledge.

Harry felt as small, as vulnerable as he had long before Hogwarts. Before magic. Before Voldemort.

Before Snape bleeding out in the Shrieking Shack.

Before Dumbledore…

God. Dumbledore.

Before Betrayal.

Harry’s mind was overcome and he felt all of seven, when Dudley had shoved him to his knees and smashed his face into a rotten sandwich mouldering on the pavement, Harry spluttering as the putrid mess was forced down his throat, choking on the bile threatening to come up.

Harry now, wandering slowly down the stairs from the Headmaster’s office, past the Gargoyle, could feel the press of his childhood oppression upon him.

He knew he must be in shock. But how did shock remind him so much of Vernon’s fingers pinching deep into his neck as he was steered towards his cupboard?

His dark cupboard.

Dark as death.

Harry felt numb, creeping past the Great Hall where the bodies of his friends lay.

He knew he would join them soon.

“Harry!” Hermione called from deep in the Hall, spotting him as he passed the doors on his way out of the castle. “Harry! Wait! No!” She struggled to push past the grieving Weasleys, past the bodies laid out in rest. By the time she made it to the Entrance Hall, Harry was already gone, his invisibility cloak drawn about his frame.

Harry knew instinctively, somehow, where to go. With every step towards Voldemort, towards the Forbidden Forest, the fog seemed to lift from his mind.

Harry knew what death would be like. Like his cupboard. No food, no water. No air. Never again. Darkness forever.

Dumbledore had called death the Next Great Adventure. Harry snorted.

Dumbledore was a fool. Harry realized that now. A manipulative, fucking, bastard of a fool.

Harry would no longer follow him blindly into death.

Not now that he knew.

Chapter Text

The clearing was quiet. A fire burned in the centre, casting shadows over the Death Eaters present and causing Voldemort to glow, his pale skin eerily bright in the gloom. His eyes were closed, but Harry, silent beneath his cloak, knew he was somehow still surveying all around.

No one dared speak, the Dark wizards keeping their Lord’s vigil.

Long moments passed. Harry’s breathing seemed loud enough to his ears to betray his presence, and he wondered how no one seemed to have noticed him. Surely if Snape had been here his bat-like senses would have been on him in a heartbeat, and he’d have yanked Harry’s cloak away, glowering and docking house points. But now his professor lay in a crimson pool of his own blood.

Behind the fire, Voldemort opened his eyes and around him the Death Eaters began to shift and move, as if breaking out of a trance. Harry could hear a few of them muttering. Bellatrix smirked as she tried to edge closer to her master. She seemed unsurprised by Harry’s absence.

Harry would show her, show them he was no coward. His fear slipped away, adrenaline replacing the shock, the complacency Dumbledore had surely intended.

Walk to his death indeed.

He would show them all.

If only Voldemort gave him a chance to speak.

Thinking this, Harry’s eyes were again drawn to his enemy, whose red, slitted eyes seemed to be searching the depths of the forest for something.

For him, Harry knew.

“I thought he would come.” Voldemort’s voice was very quiet, as if he were pondering to himself, but the clearing was so quiet, the only noise a gentle popping from the fire, that it was easily heard.

This is it, Harry thought, and began to step forward covertly, his cloak still shielding him from view.

“I confess myself disappointed.”

“Don’t be.” Harry let his cloak slip from his shoulders. He clutched it with his left hand and held it forward. In his right hand he held forth the golden snitch Dumbledore had bequeathed him. Harry understood its value now.

Harry wanted to live. But after his quest, destroying the other Horcruxes, he realized Voldemort would be less than pleased with him. Harry wanted a good life, not one fraught with an eternity of the Dark Lord’s wrath and punishment. Hopefully the two Hallows and a new Horcrux would help to soothe the man’s anger. And a war trophy. Harry had no delusions about what he would be.

“And what is this,” Voldemort sneered, the Elder Wand already rising.

Harry forced himself not to step back. He didn’t dare step forward, not with the wand pointed at his heart. He prayed he could pull this off.

“Gifts,” he said quietly. He was proud his voice didn’t waver. He felt like vomiting, the earlier bile making a reappearance in his throat. The Gryffindor courage that had propelled him to reveal himself fearlessly earlier was quickly leaving him, and Harry could feel his heart beginning to race.

“Are they now.” Voldemort stepped nearer. “Had you not remembered me in your will, Harry Potter?” He smiled nastily, his sharp teeth a menacing line between his thin lips, and his red eyes glinting with a dangerous mirth. Several Death Eaters chuckled lowly, while Bellatrix cackled wildly.

“No,” Harry said. “Just gifts. For you.”

Voldemort laughed softly. “Gifts,” he repeated, shaking his skull-like head in disbelief. “You hope to buy your life with two trinkets?”

“Three gifts,” Harry returned. He let his gaze move past Voldemort, to Nagini writhing in her magical cage. Looking at the snake, he spoke again, this time hissing his words in Parseltongue. “A Horcrux and two Hallows.”

A fire of rage split Voldemort’s features and a wave of nauseating pain pulsed through Harry’s scar. Harry very nearly fell to his knees.

“You dare return what you destroyed?” The Elder Wand shifted, now pointing between Harry’s eyes. Voldemort stepped closer yet again and began to open his mouth, a curse forming, Harry had no doubt.

“A replacement!” Harry blurted, eyes wide. This was not going well. God, how had he ever expected this to work? Voldemort would cast the killing curse before he could even consider clemency.

But Voldemort halted, his wand canting to the side, away from Harry, and he seemed to be considering what he’d heard. “Explain,” he hissed, his eyes narrowing.

Thank god, Harry thought, nearly closing his own eyes in relief, but he kept them wide open, focused on the Dark wizard not two metres away.

“I didn’t know…” Harry began, halting as an impatient hiss came from his enemy. Another flash of pain brushed his scar. “Please!” he blurted, trembling now, barely registering the mocking laughter from the assembled Death Eaters. They hadn’t been able to understand when the two wizards had switched to the snake language, but were no doubt pleased to now hear Harry seemingly begging their Lord for his life.

“I have waited seventeen long years to end you, Harry Potter. I even offered you a place in my ranks in your first year, which you threw away, once more casting me into painful oblivion. Why should I listen to your pleas for mercy now?” Voldemort snarled, leveling his wand at Harry once more.

“I didn’t know,” Harry repeated, his terror palpable and overwhelming. He fought against himself to draw his wand, knowing the action would be his last. He was fucking this up, Harry realized. He hoped the killing curse was painless…

Voldemort stepped closer, his wand directly pointed at Harry’s scar. “Know what?” The Dark Lord’s eyes were flashing with rage, and Harry closed his own as if that would help rid him of the sight of them. But they had long since burned into his nightmares and would haunt him regardless.

The cloak and snitch tumbled from his grasp to the forest floor. A part of Harry’s mind seemed to detach from his horrible predicament to wonder how he had held onto them this long. He wondered how he was still standing, himself. “My scar,” Harry mumbled, switching back to English.

Voldemort closed the rest of the distance, digging the Elder Wand painfully into the lightning-bolt scar. Harry finally fell to his knees, his eyes springing open, to look up at Lord Voldemort looming above him with murder and pain promising no easy exit.

“What about it, Harry,” Voldemort demanded, imperiously.

“Horcrux,” Harry whispered.

A flash of red light answered.

***

He woke to darkness and thirst and a punishing headache.

My cupboard! Harry panicked before remembering the night before and the light of a spell.

No, not the cupboard.

Death. This is death. His gambit must have failed, and Voldemort had decided to cast Harry into the abyss. Hell, perhaps, given the horrible pain pulsing through his head. Harry wondered, idly, if his body had been destroyed, or perhaps set up on display as a symbol of Voldemort’s final victory. He imagined his head on a pike, rotting in the Ministry of Magic’s atrium, to the derision or horror of all. The image was remarkably difficult to displace, and his severed head was quickly joined by those of his friends’. Harry gagged.

“You aren’t dead,” a soft voice murmured nearby. Harry knew that voice well, and the hairs on his neck stood up. He tried to focus on the speaker, his eyes working to make out Voldemort’s face in the blackness. “Merely blinded.”

Merely! Harry tried to retort, but the words stayed unsaid. He tried again, and his eyes widened unseeingly in the darkness, panicked, as Harry realized he couldn’t even hiss a response in Parseltongue.

“Ah, yes. I have you silenced.” Harry might not be able to see the cruel smile dancing on Voldemort’s lips, but he could hear it plainly enough. “After all, Harry, I now know all I need to know regarding you. And I can read your mind so easily, Horcrux or no. You are so unguarded.”

Fingers tipped with sharpened nails grasped Harry’s jaw and wrenched his head backwards, and Harry assumed Voldemort was staring straight into his eyes. Harry fought not to clench them shut.

“Do not glare at me so, Horcrux. You are a gift, did you not say? You would do well to remember that.” The nails dug in painfully for a moment before Voldemort relinquished his hold. “While you slept, I tore through that pathetic excuse you call a mind. You took quite a gamble in giving me the snitch. You couldn’t have been certain it was the Stone. But we have one more order of business to conclude.”

Harry frowned. What could Voldemort mean? He had everything now. He had the Hallows. He had won the war, no doubt, given Harry’s surrender.

“But did you, Harry?” Voldemort said with a thoughtful voice.

Harry frowned, in confusion at first, than annoyance as he realized Voldemort had answered his unspoken thoughts. He’d given himself to the Dark Lord, hadn’t he? That was surely why he was still breathing…

“No, Harry. You gifted yourself. You did not surrender,” Voldemort spoke gently, belying his earlier rough treatment. “I need that surrender, Harry. Otherwise your other gifts are nearly meaningless to me.”

Harry shook his head, confused again. How could they be meaningless? The Invisibility Cloak, the Resurrection Stone. Paired with the Elder Wand, which Voldemort already held, they would grant the Dark Lord mastery over death. Harry had only hoped this would grant him forgiveness.

“Yes, Harry. Eventually. But first you need to surrender. The Cloak and Stone are now mine, but the Wand is yours.” At Harry’s furrowed brow, Voldemort chuckled and explained. “I only know this, Harry, because you do. Surely you remember Ollivander explaining it to you?”

Ah, yes. Harry remembered now. The wand chooses the wizard.

Dumbledore. Draco. Harry. The line of the wand’s allegiance.

“I almost regret killing Severus,” Voldemort continued after following Harry’s train of thought. “He wasn’t its master after all. But he should be grateful, for a traitor’s death would have been far less kind. Now, Harry. On your knees. Surrender to your Lord.”

Harry knew his face must have turned completely white, but he had known this was coming. What right did he have to protest, even silently, now? He had made a deal with the devil, after all. He pushed himself to his knees and looked up to where he guessed Voldemort might be. What next?

“Next, Harry, you will kiss the hem of my robes,” Voldemort commanded, sounding more pleased than Harry could ever remember him being.

Harry shuddered and took a deep breath. He could do this. It was part of staying alive, hopefully pain free. He could hear Voldemort chuckling as he monitored Harry’s thoughts. Hopefully, Harry thought again. He reached a hand forward, blindly feeling the air for Voldemort’s robes. Finally he felt a brush of silk against his knuckles, and leant forward, his neck bared to the Dark wizard above him. His lips met the cloth, and he placed a kiss to the fabric, mortified.

A hand fell upon his head, pushing him further down. “And my feet,” Voldemort purred.

Harry almost convulsed as he felt a wave of disgust push through him, and he felt Voldemort’s nails dig painfully into his scalp. “Now!” Voldemort hissed, angrily.

Harry bent down further, finding Voldemort’s bare, cold feet before him. He pressed a chaste kiss to one foot, then the other. All of a sudden, he was pushed off, his head ground into the floor as one of the Dark Lord’s feet stepped heavily upon him. He froze, his breath now coming in quick, terrified pants.

“This is your place, Harry. At my feet. Under my rule, obeying my every command. Do you surrender to me, Horcrux? Do you place yourself here willingly?” Harry tried to nod, but Voldemort’s foot pressed too heavily upon him. No matter, the man could read his mind…

“Good. Raise your left arm, my Horcrux.”

Oh god. Harry knew what was coming next. But this was it. This was his surrender.

Harry lifted his arm, offering himself to be Marked. Kneeling on the floor, his new master treading heavily upon his head, Harry’s world exploded in a rush of burning pain as the Dark Mark etched itself upon his forearm.

He was Voldemort’s.

The pain seemed to last forever. Was this what every Death Eater went through upon initiation, or was this special hell reserved just for him? Harry began to retch as waves of nausea wracked through him, fighting for dominance over the fire seizing his arm. The pressure of Voldemort’s foot finally gave way as the Dark Lord stepped away from him, Harry still seized in the grip of agony. It would never end, and finally the vomit that Harry had managed to miraculously quell from the moment he had emerged from the pensieve finally pushed into his mouth. Harry spat it out, hoping Voldemort took no offence.

A slight chuckle from somewhere in front of him relieved him of that worry. He thought he heard the Dark Lord speak softly to him, but was too far gone to make sense of the words.

***

Hours seemed to pass, and as the agony in his forearm faded to a dull burn and the nausea seemed to subside, Harry got back upon his knees and tried to examine his situation. His world was still in darkness, and the headache from earlier was still pounding. But it was his thirst and the vile reminders of vomit upon his tongue that made Harry grimace. That and the memory of what he had done.

Now, with a Dark Mark emblazoned on his arm, the guilt of his defection bore down upon Harry. He was a Death Eater.

Or was he?

Harry looked around, as futile as that was, almost hoping Voldemort was still there to read the question upon his mind and provide an answer. But all was deathly quiet. The answer didn’t really matter, anyway. The brand Marked him as belonging to the Dark Lord, as property or soldier. Whether he was a Death Eater or not was all semantics. He had willingly taken the Mark. He had betrayed his friends, the ones still living at least. And the ones that were already dead. He had betrayed the memory of his mother, his father. Of Sirius.

Of Dumbledore, and Harry could once again see in his mind Dumbledore pleading with Snape and falling backwards to crumple far below.

No. Not Dumbledore. Dumbledore had betrayed Harry. That was why he was here and not a corpse even now. Remembering Dumbledore soothed Harry’s conscience, and somehow even the burn upon his Mark seemed to quell.

Feeling more level-headed, Harry decided to try to get a sense of where he was. He cautiously stood up, though he felt more than a little off balance, and putting his hands in front of him took a tentative step forward. He met with no resistance, so took another step. And another. After several more careful steps his fingers brushed the coolness of damp stone. A dungeon? Harry wondered. The castle?

He kept one hand against the stone, the other held outward at waist level to ward against obstacles, and began to move forward, using the wall as a guide. After what Harry guessed was a few metres he came to a corner, which met another stone wall. And down that wall to another corner, no door or window interrupting his movement, and again. And again. He tried once more, though Harry knew by now that he was in a closed cell. Perhaps Voldemort had apparated him in.

The cell was small enough that Harry felt secure to walk carefully through the middle. Perhaps there was a chair or cot. Some kind of furniture. A bucket, even, filled with water, or perhaps even waiting to be filled.

But no. The room was barren, but for the scared wizard within.

He checked his pocket for his wand. It was gone, but Harry was unsurprised. It was taken from him when he was incapacitated, no wonder. Perhaps it had been returned to Draco. And wouldn’t the theft of that wand have been enough for the Elder Wand to have changed allegiance? Harry wished he had had the presence of mind to think of that earlier. It might have saved him a world of pain. But no, Harry knew. Voldemort would have ultimately demanded his complete abjection. At least his humiliation had been a private one.

Harry made his way back to one of the walls, and slid down to the floor. He was stuck here for now. Blind, and with no, what would Aunt Petunia say? Amenities? Harry let himself laugh at that. He wondered if delirium was setting in. There was absolutely nothing to laugh at. For all Harry knew, Voldemort would keep him in this dark pit forever. Here Harry was finally out of the way, branded, rendered completely useless to the Light. This was not how this was supposed to go.

But how else could it have gone? What had Harry been expecting? For Voldemort to smile benevolently at his new Horcrux and let Harry go his merry way? No, but Harry had hoped to at least be able to see, goddammit.

What a fool he was. Death perhaps would have been better. He had only guessed that limbo would resemble the endless days and nights of his imprisoned childhood, suffering his cupboard hour after hour. This cell was just a slightly larger, more uncomfortable version. This was the very hell that Harry had been so desperate to avoid. So much for Voldemort being ‘a merciful Lord.’ Not that Harry had ever been fooled by that claim.

It could be worse, Harry told himself. He could be drowning forever in a nightmare-inducing potion, in a dark cave surrounded by rotting inferi. That would be infinitely worse than this. Maybe. At least he wasn’t the locket Horcrux. Well, it was destroyed now, anyway. Idly, Harry wondered what it must have been like for the Horcrux to be fighting to remain intact in those last moments: Harry hissing open; the locket casting forth its illusions, its allusions; Ron brandishing the sword. Did the soul piece in the locket feel fear and desperation in the face of its annihilation? Did the diadem soul piece despair even as Fiendfyre destroyed it? Did the Dark Lord’s soul piece in Harry panic as he made his way through the Forest yesterday?

Assuming it had been yesterday. The passage of time was nigh impossible to determine here. Harry had no idea how long he had slept after his branding, but guessed it to be at least five hours. Probably more.

The stone wall was cold against his back. He pulled further into the cell and lay down fully. He might as well sleep. Perhaps, he hoped, he would awaken in his own bed at Hogwarts, this all a nightmare. Or the Burrow. Harry would love to wake up there, Ron dozing noisily next to him and the smell of bacon wafting from Molly’s kitchen. Or even Privet Drive. It was nearly unbelievable, but Harry had finally found a worse place than the Dursleys’.

Chapter Text

It was a long time before Harry managed to sleep, the unforgiving floor of the cell and his relentless thirst driving slumber from him for hours. Finally, with images of the newly slaughtered floating in and out of his mind, he found rest at last. Harry decided, with his last coherent thought before sleep took him, that he would take blindness over this horror of his friends’ accusing eyes. Fred, for once his smile gone. Remus, his tired eyes catching up with him finally and for always. Tonks, her hair a drab brown, and her arms forever bereft of her new child. How many more? Cedric, Sirius, Moody. Hedwig. Colin. Snape. Even Dobby, looking more confused than anything, staring perplexedly at aHar Harry’s left arm and questioning, ‘Why, Harry Potter? Why did you betray us all?’

Harry’s dreams were restless, if they were dreams at all. He dreamt of battle and of fire and of death. He dreamt of victory and despair, screaming and execution. He dreamt of sex, black robes strewn across the floor, and of rutting and panting and pleasuring.

He dreamt of satisfaction.

He was very pleased. Everything was perfect. The Ministry was his. Hogwarts was his. Harry was his.

He, Lord Voldemort, had at last achieved his final triumph. But only now could his work truly begin.

***

Harry woke up panting, not certain who he was or where or what or…

A Horcrux. A cell. Darkness and silence.

Alone.

Not alone. He could hear movement in his cell! Was Voldemort back? Harry tried to peer through the blackness, forgetting in the stupidity of waking that he had been blinded, that the cell was not necessarily dark at all.

The alien sound in the cell was a scraping, sliding noise, not the gentle rustle of the Dark Lord’s robes, nor the soft press of bare feet upon the floor. Harry’s ears pricked as he tried to determine which direction it came from, but it seemed to come from all sides, circling him. And then something cool and smooth slid across his leg.

 No, not smooth! Scaled!

Harry jerked to sitting, ready to spring to his feet and rush away from it, no matter how small his cell may be. But he didn’t move fast enough, and soon thick ropes of cool flesh pressed in, winding tightly around Harry’s torso. They began to squeeze!

Nagini!

Panicked, Harry began to thrash. Or, rather, he tried to, but compared to the strength of Nagini’s coils, his attempts were useless.

‘Be still, little brother,’ Nagini hissed. Harry could feel the brush of her tongue against his cheek. This was not the time to remember that snakes used their tongues to taste, not smell, but that was nonetheless what went through Harry’s mind even as the great snake began to constrict his body. ‘Master has asked Nagini to watch over brother for now. It is time for brother to eat.”

“There is no food!” Harry hissed back, distressed. His eyes widened comically as he realized that he had managed to finally speak; the silencing spell Voldemort used on him had worn off. Harry nearly slumped in relief. He had feared it had been permanent. Voldemort had been trying to metaphorically silence him for so long, Harry had thought that the man would find great amusement in a literal silencing now that Harry was in his power.

Perhaps his blindness was temporary as well? Harry began to feel hope again for the first time in…well, in a very long time. It was almost enough to overcome the horrors of his nightmares. It was not enough, however, to stop his panic from resurging when Nagini gently squeezed his ribs again.

‘Do not be foolish, little snakeling,’ Nagini retorted. Harry’s eyes widened even more at this new name for him. But she had called him brother before, so this was not much different, he supposed. ‘The little ones have brought a meal as you slept.’

Harry struggled against her hold. It wasn’t overly tight, but this was Nagini and having her in the cell would itself be threatening, let alone wrapped around his body as though she were planning on constricting him to death before having him for her dinner. “Little ones?” Harry asked.

‘Little ones,’ Nagini said again, as if repeating herself would make Harry understand. ‘With magic. Must not eat them.’

House elves, Harry realized. Well, he hoped Nagini was right and that food had been brought to him, that he would not be forced to endure an eternity of hunger and thirst.

“I can’t exactly get to it, Nagini, with you crushing me like this. Can you, uh, let me up?” Harry hoped that he didn’t sound too desperate, or that snakes couldn’t smell fear. ‘Brother’ she may have called him, but Harry felt more like prey.

‘Silly snakeling,’ Nagini chided, but she did release him at last. ‘Now eat. Little brother is too thin.’

Harry knew he was imagining it, but he thought he heard her tsk, very similarly to Mrs. Weasley whenever she caught sight of him after he had been fetched from the Dursleys’ each summer. Not enough meat on his bones. Harry smiled a bit, finding this maternal side of Nagini endearing.

That, or she was just fattening him up to eat him.

Once Harry had untangled himself from Voldemort’s familiar, he reached out, trying to find the food.

‘Slither forward a little,” Nagini advised. Harry crept forward carefully and bumped into what felt like a tray. On it was a glass and plate. Harry brought the glass to his nose and sniffed, but could discern nothing in particular. He hazarded a sip. Water. He took several small sips, though in his thirst he desperately wanted to down the whole glass at once. But the survival techniques he had learned in his childhood helped him now, and he remembered to take it slow after such a long deprivation.

Also on the tray was a plate with what felt like buttered toast and apple slices. Harry hadn’t known he was hungry until he brought a piece of fruit to his mouth. His stomach growled loudly, and Harry could hear a rumbling hiss from Nagini, which he assumed was her laughter.

While he ate, Harry worked up the courage to ask Nagini a few questions. So far she had not been unkind to him, if one discounted the terrifying crushing of his ribs.

“Nagini,” he began. “Where are we?”

“Brother is not done eating,” she replied.

“No, I have. I’ll be sick if I eat more. I need to take it slowly after not eating for a while. I’ll have more later.”

Harry could hear the glide of her scales as she moved. Blind as he now was, knowing she was on the move but being unable to see where she was or where she was moving to was unnerving.

“Little snakeling must eat more. Nagini eats more, even after the long sleep.” Nagini seemed quite convinced by her own logic, and Harry was worried about reminding her that he was, in fact, not an actual snake. Perhaps if she remembered he was a human she would have fewer reservations about consuming him.

“I’ll eat it soon,” he promised. And he tried again: “What is this place?”

“Nagini does not know,” she admitted. “Master brought Nagini here with his magic.” Voldemort had apparated her here, then, just like Harry.

“He didn’t say if we were still at Hogwarts?” Harry asked.

“Master’s new castle?” Nagini asked. Harry’s heart nearly stopped at the new title, but nodded. He assumed Nagini understood the motion. She seemed to, as she kept hissing, “Nagini does not think so. But Master is there now, making it safe again. It was burning. Nagini saw.”

Burning. The nightmares.

“Is this Malfoy Manor?” Harry asked. Harry had been in the dungeons there before, and this cell was quite different. A confused hiss from Nagini was his answer. Perhaps she didn’t know the name. “With the, uh…” Harry tried to think in snake terms. “With the big, white birds. The peacocks.”

“Nagini does not know,” she hissed again. Harry couldn’t decide if she truly had no idea where they were, or if his explanation was just incomprehensible to her. “Now come closer, brother, and pet Nagini.”

That sounded ominous, but Harry wasn’t fooling himself. If Nagini wanted him dead, he would be already. He cautiously made his way back to her, congratulating himself on his Gryffindor courage. His hands finally brushed against her smooth body, and he began to gently stroke her scales. A contented hiss was his reward.

After several minutes of this, Harry tried again, this time asking the question that was truly eating away at him. “Did your Master say what he wanted to do with me?” Asking this, more than anything else since he woke, made him afraid. Even more than waking with Nagini pressing against him. He was not at all certain he wanted to know the answer.

Nagini did not reply for a terribly long moment. Finally she stirred herself, seemingly from a very contented state, and hissed back, “Our Master.”

That was unexpected. “What?”

“Our Master. Nagini’s and little snakeling’s Master, too.”

Harry suppressed a shudder. But it was true, he guessed. He bore the Mark that made it true, though the burn had thankfully subsided to an irritating itch. He had willingly made it true, all on his own. “Our Master,” he reluctantly agreed. “What does our Master wish to do with me?”

“Nagini does not know,” she answered. Harry very nearly groaned in frustration, but just kept gently petting Nagini instead. “But Nagini will watch over her new snakeling.”

Harry wasn’t certain if this was reassuring or not. But he had one more question, and asking this one was more terrifying still. He hated admitting his weakness, his vulnerability. “Do you know if I will ever see again, Nagini?”

Nagini began sliding under his hand, and he felt her begin to coil around his waist and slither her great, fanged head up his torso, until her forked tongue was tasting his ear. Harry’s heart sped up to a hammer. He should have kept his big mouth shut.

“Nagini does not know.”

***

Nagini had kept Harry stroking her for hours, long after his arm had grown tired. She didn’t stop hissing her demands for attention until she had fallen asleep, still wrapped around him. Her girth was such that Harry was able to lean up against her, and although she was cool, she was still warmer than the walls and floor of the cell.

Harry wondered if he would be able to move her enough to get up when the time came to relieve himself. He was surprised, now that he thought of it, that he not felt a single urge in that capacity since he had awoken, not even after drinking the water sent to him. He worried he was getting dehydrated, though perhaps his needs were being taken care of magically. He decided not to worry about it.

Still in darkness, rocked by the gentle rise and fall of Nagini’s breathing, Harry dozed off again. This time his descent into sleep was peaceful. There were no accusations from the dead or dying, and Voldemort kept quiet in his own mind. Harry dreamt of a great meadow, the sun shining brilliantly in the sky. At his feet, moving in graceful undulations next to him, a great snake accompanied him on his wanderings. Flowers were in bloom, and tall grasses tickled his bare legs. Harry stopped to pick blackberries off a low bramble, but a thorn caught his arm and it began to sting, to burn.

Harry’s arm was on fire! Not again, not again! Harry woke moaning, clutching his left arm to his chest. He could see how it was inflamed, painful red welts bordering the blackened tattoo of a skull and serpent. Tentatively, Harry touched the blemished flesh with his right hand. It was hot to the touch. As gently as he could, teeth clenched against the pain, Harry disentangled himself Nagini and rushed to press his arm against something cool, hoping for relief.

In his hurry, he had not really registered that his vision had been returned to him.

Nor that Lord Voldemort was standing in the corner of his cell, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and scorn.

The cool, damp stone walls did nothing to ease the burn. It certainly wasn’t as painful as it had been during his branding, but it still hurt, dammit! Harry even brought his arm to his lips, his breath cool upon the swollen skin, but not even a disgusted swipe of his tongue over the flesh helped to quell the fire.

Voldemort’s cold, high laugh made Harry start badly, and he turned to see the blurry outline of the Dark Lord standing close to one of the cell’s corners. “The burn of my Mark is enchanted, Harry. Only I can end your suffering.”

Harry managed to stumble to his feet, but kept as healthy a distance from the other man as he could, considering the cell’s small confines. “Where am I?” he demanded, still panicking with the pain and urgency of his awakening. He began to fumble in his pockets for his glasses. Wandless he may be, and in pain—the headache of his close proximity with Voldemort was beginning, though not as severe as it had ever been in the past—and he may not be in utter blackness anymore, but he was still half-blind. Harry felt small and vulnerable, weak and completely at the mercy of the Dark Lord.

Which he was, but that was beside the point.

“Your glasses will be returned to you soon enough, Horcrux.” Voldemort’s words made Harry grimace slightly. He didn’t like that title, even if it did express exactly his value to the other man. Even with his awful vision, Harry couldn’t help but see the terrible smile forming on the Dark Lord’s thin lips. “Yes, Harry, be happy I have accepted you as such and be pleased by your status. And grateful, my Horcrux, that I have so magnanimously restored your sight. I didn’t have to, now did I?”

No, Harry supposed, he hadn’t. It had been one of his greatest fears, the one he had fallen asleep to.

“Your voice, Harry. Your sight. Am I not a most benevolent Lord, deserving of your praise and loyalty?”

Of course, Harry thought, it was Voldemort who had stolen both from Harry in the first place. Voldemort eyed Harry shrewdly, as if guessing his thoughts. No, Harry realized, he knew them already. A smirk from the other man confirmed his suspicions. Still, Voldemort seemed to be awaiting a response. A positive response, Harry knew. He nodded.

“Combined with your treacherous thoughts, Horcrux, that was hardly convincing,” Voldemort hissed, and Harry only marvelled that he wasn’t in more pain than he already was. A closer look at the Dark Lord revealed a still amused expression.

He’s toying with me, Harry thought. A low hiss of laughter from the other man confirmed this conjecture.

At their feet, Nagini began to stir. Her eyes opened and she hissed, almost purring, in her delight at seeing her Master. Voldemort gestured towards her, and she slithered further away from Harry, and snaked up the Dark Lord’s side and over his shoulder. Harry suppressed a twinge of jealousy. He was not becoming attached to the deadly viper, he was not.

“Good morning, pet,” Voldemort greeted his familiar. “Did you rest well? You have done well in your task.”

“Yes, Master, though the floor was cold,” she hissed. Harry nearly hissed his own agreement, which prompted another amused noise from Voldemort. “But my brother kept me from freezing.”

“Well, he is good for something after all then, pet. And I will soon move you somewhere more comfortable, after I have made the necessary arrangements. But,” and here the Dark Lord cast a stern, unforgiving look at his Harry, “only after your ‘brother’ has learnt his place.”

Well, that was not at all reassuring. Harry gulped, then nodded. “Most grateful.”

“My Lord,” Voldemort prompted, and Harry only narrowly avoided an engagement with the Cruciatus Curse, the words, ‘There’s no need to call me your Lord,’ in parody of his retaliation against Snape, dying on his lips. The flash of Voldemort’s ire against his scar reminded him that scrubbing cauldrons would be the least of his worries if he voiced such disrespect aloud.

“My Lord,” Harry repeated. And he meant it.

The burning in his scar subsided. Voldemort smirked again, his volatile emotions levelling again, to Harry’s relief. “I know it will take time, Harry, for you to truly accept your place here. But be certain, Horcrux, you will learn. Otherwise a vial of Living Death will be in order. I don’t need you conscious, after all. The choice to submit to me when not immediately afraid for your life will be your test. Show your respect, kneel at my feet when you should, and your life will be all the more to your liking. Otherwise…”

Harry nodded, and Voldemort let his words die on his lips.

“Yes, my Lord,” Harry said. “Thank you. I am…” Harry paused, unsure of what exactly he was trying to say, “I am more than grateful. Truly.”

“Good,” replied the Dark Lord. His pleasure at Harry’s words was terrible, his red eyes gleaming. Nagini hissed contentedly from his shoulders. “Now, we will begin.”

Chapter Text

“We are currently in a stronghold that I fortified in the last Wizarding War. Only I know the location, though I will tell you that it was originally a bomb shelter during the war of my childhood,” Voldemort explained, idly stroking Nagini’s large head.

Harry had not been expecting this, of all things. A Muggle bomb shelter? And from such a traumatic time, one that surely Voldemort—Tom Riddle—would have been quick to remove himself from. And to make it a safe-house?

“Yes, most ironic, if I used it as such,” the Dark Lord agreed. “But no, Harry, a safe house it is not. It is a prison. I would bring those who opposed me here, to slowly torture them for information. I find it comforting to know that my enemies might feel the same oppressive fear those of us in London felt during the Blitz, never knowing if the next moment would be your last. I had once hoped to bring that fool Dumbledore here, punishment for sending me back to the orphanage to probable death each summer.”

Harry had to nod. Even if he wasn’t so angry with his former headmaster, he would still sympathize. The old man’s habit of sending his students back to horrific situations was only one step down from planning their demise. Which Dumbledore had also done, of course, to both of them.

“I would shove him in a cupboard,” Harry murmured.

“I have noticed your penchant for cupboard metaphors, Harry.” Voldemort eyed Harry shrewdly.  “Why don’t you explain it to me more fully.”

Harry flushed. Why did Voldemort have to ask him that? It was always so difficult to say… Harry knew that it hadn’t been his fault that the Dursleys were horrible to him, but to actually admit his suffering at their hands was never easy. In fact, Harry couldn’t actually remember having ever telling anyone properly about the abuse.

“It was not a request for information, Horcrux! I may be able to delve into your mind with ease, but I will not tolerate this defiance. Tell me now!” It was the same tone Harry had remembered from the pensieve memory of eleven year old Tom Riddle. It was oddly compelling to do as he said.

As his Lord demanded.

“My Muggle family,” Harry began, “treated me like dirt.” And Harry didn’t know if it was Voldemort’s compulsion, or the knowledge that countless wizards had been tortured for information in this same cell, and he would rather leave here free of more pain, but Harry found the walls of his reticence falling. He would finally tell, and if there were Muggles deserving of the atrocities Voldemort and his followers would commit, perhaps it was the Dursleys. “The cupboard was my room. For ten years, until they feared Dumbledore would punish them for keeping me there. Of course the new room they gave me was not much better, with locks and bars…Anyway, I am pretty sure they hated me even more than you did.”

“Unlikely, Harry.” Voldemort’s smile now was wicked. “But I do find it entertaining that these Muggles of yours were so afraid of Dumbledore. They should have been licking his boots, the saviour of all vermin that he pretended to be. Or course, with Dumbledore’s new exposé, I perhaps should not be so surprised.”

Skeeter’s book.

“Yes, Harry. But back to your family,” Voldemort said, and when Harry flinched at this he hissed in amusement.  “Why did they treat you as such, do you think?”

“My magic,” Harry said. “They were scared of it, I think.”

“They were envious, Harry. And frightened, you are no doubt correct. Together it is a dangerous mix. To not understand something, to not even begin to grasp an understanding of magic’s power, engenders such envy and fear that your treatment at their hands is hardly an exception to the rule. Muggles truly are filth, both in themselves and in the way they treat their betters,” Voldemort explained, his ruby eyes now focusing far past Harry, past the prison walls, as if in remembrance.

“My aunt once wrote to Dumbledore, asking to come to Hogwarts,” Harry said, remembering his mother’s conversation with Petunia in the pensieve. So many terrible things had been revealed that night; Harry had not been able to process much beyond his inevitable demise, but now the memory floated unbidden into his mind, though it was quickly replaced by the angry, hissed words on his eleventh birthday: ‘I was the only one who saw her for what she was—a freak!’

“Yes, Harry. Such envy,” Voldemort said, breaking Harry out of his reverie. “My followers do, as you well know, target Muggles. And this is but one reason why. As much as I detest Mudbloods, I still seethe knowing that anyone with magical blood would suffer at the hands of their despicable and repulsive families.”

That wasn’t right, Harry though. That didn’t mesh with anything he knew about Voldemort’s rule. “What about the Muggle-Born Registration Commission,” he asked. “You said they stole their magic.”

“I said no such thing,” Voldemort sneered. “The compilation of data regarding current Mudbloods in Britain is essential to some of my next acts of legislation. I have been busy, Harry, collecting information of my own outside of the country. As you know.”

Harry was momentarily confused, but as Voldemort drew his wand, the meaning of his words became clear. Ollivander. Gregorovitch. Grindelwald.

“Yes, Harry. I was seeking a way to circumvent the connection between our wands. Had I known that your own wand had been broken, or that you were to become so relevant to my next acts as Lord, I might have been saved the bother, and I may have overseen my Ministry pawns with greater care. Not that my quest in finding a superior wand was without desirable results, though.”

So, perhaps Voldemort didn’t like Umbridge any more than he did, Harry thought. Not that he was surprised. She was perhaps the most unlikable woman Harry had ever come across. Even Bellatrix had more charm.

“Yes, Harry, she does indeed,” Voldemort said, suggestively.

Harry almost gagged at the innuendo. Instead he asked, concerned, “What do you mean that I will be relevant to what you do next.”

“Ah, Harry. You will be most instrumental to my coming work. But first, Horcrux, to train you. Shall we begin your first lesson?”

Harry gulped. He had suffered through many lessons in his short life. Vernon’s had been painful, Snape’s humiliating, Dumbledore’s ultimately damning. Voldemort’s were sure to combine the three into a hellish mélange.

“To train you as minion or Horcrux,” Voldemort mused. “You are of course both. An amalgamation of myself and all that opposes me, now brought to your knees and at my mercy. You agree to follow my word as law, Harry? I will not have you opposing me!” The Dark Lord’s tone shifted in seconds, quiet and contemplative to a tempered rage. Harry’s scar throbbed with the shift in the man’s mercurial temper.

“My Lord, I already made my deal with you,” Harry assured him. Damn it all if he was going to be kept in this cell forever. He had already betrayed the Light. He had already helped Voldemort to win; he wasn’t going to get cold feet now. “I will do whatever you want.”

“And what if I want you to participate in a Muggle raid, Harry? Could you rape and pillage alongside my men? Alongside…Bellatrix?”

Oh, that was hard. Harry had prayed that he would be able to avoid Bellatrix somehow. Or at least ignore her. And as to the other demands…Harry felt nauseous.

“To follow her command, Harry? To kill a Muggle child at her behest?”

“I…,” Harry faltered. How could he do that? He had knelt to Voldemort to save his own life, but to kill innocents?

“Innocent, Harry? I distinctly remember the brutality of Muggle youth.”

Well, that was true. Dudley was a right bastard. And Piers. And so many others, nameless cruel faces taunting and laughing. But still…

“Kneel, Horcrux! You must submit to my will if you wish to pass your lesson. Otherwise this prison will be your own personal Hell for all time!” Voldemort strode forth angrily, and as Harry knelt before him, he could once again feel the man’s hand seize his hair, yanking his head back and forcing him to maintain eye contact. Harry’s scar, already aching, began to throb horrifically in time with his pulse.

“Is that what you want with me? For me to kill for you?” The idea was repulsive to Harry; would he murder others to be removed from this prison?

“You already killed them, Harry, with your surrender to me. With you at my feet my will is absolute. The only thing you can change now is where you will be in my new order. You already know that I have no compunction in hiding my Horcruxes away.”

Again Harry was reminded of the island in the cave. Or the Gaunt shack. Of a Gringotts’ vault. The Room of Hidden Things.

“Nagini is free, aren’t you, pet,” Voldemort said, switching again to the snake tongue. Nagini, who had begun to doze, roused herself from her Master’s shoulders.

“Yes, Master. Nagini is free to slither and hunt and sleep and eat.” Nagini punctuated this with a grumbled hiss that Harry had discovered the day before meant she desired to be petted. Voldemort finally released Harry from his grip and began to glide his spidery hand along her upper body.

 “Nagini serves me well, Harry. Will you?”

Well, Harry was hardly a snake, and he frankly hoped his own freedom wouldn’t resemble hers in any way. Free to hunt and sleep and eat. Really.

But he did want freedom. He feared that Voldemort would tire of this bargaining, retrieve his threatened vial of Draught of the Living Death, and leave Harry dreaming—or perhaps dreamless, Harry wasn’t certain which was worse—for the rest of time.

“I’ll obey.” It was one of the hardest things Harry had done. It was almost as hard as when he had given himself to Voldemort in the Forest. But as Voldemort had said, that was in abject terror. This fear of unending captivity was real as well, and directly parallel to the fear of the abyss that had brought Harry to his confession that terrible night of the battle, but it did not feel at all the same. That night had been crushing panic. This was haunting despair.

He had already fallen, anyway. What were a few feet closer to Hell?

Voldemort was most pleased. Harry could feel it in his scar, in the way the pain shifted from a fierce pulse to a glow. There was no other way to describe it. It was the burning, comforting pain of release after deprivation, of holding on too long. Like scratching a painful itch, or massaging a tight muscle.

“Excellent, Harry. Now again. Say it again, but remember…who am I?”

“I’ll obey, my Lord.” Harry hoped that using the honorific became easier with time. It felt so wrong!

“You will always refer to me as your Lord, Harry,” Voldemort reminded.

“Or ‘Master’,” Nagini asserted, still relaxing into Voldemort’s hand.

“Or ‘Master,’” Voldemort agreed. “That is most acceptable.”

Harry just nodded. It was all the same, it was all too much. It was all just spelling out the rest of his life. “Yes, my Lord. Master,” he amended. Another comforting pulse of that same gratifying pain rushed through his scar, in testimony to the Dark Lord’s pleasure at Harry’s words.

“Once I am satisfied with you, Harry, you will be presented to my followers. They are unsure of what I have exactly done to you. I believe they fear the worst for you, my dear,” Voldemort said, and Harry shuddered at the endearment. Voldemort softly laughed at Harry’s discomfort, though Nagini hissed her quiet agreement, content to share her Master’s ‘affection’ with her new ‘snakeling brother.’ “I have already Marked you, of course, but you have not performed the rituals that all my new Death Eaters undergo. It is there that you shall prove yourself to our cause by killing your first Muggle.”

Harry blanched. But he would do it. He had to.

“I know this is hard for you, my Horcrux. And you are being so good.”

This praise was unexpected. Harry wasn’t certain if he welcomed it or not. “Thank you, Master,” he said, regardless.

“Little snakeling is very good,” Nagini agreed, effortlessly gliding down the Dark Lord’s body and making her way to Harry, who was still kneeling on the floor. She butted her head against his hand as she coiled herself around him. Harry did not panic at her proximity this time, and absently began to pet along her cool scales.

“As for raids, Harry, I have no desire to send you off with any of my minions. I would never trust them with you. Definitely not Bellatrix.”

Harry frowned. “Then why…” he began, confused.

“A test, Harry. And you passed. Marginally, but it was enough. You will be kept close to me, or protected when I am unavailable. Nagini will keep you safe, won’t you, pet?”

“Yes, Master,” Nagini agreed.

Harry didn’t know why, but the thought made him smile. Perhaps things wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared.

Chapter Text

He would still have to kill a Muggle. Maybe Voldemort would go easy on him and give him someone despicable to kill. Perhaps someone that Harry wouldn’t mind seeing dead, like a child murderer. That wouldn’t be too hard. At least, Harry hoped it wouldn’t be. But Harry had never even liked the idea of killing Voldemort when he had still thought that was the task set for him.

And what if it was a child, and Harry was to be the child killer? He would have to do it. But he didn’t know how he could. It was antithetical to his very being. There might be a sliver of the Dark Lord’s soul sharing his body, but it hadn’t affected Harry’s morals in any way.

At least he wouldn’t have to participate in those dreaded raids. This was but one life he would be forced to take. But an endless litany of innocent sacrifices? Harry doubted it was remotely tenable. Harry wondered if his being spared this fate was in fact for his protection, or if Voldemort had known that he was asking more than Harry could truly give.

The one good thing about his inauguration into the Death Eaters, in being forced to kill, would be the return of his magic. Surely Harry would be given a wand, for how else would he be able to kill? He assumed that death by Muggle means, a gun or a blade, would be in violation of Lord Voldemort’s whole modus operandi. Magic is Might.

Harry had no hopes in taking his magic and running, of overpowering his new Dark ‘allies’ and seeking safety elsewhere. He had still had his wand—Draco’s wand—when he had made his way to the Forbidden Forest on the eve of battle. He had known it would not have done him any good then, and it wouldn’t now.

And he was now even more linked with the Dark Lord than ever before.

Voldemort would find him anywhere, and there would be no surrender, no mercy, a second time.

Harry would obey.

After Voldemort had ascertained Harry’s compliance, and after a few more positive demonstrations of Harry’s newfound loyalty, Voldemort had departed. He had once again left Nagini with Harry in the cell with a muttered promise of sustenance.

Shortly after his departure, his words were validated with the arrival of a rabbit. A white rabbit, cowering in terror in the centre of the room, before shrieking in fright at the sight of Nagini. Harry hadn’t even known that rabbits could shriek, and soon the small animal was bounding frantically around the cell in a useless attempt at escape.

Nagini did nothing. Or rather, she did nothing but hiss at Harry to keep petting her. “Nagini will chase it later, once it has tired itself out. But why has Master not sent brother prey of his own? Does he mean for us to share?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Or rather, Harry hoped not. Besides, Nagini ate her prey whole. Sharing wasn’t really an option, even if the idea of eating the rabbit didn’t already make Harry sick to his stomach. “I’m sure my food will come soon.”

It did. Another plate of apple slices, this time accompanied by crackers and a few strips of chicken. With thoughts of sharing the rabbit evicted from his mind, Harry realized that he was, in fact, hungry. Nagini unwound herself from Harry to allow him to move towards his meal, and he took a tentative sip at the glass of milk set beside the plate before beginning to eat, this time with more enthusiasm.

Nagini slithered beside him, examining his food. “This time eat it all. Brother is too small.”

“I think I am done growing, Nagini. At least up. Let’s hope I don’t grow too much out. I don’t want to start looking like Dudley.”

“Dudley?” Nagini questioned.

“My cousin,” Harry explained. “He was one of those Muggles that Vol…” Harry stopped himself. The Dark Lord had not been gentle in enforcing Harry’s compliance in how he was to be addressed. And besides, the Taboo was still in place. It was doubtful that Snatchers could find Harry here, in Lord Voldemort’s own stronghold. But the Dark Lord would know, surely. “That Master,” Harry amended, “spoke of earlier.” How to describe bullying to a snake? “He preyed upon me when I was small.”

“And now brother is the strong one, and the Dudley will be the prey,” Nagini hissed in satisfaction.

Harry shuddered at her words. “I don’t think I could, Nagini. Kill him, that is. And he was only doing what was expected. His dad,” the word in Parseltongue emerged as ‘sire’, which didn’t fit Vernon at all, “encouraged it.”

“Hatchlings are of the same breed as the sire,” Nagini insisted.

That was certainly true of Dudley, Harry supposed. And was he himself not the spitting image of his own father, even if Harry intrinsically knew James would never, ever have bowed to the Dark Lord, no matter his fear? And Tom Riddle…no, Master, had been a mirror of his own father before Dark Magic and Horcruxes had taken their toll. Though Voldemort was probably pleased by that outcome, Harry mused.

Perhaps the Dark Lord would bring Dudley to his Initiation, his Muggle to slaughter in the name of his Lord. Despite his childhood, the constant Harry Hunting, and the humiliation and the deprivation, Harry didn’t know if he could kill Dudley. Not in cold blood. What if he couldn’t? What if he failed?

Harry hissed these words to Nagini, his new sister, his confidante.

“Brother won’t fail,” she reassured him. She ran her head against his hand, urging him to begin petting her again. “Master won’t let him.”

And Harry knew that was the truth.

***

The rabbit eventually tired, and Nagini struck and consumed it easily. Harry couldn’t look away as her jaws stretched wide and the small animal was forced down her gullet. Idly, he marvelled at her lack of gag reflex, and was amazed that the demonstration did not bring up his own meal. It was a sight he would get more than used to, Harry knew, if Nagini was to be his companion.

Harry was surprised how at ease he now felt in the great snake’s company. He remembered the first time he had seen her, in that vision of Riddle House, before Voldemort had struck down the Muggle caretaker. And again at the cemetery, at the Dark Lord’s resurrection, her circling the headstone to which Harry had been bound. He had been promised to her, a celebratory meal. In fifth year, at the Department of Mysteries, Nagini striking down Arthur Weasley—and that had somehow been even worse, for Harry had been her, impaling his own fangs in Mr. Weasley’s tender flesh. This past Christmas, her emerging horribly from Bathilda Bagshot’s decaying corpse. Then finally in the Shrieking Shack, mere days ago, her caged form descending upon the horrified Severus Snape.

And now he was petting her, completely at ease. Her own brother, now, protected. Cherished, even. Harry was surprised at his own growing fondness for her, considering that he knew more than most that she was unscrupulously deadly.

Now she was hissing contentedly under his ministrations. Harry knelt on the floor, his own plate empty, gazing blankly at the stone wall of his current prison. He wondered when he would be let out. He would then have to face this new world, Voldemort’s new Britain. Were his friends still alive? They would turn on Harry, if they were. Just as Harry had turned on them. They wouldn’t understand what had driven him to this.

They’d had families to protect. And they’d had families who had protected them.

Harry had had nothing.

Were Hermione and Ron still alive? Was Neville? Luna?

Ginny?

His dreams the night before had turned deadly, with flashes of green light and cries of terror, before a terrible silence.

Had any of those screams been his friends’?

Probably.

Hours passed, and Harry’s hand grew tired, Nagini continuously pestering him not to falter in his petting. No wonder Voldemort had foisted her on him, Harry thought with amusement. She was exhausting.

She was a comfort.

The two Horcruxes coiled together to ward off the cell’s chill, both sleepy after their meal and from the boredom of their confinement. As he descended into sleep, Harry could feel the lump of the digesting rabbit slowly making its way along Nagini’s body, and he was amazed that his only feeling about this was contentment. Perhaps their emotions were mingling…and her drowsiness was forcing his eyes closed, her satisfaction…and the two slumped together…and they slept.

***

A strong beam of sunlight woke Harry. His eyes fluttered open, but the light was too bright and he clenched his eyes together and curled up tighter into himself.

“Good morning, Horcrux. I had thought you would enjoy your new room, but if you truly preferred your imprisonment then I can easily return you to it,” Voldemort hissed, his tone a delicate amalgamation of amusement and irritation.

His new room? Harry forced his eyes open, wincing against the bright light. “No, my Lord,” he managed, sleepily. He looked about, but everything was still blurry, his glasses still missing. The room was not overly large, but it was still far bigger than his room at the Dursleys’. It was about the same size as his Gryffindor dormitory, but with only the one bed.

“You have further lessons to attend to. And I have better things to do than play alarm clock. Nagini has been awake for hours. Perhaps you would welcome that vial of Draught of the Living Death after all, if you prefer to spend all your time asleep.”

“No, my Lord,” Harry pleaded, panicked. Voldemort’s amused hiss told him that the threat had been idle, but it took a long moment for his heart to cease battering his chest. Where was Nagini, anyway? Surely she would not leave him…

“Wash up and put on your new clothes. Your lessons continue after breakfast.” And with that, Voldemort swept over to a desk in the room’s far corner. Harry could only just make out a pile of parchments, with which he assumed the Dark Lord would keep busy until Harry was ready.

Following the Dark Lord’s orders was easier said than done, Harry thought, as he peered blearily around in search of a washroom. But next to his bed, on a side table, Harry caught sight of the most wonderful thing—his glasses. He quickly grabbed them and put them on, sighing in more than a little relief as his world came into focus for the first time in days.

The room was nicer than Harry had first thought it would be. The floors were of a dark, polished wood, with thick woolen rugs bringing even further warmth. Richly embroidered tapestries lined the walls and a lovely French window brought in the bright morning light. The bed he had supposedly slept on was large and a number of elegant chairs were clustered around a small table near one of the doors.

And Lord Voldemort sat at a desk in front of that window, working steadily at a mountain of paperwork. The Dark Lord ignored Harry completely as he got his bearings and visually explored his new environment.

Harry tentatively made his way off the bed, his foot falling on one of the lush rugs…and Nagini darted out from under the bed, where she had apparently been hiding.

Harry shrieked, his heartbeat resuming the rushing thud that it had only recently calmed from, and his breath came in quick, shallow bursts. He scowled when he realized that the jagged hissing he heard from both the snake and the Dark Lord was in fact laughter.

At least he knew where Nagini was now. Lying in wait to terrify him, it would seem. All his kind thoughts for her nearly disappeared, but she was soon butting up against his leg and sliding up and around his torso. Harry scowled at her, but soon smiled as she began tickling her face with her tongue, before butting against him in her attempt to get him to resume the petting from yesterday.

“Very funny,” Harry told her, attempting and failing to sound stern. She merely hissed her amusement back at him. “Now I have to get ready. So you need to let me go.” Harry tried to squirm away from her, but it was useless. And she was heavy. He tried to step towards the nearest door, hoping it led to the washroom, but with Nagini wrapped around his shoulders, with still almost half of her trailing on the floor, he gave up. “Nagini, I have to go. Master said…”

“Let your brother go, Nagini.” And that was enough. Nagini sighed disconsolately, but obeyed her Master’s words. Voldemort still seemed fully engaged in whatever he was working on at the desk, but Harry was unsurprised that he had been monitoring the two Horcruxes as they interacted. He had probably even kept an eye on them in the cell, in case Nagini had eyed Harry with hunger rather than affection.

Free of the great snake, Harry made for the door again. It seemed the likely choice, as it was closer to his bed and the window. Opening it revealed a modest washroom, the facilities spotlessly clean. Everything was laid out for him: soap, shampoo, toothbrush. Black robes. Harry ignored them in favour of the bath. Harry washed quickly, keeping his eyes averted from his left forearm with its damning tattoo, and briskly scrubbed the grime from his skin. He had not been properly clean since Shell Cottage, and though he would love to indulge in the warm water he knew Voldemort would become impatient if he took too long.

It was too soon before Harry was towelling off and staring at his new clothes. He pushed away the flash of desire to pull his dirty clothes back on, and soon Harry was looking at the Death Eater in the mirror. He only needed a mask and the image would be complete.

His parents would be rolling in their graves. Well, he would beg their forgiveness later, but at least it would be later.

***

Voldemort was still working at the desk when Harry re-entered his room. A tray with what appeared to be his breakfast had appeared at the table near the other door. Harry gave the Dark Lord a wary look, not sure if he should move to eat without some kind of affirmation from the man, but Voldemort seemed far too engaged in whatever he was doing to be concerned about him.

Eggs, bacon, toast, juice. Harry’s stomach rumbled in anticipation, and he quickly took his seat and began to eat. Nagini, who was now curled up around the bottom of Voldemort’s chair, looked up in interest and began to glide across the room towards him. She wrapped up Harry’s leg and placed her great head on his shoulder, her tongue darting out to taste the scent of his breakfast.

“Master is busy making changes to the laws made while he was hunting for his new stick,” she hissed to Harry.

He frowned around the bite of toast he had just taken, and worked to swallow it quickly. “Which ones, Nagini?” Harry asked, before sipping his pumpkin juice.

“The one about stealing magic,” she replied. “You and Master had talked of it, or has brother forgotten?”

The Muggle-Born Registration Commission debacle. Umbridge. “No, I definitely remember, Nagini,” Harry said. “Really? He’s trying to fix it?” Harry was surprised. Voldemort had told him that Umbridge’s persecution of Muggleborns had not been his idea, but Harry still remembered the Diary Riddle’s sheer disdain for the new Magicals, his belief that they were worthless.

“They are worthless, Harry,” Voldemort retorted. Apparently he had not been so absorbed in his work that he was unable to follow his Horcruxes conversation, nor Harry’s train of thought. “Now, if you are finished your meal, come over here.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Harry wiped his hands on the napkin and, dislodging Nagini, made his way over to the snake-like man who was now watching Harry intently with his red gaze.

“This evening, Harry, will be your formal initiation into my ranks. You are already wearing your new uniform. This will be your only attire, Harry, unless I specifically tell you otherwise. You will not require a mask, for I wish for everyone to know exactly who you are.” When Harry nodded his understanding, he continued, “Your status as a Death Eater is mostly a symbolic one, Harry. You, the very face of the Light, submitting to my word, will be a powerful blow to any rebels still trying to undermine my new regime. And hopefully it will simultaneously encourage loyalty to me in the general populace as well as discourage new uprisings.” The Dark Lord sat back and smirked. “Most people are happy enough to obey, so long as their own interests are generally maintained. My new laws only benefit the general Wizarding public. I know that Dumbledore and his lackeys have only given a cursory explanation of my agenda to you.”

Harry reluctantly nodded, and Voldemort’s smirk grew to a pleased grin, which sent waves of dread down Harry’s neck. “That old fool always did play his cards close too closely. You were probably only ever told that I was…,” and here Voldemort paused. He laughed gently, thoughtfully. “What exactly were you told, Harry?”

Harry’s eyes unfocused as he let the memories of his first day in the Wizarding World rush over him. “Hagrid told me that you had gone bad. As bad as someone could get. And that you killed my parents for some reason. And tried to kill me. That first year I didn’t know much else, but then you did try to kill me again. And again and…that’s all that it was for me. Just surviving and trying to understand whatever was thrust at me. Other than the stupid blood purity thing, not even your follower’s kids even told me much about your cause.”

“Ah, yes. Draco. I almost regret Marking him. Such a disappointment.”

Harry was unsurprised at Voldemort’s dismay at Malfoy’s performance in his service. He had been mostly unable to complete any of his tasks, and had not even turned Harry in that very spring when he and his friends had been brought to Malfoy Manor by Snatchers.

“Indeed, Harry. But you shall be an example for him, won’t you?” The Dark Lord’s words brought a quick chill of fear down Harry’s neck. An example? But the Dark Lord’s laughter, though cold and high as always, lacked the maliciousness that Harry was accustomed to. “Not as whipping boy, Harry. You will be the perfect Death Eater. You will be obedient, respectful, and above all, feared. Your formal rival will find himself most wanting in comparison to you.”

***

The rest of the morning was spent in preparation for the ceremony scheduled for that evening. Voldemort conjured a make-shift dais and throne and had Harry practice entering the ‘throne room’ at his bidding, to kneel and repeat loyalty oaths until the words flowed naturally off his tongue. Harry couldn’t help but wonder what effect so many oaths sworn to the man could mean for him, though Voldemort reassured him—again unnerving Harry by plucking the thought directly from his mind—that ten practice oaths were the same as one. Besides, the requisite ritual candles and sacrifice were not present.

The sacrifice.

“I’ll need a wand, my Lord,” Harry said. By now, the honorific was becoming natural. He even had slipped by saying ‘Master’ after Nagini had prattled on, hissing it every other second. Voldemort, of course, enjoyed every moment of Harry’s discomfort.

“No, Harry. You absolutely don’t and will not have a wand. Not now. Maybe never again.”

Never again? “How else am I to play Death Eater? My Lord,” Harry tacked on, hoping to prevent a blinding rush of pain through his scar.

But no, the pain came along with the Dark Lord’s angered hiss, “Play?” He glared at Harry. “You are a Death Eater.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Harry said, trying to reassure the man and ease his own pain. “But how am I to be, as you said, feared if I am not to have my magic at my disposal? How am I to,” and here Harry swallowed around the nausea that plagued him every time he thought of what was to come this evening, “sacrifice a Muggle tonight without my wand?”

As quickly as it came, Voldemort’s anger abated along with the burning in Harry’s scar. The Dark Lord chuckled darkly, and said, “Do not worry yourself overmuch, Horcrux. Your Lord will always provide.”

Chapter Text

Voldemort had performed a Feather Light Charm on Nagini, and the massive snake was now slung over Harry’s shoulders. The two Horcruxes waited in a small vestibule off the side of the Dark Lord’s reception chamber. Or throne room. Harry still wasn’t certain what it was called. He didn’t even know where exactly they were. Was he at Malfoy Manor again, though this time with more comfortable accommodations? Did the Dark Lord have a base of his own? Nagini had called Hogwarts his new castle, but Harry was acquainted enough with the school’s architecture to know that they were elsewhere.

Harry was brought out of his musings by Nagini’s gentle chiding. “Master said to wait for a chime. Did you hear a chime, brother.”

“No, Nagini,” Harry replied, panicked. Had he missed his cue? The Dark Lord had stressed that Harry’s performance tonight must be absolutely perfect. Impeccable. As if that wasn’t heart-stoppingly daunting. And now Harry had missed his entrance signal! Forget not being a whipping boy. His Master would flay…

“Do not be a silly snakeling,” Nagini chided, her tongue tickling Harry’s cheek. “Snakes can’t hear, foolish brother.”

Oh. But…

“Then how can you hear me, Nagini?”

Nagini hissed in amusement, as if Harry’s question was absolutely ridiculous. “Nagini can hear you because…” but the chime rang just then, and her hiss of explanation shifted to one of annoyance as Harry jumped in alarm. “Why did you leap like terrified prey?”

“It’s time,” Harry answered. “And because I am terrified.”

“Brother must relax. Take a deep breath,” and she relaxed her coils, which had instinctively tightened around Harry when he had startled. Harry forced himself to calm down, paying attention to both his own breathing as well as the swell of Nagini’s against his body. His heart rate decreased quickly, and he amusedly marvelled that she made a decent meditation coach.

The door swung open as Harry approached it and, taking one more calming breath, he stepped through—only for his heart to resume its panicked pounding as he took in the massive chamber and the throng of black-clad Death Eaters crowding the room. They knelt on either side of a human-made aisle, bowing reverently towards the Dark Lord, who was seated on a massive gilt throne at the far end of the room. Tall black candles were lit around the throne, the ritual circle that Harry would enter to complete his final oaths as a Death Eater.

Harry was strongly reminded of a cathedral. Well, the Death Eaters were certainly sinners, a flock of the variably faithful, forever repentant for displeasing their Lord.

And Harry was his newest disciple.

Ironically, the fallen Saviour of another Faith. But that was ok. He would be ok, he told himself.

He would keep telling himself this, until he believed it.

Harry made his way slowly towards the dais. Nagini gently writhed against him, rubbing herself against his neck. “Brother must keep his eyes upon Master,” she hissed. “Ignore the prey to each side.” And Harry was again thankful that she was here with him, calming him. He forced down a smirk at her words, amused at the thoughts of Lucius or Bellatrix running from her deadly strike.

At the end of the chamber the Dark Lord Voldemort watched Harry’s approach, a decisive and victorious gleam in his red eyes. Harry could feel that same, strange burn of Voldemort’s pleasure in his scar, a comforting ache. More than comforting. Exhilarating. He kept his eyes on the Dark Lord, Nagini continuously hissing encouragement to him, and managed to ignore the whispers and small gasps of recognition as he passed. It seemed as if Voldemort had kept the identity of his newest Death Eater a secret, considering the reaction he was garnering now.

When he finally reached the dais, he knelt down and Nagini slithered off his shoulders with one last reminder of how Harry should behave. Harry crept forward into the middle of the ritual circle and its gentle candle glow, and kissed the hem of Voldemort’s robes. The Dark Lord leaned forward and rested his hand upon his head, gently this time, caressing rather than the brutal gesture from the cell.

“Friends,” Lord Voldemort began. “My true family. We welcome today a most surprising addition to our number. Our very own Undesirable No. 1, the elusive Harry Potter, has finally seen the error of his ways, of Dumbledore’s deception. He came to me with such courage on the eve of the Battle of Hogwarts to gift me powerful artifacts most beneficial to our cause. And with his righteous defection we have finally fully overcome the Blood Traitors and the Mudblood desecrators for once and for all. We will see a new era of magical freedom enacted, without the former restrictions enforced illegally by the corrupt Light.”

It sounded good, Harry decided. Except for the lies. Harry knew it hadn’t been courage that had brought him to his knees before the Dark Lord. But Voldemort was the Lord of Lies, of Death, and if Harry was to walk forevermore in his shadow, than he would welcome the lies that kept him from the curses of his former enemies. And from his former friends, as well.

The Death Eaters ate up the Dark Lord’s words, the quiet whispers finally breaking into a thunder of applause. Once again Bellatrix could be heard laughing, an odd and quiet maniacal sound that brought the hairs up on the back of Harry’s neck. He wondered if Voldemort had told her what he was, and of what gifts he had given to secure his life.

Voldemort stood, and at once the hall became deathly quiet. Harry, still kneeling respectfully at the Dark Lord’s feet, took a deep, calming breath. It was time for the oaths that would fully bind himself to Lord Voldemort’s service, the ones that would castrate his magic unto his Master’ bidding. Voldemort had explained to Harry that the ritual would be more stringent, more binding, than those typically sworn by his followers, but Harry’s own dependency would actually strengthen him in the eyes of the rest of the Death Eaters, proving his resolve and loyalty.

“I have already privately Marked our young recruit,” Voldemort said, extending a hand down to Harry. Harry raised his left arm, and Voldemort pushed the sleeve fabric down, revealing the skull and snake tattoo to all present. Voldemort gently rubbed his thumb over the snake. “The loyalty oath Harry shall now perform to bind himself to me will be spoken in Parseltongue. Otherwise, his natural aptitude,” and here Voldemort paused, and Harry could feel Voldemort’s strange mix of amusement and annoyance filter through their bond, for both men knew that Harry’s ‘aptitude’ was not even remotely natural, unless having another’s soul embedded in one’s own was within nature’s purview. Voldemort began again, “His talent in Slytherin’s most honoured tongue would otherwise allow him to circumvent the fealty aspects of the bond. But rest assured, my Faithful, that the words spoken between us will bind Harry’s loyalty to our cause. His oath will be as your own.”

It wouldn’t be, of course. Harry had already surrendered himself to Voldemort, true, and three times. Once in the Forest, once during his Marking, and once when he had promised to fulfil any required Death Eater duties, even if his own would be markedly different from his ‘colleagues’. But this was a Magical binding, more secure than even an Unbreakable Vow. It would be rather different than the oaths taken by Voldemort’s other followers.

“The time for oaths, spoken of old, is upon us.” There were mixed reactions from the crowd as the Dark Lord switched to the snake tongue. Most flinched slightly, though Bellatrix seemed to shift forward on her knees, as if drawn to the sound. Harry could only make out the difference from English by the slight resonance of the more discernable sibilant sounds, and that was only if he was paying attention. The biggest indicator for him was in the way Nagini perked up, clearly listening. Around him, the candles seemed to glow brighter, burn hotter. “Harry James Potter, do you hereby vow to lend me your person and your magic, until I otherwise release you from your vow?”

It was a lot. But the alternative was perpetual imprisonment or death.

“I do, my Lord.”

“And will you obey me in all things, even up to the stopping of your heart at my bequest?”

It was ceremony. Words. Allegiance. “I do, my Lord.”

“And do you hereby acknowledge me as your rightful Master, both worldly and in spirit?” Voldemort had explained to Harry in his room that with their soul bond muddying up their own boundaries, that this part of the oath would solidify the Dark Lord’s authority in their connection.

“I do, my Lord.”

“Then I, Lord Voldemort, acknowledge your fealty to me, and will protect you as I am able, until you are released from my service.”

For eternity, in other words.

The connection between them blazed fiercely, and Harry’s scar and Mark burned white hot as the magical binding took effect. Around them the ritual candles snuffed out, and it was as if all the heat in their flames had suddenly cast themselves upon him. But as quickly as a candle is extinguished, the burn in Harry’s head and arm ceased, with only that pleasing ache of satisfaction remaining.

“It is time for the sacrifice. Bring in the prisoner.” At the Dark Lord’s words, Bellatrix rose and, with a final bow in her Lord’s direction, strode out of a side door. Moments later she brought in a struggling, bound figure. The Muggle sacrifice, trussed up for slaughter, floated in under Bellatrix’s Mobilicorpus Charm.

It was Aunt Petunia.

Harry had really been expecting Vernon. Or even Dudley. But Petunia? The woman had certainly never been kind to him, and had threatened him with that horrid frying pan one too many times, but it had been Vernon that had always done the most damage. It was Vernon that Harry had been afraid of as a child, hoping in vain that Petunia would let him hide from his uncle’s rage behind her skirts.

“Release it, Bellatrix.” At once the spell was lifted and Petunia dropped heavily to the floor. A muffled, pained grunt was heard. “Now this Muggle, my friends, is Harry Potter’s aunt. His Mudblood mother’s sister, to be exact. She was devilishly difficult to track down, as she and her worthless husband and son had been protected by Dumbledore’s irksome Order. But eventually they were found. All three are guilty of crimes against Wizardkind. And at first I had thought that it should be the uncle that should be present today for the ritual, for his fear of Magic and the pain he inflicted upon our new initiate seemed the greatest. But abuse and neglect are insidious. This woman is guilty of the most heinous of crimes, and against her own blood. She denied Harry a true home and kindness. She denied him food and a comfortable bed. Harry was punished for incidents of accidental magic, and locked up for the meanest of reasons. Her despicable Muggle offspring was treated like royalty, and our own Harry like scum. And though I, until recently, may have despised our newest initiate, I have never denied his Magical worth. She shall pay dearly for her crimes.”

“Once again Harry’s initiation will vary from your own, my Faithful, as will his place amongst you and his future duties. As he is skilled in Parseltongue, he will be my lovely Nagini’s companion, and she his. As such, they will work together to end this wretched Muggle’s life. Like the killing curse, Harry needs only direct her with two words. And know this, my Faithful, that should his life ever be threatened, even by any of my own Marked, that he has my explicit permission to hiss these words to her in order to safeguard his life.”

His Lord had provided. As promised.

Harry stood, and beckoned for Nagini. The serpent slinked off the Dark Lord’s shoulders and took position next to Harry, her eyes focused entirely on her Muggle prey. Aunt Petunia’s eyes widened in terror, taking in the great snake. Ever since that incident with the python at the zoo, on Dudley’s eleventh birthday, Harry’s aunt had become even more skittish around harmless garden snakes. And Nagini was not harmless, not in the least.

But Harry forced his compassion away, and reminded himself of all the hungry nights, all the disdain, all the unfair malevolence directed his way. It wasn’t even fear that had driven his aunt to cruelty, Harry knew. It had been envy and revenge and pettishness.

It was time for payback. With one last affectionate caress of Nagini’s head, Harry looked Aunt Petunia—no, the Muggle—directly in its eyes, and grinned.

“Nagini, kill.”

Nagini lurched forward, striking the Muggle in the neck. It writhed, screaming and terror, and Nagini reared away from it and lunged again, this time attacking the face. The Muggle woman’s cheek began to swell with the venom, and soon its breathing began to labour, the panic in its eyes subsiding to a disturbing glaze as its organ functions shut down.

A Muggle’s pathetic body was no match for Nagini. After her two strikes, she moved back to coil next to Harry. She looked up at him, then back at her Master. “Should Nagini eat it?”

“That is up to your brother, dear pet,” the Dark Lord replied, looking to Harry. It was rather considerate, Harry thought.

“If you are hungry, sister.”

Nagini hissed happily, and moved again to the Muggle. Its movements now were but the most feeble of jerks. Its face was a disturbing shade of blue, the venom-riddled veins protruding from the face and neck. Blood was still trickling from the bite wounds. Nagini circled the body, arranging her mouth next to its head. What followed was a more horrific, more glorious repeat of the rabbit from the cell.

Harry could hear retching from some of the more junior Death Eaters, though he could only watch in spell-bound fascination as Nagini slowly swallowed her inert prey, the bulk of it obscenely distending her long body, and could feel the warmth of his Lord’s joy at the sight of one more worthless Muggle rightfully dispatched.

Chapter Text

The formal part of the initiation was over, and the Dark Lord granted his followers leave to rise from the floor and converse amongst themselves. Harry turned towards his Master and bowed his head respectfully before being waved off. “Mingle, Harry. I am sure many of your new brethren will be curious about your defection. But you are forbidden to elucidate what value you have to me beyond a war trophy and defector. No mention of my means of immortality, nor of the Hallows.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Harry said, anxious at how he would be welcomed by the Dark Lord’s followers.

Voldemort hissed in laughter at Harry’s thoughts, and said, “Normally, Harry, I would have Nagini go with you as escort. Tonight, however, I believe she may not be up to that task.”

True, Harry thought, since she was still working on getting the Muggle’s feet past her jaw; she would be fairly useless as a bodyguard for some time. Harry decided to not travel too far from his Master. He did not trust several of the Dark Lord’s other followers to not harm him, no matter what Voldemort may have said.

Even now Bellatrix was moving towards him. Harry forced himself to step off the dais, though he did look back at his Lord for affirmation. Voldemort subtly nodded his head at him, as if to tell him to move on, before smiling broadly at the Dark witch coming towards them, his mouth all tantalizingly venomous teeth.

Bellatrix bowed low to the Dark Lord, then put a hand on Harry’s shoulder before he could edge far enough away from her. “Don’t be shy, itty Potter,” she crowed, sneering maliciously when Harry jerked away from her touch. “Auntie Bella just wants to say congratulations. I didn’t think you had it in you, to betray all that you ever stood--”

“Bella!” Voldemort hissed, standing abruptly from his throne and stalking swiftly down from the dais. Bellatrix stepped swiftly back, but Voldemort kept advancing until he wrapped a long-fingered hand around her throat. “Unhand him at once.”

Bellatrix kept her head lowered, but Harry could see the scowl firmly on her lips, even if the Dark Lord could not. But she complied and released Harry, though she let her pointed nails dig painfully into his shoulder first. Voldemort squeezed her throat quickly before releasing her.

“Who do you serve, Bellatrix?” he asked, his words more sibilant in his anger.

“My Lord, I serve you. Only you for eternity, and I have always kept my vow.” Now she looked up into her Master’s eyes pleadingly. “Have I not always been your most Faithful?”

“Then know that my own vow to Harry during his initiation included my full protection of him. So long as he remains loyal and obedient I must and will keep him safe, and that, dear Bella, includes from you. Do not test me on this!”

“Of course not, Master,” she responded, “so long as he remains loyal.”

“And if he needs correction, I will be the one to give it. Not you. He is mine. And I will judge what I shall do with my possessions.”

Bellatrix nodded her head manically. “Yes, of course. My Lord. I did not mean to imply--”

“Just take care around that which is mine, and we won’t have a problem,” Voldemort interrupted. He took a deep breath and stepped back up onto the dais. Nagini was now collapsed in sleep right in his way, and he had to step over the swollen bulk of her stomach in order to reach his throne. Bellatrix looked like she wanted to follow, to no doubt bask in her Master’ glory, Harry thought. She made several tentative steps towards him, but just as she was about to follow Voldemort’s lead in stepping over the snake, Nagini shifted and Bellatrix stumbled back, her eyes wide with fear. She gave a quick, final bow to Voldemort before scurrying away.

Harry wondered where Draco was, and if he should seek him out or actively avoid him. He imagined he would get lonely rather quickly if he did not make peace with the only other Death Eater his age. Perhaps his Master would initiate more young people now that the war was over, but until then…

Harry spotted his blond former classmate several metres from a buffet table that had appeared at the right side of the room. He was speaking quietly to his mother, and Harry decided that the best plan would be to find something to eat and allow Malfoy to approach him.

He was just taking a plate and deciding which hors d’oeuvre to select when he heard the arrogant boy’s familiar drawl. “My parents said you had surrendered. But I didn’t think to see you bowing so low to your parents’ murderer.”

What was his problem? Harry glanced over his shoulder; had the Dark Lord heard? “Shut up, Malfoy!” he snapped. He was not getting into this. Harry had done what he had to do. He felt good about it—now, anyway. He had been thrust into the role of Light Hero, of Saviour, by an idiotic prophecy and Dumbledore’s machinations. He had been hidden away from the rest of his kind, away from knowledge that would have given him a more balanced view of the Wizarding World. He had never been given a choice. Not once.

No, that wasn’t really true. His new Master had given him a choice, way back in first year. To be fair to himself, Lord Voldemort hadn’t really made a very compelling case for joining him—he had already attacked him twice that year alone, and he had led his offer with a verbal attack on Harry’s parents. But still he had offered a choice. And he continued to offer it, even now after years of Harry playing Dumbledore’s supposed protégé. It wasn’t really much of a choice—effective enslavement or death—but it had still been given

And here was Draco belittling him for refusing to play martyr. Sure, he was ignorant of the particulars, of the whys of Harry’s decisions. But it was absurd of him to look down on Harry for his choices; Harry still remembered Draco’s pride at the beginning of sixth year, when he had returned to Hogwarts newly Marked.

In hindsight, Harry didn’t know why he had thought this conversation would have gone any better. Perhaps he had seen too much in Draco’s actions during the past year, had read too much into them: not killing Dumbledore, not revealing him at the Manor. What Harry had seen as integrity had in fact been treachery.

Draco had betrayed their Lord.

“I’m just curious what would bring perfect Harry Potter to his knees before his greatest enemy.” Draco leaned up against the refreshment table, his lips curled up in an ugly sneer that ruined his aristocratic attractiveness. “The Dark Lord called it courageous, but I think we both know better, Scarhead.”

Well, that was unfortunately true. Fear had most definitely driven Harry’s surrender that fateful night. But every insult from the blond now lent him courage—Gryffindor bravado was all attitude, really. And nothing created attitude faster than Draco Malfoy’s pathetic and hypocritical insults.

“You think I’m a coward, Malfoy?” Harry asked softly, dangerously. “I have always done what I have set out to do, no matter the cost. But Dumbledore betrayed me first. And you know what happens to those who betray?”

Draco cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing as he took in Harry’s thinly veiled threat. “Be careful, Potter,” he snarled. “This is my home you are trespassing in, and that snake can’t protect you at all times. She’s sleeping even now. And you make a pretty pathetic Death Eater without a wand.”

“You are far more pathetic, even with one,” Harry retorted. He was done. Draco was a complete waste of time. Harry decided it was only a matter of time before his Master punished the Malfoys for their insubordination.

But Draco had revealed that they were, in fact, in Malfoy Manor. All at once the room, which had looked rather imposing yet refined when he had first entered, seemed rather gaudy and pretentious. He eyed the fine china plate he was still holding with disdain.

Nerves had made it difficult for Harry to eat much of his supper earlier, though, despite Nagini’s scolding, and his hunger was now making itself known. Harry grabbed a serviette and several cucumber sandwich triangles and cubes of aged cheddar, and then made his way back towards the dais. Towards Nagini, who had again shifted in sleep and was now lying on the Dark Lord’s bare feet. The man appeared uncomfortable, and was trying to dislodge her without waking her up.

It made Harry smile at the endearing image. Lord Voldemort, evil Dark Lord and terror of all Wizardkind, was so gentle with his pet. His familiar, rather. Harry then remembered Hedwig, his beautiful and faithful owl. Just one more that had died for him…

So many…

No. He had abandoned thoughts like that. They had made that choice whilst Harry had never been given one, his choices made for him since before he was even born. That stupid prophecy. Divination was all rubbish anyway.

But if Harry had been a Dark Lord, could he have ignored a prophecy condemning him to defeat? Or would he have been proactive and sought out his vanquisher when he was, supposedly, not yet a threat? Well, that had turned out well, Harry thought sarcastically.

“On the contrary, Harry, in the end it has worked out rather well.”

Harry started violently, and forced back a scowl at the amused hiss this prompted. His Lord deserved his respect, and he would give it. Unlike Bellatrix’s false fawning and the Malfoys’ blatant treachery. “My Lord, I did not see you.”

“That is obvious, Harry. You were lost in thought. And most interesting, yet questionable, thoughts they are.” The Dark Lord’s words sent a shiver of fear down Harry’s back, though the tone was nonthreatening. The Dark Lord continued, hissing now, “I know that you still battle with your choice. But know that your decision was sound . You were brave, despite your terror. It takes much courage to take the difficult path in the face of overwhelming fear.”

“But Master,” Harry replied, not sure at all if he was saying the right thing, “I just didn’t want to die. Maybe I…” Harry faltered. “Maybe Draco was right.”

“No, my precious Horcrux.  I believe this was all meant to be. You were prophesied to be my doom, and  so I sought out yours. I had thought my disembodiment a great setback, but now I see it as a crucible allowing for me to emerge far stronger. And I can now see my true allies, and also more clearly see the pretenders. Best of all, Harry, I have you. And you have, even at the last moment, proven more faithful. For I know you struggle with it and still choose to serve me. Blind faith is an abomination, though I use it well, as is the corruption and thirst for power rampant among the Pure Bloods. But you are my very soul, Horcrux. We will never betray each other. The Light was wrong to ask it of you.”

Harry nodded. It was all true, he thought. He had come through such darkness, such difficulty. And his Lord was so merciful. So understanding. “Thank you.”

“I believe I shall return you and Nagini to your chambers. Rest there. Indulge in that bath you wished for earlier. I will be very busy with the restructuring of the Ministry for some time, but I will try to visit occasionally. A house elf, Flippy, has been assigned to both your care. And I have placed wards that prevent anyone else from entering your rooms.”

“Thank you, Master,” Harry replied, earnestly. How was he so lucky? To have a Master who cared so much for him and his sister?

Voldemort smiled, still with too many teeth, but Harry knew he was pleased by the warmth spreading through his scar. And then the Dark Lord gripped his arm, and he was pulled through the familiar tube-like sensation of Apparition.

And he was in his own comfortable rooms. And soon Nagini would be with him.

He was home

***

The bath was already filled with fragrant bubbles, with candles lighting the small room. There was even a book and a tray of the hors d’oeuvres he had missed out on resting upon a tray next to the tub. A slight shimmer, barely perceptible, surrounded the book’s cover and pages. A water-proofing charm?

It was a novel, and not one Harry recognized. That wasn’t surprising, really. He had never been much of a reader, and Harry suspected the book was not Muggle. Harry didn’t think he even knew the titles of Wizarding novels. He had never heard of any, outside of the book that Dumbledore had left Hermione. But that had been for children. And judging by the image of a mutilated corpse etched into the supple leather of the cover, this novel was decidedly not.

The Prophecy of the Darkling Childe by Alcander Laurent.

So his Master had heard his thoughts on the prophecy. Of course he had; he seemed to know everything Harry was thinking. Harry was rather surprised that the Dark Lord had not questioned him about it at all, though he supposed it was a moot point now that he was bound so tightly as Voldemort’s underling. The Dark Lord had probably wrenched the full prophecy from his mind immediately after he had surrendered in the Forest. He was too careful to leave it up in the air like that, and no wonder he had been so harsh with Harry at first. He had to be sure that Harry was no longer any threat. It was all perfectly reasonable, Harry decided. He would have done the same.

The diary Horcrux had said they were similar. He had been right. They would both do anything to survive.

Tom had split his soul.

And Harry had surrendered his.

A prophecy bound them together, linking their very souls, and both had sworn eternal vows to the other.

Also, Harry suspected the book was a lesson for him from his Master. Going by the horrible image on the cover, he would do well to pay attention.

Harry shucked off his clothes and slid into the bath, letting the warm water rise up around him, and stretched his legs out. The bath wasn’t huge, but it was longer than most Muggle baths and Harry could almost lie back completely without having to scrunch his legs up. It would have been devilish work to clean; it was almost too bad Petunia was dead, as Harry would have enjoyed the payback of having her do his chores for once. Well, Flippy the house elf wouldn’t have been pleased in having a worthless Muggle take his work away from him.

A few sandwiches later and he was ready to try the book. The pages were brittle and yellowing with age. There must have been even more protective charms on it to keep it from getting damaged from regular use, let alone the dangers imposed by the bathwater. Harry certainly had no idea what spell his Lord would have cast on it, and he was ashamed by his own ignorance. He really had wasted his education, he knew. Of course, he was mostly focused on his own survival a lot of the time, and household charms had never seemed as important as defence. With a Master as strong, as smart as Lord Voldemort, Harry was both off the hook and at once ashamed by his own performance. His Master hadn’t seen fit to grant him access to magic again. But maybe he was right. Perhaps Harry didn’t even deserve it.

Harry promised he would do everything he could to make the Dark Lord proud of him.

He began to read.

Chapter Text

The candles surrounding the bath had burned down to near nubs, though the water was still miraculously—no, magically—warm when Harry finally stepped from the tub, feeling truly relaxed in the first time since…well, he had no idea. Sure, he had let his guard down a few times, even during the Horcrux hunt, but there had always been the plague of worry and fear gnawing at him. Perhaps the bathwater had been laced with a calming draught.

His nightwear was laid out for him on the counter, and had even been kept under a mild warming charm. God bless House Elves, Harry thought.

No. Praising God was a Muggle sentiment. But he could still praise his Lord, he thought with a crooked grin, and it was true that the Dark Lord had arranged for Flippy the Elf to cater to him. Again, Harry wished he had paid better attention whilst at Hogwarts to Pure Blood idioms. But other than the popular Wizarding curses, he was fairly ignorant to his own linguistic heritage. Hopefully his Master would provide him with more books to help him overcome the disadvantages he had suffered from his Muggle upbringing.

Dressed in loose black silk, Harry moved back into his bed chamber. Nagini was piled in a heap upon his bed, her stomach distended with her meal. Harry climbed onto the bed next to her, and began stroking her smooth belly. He could imagine this bulge here was the Muggle’s head, this its legs. Aunt Petunia. She—it—had deserved this, Harry decided with vindication. In fact, it had deserved far worse, after torturing him with hunger and general deprivation throughout his childhood. He had never asked for much, had deserved so much more than the scraps which he had been begrudgingly given.

The Muggle should have suffered more. Well, there were still the others. Dudley, and Vernon.

For now, Harry rested against the bed’s headboard, opened the book he had been given, and continued to read.

And the Childe drew forth upon his steed and raised his wand,

the very power of the stars pulled forth and drowning the forest with their might.

The Magickless fell upon their knees and, with one last plea for mercy,

were laid out unseeing as the Childe cast his will upon the earth.

 ‘Not one,’ he cried in anguish, ‘shall be allowed to stand against the will of Magick.

Having not been Blessed by her love, you shall be Cursed to die.’

The writing was more abstruse than Harry was used to, and the archaic spelling forced him to read rather slowly. A mug of hot chocolate appeared on the side table, and between Nagini’s soft, contented breathing, the lyrical prose, and the warmth now filling his own belly, Harry found himself falling into a comfortable slumber.

***

It was still dark when he awoke. The room was cast in shadow; the fire had died down in the fireplace, and Nagini had moved to the rug in front of the glowing coals. She was still looking uncomfortably large with her partially digested supper, and Harry wondered how she had managed to move there without help. But he suspected she was more agile, even weighed down with her large meal, than he was.

The window in front of the desk had its curtain drawn back, and the moon shone through and illuminated the parchments still spread across its surface. Harry strode over, his bare feet padding across the soft rugs, and looked out upon the expansive grounds of Malfoy Manor.

Fuck, there was a private Quidditch Pitch outside. No wonder Draco Malfoy acted like such an entitled prick. He must have been raised completely in the lap of luxury, wanting for absolutely nothing, and all the while Harry had been struggling to merely survive.

But Draco, for all his wealth, was low in their Lord’s esteem. Both he and his father, who had previously risen in the Dark Lord’s ranks and had maintained an influential position in Wizarding Britain, had failed in the tasks set before them. It wouldn’t be long before Lord Voldemort had found new, more loyal supporters, and then the Malfoys and their ilk would find themselves disgraced.

And Harry would help his Master find these new followers if he could, though he had discovered that public support was fickle and fleeting. Perhaps, with his Master’s current supporters financially backing them, they could buy a few positive articles in key newspapers. An exclusive interview with Rita Skeeter—properly edited and censored, of course—with Harry encouraging popular support for the Dark Lord would likely encourage citizens to abandon their incorrect perceptions perpetuated by the restrictive former Ministry laws and Dumbledore’s Light agenda.

Magic should be free. Free to practice without restraint, the only Law that of the Earth itself.

Harry might not be able to perform magic, a restriction that hurt but he knew was right. He wished he could earn it back with his devotion to his Lord.

And he was devoted. Ever since the ritual, when he had formalized his oaths in the ritual circle, his entire perception had changed. He still felt like Harry. He still was Harry. But perhaps he was something more, too. Something had changed, had awakened. The Parseltongue oaths had unearthed something slumbering within him. It didn’t feel at all alien, or new. Just alive, slithering beneath the surface of his consciousness, and directing his thoughts towards new paths and possibilities.

Towards his Master’s needs, his desires.

They were Harry’s desires now, too. He would work hard to prove his worth to his Lord. Not just as a Horcrux, but as a dutiful follower and supporter.

Harry looked at the parchments spread across the desk. This was his room, and yet his Master had used this desk the only day before. Harry was hesitant to pry into the Dark Lord’s affairs, yet surely if his Master had wished for privacy he would not have left his paperwork for his human Horcrux to find. After a minute, he let his curiosity determine his actions, and read the first words on the topmost parchment—it was a note to Harry: ‘Harry, review the following and confirm with signature.’

Lists.

Lists of names, of Harry’s friends and classmates, of faculty. They were colour-coded, each name red, yellow, blue, or green. Some were crossed through. Others had checks next to them, or question marks:

Neville’s name had been struck through.

He had been struck down.

The nervous boy, who had at times seemed so out of place in Gryffindor, had not been erroneously sorted. Ever since the end of first year, when he had tried to stop Harry, Hermione, and Ron from leaving in the night, he had always stood in the way of what he saw as wrongdoing. He had been the other Prophecy Child.

And he would never have gone Dark.

Not like Harry had.

And he was dead now. Harry fought back tears, in memory of the brave boy he had known for seven years, and with whom he had shared a dorm room, meals, classes, and a destiny.

Harry had not been a true Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat had known this, and so had he. Harry was a survivor, his cunning lurking just below the surface of the chivalry and courage he outwardly let show. After all, he had survived worse than a killing curse.

And in the end he had survived the very destiny that had felled his friend.

The lists continued, parchment upon parchment. The entirety of Hogwarts, of students that had been enrolled this year, or would have been enrolled had they not been Muggleborn, of faculty and staff, was written out in the Dark Lord’s neat hand. The crossed out dead. The questionable loyalties of the living. And his Master wanted Harry’s help in deciding their fates.

There weren’t as many dead as Harry had feared. He wondered what exactly Neville had done to get himself executed. Perhaps Bellatrix had been itching for a full set…

But no, his Master would not willfully spill Magical blood, not without good reason. Neville must have defied the Dark Lord beyond forgiveness, sowing seeds of dissent. He had led the small student uprising at Hogwarts this past year, after all. He would never have submitted. The Dark Lord had no room for rebels amongst the populace.

He was a forgiving Lord, but only to those that begged for mercy. Otherwise Lord Voldemort would direct his raging ire, his wrath and his destruction, against his opponents until naught was left.

What other names had been crossed out? Harry quickly leafed through the parchments. There were fewer names crossed out than he would have suspected. No Slytherins that he could see, but that made sense. Even those that hadn’t supported the Dark Lord had been primed for survival all their lives. Slytherins knew to shift with the tide, to follow the sway of politics and, above all, to stay alive. Even the most Light-minded Slytherin would bow to the Dark Lord in such times as these.

Finally Harry found a green-inked name crossed out, and viciously at that. Severus Snape. He headed the list of faculty and staff, which was not surprisingly filled with many other crossed out lines. They had led the battle against the Dark Lord’s forces.

Minerva McGonagall

Pomona Sprout

Rubeus Hagrid.

Waves of sorrow washed over Harry. Hagrid had been his very first friend, had given Harry his first birthday gift and the first real kindnesses in his life after his parents had been killed. Professor McGonagall had watched over him, had tried to keep him safe and happy, despite her stern countenance. Both of them, so integral to Harry’s life since Hogwarts, had been Order members. As the Order and Light had lost their leaders, their direction, so had its members lost their lives.

What had Professor Sprout done to warrant execution?

She had not submitted once the war had ended, Harry knew. She would not bow before her new Lord, would not beg for forgiveness for standing against his men during the Battle of Hogwarts. There was no room for mercy for those who did not even ask for it.

Surprisingly, Filius Flitwick was untouched, a check next to his name. Perhaps it was because, like Slytherins, Ravenclaws could detach themselves emotionally from circumstances, and make more logical decisions. Or perhaps it was because the man was part Goblin, and the Dark Lord wanted to hedge his bets and not unnecessarily further anger the volatile Nation with unwarranted bloodshed, especially after having killed so many after learning of the cup Horcrux’s theft.

Harry searched the list for other names in blue and, like those in green, there were a disproportionate number of checks beside the Ravenclaw names. There were, however, numerous question marks, which Harry had realized belonged to those who were unaccounted for, mostly Mudblood students who had been expelled the previous year.

Harry got to work, adding several notes alongside the names of those whose fates were still to be decided, judging those of questionable loyalties and suggestions as to where the missing might hide.

He decidedly pushed the list of seventh-year Gryffindors away from him. He wasn’t ready to think about his best friends just yet.

Hermione Granger (?)

Ronald Weasley (?)

They had gotten away.

***

“I see you haven’t made many annotations to my notes, Harry.”

Harry had worked on the list for several hours that night, but had made little to no progress. He had nearly scratched out a number of names, effectively condemning its bearer to the Killing Curse, several times. But he couldn’t. Instead he had written apologies alongside their names: ‘Member of my defence association, but only following my lead.’ He avoided calling the DA by its proper name—Dumbledore’s Army—in an attempt to temper his Master’s retaliation against his former friends.

“I didn’t feel I had the right to judge them, my Lord.” Harry was sitting at the table, just finishing his breakfast, whilst Lord Voldemort had retaken the seat at the desk and perused the parchments he had left the night before.

“I expect more. The missing students, for example. Surely you have some ideas as to where they are hiding?”

“The Room of Requirement—the Room of Hidden Things,” Harry amended, using the name his Master was more familiar with, “was apparently their safe-room at Hogwarts. But it burned with Fiendfyre, my Lord. I don’t know where they could be now.”

Voldemort eyed him shrewdly. “You are not just protecting your friends, Horcrux? Your loyalty belongs to me now, or am I mistaken? These rebels could pose a serious threat to my new regime.”

“You have my loyalty, Master! I just can’t think of any…”

The Marauder’s Map.

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed, and Harry’s hands flew to his neck where the Mokeskin pouch that Hagrid had given him had rested. It was gone now, and Harry wondered how he had forgotten it. He had pulled the snitch out of it right before presenting himself to Voldemort.

“It is in the bedside table, Harry. Bring it to me.”

Harry stepped over to the drawers next to his new bed and drew out the pouch. It was a strange thing to hold again—the last of his possessions, protected in the small bag, and all that was left of his old life. Harry resisted the urge to delve his hand inside, to feel the comforting contours of his broken wand; he brought the sealed pouch to Lord Voldemort, who took it from Harry and examined it.

“Interesting. And this was a gift from that half-giant of yours?” The Dark Lord smiled derisively. “I am curious to test its properties, our bond, and your oaths.” With that, he pulled gently at the strings holding the pouch closed, and slipped his slender fingers inside.

Harry didn’t know if he wanted his Lord to succeed in removing his possessions from the pouch or not. They were his, and yes he belonged to Lord Voldemort, but his wand, his map. He had had so few things in his life…

His Master gently removed the wand, which he pocketed without even glancing in Harry’s direction. He must have seen Harry flinch; that was his wand. It had chosen him. Or, given the soul piece within him and the uncanny match of phoenix feather cores, it had chosen both him and the part of him that was Voldemort.

How he yearned for it.

“It is broken, Harry. I will keep it as a memento of the needless hostility between us. Now explain this map.”

“It was my father’s,” Harry said. “And Sirius Black, Remus Lupin.” Wormtail, too. Pettigrew. Harry didn’t want to credit him with any of the Map’s magic, though, the treacherous rat.

“So, the four of them.” His Lord hadn’t missed a beat. “And they called themselves the Marauders? How does this work.”

Harry explained how to reveal the Map’s secrets, and soon ink was washing over the parchment. “And you can see, Master, all of Hogwarts is there, everyone labelled accurately, even if they are disguised. My father and his friends didn’t know about the Room of Requirement though, or of the Chamber of Secrets of course, so they’re not on here.”

Voldemort hummed his understanding. “Well,” he said. “It’s not like either are accessible to the rebels. One is destroyed, and the other needs a Parselmouth to open.”

Except that wasn’t true. Ron had opened the Chamber in order to retrieve a Basilisk fang. Could the missing students be hiding there? Would they risk using the Dark Lord’s own birthright as refuge? It would be no more ironic than his Master using a Muggle bomb-shelter as a strong hold, Harry decided.

“Yes, most amusing,” Voldemort said in reply to Harry’s thoughts. He didn’t sound amused, though, but offended. The Dark Lord stood quickly from his chair and began pacing the small room. Nagini lifted her head from slumber, and hissing confusedly, slithered under the bed to get away from the commotion of her Master’s increasingly agitated pacing.

All at once Lord Voldemort whirled towards Harry, his eyes a burning red and glaring mercilessly at his human Horcrux. “You taught him this!” he hissed, slipping into the snake tongue in his anger; Harry’s scar lit up with the fire of Voldemort’s rage. “That was not your secret to give!”

“He stole it from me!” Harry cried, his teeth gritted against the pain. “He remembered me opening your locket. I would never have thought he would be able to repeat it, I swear! If anything, I would have thought it would have been Hermione…”

“The Mudblood!” Voldemort snarled. “That is hardly better! When I find her, Harry…when I find them, they will pay for your failure. And if they have desecrated Slytherin’s Chamber with their presence I will hold you personally responsible!”

Harry wanted to throw up in his terror. How could he fix this? He longed to crawl after Nagini and hide under the bed. “Perhaps they aren’t there at all. Why would they hide where you could so easily find them, my Lord?”

“I wouldn’t have even thought to have looked there!” Voldemort began pacing again, still seething with the thoughts of his ancestor’s Chamber being used as a safe-house by the unworthy.

Harry moved to the desk where the Map was still laid out, and began searching it for any familiar names. He had to calm his Master. He just had to find one missing student, surely, and he would be forgiven. One name, one rebel, one enemy to his Lord.

Ginny Weasley.

There she was, by the kitchens. But he couldn’t…this was Ginny.

His Ginny. His.

His Master was looking at him. He already knew. He always knew. And Harry wasn’t even his own…how could he have his own…how could he…

It wasn’t fair.

“Please,” he tried to say. But he couldn’t get his words out. His voice was too hoarse, and he was too scared, too upset.

“I haven’t even decided young Ginevra’s fate yet, Harry. Don’t decide for me.”

Harry nodded. He was going to kill Ginny all on his own, by his own disobedience, if he didn’t heed his Lord’s warning. The best chance at keeping her alive, at keeping any of them alive, was to help present them to his Master quickly and without conflict. “By the kitchens. She’s there, by herself.”

Voldemort moved next to him. Harry pointed to where Ginny’s name strode slowly down the dungeon hallway up to the stairs. The two watched in silence as she made her way to the second floor. And then to the abandoned girls’ lavatory.

Her name disappeared.

Chapter Text

Voldemort’s retribution was swift. Harry writhed under the Cruciatus Curse for an eternal minute, and even when it was over, Harry twitching and crying on the floor, the Dark Lord kept his wand trained on him and glowered. When the pain had subsided somewhat, Harry cautiously moved to his knees, though he kept his head lowered and eyes averted in a show of submission. There was no need to tempt fate; he didn’t need more pain.

“I might have let them live,” his Master hissed, “had they repented their former folly. But now? How can I forgive such a transgression?” He lowered the Elder Wand, but kept his narrowed eyes focused on his fearful Horcrux.

Harry silently reflected that Voldemort had forgiven many of his own crimes—most notably the quest to destroy the man’s soul pieces—which were surely far worse than trespassing on hallowed ground. At any rate, he did have a last argument to make, which would have the added benefit of further condemning the Malfoy family. “They had been there before, Master. During my second year, both Ron and Ginny went down because Mr. Malfoy had tricked Ginny into using your diary. She opened it long ago; maybe she remembered how. And if they had already been there once, would going there again be so bad?” Harry suggested, hoping to move his Master’s anger to a new target. It would always be a risk, bringing up one of the Dark Lord’s lost Horcruxes. But at least that one hadn’t really been Harry’s fault. Perhaps it had even been his own Horcrux fighting for survival that day, stabbing the Basilisk, the diary…

“I would like to think my soul wouldn’t attack itself, Harry,” Voldemort said in response to the thought tangent, “but I know that I, myself, have tried to destroy you multiple times since you became a Horcrux. As for your attempt to divert my anger, to lesson your own punishment? Normally I would further penalize one of my followers for such an act! But if a soul piece does actively strive to keep its container safe, you in this case, then perhaps in such instances I should work to be more lenient. I would hardly punish myself.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of being spared another round of the torture curse; he hoped Voldemort remembered this decision in the future. “Thank you, Master.”

“As for your argument that they couldn’t further sully the Chamber? Of course further infestation would defile the Founder’s rooms. They will have to be exterminated.”

Ginny would be killed. It was Harry’s fault. He had given the Map to Voldemort.

“No, Harry. In giving yourself to me, in surrendering, in completing your oaths—had your forgotten those?—you had also yielded to me all your possessions. That broken bit of holly, for example, is but my own ruined spare wand. What are you? Tell me!”

“Yours, Master.” Why did Voldemort have to rub it in so. What point was there in it? Harry’s cheeks burned with the humiliation. It was all the worse, knowing he had brought it on himself. He could have chosen death.

“My what?” the Dark Lord hissed.

“Your…” What did his Lord want him to say? The flit of new, angered pain in his scar gave an indication of how little patience his Master had for his slow-wittedness. “Your new Death Eater? Uh..your possession?” he hazarded. That should be safe.

Lord Voldemort sighed in frustration at Harry’s weak answers. “Yes. And specifically, Harry?”

“Your Horcrux, Master.”

“Yes, Harry. My Horcrux. You have no worth in my new world except in that capacity. Do not think I value you as anything but as a means to my immortality.”

It had been almost easy to forget that this past day, what with the nice, new room and with Nagini by his side. The reminder was crushing. He wasn’t really anything anymore. Just a Horcrux.  He couldn’t think about it…“Do you still want my help with the list, my Lord?”  

“Leave it for now, Harry. You may rise. I have to think about what to do regarding those friends of yours.” Voldemort sighed again. The dire rage that had been flooding Harry through their link had abated. Now his Master just seemed tired.

Harry was exhausted. Now that the adrenaline was slowly leaving his body, replaced with the bite of guilt and shame, all he wanted to do was curl up in his bed, Nagini wrapped around him and lulling him back to sleep with her gentle breathing.

“And how are you enjoying the text I left for you to read, Harry,” Voldemort asked, finally stepping away from the Map and watching as Harry stood and made his way back to the table, a pot of tea now steaming next to a set of green and silver tea-cups.

Slytherin colours. At least they weren’t black and with skulls.

“I admit I am finding it hard going, my Lord,” Harry answered, feeling abashed by this admission. “I was never that great a student, except for practicals. But I am enjoying what I have read so far.”

Voldemort nodded. “The prose is antiquated,” he acknowledged. “There is no rush to finish it, Harry. I merely thought you might the find the parallels between you and the protagonist engaging. If not I can find something more to your taste. A quidditch periodical, perhaps?”

“I would like to keep working at it, my Lord,” Harry replied. And then in a softer tone, “If that’s alright.”

“Take all the time you require. I read it many years ago, though had not thought about it until recently. Your recent change in circumstances and loyalty brought it to—”

The Dark Lord, who had only just settled in the chair opposite Harry, suddenly stood. He made a bee-line for the room’s largest tapestry—a perfect rendition of the Dark Mark, silver on black—and moved through it, as if the stone behind was not even there.

Just like Platform 9 ¾. Harry followed slowly, and brushed his hand against where his Master disappeared. It didn’t seem to lead anywhere. He pushed tentatively, then harder. Nothing happened.

Nagini slithered out from under the bed and watched Harry as he explored the closed portal. “Only Master can slide in and out.”

Yes, that seemed obvious now. That didn’t stop Harry from checking the other tapestries, even looking behind them and running his hand against the cool stone walls. The room seemed secure and closed-off to him. He tried the door to the corridor outside, though he knew that to be locked from his prior explorations.

“You left me alone with Master, Nagini!” Harry hissed at her. “He wouldn’t have been so angry if you had stayed.”

She hissed a laugh, which made Harry scowl. “Little snakeling is precious to Master. Nagini knew he would be gentle.”

Harry glared at her. “That was not gentle,” he retorted, bitterly. He went back to the table. Only one cup remained, and Harry poured himself a serving of the tea, which appeared to be a mint and chamomile blend. Perhaps it was a favourite of his Master’s. Or perhaps it was a subtle attempt by the elves to render the man’s mood more stable, more agreeable, with the calming herbs.

Nagini followed, sliding herself half up the other chair and resting her head on the table. Harry steadied the teapot, worried her bulk might cause it to topple. Her tongue darted in and out rapidly, tasting the scent of the infusion.

And then their Master strode back through the tapestry, a wicked smirk plastered upon his snake-like face, his eyes glowing in satisfaction. Harry made to stand, then thought better and slid to his knees instead. Voldemort didn’t even seem to notice. He was already back at the desk, grinning down at the rendition of the castle below him.

Harry dared to stand. He walked tentatively over to the desk, taking care to not move too quietly, to take a wide berth; he had no wish to sneak up on Voldemort from behind. Still, the man didn’t seem bothered with him at all. Harry was nothing to him in that moment. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. He tried to tell himself it was—he had spent years trying to keep the man’s attention from him. He was now a strange blend of meaningless and meaningful. Horcrux. It was very confusing.

Nagini had slithered back over and had coiled back around her Master’s shoulder. Voldemort was completely absorbed by whatever it was on the Map that had his attention, and ignored her repeated efforts to get him to pet her. At least, Harry decided, it wasn’t just him.

The Dark Lord had his eyes trained at the second-floor girls’ lavatory, and he was rolling a familiar stone between his long fingers. The Resurrection Stone. It seemed to absorb all the light from the nearby sconces. This was what had ultimately killed Dumbledore, Snape’s Killing Curse aside. Of course, that hadn’t been the Stone itself, Harry thought. Those had been his Master’s protections.

The Stone that could bring the dead to life, casting the living into death.

“I have decided what to do, dear Horcrux.” Harry wasn’t sure which of his living Horcruxes his Master was speaking to. It could be either of them. Both he and Nagini kept respectfully quiet, waiting for the Dark Lord to reveal more. But he kept his eyes on the Map, drumming the fingers of one hand on the parchment, the other hand still on the Stone.

Finally, a name appeared on the Map. It was Hermione, emerging from the Chamber of Secrets. A dark look flitted across Voldemort’s features. Harry forced himself to keep standing, to not prostrate himself. His Master had promised to be merciful. He didn’t need to beg forgiveness again. It wasn’t his fault…

“Stop hyperventilating,” the Dark Lord admonished. “I am trying to concentrate. Go and ,” finally the man looked up from the Map and cast his gaze across the room, “finish that tea. You need to calm down, and the elves have created a blend that I have found relaxing.”

The tea had been for Harry. He forced down a blush and, shoulders lowered in submission, made his way back to the table and his tea. It had cooled enough that he was able to take a large sip. He forced himself to not think about what his Master was plotting with the Map and the Stone. It wasn’t his business. It was not…

It was his friends. His friends were going to bear the punishment that should have been his. And they were just trying to survive, too. They were no worse than he was!

Another sip.

Harry tried to relax. The tea wasn’t soothing enough, he decided. He still felt panicked. He still felt so helpless!

What was his Master going to do? How could the Stone fit in with his plans? As far as Harry knew, it was absolutely useless on its own. Paired with the other Hallows it had value. Master of Death. It wasn’t as if the Dark Lord was going to summon back the dead. How would that help? Who would he summon?

“You are very distracting, Harry. Take another drink.” The Dark Lord strode over to the table, glaring at Harry, who belatedly took another quick sip. “And with all three Hallows the Stone should be far more potent. I have no intention of bringing back a loved one,” his Master hissed in disdain. Well, of course not. Of that Harry had no doubt.

“How will you use the ring, Master,” Harry ventured.

The Dark Lord hummed contemplatively, as if making a decision. He eyed Harry speculatively, then smirked. “Why not tell you,” he murmured. “I plan on reanimating the Basilisk. It will make quick work of the unworthy.”

What? Harry wasn’t sure he heard correctly, what with the sudden rushing in his ears. He couldn’t have heard correctly. Reawakening anyone from the slumber of death was…unnatural. But to reawaken Slytherin’s monster? To purify the Chamber?

“But…”

“Not the Chamber, Harry. The world.”

Oh God. Now Harry was hyperventilating.

“But first a demonstration.”

***

Harry wasn’t sure what that meant. Voldemort had left shortly after stating the ominous words, depositing Nagini in front of the fire, and reminding Harry to finish the pot of tea, as he was getting sick of Harry’s panic bleeding over through the link.

Great. Now Harry had to practically drug himself for his Lord. But in truth, he realized, it wasn’t much to ask. And maybe some of the enforced calmness would also bleed over, and his Master would relax, would abandon this horrible, hellish idea.

A world of the unworthy turned to stone. Petrified. It reminded Harry of a story that a primary teacher had read once to the class. A wardrobe. Turkish Delight. A White Witch who turned all her enemies to stone and kept the land in a perpetual winter. Always winter, but never Christmas.

Harry had loved that story when he was young. Now he could see it for what it was: Muggle paranoia. Of course the witch was evil. Why wouldn’t she be?

Well, if all the Muggles were turned to stone, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Then there would be no young wizards punished for accidental magic. No jealous sisters, who would turn into spiteful aunts. Who would turn into Nagini’s supper. Harry glanced at his sister, coiled up in front of the fire. The bulge of her last meal was gone, though Harry had no idea how that could be. Surely it would take ages to digest.

Magic, he realized.

He went over and curled up next to her. Groggily, she shifted to make room, her body wrapping around him. It was very snug. Cosy.

Harry closed his eyes. He was safe here. His sister was with him. His Master would be back soon, and a quick, residual panic washed over him as he remembered the man’s parting words. But that soon left. It didn’t matter. He was warm. Nagini was here. The fire was here. He was safe. His Master would return and take care of him. Why was he so comfortable, so sleepy? It didn’t matter, he decided, as he drifted off to sleep.

It didn’t matter at all.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to screaming.

At first the sound had infiltrated his dreams, turning them into the familiar nightmares he had been plagued with for so many years, though not quite as he remembered. He was at the graveyard in Little Hangleton. Cedric was lying dead on the grass. Someone was screaming; it wasn’t Harry. Harry was sitting cross-legged at the base of Tom Riddle’s headstone, waiting for Nagini to circle close. He needed her. She would make it all better, would comfort him. Because someone was screaming, and Harry was scared. He needed his sister.

Where was his Master? There was someone stirring the cauldron, holding a bundle of black cloth in his arms. Wormtail? No. Wormtail was lying dead next to Cedric, his silver hand wrapped around his throat.

Whoever was stirring the cauldron was screaming. They were stirring with their own ruined hand, the one not clutching the infant-like Dark Lord, and the boiling potion was rippling the flesh, scalding and destroying.

The cries of pain were horrible. Why couldn’t the man just shut up and finish helping his Master? What right did he have to disturb the dead’s slumber with his noise?

Finally, the brush of Nagini against him drew Harry’s attention.

“Time to wake, brother. Master has a surprise for you. My prey is not dead anymore! Master is playing with it now.”

The warm fire, the soft rug, the sleekness of his sister next to him was making Harry so drowsy.

At least the screams had subsided, turning to quiet whimpers and murmurs of pain. Who would be screaming in his bedroom, besides himself? Who else would his Master be punishing? Be playing with, as Nagini had suggested.

Draco? Harry’s mouth tugged up into a hopeful smirk before he could censor it. Really, though, considering the mess-up with the diary and the violation of the Chamber, Lucius was a better bet. How Harry would love to see the proud man writhing under the Cruciatus. He had to see!

But on opening his eyes, Harry could only blink them rapidly in complete confusion. This couldn’t be right. This was impossible.

Severus Snape was lying prone on the floor of his bedroom, twitching erratically. He was a complete mess, filthy and bloody.

He stank.

He was dead.

“Not anymore, Harry. Thanks to your gift.” Voldemort turned to the fire, to his living Horcruxes, though he kept his wand trained on his former Potions Master. His face was a mix of contempt, of cruelty, and of curiosity. “To your gifts, I should say. For my ring could never have performed such a feat by itself. But the power of the Hallows joined, combined with my own magical prowess, is truly a wonder. The Death Stick alone delivered my victory. And now I can resurrect both enemies and allies, to punish and serve at my will.”

So, Snape was being punished for his treachery.

“Yes, dear Horcrux.” Voldemort’s wand moved in a sweeping arc over the fallen wizard, and Snape began to thrash again on the floor. Harry backed further away, wary of being struck by a flailing limb. “I needed to experiment before I awaken my dear Basilisk. Besides, I owe Severus a more violent death than Nagini’s strike. A traitor’s death!” he hissed, venomously, and the wand swept through the air once more, and the screaming began again.

Harry had spent many years disliking Severus Snape. It was hard not to, even when he had merely thought the man was but a bully with a despicable temperament. And then he had killed Dumbledore, and Harry’s dislike had morphed into a terrible hatred. He had hated Snape more than Voldemort, even. Of course, now Harry understood that Snape had never betrayed the Light, betrayed Dumbledore. The Headmaster hadn’t been begging for his life.

He had been begging for his death.

He had been pleading for Snape to follow through on his promise, to spare him the torment of a more horrific murder by the Carrows. By Greyback.

To spare Draco, too. To spare his soul from the taint of murder.

But he hadn’t spared Harry, had he, no matter what promises the man may have made after his mother had died? Snape had promised to keep him, Harry, safe. And he had, over the years, prevented Harry’s death. He had stepped in, begrudgingly, when absolutely needed.

But in the end, when Dumbledore had told him of his plan, what had he done? Yes, Snape had been angry. But he had just gone along with it. He could have gone to Voldemort then. He could have laid his heart bare to the Dark Lord, begged forgiveness, and surrendered his information: Harry was a Horcrux! Harry could have been saved the exhaustion of this last year in the wilderness, the heartache of battle.

In the end, Snape had played the hero for Dumbledore, another martyr for the Greater Good.

But perhaps it wasn’t loyalty to Dumbledore. And certainly not to Harry. It was loyalty to a dead woman, and revenge against her murderer. It was more important for Snape to bring about the Dark Lord’s final defeat than to keep Harry alive.

Harry was nothing to Snape but a memory of a lost friendship. He certainly wasn’t a boy who should never have had to die.

The Cruciatus had lifted during Harry’s musings. Snape was completely insensate, his eyes a complete void, bloody drool spilling from his mouth. Why had his Master brought him here to torture, anyway?

“I thought you would enjoy seeing him suffer, Harry,” Voldemort offered, “given the contempt you have mutually held for each other.” But Harry found he wasn’t quite comfortable watching his former, bullying professor in such pain. Humiliation, though, was another matter. That wretched man deserved to be brought low. But despite his failure to him, despite the hell that he had made of his Hogwarts years, something held Harry back. Some kind of acknowledgment, perhaps, that they had both been sorely used by Dumbledore. Had been given up as martyrs. And Snape had done so willingly, even after knowing he had been tricked by the Headmaster’s seemingly altruistic schemes. Harry tried not to let the comparison shame him.

“He did fail you,” Voldemort spat, thankfully dragging Harry’s thoughts back on track. “And I thought the most fitting punishment would be for him to witness your subjugation before me. What do you think, Horcrux? Should we rouse him?”

Harry nodded, and his Master moved to the table and picked up a vial of a smoky potion that was resting there. “Nagini, prop him up,” Voldemort ordered. Nagini slithered from Harry’s side to the prostrate Potions Master, and coiling herself tightly around his torso, managed to raise his upper body into a semi-seated position. Finally, one coil was wrapped around the base of his chin, her head propped heavily upon her forehead, and bearing her weight down forced the man to unconsciously open his mouth. “Thank you, pet.”

Harry edged forward in his curiosity, keeping to his knees in a sign of deference, but his Master ordered, “Keep behind me, Harry. I don’t wish for him to notice you just yet.” Harry scooted behind his Master, still keeping to the floor. He could still just see the man, if he was discrete.

The Dark Lord bent down slightly and poured the entirety of the vial’s contents into the helpless man’s mouth. Immediately, Nagini contorted slightly, which had the effect of forcibly closing Snape’s mouth. Within seconds the man began his thrashing yet again, though he could barely move with Nagini wrapped around him. She hissed threateningly at him, so unlike her gentleness when Harry had panicked when waking in this same situation. Snape froze, his eyes dilating in fear.

“Welcome back, Severus,” Voldemort said, glaring down at the bound man.

It was an endless minute before Snape was able to calm himself to answer. Harry knew it must have been extremely confusing for him—one moment he was in the Shrieking Shack, a sacrifice to Voldemort’s quest for power, then in an unknown, comfortable room, writhing in agony at the man’s feet.

“My Lord, I had thought…” Snape said, finally, his voice hoarse. “Your snake, my Lord. You had her attack me…”

The Dark Lord sighed, as though the thought made him rather sad. “I told you that I regretted it, Severus. But it was quite necessary. I had thought the wand was yours. But it turned out rather differently. Young Draco…”

“Draco? My Lord, you didn’t…” Snape sounded horrified, and at first Harry couldn’t figure out why. Then it came to him. Snape thought the Dark Lord had killed Draco in his quest for mastery over the Elder Wand.

I wish, Harry thought viciously. He was at once ashamed at his own vehemence. Draco might be a complete git, and deserved to be brought to his knees before his Master. But death?

“Keep quiet, Harry. And be ready to play the part I need of you when the time comes,” Voldemort hissed, though he shifted his eyes to Nagini, still coiled tightly around Snape.

Snape’s eyes darted to the side, as if to catch sight of Nagini’s mouth, thinking the Dark Lord had ordered her to do something. She hissed again, a nonsensical mix of sibilant sounds, but it had the effect of making the man still in his terror. Harry kept quiet and motionless as possible. His part in this charade had yet to begin.

“Draco, Severus? Is there some reason you should care what should happen to him? I understand that Narcissa begged you to take an oath to protect him. I must say that having you dead for a while was most helpful in circumventing that.” Harry was mesmerized with how his Master’s voice exuded confidence. Snape didn’t seem nearly as impressed, judging by his fearful eyes. “But the Death Stick is mine at last. I knew you were lying about its allegiance. And you shall pay for your deceit. But first…”

And now Voldemort stepped aside, revealing the fallen Saviour.

Snape just looked at Harry as though he didn’t recognize him at all. Harry, for his part, darted his eyes back up to Voldemort. What was he supposed to do?

The Dark Lord glared at him. “Beg all you want, Potter,” his Master spat, hideously. “No one will save you. The Light is fallen and I will take my time in tearing you apart!”

It was pretend. But Harry’s heart was pounding as though his Master meant it.

Snape was still just staring at Harry in shock. Didn’t the man care? He had supposedly watched over him for years. He had loved his mother. And here was Harry, on his knees before Lord Voldemort, apparently about to be tortured to death, and the man could only gaze stupidly at him? He’d seemed to care about Draco!

Well, time to act. Harry really was scared by his Master’s words, fake or not, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to look beseechingly at his former professor as if the man, himself helpless, could aid him in some way.

But he still got no reaction. Harry’s plight just wasn’t registering to him. Or he just didn’t care anymore. One last chance…Harry gazed back up to his Master, and taking a deep, calming breath, forced himself to glare at the man. “Do whatever the hell you want, Voldemort! You’ll lose. It doesn’t matter what you do to me.”

I’m so sorry, Master! Harry thought forcibly.

“You should have begged for mercy when you could, Potter!” And at once, the Elder Wand was pointed at him again. Harry closed his eyes against the oncoming pain. He had known he would feel his Master’s wrath again at some point. He had hoped, though, that he could avoid it for a while longer. “I hope Albus prepared you for suffering, for I plan to flay your worthless hide and let your body rot whist you yet live, crucified like the broken Saviour that you are.”

Fuck. Harry glanced at Snape again. Why wasn’t he saying anything? And wasn’t he supposed to be subjugating himself to his Master in front of Snape? When was that part of the plan going to happen?

“Nagini, let him go. Harry, beg for mercy now.” Voldemort was still murderously glaring at Harry. It was an act, Harry told himself.

“No, please. Just…” Harry gulped. “Just…please just kill me! Don’t…I won’t try to fight or anything.”

The Dark Lord sneered down at him, “As if a worthless boy such as you could fight me.”

“I beg of you.  Please. Just make it quick.” For all Snape knew, this was exactly what Harry wanted. He was expected to let himself be killed in order to destroy the Horcrux bound to him.

By now Nagini had unwound from Snape and had slithered back to her Master. “No, I think not, Harry,” the Dark Lord said, decidedly, with almost a hint of regret. “I must make an example of you. Too long have you been defying me. But I promise you, if you keep up this deference, I will be more merciful to your friends. But you? My apologies, but I cannot afford mercy. Severus, break his fingers. All of them. Then I will begin.”

That got Snape’s attention, and he cast his gaze back and forth, horrified, between Harry and Voldemort. It seemed that he was far more hesitant to actively participate in committing such atrocities. But he didn’t seem nearly concerned enough about being a spectator, Harry decided.

“Please, no…” Harry begged. He looked imploringly at Snape, hoping his fear was convincing. He was pretty scared, though he didn’t really think his Master would let him be truly damaged. “Professor. Please? Don’t let him…help me please?”

“Potter,” Snape began, his voice still hoarse. “I am so sorry.”

He was going to do it, Harry realized. He was going to hurt him, just as the Dark Lord ordered. So long as Harry died in the end. And with that knowledge, Harry’s fear left him completely, his terror turning to vehemence, and he hissed up at his Master, “Master? Can I watch you break his fingers?”

“I am disappointed in you, Severus,” Voldemort said, sadly. “I had thought you cared more for the boy than that. Harry, ask that again in English.”

Harry blushed, but complied, , “Master? Can I watch you break his fingers?” He forced himself to pull his attention back to his former professor, to watch the confusion at Harry’s words bend to the man’s mounting dread as understanding began to take hold.

“I think it would be more entertaining to have you break them yourself, don’t you think, Horcrux? Yes, Severus. I know. Harry told me what he was, in a bid to spare himself. And I have spared him, though not without reservation. He has taken my Oath, and has been branded a full Death Eater. Show him your Mark, Harry.”

Harry rolled up his sleeve. He had never been more pleased to see the tattoo on his left forearm. Where before there was shame, now there was pure satisfaction, a feeling which he felt simultaneously rushing through the link with his Master. “I killed Petunia,” he told Snape, and smiled at the man’s horror. “And if Master lets me, I want to kill my uncle and cousin.”

“All in good time, Harry.” Voldemort had circled behind him and now placed a hand on his head, stroking his fringe off his forehead and brushing a long finger over his scar. Where once such an act had brought pain, now was only pleasure. Nagini dropped herself partly on Harry’s shoulder and used her body to bind the two wizards together. “Perhaps if you earn it, I will allow you to sacrifice them at Midsummer.”

As Voldemort spoke, Snape had gotten to his knees and had begun to back up. But Voldemort’s wand was trained upon him instantly, and he was quickly bound with an Incarcerous spell. “My Lord,” he tried, frantically. “What is this? I didn’t know—”

And Snape was again writhing on the ground under Voldemort’s Crucio, this time his limbs tightly bound with ropes. The Dark Lord only held the spell for a moment, and soon he was spitting accusations at the terrified man: “Did you not think I would know, Severus? I had hoped you would have been smart enough to admit what Harry was to me now that he was at my complete mercy. But you have proven treacherous even after death. Even after I brought you back to life. You had a second chance, and you have utterly wasted it. You shall brew one last potion for me, traitor. A blood-boiling poison. But first, Harry, break his thumbs.”

Harry knew how to do it. Dudley had once pried back one of Harry’s pinky fingers until a sickening crack had startled him into letting go. Harry remembered the flash of intense pain, before a strangely long period of incomprehensible nothing, shock he now realized, before the pain returned full force. Harry had been sick in the bushes behind the school, and had been very slow doing the dishes that evening. He hadn’t dared complained to his aunt about it. She wouldn’t have cared. The cupboard had been a mercy that night.

Voldemort had urged Nagini onto the floor, and Harry approached his bound professor. This was the man who had hated him for no reason, he told himself. He was worse than the Muggles. At least he had been a burden to them, Harry decided. They had been forced to take care of him when they hadn’t wanted him. What had he done to Snape? Reminded him of his parents?  Been forced to teach him?

Snape had been coerced into taking an oath to protect him. Why had he stopped doing so?

“You are not a burden, Harry. And why don’t you ask him?” the Dark Lord hissed. The strangeness of his Master knowing his thoughts would never leave him, Harry decided. But he was grateful for it. There were so many things that were too uncomfortable to say, and having his Master know them without him having to force the words out was a blessing.

“You knew back in my sixth year,” Harry began. He tried to keep his voice neutral. Not scared. Not cruel. “You could have kept me safe back then, if you had gone to my Master then and told him what I was. He would never have tried to kill me had he known.”

Snape shook his head, then turned and coughed up a disgusting mixture of phlegm and blood. When he spoke, his voice was still a little hoarse, but had regained the disdainful manner that Harry was most familiar with. “Use that idiotic brain of your, Potter,” he spat. “First, I had not thought you cowardly enough to desire life under your parents’ murderer rule. Secondly, I had not thought that the Dark Lord would let you live comfortably even if he did know. I would have thought death preferable over eternal torment.”

Harry gave Snape a sneer worthy of the Potions Master himself. “You just wanted me dead. You never cared about me. And by the way, my Master did try to spare my mother. He tried. Three times he tried to let her live. And three times she foolishly wouldn’t move aside. It was her own fault that she died.”

“You worthless brat!” Snape was completely red in the face, a colour Harry had only previously seen on Vernon when he was in a rage. “I wish you had died. I would have been spared having to put up with you for six endless years. You always thought you were so special. Well, congratulations. It turns out you were right…you pathetic waste of a life.”

Harry was beside Snape before he knew it, grasping the man’s right thumb in one hand and twisting it brutally. The man couldn’t wrench away, bound as he was, and soon the sound of a crack and a hiss of pain filled the room. Harry reached for Snape’s other hand, but pulled away as a wave of nausea washed through him. He bolted to the washroom and vomited into the toilet instead.

A quick drink of water from the faucet, and he made his way back to the other room. He knelt at his Master’s feet, and kissed them devoutly before hissing, “I am sorry, Master.”

Voldemort just stroked Harry’s hair again—Harry closed his eyes, relishing the affection—and replied, “You did well, Harry. Nagini, bite Severus’ other hand. Not enough venom to kill. Just inflict pain.”

“Yes, Master.” Nagini slithered towards the horror-struck Snape. He seemed to have gotten over the shock of Harry’s violence, and now watched as Nagini glided towards him, her eyes on his uninjured hand. He had not understood Voldemort’s last command, and the last time she had bitten him had led to death.

“Do not fret, Severus. She will only maim your other thumb, as Harry has done enough. Your suffering will not end so quickly.”

And with that purported reassurance, Nagini lunged.

Chapter Text

Snape’s screams had given Harry a headache, and not even feeling his Master’s satisfaction through their link seemed to ease it. Eventually, Voldemort took pity upon him and Silenced the man, though Harry wished he would just take the traitor away. It was hard to relax with the greasy git twisting about in pain on the floor. Really, it was just a broken thumb and a small bite; Harry had never acting so deplorably after a beating from Vernon or Dudley. Snape was clearly milking it.

Harry curled up with Nagini in front of the fire again, and his Master retook the seat at the desk. He seemed to find the Map as enthralling as Harry had when he had first seen it. Even without the multitude of students the castle normally held, there were still the Dark Lord’s patrols, the ghosts, and the occasional student rebel slinking about.

Meanwhile, Nagini was quietly hissing stories to Harry. She told him about how she had first met their Master, long ago during his first rise to power. And then she spoke of how she had sought for him in vain for years after the night when the Killing Curse had backfired. Harry was happy that she didn’t cast blame upon him. He was on edge enough without being made to feel guilty about that, too.

“And finally Master found me, brother. Master was so small, like a hatchling, but Nagini could taste that it was him. So Nagini took care of him.”

“What about Wormtail, Nagini?” Harry asked. It was fascinating to hear the story of Voldemort’s return to power from his familiar’s perspective. The two Horcruxes hissed quietly to each other, their voices lost to the crackling of the fire. Still, Harry knew that their Master always knew his thoughts, and was merely ignoring them.

“The rat?” Nagini asked, and Harry nodded. “The rat did bring Master to Nagini, but he was too scared to really help Master. Nagini wanted to strike him many times.”

“I did, too,” Harry admitted. “But I didn’t when I had the chance. But I guess that was for the best, because otherwise Master might have not come back then.”

Nagini hissed angrily at this, and for a moment Harry was afraid. But she wouldn’t hurt him. She was merely chastising him, as an older sister should. “Of course Master would come back. Master didn’t need the rat. Eventually brother and Nagini would have found Master and helped him.”

“But Nagini,” Harry said, “I didn’t even know he was my Master then. I was still being tricked by Dumbledore.”

“Silly snakeling,” Nagini soothed, her anger abated. “Nagini would have told brother.” She seemed to have forgotten that she had not always been fond of him. Harry decided not to bring it up. Harry glanced towards the desk, and caught the Dark Lord smirking at them. He had been following their conversation, and had found it amusing. Harry smiled back, tentatively, and his Master nodded at him before diverting his attention back to the Map.

“Tell me again about how you and Master got lost in the mountains,” Harry begged. Nagini acquiesced, and soon Harry was again regaled with an adventure story worthy of an epic fantasy novel: a blustery night in a desolate mountain range in the Alps, searching for the spot where the Magical ley lines intersected with a substantial deposit of pure quartz; suddenly Master and Nagini had been caught in an ancient trap, and Master’s magic had begun to leach into a series of runes etched upon the stone; Master’s magic was strong though, so he had blasted a way through, but the local coven descended upon them just then, when Master was weakened; soon Master was strung up, insensate, but Nagini had gotten away and was hiding nearby, and just when the coven elder was about to harm Master, Nagini struck first. The ending was fairly horrible, even by Nagini’s standards. It would have made a fabulous film, Harry decided.

“I decorated the village with their entrails, Harry,” Voldemort said loudly, interrupting Nagini’s retelling. The switch to English was clearly for Snape’s benefit, and both Dark Lord and Horcrux took pleasure at watching the man pale at the words. “I had forgotten how much I enjoyed the sight of a good disembowling. Though Nagini takes too much credit; I had actually been possessing her when I struck. I was in a trance, not insensate.” This last bit was in Parseltongue, and clearly directed at his familiar. She didn’t seem particularly embarrassed at being caught out. “Just as you cannot distinguish yourself from me during your visions, Harry, so Nagini does not recognize when I have taken control of her. She did not mean to deceive.”

Harry nodded. It had always been disconcerting to be both Harry and the Dark Lord. How much harder for a snake? “Master,” he ventured. “I haven’t had any visions lately. I had so many before. Is something wrong?”

Voldemort stood then, and beckoned him forward. Harry wriggled out of Nagini’s coils. He stood and walked to the Dark Lord. Voldemort put a hand on Harry’s forehead and stared straight into his eyes, unblinking. “I haven’t sent any visions to you since fifth year, Harry.”

The visions weren’t from Lord Voldemort? But that made no sense at all! Who else were they from? Unless Dumbledore had found a way to send them to him, to trick him more…but that didn’t make sense, either, as the visions had only gotten worse this past year, and Dumbledore was dead. Maybe someone was still sending them to him. A powerful legilimens…Snape! It fit! It had to be Snape…

“Quiet your ridiculous thoughts, Horcrux,” the Dark Lord hissed, angrily. Harry wasn’t ready for the twinge of annoyed pain that surged through his scar. “Of course it wasn’t him. Or Dumbledore!” Harry flinched away at the flash of anger in his Master’s slitted eyes.

“I don’t understand. I’m sorry, Master!” he pleaded.

Voldemort took a breath, as if to calm himself. “It was always you, Harry. The visions were real, and you got them from me from our soul link. But the reason you were receiving them at all was because you were in distress. Here, finally in your rightful place, protected by both Nagini and myself, you are at last settled. You are at rest. Your mind does not need to latch onto my thoughts.”

It took a while for this to make sense to Harry. He realized he had misunderstood what his Master had said—it wasn’t that the visions weren’t from Voldemort, it was just that his Master hadn’t sent them to him. Harry was at fault. He had stolen the visions from his Master. But he hadn’t meant to! Was his Master angry for the violation of privacy?

“Of course not, Harry. I realize that you thought it was my weakness,” and here his Master scoffed, and Harry acknowledged in his own mind that the idea was absurd, “that was allowing you access. But it was the link between us, and your need, that was bringing our thoughts into alignment. I will not punish you again for your misguided actions before you submitted to me.”

“Thank you.” Harry sank to his knees before his Master. How could he ever have been willing to fight him?

Lord Voldemort brought his hand again to Harry’s head, his scar, his face. As he caressed Harry’s cheek, he said, “It pleases me greatly, Harry, seeing you submitting like this, so freely.”

“I know, Master,” Harry responded, allowing his eyes to close in contentment. “I can feel it.” And he could feel the waves of aching satisfaction, of pleasure, push through the link, which made Harry panic as he thought of something. “Am I stealing from you now, Master? Taking your emotions?”

“Relax, Harry,” the Dark Lord said, continuing to stroke Harry’s face. “This is a natural bleed over due to our Soul bond. It is the same with Nagini, is it not? You feel her contentment at times?”

Harry nodded, and pushed himself further into his Master’s caressing hand. No wonder Nagini was always badgering for someone to pet her. It felt so good.

“It pleases me that I can monitor your state of mind, Harry. And that you have a way of discerning mine, so that you can submit to my will more easily. I will ask you, though, to keep your mood regulated when you are not in danger. I do not enjoy feeling echoes of the guilt and shame that you still battle with on occasion.” Suddenly his Master’s hand was gone. Along with the man’s words, Harry couldn’t help but feel chastised. He was distracting his Master with his improper emotions. But then one of Voldemort’s hands had seized a wrist, and he was pulled to his feet. His Master was again studying the Map, and said, “I find myself impressed with your father and his friends. This Map is actually quite a complex conglomeration of magics. It must have been no easy feat. But it is incomplete. The Room of Hidden Things will have to remain unmapped. I have hopes that it will eventually be restored, but even so it is a room of change. Perhaps one day I will work on adapting the Map to allow the architectural changes necessary; it is already designed to by inherently dynamic, after all. But for now, I have an assignment for you.”

An assignment? Involving the Map? What could Harry do without magic at his disposal? Was his Master sending him away? Instead of all this he said, “Of course, my Lord.”

His Master knew his doubts. He didn’t need to voice them.

“You will be adding Slytherin’s Chamber to the Map, Harry. That is your task. And whilst you are there, see if you can lure those ‘friends’ of yours out of hiding.”

***

It took a few days for Voldemort to arrange Harry’s mission to his satisfaction. Harry was dressed in his worn Muggle clothes, or a meticulous facsimile. His Master had scratched a series of what he had said were protective ruins upon Harry’s torso, and Harry wasn’t sure if what he felt was disgust or honour when his Master had cut his own hand and rubbed the wound’s blood over the unfamiliar symbols covering Harry’s chest. Honour, he told himself. His Master had bled for him to keep him safe.

He was not going alone. Nagini refused to leave his side, and Voldemort had cast a Silencing to just her body—she could still hiss to Harry when needed—to keep the brush of her scales on the floor from alerting anyone to her presence. Harry had asked if his Master would draw protective runes on her as well, and his Master had lifted Nagini’s chin to show Harry markings that he’d not noticed before. “I protected Nagini years ago, Harry. But mostly, she can safeguard herself. And you as well, if need be.”

Harry was again wearing the Mokeskin pouch, the Map folded inside once more. The Dark Lord had cast all the necessary spells upon it to allow it to chart out new territory.

“Don’t the rebels...” friends, Harry thought, “Don’t they know I am now yours, Master? Surely your patrols have spoken of it amongst themselves. They’ll have heard that I’m not on their side anymore. They might not even let me into the Chamber, let alone lure them out after I’ve mapped it.”

A part of Harry was worried that, surrounded by his friends, his new allegiance would crumble. But Nagini would be with him, he told himself. And he would always carry a piece of Voldemort with him, attached at the most intimate level—to his very soul.

His Master didn’t seem concerned. “The Light are always willing to accept that which is to their benefit, even if it is a lie. Take a look at Dumbledore: years after I had devoted my life to the Dark, and to a freeing of restrictive magics, he was proselytizing to me, hoping for me to be redeemed in his eyes. Even if your friends have heard that you took my Mark, they will likely not have believed it. They will assume that my men are attempting to demoralize them. You acted your part well enough with Severus. I trust you will not fail me now.”

Snape had been removed sometime after Harry had fallen asleep with Nagini, curled up in front of the fire again. He’d awoken in his new bed. Voldemort and Snape were gone, and the House Elf had cleaned up the mess that the torture had left behind. Harry had asked Nagini where the Dark Lord had taken his newest prisoner, but she hadn’t known. He wondered if Snape had been placed in the bomb-shelter stronghold, but quickly pushed that idea aside. That had been his cell, and he wasn’t in the mood to share anything with his former professor, even prisons. If Voldemort had put Snape there, though, Harry hoped he’d removed whatever charm had kept Harry from needing the toilet. Snape deserved to suffer that indignity, he decided vindictively.

“Of course not, my Lord,” Harry said with a decisiveness he didn’t genuinely feel. He pushed the Muggle idiom ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ from his mind. Lord Voldemort urged Nagini to climb up to his shoulders, and when she was well situated he proffered a hand to Harry in preparation for Apparition. It took Harry a moment to reach forward and grasp his Master’s outstretched fingers. He had never touched his Master’s hand with his own. He had been touched by the Dark Lord, yes, and had kissed his feet. This, though, felt almost irreverent, even if his Master was practically ordering it. Harry looked up into Voldemort’s red eyes, just to make sure he wasn’t out of line. At his Master’s subtle, affirming nod, Harry reached out tentatively. He expected Voldemort to lose patience and violently seize his wrist, but that didn’t happen. The Dark Lord waited for Harry to slip his own hand into his own larger one, waited for Harry to grasp their fingers together. Harry did so, and found he couldn’t keep eye contact any more. It was just too much, but he still kept hold of his Master’s hand.

And he had thought holding hands with a girl was awkward.

Harry didn’t think he would ever get used to side-along Apparition, no matter how many times he experienced it. Voldemort had dropped his hand as soon as they had arrived at this new location—a patch of forest that Harry didn’t recognize--and spread the Map out before them, a wandless Lumos casting soft illumination over the parchment. He pointed a slender finger at the third-floor corridor close to the Defence classroom. “I have ordered that the passage from the statue to Hogsmeade be reopened. You will make your way into the castle via that tunnel. Nagini will be with you at all times. Avoid speaking with her unnecessarily. My plans will be ruined if she is detected prematurely.”

Harry nodded his understanding. “They’ll ask where I’ve been this past…week?”

“To the day,” Voldemort responded, distractedly. He gently set Nagini on the ground, and Disillusioned her. She immediately seemed to disappear, camouflaging perfectly into the scattered leaves surrounding his feet. “Stay close, pet. You will be leaving with your brother soon.”

“A week,” Harry repeated, incredulously. So much had happened in that time. He’d surrendered, been Marked and imprisoned. He’d been freed, relatively speaking, and initiated. He’d tortured Snape.

He’d joined Voldemort. He had bowed to him and kissed his feet. More than once, too, and the second time with fervour.

He had a Master now. And a sister, too.

“Do not forget yourself on this mission, Horcrux!” Voldemort hissed, his angry tone bringing Harry’s thoughts back to the present, back to the forest. “Remember your vows to me, and the consequences if you violate them!”

Harry quickly knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet. “I won’t forget, Master. I’m yours. Your Horcrux.”

The brush of his Master’s long, spidery fingers along his scar followed this pronouncement. “Good.”

“But, Master,” Harry said, trying again. “What do I tell them when they ask where I’ve been? Surely they will know that I’d been taken by you. I disappeared right after you announced that I was to surrender. And with the rumours of my betrayal—”

“Calm yourself, Harry. You were never captured. You’ve been lost here in the Forbidden Forest this past week, trying to escape from the Battle. From me.”

They’ll think I was a coward, Harry thought. That I sacrificed them all to save myself.

“It is no worse than the truth,” Voldemort reminded him.

Harry nodded. He was even now willingly kneeling before Lord Voldemort. He was about to embark on his first real mission as a Death Eater, a mission that involved luring his friends out of hiding, probably to their deaths. That was far worse than merely running away.

“However,” Voldemort continued, and Harry looked up at him hopefully. Maybe he’d changed his mind? But the Dark Lord sneered down at him and grasped Harry’s hair in a painful warning. “You do not look the part. Even in these rags of yours, you do not look unkempt enough to have been on the run. We shall have to remedy that.”

The grip on Harry’s hair tugged harder; Harry bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain. Moments later he was violently shoved to the ground, and then his world exploded in agony as he was hit by his Master’s Crucio.

The curse was lifted almost instantly, but it left Harry panting on the ground. Looking up, he saw his Master’s wand trained on him.

Shit!

But the Dark Lord didn’t actually look angry. He was staring down at Harry appraisingly, as if making a decision. And then he twisted the wand in a jerking spiral, and Harry’s nerves lit up once more, but this time the pain was replaced by an intense tickling sensation. It was still unbearable, and Harry thrashed and rolled about at Voldemort’s feet, trying to somehow escape the spell.

When it was over, Voldemort waited patiently for Harry to right himself, and kneel at his feet again. Harry reached up to brush away the leaves that had gotten stuck to his hair and clothes.

“Leave them, Harry, unless you wish for a repeat performance of those curses,” Voldemort ordered. “I am attempting to make you look more bedraggled. Don’t destroy the effect.”

Harry dropped his hand, then looked down at himself. He did look far more naturally disheveled than he had a few minutes ago. He wished his Master had given him some warning, though.

“You should be grateful I switched from the Cruciatus to the Rictusempra, Horcrux,” Voldemort said. “Now do you have everything?”

Harry nodded up to the Dark Lord. He had Nagini and the Map. His Master wouldn’t give him a wand.

Harry didn’t deserve a wand.

“Excellent. Now get going.”

Chapter Text

Voldemort pointed Harry in the direction of Hogsmeade, promising that Nagini would remain with him. Harry began the trek to the village, but after a few feet had cast one last look back at the Dark Lord to ask how he should contact him if required. But in just those few moments his Master had disappeared, just as Hagrid had done at the train station on his eleventh birthday.

He felt, absurdly, abandoned. But Nagini was somewhere nearby, her thick body slithering through the forest’s underbrush, however with Voldemort’s powerful Disillusionment she remained completely undetectable. “Are you there, Nagini?” he hissed. He had to know he wasn’t alone.

“Yes, silly snakeling. But Master said to make no noise. No more hissing until brother and Nagini are alone!” she chastised.

“Yes, sister,” he agreed. “Just don’t leave me.”

She didn’t hiss back, but the gentle brush he felt against his leg was answer enough, and gave Harry the courage to start walking again towards the village. It wasn’t long before the trees began to thin, and then Harry could discern a path leading in the general direction that his Master had pointed. He hurried along, hoping that he wouldn’t run into anyone before making it into the castle. He wished for his Invisibility Cloak. But that was his Master’s now, and he had not opted to share it to make the trip easier.

The journey to Honeydukes took longer than it should have, what with Harry stopping to hide behind trees at every suspect noise, and at the same time he got there far too soon. He ducked into the shop, ready to dart down to the cellar. There would be no throngs of Hogwarts students to mask his entry this time…

But the shop was empty. And dusty. The bell above the door tinkled merrily as he opened it, but all cheeriness was lost amongst the cobwebs drifting down in sheets from the ceiling. Harry held the door open longer than he liked, to give Nagini time to trail along behind him, closing it as soon as he thought it safe. He quickly glanced around, wondering where the proprietor might be. A bump at his heels—Nagini!—prompted him to keep moving.

Harry quickly regretted being wandless. The stairs to the cellar were treacherous, what with only the filtered light coming through from the main shop windows. The storeroom was dustier than ever; Harry might not have been able to see well, but the sneezing fit that accosted him when he groped for the trapdoor was proof enough.

The tunnel was pitch. Only the first ten stairs could be seen, each one becoming less discernable in the dark. Harry knew there were more than two hundred more steps after those, which he would have to descend blind. There was nothing for it, he decided. This was the way in prescribed by his Lord. It was slow going, though. He dared whisper to Nagini, begging her to stay well enough away from him so that he wouldn’t trip on her in the dark. She hissed back that she could see just fine, and that all he had to do was follow her, forgetting that she was now practically invisible in daylight, let alone in the dark. Harry just sighed his agreement, and began his slow, careful descent.

The Dark Lord had not given Harry a timeframe to get to the castle, but Harry still felt anxious at how long the trip was taking. Nagini was not helping at all with her quiet encouragements to hurry up and follow her. He hoped she wouldn’t get too far ahead, not that there was a way for her to emerge at the other end without him.

For that matter, Harry realized that he would be unable to return this way if he needed to, not without a wand at least. Wishing for a Lumos more than anything at that moment, Harry regretted his Master’s decision to deprive him of one more than ever. Perhaps if he did well on this mission he would please Voldemort enough and he would relent, though Harry doubted it. In the interim, he held his hand out to ward off the multiple twists he knew this passage took, and made sure to lift his feet so he wouldn’t stumble as much over the uneven floor. Once he was sure that he tripped over Nagini, though when he told her off for getting in his way, she hissed from far enough away that he realized it couldn’t have been her. But whatever it was he had tripped over had definitely slithered off.

Harry tried to move far more quickly after that.

***

It took far too long to finally reach the castle. At least this passage deposited them directly inside of Hogwarts, and he and Nagini hadn’t had to dodge the Whomping Willow’s vicious branches.

It took several minutes before Harry could make out anything in the light after emerging from the tunnel. Once he was through with blinking and painful squinting, he gazed around in shock. The castle was…

Harry had been looking forward to getting back here so much. Even if he had been worried about his mission regarding the Map and hugely disturbed about the role he was to play in his friends’ destruction—though he still secretly harboured the hope that it would work out alright; his Master was a merciful Lord, after all—he had been all too ready to be back at the school, to wander the halls and have a short time to reflect upon the happiness that had once been his, here at his first true home.

It was a good thing he had a new home with his Master and Nagini, because Hogwarts was in ruins. He had been there throughout the battle. How could he have forgotten how damaged the castle had become during that night?

The statue of the One-Eyed Witch was the only intact thing in that corridor. The doors to the nearby Defense classroom had been torn off their hinges and had smashed into a suit of armour about twenty feet away. Harry smiled briefly, treacherously he realized, how McGonagall had bewitched the Hogwart’s suits of armour to protect the castle and its inhabitants. She was dead now, executed. Harry squashed his grief down, all the while knowing he was getting too much practice at doing so.

The walls in places looked scorched, as if blasted here and there with a stray Incendio. Nagini had said that the castle had been on fire. Voldemort had surely quenched all the flames by now, though. Harry didn’t doubt that the Dark Lord would ensure that the school was fully repaired, restored to its former glory.

It had been Lord Voldemort’s first true home as well.

For now, though, the castle was beyond damaged. It had been the focus of the most terrible battle in recent Wizarding history a mere week before, after all. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly considering that Voldemort had already prepared the passage from Honeydukes for Harry’s arrival, there was a path already cleared through the wreckage so Harry didn’t have to clamber over anything or watch out for any particular hazards. It made it safer and easier for Nagini too, Harry reflected.

It made the journey to Myrtle’s bathroom and to the entrance to the Chamber that much faster. And Harry wasn’t sure that he was ready to see his friends yet. If he was ready to deceive them. He sat down on a broken lavatory seat that looked relatively clean. He would open the Chamber soon. He just needed a minute, that was all.

Harry felt Nagini coil up around one of his legs, and felt a heavy weight rest upon his left foot. Her head, he guessed. He wished they could talk to each other, but here, so close to the rebel encampment, it was far too dangerous. Of course, Harry could pretend he was just muttering to himself whilst searching for the right sink to activate the tunnel’s entrance.

In the end, he decided it wasn’t worth the risk, which turned out to be a good thing because no sooner had he stood up than Moaning Myrtle whooshed out of the very toilet he had rested upon. She stared at him for long enough that he decided she hadn’t recognized him. Then all at once, she rushed towards the sink that housed the Chamber’s entrance, vanishing down the drain. Harry was impressed, and truthfully flabbergasted, that she’d done so in silence. He was used to her caterwauling at the slightest provocation. Perhaps even she had finally learned discretion during these difficult times.

Harry slowly got to his feet, careful to allow Nagini to unwind before moving slowly forward, and began to follow the ghost to the sinks. He didn’t really need to locate the small engraving of the serpent on the faucet as it was far easier to hiss the requisite ‘open up’ now that he spoke the snake language so frequently.

The sink receded and the pipe leading down into Slytherin’s Chamber appeared. How strange, Harry wondered, to fear descending now far more than he had in his second year when he had thought that a Basilisk awaited him below. He had been primed with adrenaline then, and the righteous ideals of saving his best-friend’s sister. He would be engaging with that same friend now, that same sister. Harry was both horrified by what he meant to do, and by the thoughts that he would fail to do what was necessary to please his Lord. He would be betraying someone before the day was out, and Harry knew that it wouldn’t be Voldemort.

He hesitated long enough at the entrance that he felt a solid shove from behind, and soon was tumbling gracelessly into the tunnel’s depths. He felt a heavy weight against his back, which he assumed was Nagini sliding down behind him. She had pushed him!

Harry decided that his Master hadn’t needed to bother with roughening up Harry’s clothes and appearance. By the time he emerged at the bottom of the pipe, he was absolutely filthy and his clothes torn and ripped. Harry guessed that Tom Riddle had found a more dignified way of descending into the Chamber. Combined with the dirt from his trip through the One-Eyed Witch’s tunnel, it would be easy to imagine that Harry had spent the last week roughing it in the Forest, running from Voldemort and his soldiers.

With a sigh, Harry resigned himself to darkness yet again. Soon he would find someone with a wand, he told himself. He was still too close to the tunnel’s entrance to risk calling out. It would be too suspicious. If Harry was truly hiding from the Dark forces that had overrun the castle, he would never risk exposing himself, not until he had moved further into the Chamber, at any rate. Again he wished he could risk a quick hiss to Nagini—she could see well enough! Harry didn’t have the slightest idea of which direction to take. He did feel around for her in the dark, though, to make sure that she was uninjured. Soon his hands brushed against her smooth scales, and then she began to slide against them. She was moving, most definitely, in a particular direction.

Well. If that was where she was headed, it was good enough for Harry.

Before long, Harry thought that the Chamber ahead seemed less dark, as if a fire was being reflected off stone a long way off, obscured by a series of corners. This was a good guess, it turned out, and Harry turned a corner, trusting that his sister would stay close to him, to only be instantly blinded by a bright Lumos!

His arms were seized and twisted behind him. At the same time, a very familiar voice shouted, “Let him go! It’s Harry, for fuck’s sake!” It was Ron, and whoever it was holding his arms let go, and the wand was forced down. “Mate! Is that really you? We thought you were dead! You won’t believe the rubbish You-Know-Who’s goons have been spewing up above.”

Harry didn’t trust himself to answer that. He knew perfectly well what truths his fellow Death Eaters had been saying.

“I told you it was him. Didn’t I tell you?” Myrtle somersaulted through the air, grinning mischievously down at the two boys, before quickly looking serious and sad. “And I had hoped you were dead, Harry. You could have shared my toilet with me, though after how horribly you treated poor Draco I might have not let you.”

“You’re not still worked up about that tosser are you, Myrtle?” It was a new voice. George’s. He seemed older somehow, harder, just in the past week since Harry had last seen him.

“Oooh, you are awful!” she wailed. “He was such a good boy. So despairing!” And then she was gone, zooming back towards the Chamber entrance and her bathroom. Good riddance, Harry thought.

“It’s so good to see you!” Ron was saying, but George shoved his wand back at Harry’s chest, forcing him to back up a few steps. Ron hissed, “George, quit it!”

“Prove it’s you, and you’re not some scum Death Eater, polyjuiced!” George snarled.

Harry gaped. He hadn’t thought his friends would be set to kill him this quickly. “Ok,” he said, glad his voice barely trembled. “Um…Ron, ask me something.”

Ron nodded vigorously, “Give me a sec…Okay, got it. What was the first Chocolate Frog you ever got?”

“Dumbledore. And we totally forgot all that stuff about Flamel on the card, remember?”

Ron nodded, smiling broadly, and clapped him on the shoulder. But George didn’t look any happier. He glared at Harry, his wand unmoving, still aimed menacingly at Harry. “And where were you? Where have you been! We’ve been hiding out here since the battle. Since you disappeared, and we lost! What are you doing here now? And how did you find us.”

Harry looked away, ashamedly. “I ran. I…I was going to go to him…like he said. But…”

“Hermione said she saw you heading off, going by the Hall. That was the last anyone saw of you. You went to…” Ron’s voice trailed off uncertainly, but there was no doubt what he meant. They thought he’d gone to Voldemort. Had given himself up. And been killed.

Harry shook his head. “I couldn’t,” he said, with as much regret as he could muster. It wasn’t hard. He’d never felt so sorry in all his life, not even after watching Sirius fall through the Veil. And he knew what he sounded like—that he was ashamed that he couldn’t face Voldemort. That he’d chickened out. That he’d ran off like the coward he was. “I’m so sorry…I know I should have…”

But he was engulfed in a bear hug. This time it was George, who’d let his wand fall to his side. “S’ok. He whispered into Harry’s ear. “How’d you find us? We didn’t think anyone would look for us here.”

“Map,” Harry said, finally pushing away. He didn’t deserve the comfort.

“Right, the Marauders’ Map,” George breathed, finally smiling. “That’ll be a great help in getting us round You-Know-Who’s patrols. Give it here.” He held his hand out expectantly, and it was only then that Harry realized his goof. He couldn’t hand the Map over. It was his Master’s now.

“Yeah,” Ron nodded, agreeing. “We’ve had to be really careful going out for supplies. Ginny almost got caught the other day on a kitchen run. At first we were able to get the Hogwart’s House Elves to get stuff for us, from the toilets anyway. They won’t come all the way down here.”

“Don’t be an arse, Ron,” George retorted. “It’s Slytherin’s wards. Think how easy it would’ve been to find the place if a House Elf could get in. It wouldn’t be all that secret, would it?”

Ron frowned, but nodded. “I guess. Myrtle gets in, though, now she knows we’re here. At any rate, this place has been pretty safe, so long as we don’t leave. No one else can get down here. I’m getting to be a real whiz at Parseltongue. No one else has been able to get the sink to move but me. Ooopeeeen,” he demonstrated.

Small blessings, Harry thought, thinking that perhaps the Dark Lord would consider sparing those who had not been directly responsible for opening the Chamber entrance. From several metres away he thought he heard the derisive hiss of Nagini’s amusement at Ron’s ridiculous, but ultimately successful, attempt at Parseltongue. George must have heard something, as he glanced in what must have been her direction, his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t have it!” Harry blurted, attempting to divert attention from his sister.

It worked too well. “How in Godric’s name did you lose it? You got here all right?” George snarled, all good humour instantly gone. He was so different now, Harry thought, his pleasant demeanor one more casualty of war.

“Hey, go easy,” Ron urged, looking worried. “He just got here, okay?”

“Exactly,” George replied suspiciously, “and without the Map. How did you evade the patrols, Harry?”

“I guess I got lucky. I knew you were here from checking a few days ago, but then…I don’t know what happened to it. A couple days ago, I just couldn’t find it,” Harry said. It’s not as if George’s suspicion wasn’t warranted—it absolutely was! It still hurt. “I figured it was worth trying to sneak in. To find you all. I didn’t see anyone, I swear! Look, you don’t believe whatever those Death Eaters were saying about me, do you?”

George cast a piercing look at Ron, who paled. “And what were they saying, Harry,” he asked quietly. “If you’ve been gone for a week, and you didn’t run into anyone on the way back, how would you know what they said?”

Shit! “Just that Ron said they’ve been saying stuff,” he hazarded. He had to fix this. But these were the Weasleys! How could they believe he would go Dark, would betray them? He’d been practically family to them. Not to mention the Light’s ‘Saviour’. The Chosen One. Undesirable Number One. Voldemort’s nemesis. Without context, without knowing about his Horcrux, there was no reason for his change in allegiance. No reason to believe the rumours about him. “Guys, what’s going on? I’ve been running for a week, and I finally sneak my way back in. And what? I’m the bad guy now? I mean, what the fuck?”

“He’s not some Death Eater, George! And he’s probably hungry. Or hurt. Just look at him!”

Harry smiled his gratitude. “Thanks, Mate.” He did have a few small cuts and bruises from when he’d thrashed about under his Master’s curses. “I lost my wand a while back. Maybe someone could cast an Episkey or two.”

“No wonder you were sneaking around in the dark,” George said. The revelation that Harry was wandless seemed to appease him somewhat. “How’d you lose it?”

Harry shrugged. “I had to make a run for it at one point. It wasn’t really mine, anyway; I stole it off of Malfoy.” He smirked this last bit. He knew Draco had it back, but the memory of how he’d stolen the prat’s wand would entertain him for some time.

“Follow me. We didn’t take the main Chamber,” Ron said. “For one thing, the Basilisk is still there, which was pretty freaky. Then Luna said the place was filled with Wrackspurts or something. You should have heard Hermione go on about that one…”

“It doesn’t matter,” his brother interrupted, setting off along a small passageway.  “We chose an offshoot room just in case You-Know-Who decided to check the place out. Not that it was likely. I’ll bet he’s off killing everyone in the Ministry or something.” His tone was bitter, and Harry suddenly wondered what happened to Mr and Mrs Weasley. They hadn’t been on the list of names Voldemort had provided.

Ron must have made the same mental connection, as he pulled Harry back a few feet, letting George get ahead with his Lumos lighting the way. “Harry,” he began. “Have you had any more…” He trailed off, but his meaning was obvious as he tapped his forehead meaningfully.

“No. No more visions. I don’t know why,” Harry lied. “I’m sorry—I don’t know anything about your mum and dad.”

“S’ok.” Ron mumbled forlornly. “They’re probably okay.”

Harry nodded his reassurance, though he doubted it. There was no way his Master would have spared two of the most prominent Order members. He recalled the dreams, the stolen visions he’d had the night following his surrender. They had been awash in the green light of his Master’s Killing Curse. Harry couldn’t remember any of the victims’ faces, but there was no doubt in his mind that the elder Weasleys had been amongst the dead.

Chapter Text

The tunnel opened up to a medium-sized chamber. A small, smokeless fire was lit in the centre, casting shadows upon the refugees clustered around it.

Harry only had a moment to reflect upon the similarities between this fire and the one at Voldemort’s camp in the Forbidden Forest one week earlier, before he was suddenly caught in a tight embrace. It was Hermione, and being nearly smothered by her familiar bushy hair and hearing the fierce, desperate whisper of his name was what tipped Harry over. Hermione rubbed small circles on his back whilst he tried to regain his composure.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” George called to the room, ignoring their emotional reunion. Ron glared at him.

Ginny was waiting for her own hug after Hermione finally let go. It was quick but hard, with a none-too-gentle smack against his bicep. “Where the hell have you been!” But it wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t an accusation. She pulled away, and just as quickly disappeared to the shadows.

“Hello, Harry.” It was Luna Lovegood. She sounded the same as ever, but her eyes were lined with red, her cheeks dirty from smudged, dried tears. “It is good to see you again.” Amazingly, her tone reflected her words, more than the remnants of grief on her face. She was always so calm, so ready to believe the best in people.

“Hey. It’s good to see you, too.”

He had to fix this. He had to. He couldn’t let his Master kill all his friends just because they’d taken refuge here.

George was back with Dean Thomas in tow. Dean rummaged in a rucksack before finally pulling out an impressive array of lost wands. “Try these ones, Harry,” he said. “Just don’t ask where they came from. You don’t want to know. Just a sec, I know there’s at least one or two more in here…”

No, Harry did not want to know where they’d come from. But more than that, he didn’t want one of the wands. He wasn’t allowed a wand. And perhaps if he was good enough, obedient enough, his Master would grant him the favour of sparing his friends’ lives. “Yeah, thanks, Dean,” he said. “Um…can I try them later? I’d like to get fixed up first. Maybe get a bite to eat.”

Dean looked up from his search, one brow raised. “Didn’t you lose yours?”

“It broke,” Harry corrected. “But I’m good for now, thanks.”

George and Dean exchanged confused looks. Well, it wasn’t like Harry could tell them the truth. He’d just have to keep deferring until they backed off. They couldn’t make him take a wand. Even if they shoved one in his hand, he wouldn’t use it. He’d come this far without one. He didn’t need one.

Hermione was back, and she had her own wand drawn, and was looking at Harry expectantly. “Did you want to come closer to the fire, so I can get a better look at your injuries?” she asked.

“Sure,” Harry said, nodding, and followed her towards the brighter part of the room. The fire took most of the chill out of the room, and Harry wondered if Nagini had coiled up nearby to warm herself. She would have to be careful to find a spot where no one would trip on her.

“Okay,” Hermione said, facing him. She had a faint blush on her cheeks. Harry didn’t know where it came from until she gestured to him in a sweeping motion. “Take your clothes off so I can fix you up.”

“Sure,” Harry said, wondering why she was so shy with him after they’d spent the better part of the year camping together. He was just about to pull his jumper over his head when he remembered the Dark Mark on his left arm! How would he explain that away? Not to mention the protective runes all over his chest and back! “Actually, Hermione. It’s just this one cut here on my neck. It’s not even that bad.”

“Harry James Potter!” she scolded, frowning. “Do I have to stun you to heal you properly? Take your shirt off right—”

“Hermione!” he pleaded. “Look, it’s really nothing. I promise you.”

She stepped back and looked at his exposed skin appraisingly, which made Harry blush in turn. “Well, you don’t actually look that bad,” she admitted. “Dirty, but that’s easily fixed.” Before Harry could flinch, she’d cast a cleansing charm over him, followed by an Episkey on the few small wounds he would let her see.

Luna came by with a bun in her hand, which he took gratefully. “Thanks, Luna. I haven’t had much lately.” He ignored the strange look that got from Hermione, who must have been wondering how he’d gotten any food at all wandering about lost in the Forbidden Forest for a week.

Before long, Ginny was back, smiling tentatively at him. He patted the spot next to him, which was thankfully free of snake. She sat next to him, and slipped her hand into his.

He’d been wrong. This was way more awkward than when he’d held Lord Voldemort’s hand, mere hours ago.

That had felt strange, but also somehow right.

This was just…no.

Harry delicately slipped his hand away, pretended to brush non-existent crumbs from his shirt, and smiled nervously at her. “So, the Chamber of Secrets. It must have been pretty bad having to come back down here. You okay?”

“Not really,” she said. “But where else could we go? Not many of us got away, and you’re the first friendly face we’ve seen since we got here.”

“Whose idea was it? Ron’s?” he asked. Harry loved Ron like a brother, but if he could pin this whole debacle on him and spare the rest of his friends, he’d do it. Ron was already guilty of mimicking Parseltongue to open the way, after all. The Dark Lord already had his fate decided, Harry was certain.

“It was mine.”

Well, damn. Harry sighed, and rubbed his hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “I’m just not sure it was a good idea, you know? I was actually pretty surprised to find you all here. It was a long shot.”

“That was the idea,” Ginny replied, sharply. “No one was going to look here, now were they?”

Harry shrugged. “I did, in the end. Someone’s going to come looking here, sometime.”

“You and what other Parselmouth?” asked Ginny, shaking her head.

“Well, there is this one other guy…” Harry answered, playfully. Ginny didn’t smile back. Considering the circumstances, that the man in question had in all likelihood killed off most of her family in the past week, Harry realized too late that the joke was in poor taste. “Sorry,” he said, softly.

“If you were anyone else, I—” but instead of slugging him, or cursing him with the Bat-Bogey Hex, she kissed him hard on the mouth. Harry closed his eyes and leant into the kiss, bringing his left arm around her neck, and started to stroke the soft, stray hairs at the base of her ponytail.

It was when Ginny opened her mouth and began to flick her tongue against his lips that Harry realized just how wrong this felt. All the chemistry that he’d felt last year, last summer, was gone. He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised. After all, he’d changed in so many other ways. He opened his eyes, which only made that feeling intensify. Harry tightened his mouth, warding off any wet intrusions, and pulled away slowly.

Ginny scrunched her nose up, and Harry distinctly recalled finding the same mannerism adorable before. Now it just made her look like a long-haired Ron.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asked, uncertainly. “I’m sorry if I…if you don’t want…”

“No, It’s fine,” said Harry, far too quickly. But then he got an idea. “It’s just that, why don’t we go for a walk?”

She stared at him blankly. He couldn’t blame her, really. Next to the fire was clearly the best part of this dank, awful place which held so many terrible memories. But Harry needed to move about the Chamber to complete the Map, and he couldn’t go by himself, not without a wand. He could use her attraction to him to help him. He gave her a coy, slightly nervous, smile. Reaching forward, he took her hand in his, trying not to let his discomfort show on his face. “Just you and me, huh?”

She let him pull her up to her feet, and then away from the fire. A short distance away, when they’d almost left the room, she drew her wand. Harry froze, panicked for a moment, but she was only casting a Lumos. “Where to, Hero?”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not. Not even a bit.” Harry could only pretend so much.

She pulled at his hand then, making him stop and turn around. “None of that,” she said, her eyes burning with the fierceness of her conviction, of her misguided faith. “You did so much. And there’s still time, right? So long as you’re alive, there’s still hope. Hermione and Ron, they told us what you’ve been up to this year. We can finish this up now, together!”

She was wrong, of course. Their only hope would have come with his death, not his survival. But still, this was the Ginny that he’d fallen for. Her passion, her conviction…Harry had only ever stumbled along. He had always tried to do what was expected of him. Until he’d stopped, and done what he had needed to do. Even if he still felt the same way about her as he used to, and it was a strange relief to be able to admit that he no longer did, he didn’t deserve her.

But he’d known that for a week now. “How are you still so good, Gin?”

She smiled brightly at him. “Seriously? Of all the people to ask me that? Anyway, just one more, right?”

At first Harry was confused, but then he backtracked through their conversation and realized what she meant. One more Horcrux. “Yeah,” he lied. “Just the snake.”

Just his sister. As if he was going to let these filthy rebels hurt her! Where was she, anyway? Was she following him like she was supposed to, or basking next to the fire?

“Ron said You-Know-Who had her in some kind of protective cage. Any idea on how to get past it?” asked Ginny.

Harry shook his head, and pulled gently on her hand again to get her moving. He had a lot of ground to cover. “If Vol—hey, is the Taboo still in place?” At Ginny’s shrug, he decided to pretend to play it safe. “Well, this is You-Know-Who we’re talking about. Nothing’s going to get past a shield he casts, right?”

“I guess he’s got to let her out sometime. We’ll have to wait a bit, anyway, until things settle down a little. They’ve got to let up eventually, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, absently.

Ginny walked silently next to him for another few minutes,  but she finally stilled and glanced around anxiously. “Where the hell are we going, Harry? Let’s go back.”

But he pulled harder on her arm, leading her towards the main Chamber. “I have to see it. Where it all happened back then. And I think you should, too.”

Ginny yanked her arm away. “I did. And I don’t want to again, alright?”

Harry breathed deeply to calm himself. He needed to map the rest of the Chamber. Why was Ginny being so difficult? “Come on, Gin. Just a little longer.”

“No, Harry!” She turned to go, taking the light with her.

Harry watched her go. It was getting darker every second.

Then Ginny tripped. Harry rushed over, and nearly gasped as he felt the brush of an invisible something slither past his leg. “What was that!” she cried.

“Ssssshhh,” Harry soothed. There was no need to bring the others. “It’s okay!” He called out, just in case. “She just stumbled on a rock. Tell them you’re fine!”

“Of course I’m fine,” Ginny snapped, glaring at him. “There was no rock, though.”

Harry tried to look confused. “Then what did you trip on? You’re usually not that clumsy,” he teased, smirking.

She scowled up at him from the ground, but shook her head good-humouredly when she took the hand he offered to help her up. “Shut up.”

“You didn’t twist an ankle, did you? If you can’t go on…” Maybe if he tackled her pride, she’d keep going on the walk with him.

“I said shut up!” But she was grinning, and then she was pulling him along, further and further from the others.

***

The Basilisk wasn’t disgusting at all, as Harry had feared. It had completely decomposed, and all that was left was its formidable skeleton, missing a few fangs of course. Harry wondered if his Master really could bring it back to life. It had been dead a long time. Snape had been a success, but he’d only been killed days before. Perhaps only the skeleton would be reanimated. But that wouldn’t be much different from the Inferi that his Master was already so skilled at creating. And given Voldemort’s excitement, Harry guessed this was something else altogether.

“I don’t know why you’d want to come here again, of all places,” Ginny murmured, sidling close to him. Harry wrapped an arm around her. He felt like a complete lout, bringing her here. At least he could try to comfort her.

Unfortunately, Ginny saw this as invitation to resume her attempts at intimacy. Her left hand raised up to his the bottom of his shirt, and before Harry could even think to protest, she’d started to pull it up.

She rubbed her hands back and forth against his skin, before looking up at him curiously. She must have felt the runes that had been scratched upon his torso. They were barely raised, and once they’d scarred would be barely discernable, but now they were inflamed and red. They looked and felt a bit like bramble scrapes, really. Actually, that was a good idea…

“What are…?” She had grasped the bottom of his jumper, and Harry quickly pushed her hands away. He didn’t succeed fully, but he managed to keep her lifting his shirt up.

“Don’t. I got caught up in some thorns, trying to get a few blackberries. Not that I saw that many in the Forbidden Forest.”

She nodded, as if taking his words at face-value, before scrunching her nose up again. How did I ever think that was cute? Harry thought again. “Why’d you take your shirt off?” she asked.

“Well…so…it wouldn’t get torn.”

More unadorable frowns. “But it’s torn anyway.”

Harry nodded. “Obviously that was before I realized that the brambles were ripping it up. Look, just drop it.” He finally pried her hands off his clothes.

“Why didn’t you let Hermione…”

“Drop it, alright?” Harry snapped, unthinkingly. At her crest-fallen expression, Harry winced apologetically. “Sorry. I’m just still on edge. Everything’s been…Forgive me?”

Ginny softened. “I know. It’s been super hard on all of us. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you. Out there by yourself. You should have gotten one of us to come with you, you know. I would have gone with you. You know that, right?”

He couldn’t talk. He just nodded.

He didn’t deserve these friends.

He still had a job to do.

Harry took Ginny’s free hand in his own, and tugged her along. Finally, he managed, his whisper hoarse from his unhappiness, “Come with me now, then.”

And she did, lighting his way further into the darkness.

***

George was livid when they returned. “Where the fuck have you two been!” he snarled at them.

Ginny, stepping forward, glared at her brother. “None of your business,” she stated bluntly. Harry was impressed that she managed to keep her tone level, what with the sparks practically flying from her eyes.

Ron stood nearby, nibbling on his lip. He looked worried. No doubt he’d been as upset as George at finding Ginny missing. “It’s been hours, mate. I know you guys had a lot of, um, catching up to do.” With this last bit, his face flushed crimson. He didn’t continue, unwilling to elaborate on what he thought ‘catching up’ entailed. Harry didn’t bother to ask, either.

“We didn’t go anywhere. I was just looking around. I’m allowed to do that, aren’t I?” Harry protested.

“Not with my sister, you’re not,” snapped George.

“I can do whatever I—” Ginny’s voice was raising now. Her eyes gleamed with her rage. If she were a Basilisk, George would be done for.

“Not without telling anyone where you were going! We had no idea where you’d run off to. And with him!” George shot back, uncowed in the face of Ginny’s anger.

“With Harry! With my boyfriend!”

Uh oh, Harry thought.

George sniffed disdainfully. “If that’s really even--”

 “I saw them leave.” It was Luna, who still hadn’t wiped the dirt from her tear-streaked cheeks.

“And here I thought all you ever saw were your stupid Nargles,” George bit back.

“Leave her alone!” Ginny hissed.

By now the small group—Harry, Ginny, George, Ron, and now Luna—had attracted the attention of the rest of the student rebels. Some looked curious, though more than a few were casting Harry suspicious glances. He could hear quiet murmurs, mutterings of agreement with George. Whispers in Harry’s defense. These were quickly drowned out by the escalating voices of the Weasleys:

“I don’t trust him. How can--”

“--his whole fucking life, George! You think--”

“I still don’t think we should just--”

“We checked him out. He knew about--”

“--think I know my own boyfriend.”

“Well it’s on you then--”

Hermione, bless her, had come over to Harry and, taking hold of his arm—his left arm—led him back to the fire. Harry smiled gratefully. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly as they sat down. He discreetly rubbed at his Dark Mark through his clothes. She shouldn’t be touching it. It almost seemed to burn now with a phantom pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sympathetically. “George has been kind of off lately. He’s not himself.”

“Yeah. I know. I understand.” And he did. It still hurt.

Luna came and sat down on Harry’s other side. “I think everyone’s changed a bit,” she offered.

Hermione nodded and said, “How could we not.”

No, Harry thought. Hermione was still the same. Luna. Ginny. Sure, George was angry. His twin was dead. Half of him was gone. Harry wondered if it was kind of like losing a Horcrux. Were twins bound at the level of the soul? If that were so, what a cruel trick of fate to let one live alone.

It was Harry that had changed. And they had no idea. George might be suspicious of him, but he truly had no clue that Harry was here to damn them all. Harry still held the glimmer of hope that at least some of them could be spared, though. Voldemort had changed his mind once before, after all.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, before Hermione cleared her throat. “Harry,” she began. “Actually, I’ve been thinking.”

Well, that didn’t bode well, Harry thought worriedly. Hermione was always the smart one. The one that noticed far too much. “Yeah. Um, what is it?” he responded, trying to sound casual.

“Well…” Now she looked nervous. Well, it couldn’t be too bad. If she suspected him of being the traitor he was, she would have drawn her wand. Instead she was fiddling with her earring. “I was wondering about the statues.”

“The statues,” Harry repeated, stupidly. That wasn’t at all what he’d expected her to say.

She nodded, her nervousness shifting to her characteristic excitement when presented with some new idea or challenge. “Yes. The snake statues. You said, way back during second year, that some of them responded to Parseltongue.”

“Yes…” he ventured, warily.

“Well, we were wondering, or rather I was wondering, if maybe, and this has I think quite a good chance of working, that some of them might have a Parseltongue trigger and might open with a particular phrase, and maybe--”

“I wish I had brought my Spectrespecs,” Luna offered, dreamily gazing at the air around Hermione’s head.

“I do not have Wrackspurts, Luna,” Hermione huffed.

“Hermione just gets like this when she’s excited over a new idea,” Harry explained. “But it’s not a bad idea. Have you noticed any snake engravings or statues in the area?”

“Yes, I’ve catalogued them. Some of them even hiss if you get too close.” And she pulled out a Muggle spiral-bound notebook and pen. Harry hadn’t even noticed that she still had her beaded bag with her. “Tomorrow, I think, we should begin to investigate them. Hopefully one might be a separate exit. We need to get well past the anti-Apparition wards set up around the castle. There are too many Death Eaters stationed around Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. We’d never be able to get out. Not all of us, anyway.”

That would work, Harry realized. If there really was an exit. He could lead them all out to ‘safety’. He would have to send a message to his Master. Or perhaps his Master was paying attention to his thoughts even now. Surely Lord Voldemort would not have sent both his remaining Horcruxes into the enemy camp with no means of communication.

And the Dark Mark worked as a summoning device, Harry knew, though he had no wand to activate it.

“That sounds like a good idea, Hermione,” Harry said. “Those guys have finally stopped arguing. Maybe we can all get some sleep. Then try your plan tomorrow?”

Hermione grinned at him. Luna offered her own bemused smile. All three tried to find a comfortable spot next to the fire.

Judging from the constant shifting, none of them could easily settle. The fire was too hot, the stone ground too cold. After a long while, when almost everyone seemed to have fallen asleep, Harry finally gave up and moved away from the others.

It was only a short distance, but it gave Nagini a chance to find him, quietly pressing against him on his other side, protecting and protected. Feeling her next to him was what allowed Harry to finally relax into sleep.

Chapter Text

It was cold. Dark. Nagini was gone, and his Master was looming above him with the most terrible of expressions on his face.

You are taking too long, Horcrux.

Lead them out. It is time.

And behind the Dark Lord, something massive was shifting. A shadow was rising up behind his Lord. Harry tried to cry out, to warn his Master of the danger behind him, but Voldemort only smiled at his panic.

Lead them out.

Keep your eyes closed.

***

Harry startled awake. He instinctively reached to pet Nagini, to caress her; her cool scales would calm him, help him relax back into sleep. But she was gone.  

Blue eyes were staring at him. But his Master’s eyes were red!

Where was he?

Harry tried sit up, but strong arms held him down. “Calm down, Mate.”

“Ron?” It was just a nightmare. Or a vision. His Master’s words filtered back into his mind.

Lead them out.

You are taking too long.

He was failing his Master. He had to work faster!

“Sssshhhh!” Small hands began to rub circles on his shoulders. Hermione was there, and she was trying to calm him down. “It was a nightmare. You’re safe now. You’re with us, Harry. Everything will be ok.”

“What happened?” Harry asked, still confused from sleep. He looked around. It looked like everyone was awake and staring at him. Had he been screaming?

“You tell us, Mate,” Ron said. He looked hopeful “Was it a vision? What did you see? Did you see my--”

“We’ve got to get out of here!” interrupted Harry. “He knows we’re here! We’ve got to get out!”

That seemed to get a reaction from everyone. They stopped gawking at Harry, and began to look around, as if Voldemort would immediately emerge from some dark shadow.

“What!” Hermione’s eyes were wide, panicked. “You saw that? Just now?”

Harry nodded desperately. “We’ve got to get out!” he repeated. “Come on!” He managed to push Ron aside, and stand up. He headed towards to the door to the main chamber. He hoped he’d be followed.

“How close is he?” Hermione asked, her voice high. “Do we have time to try to find another way out?”

“Well we have to, don’t we,” Ron said, looking around as if in search of something. “Ginny! George! Grab your kits! Everyone, let’s go!”

“I think we have time to get to the main entrance before he gets here,” Harry answered, but as he did so his left arm burned. Was this in response to his words just now, Harry wondered? Another painful flare answered. “Or not…”

The student rebels gathered around, many clutching blankets and other supplies. Hermione yelled out, “Leave everything but your emergency kits and wands! Do you have your buddy? This is not a drill! Come on, everyone! Evacuate!”

Harry was impressed at how quickly everyone paired up. Hermione with Ron, George and Ginny, Dean and Seamus. A small sea of others.

Ginny looked guilty at already having a partner, at leaving Harry alone. But Harry wasn’t alone. Nagini was already brushing against his leg again, and guiding him out of the chamber. He would have to be swift to follow her to where he knew his Master would be waiting for them. “This way,” he called over his shoulder. “Someone get up here with some light.”

Ron and Hermione hurried forward. “You didn’t get a wand,” Hermione scolded. “Don’t get separated from us.”

“We can’t lose you again, Mate,” Ron added, nervously. “You seem to know where to go all of a sudden.”

Harry just nodded, his concentration all on following the snake guiding him invisibly by the intermittent brush of scales against his leg.

In their panic, only Harry seemed to notice that the Basilisk skeleton was missing from the main Chamber.

Hermione quickened her step to move alongside him, and Harry had to guide her around to his right side, so that she would come nowhere near Nagini. He wished she would stay further back entirely. She said, “I think the most likely statue we should try is this way, Harry.” She grabbed his arm, trying to get him to stop.

He shook her off. “No, we’ve got to go this way. I think I saw something earlier. I just didn’t realize what it was until now.” They had to keep moving. His Mark burned again. I’m coming!

Hermione frowned, biting her lip. “You didn’t mention anything—”

“I didn’t realize, okay?” The Mark began to burn hotter now. What was he doing wrong? Harry stopped, and the stream of rebels came to a halt behind him. Where was Nagini? She wasn’t there anymore! Harry looked frantically around. There was nothing here! There was no exit!

He heard grumbles around him. No one seemed pleased at being woken by his frantic vision in the middle of the night, then dragged on a wild snake chase through the Chamber of Secrets, looking for a way out.

“It was just a nightmare,” he heard from Seamus. “Remember all those he used to have?” More murmuring and muttering.

“Everyone back to the fire. Try to get some sleep.” That was George. He sounded fed up and more than a little irritated at being woken up, seemingly needlessly.

Why wasn’t anyone taking him seriously? “It was a vision,” he whispered.

At least the pain in his arm had faded.

And there was Nagini, brushing against him again, wrapping around and around him, until she was slung around his neck.

And she was visible.

Screams.

Then everyone was backing up towards him, frantically, trying to get away from something in the main Chamber.

Harry closed his eyes.

***

His arm was cool again, and pleasure washed through his scar. His Master was happy.

His friends were screaming. Harry took comfort in that, for while they were screaming, they were alive. Harry fought to keep his eyes closed, though he doubted he could have even glimpsed the Basilisk through his tears. He reached up and stroked Nagini. She hissed soothing nonsense to him. “Nagini is here. Brother is safe. Master is here. Brother is safe. Brother must keep his eyes closed. Little snakeling is safe. Nagini is here…”

Harry’s knees finally buckled, and he knelt as gently as he could, making sure he didn’t crush any of his sister’s coils. She wrapped herself around him. He could hear the odd cry of his name, and perhaps someone yelled out that he was being crushed, but he wasn’t sure. There was so much yelling, so much screaming. The world had exploded in terror and he was blind to it all. He pet Nagini’s head and took comfort in her soft hissing.

An eternity passed before the screams subsided. Small, terrified murmurs could still be heard here and there, which was a relief, as well as the unsettling scraping of a huge, scaled body on the stone floor. Finally, after Harry’s heartrate had nearly slowed to its normal rate, Voldemort’s commanding, high voice called out through the cavern, “It is done. Those that remain, open your eyes and behold your fate. That includes you, Harry.”

It took great faith in his Master for Harry to open his eyes, and he hoped that the Dark Lord was too preoccupied to witness his doubts. This would have been a perfect opportunity, after all, for Voldemort to have used Harry to lead him to the remaining rebels, and then kill them all. One simple command and the Basilisk would finish them all off.

Harry willed himself to open his eyes, though he did it gradually, shamefully, peering through fluttering eyelashes before opening them wide at last and taking in the destruction.

More than half of the rebels—his friends!—were gone, petrified and still forever. A few lucky, or perhaps not-so-lucky, students were curled up on the floor, cowering with their arms thrown over their head, as if that could protect them from a vengeful Dark Lord and a hungry Basilisk.

From the Chamber entrance, the Dark Lord held out his left hand, summoning all their wands to it. He watched Harry closely. No wand was forthcoming from him, of course, and Harry was gratified by the nod that came from his Master. He had done well in obeying the rule to remain wandless. Even surrounded by so much misery, Harry allowed himself a tiny smile at that small success.

“Congratulations to all who have survived the initial cull,” the Dark Lord said. “Your continued survival depends now upon yourself. Will you submit to my will, and to that of my new regime? If so, consider following my last order your first act of obedience. Otherwise, you will meet death blind, for I will not hesitate to cast the Killing Curse on any who will not kneel properly and behold your new Lord. Open your eyes!”

Harry was glad he was already kneeling, though he did shift his body into a somewhat more respectful position. It was hard with Nagini weighing him down. He made up for it by inclining his head and averting his eyes in a show of deference. Around him, at least one other survivor had moved into a submissive kneel as demanded, though Harry couldn’t make out who with his peripheral vision. At the sound of movement, the other rebels followed suit, slowly kneeling before their new Lord. He supposed even his Gryffindor friends understood that there was no honour in dying like this.

“Excellent,” the Dark Lord praised. “Now, speak your names, that I might know my new servants. We will begin with…” and here the Dark Lord paused, then turned to Harry. “We will begin with your Saviour. Not that he requires any introduction, but I do believe there are those amongst you who do not believe it is truly him. So, Chosen One. Your name.”

“Harry Potter, my Lord.” Harry tried to imbue his words with as much reverence as he could. Perhaps his friends might follow his example. Perhaps some of them might still be spared.

Around him, Harry could hear the sharp intakes of breath from shock as the others heard the manner in which he addressed the Dark Lord. Off to his right came a disdainful mutter of “I knew it.” George.

“Very good, Harry. What about you?” The Dark Lord had moved on and was addressing someone to Harry’s right.

A quiet cough, and a timid “Hermione Granger” was heard. Oh, thank god! Harry thought. He hoped beyond hope that she would be allowed to live. He couldn’t lose everyone, and Hermione--smart, caring Hermione—she had stuck with him through everything. He couldn’t lose her now!

But she had been part of the Horcrux hunt. She knew. Would his Master let her live? Then again, Ginny had said that they all knew now. She was as damned as any of them.

“Ah, Harry’s Mudblood friend,” Voldemort said, sounding eminently pleased. “If I recall correctly, it was you who originally deduced that Slytherin’s monster was a Basilisk?”

“Yes…” She left off all honorifics, but her voice was small, scared. Not defiant. The continual pulse of his Master’s satisfaction through his scar was a relief. Perhaps she would be allowed to live.

“I am pleased that you survived, Miss Granger. I believe your support will be most useful to me. But just to be sure…” and the Dark Lord’s wand was out and sweeping over Hermione. A red light, and she was stunned.

“Thank you, Master,” Harry breathed. He was so happy. If no one else survived, this would be enough. It would have to be enough.

The next rebel wouldn’t answer Voldemort’s deadly roll call. Harry allowed himself to discretely glance over to see who was so blatantly begging for death by their disobedience.

It was Ginny. But she didn’t look defiant at all, which surprised Harry a lot. He had expected her to be all fire and venom, spitting impotent curses at the man before her who had caused both her and her family so much misery. But no, that wasn’t what had silenced her at all. She was shaking, her eyes wide as if she were seeing things that no one else could see. She was mouthing something, though. Tom. Tom. Tom.

Harry realized, horrified, that she was reliving her ordeal during her first year. The trauma had simply gotten too much for her. She couldn’t respond to their Lord’s demands.—she was too overcome with her memories.

Another flash of red, and Ginny’s trembling stopped abruptly.

Dean was next. Then several sixth years that Harry didn’t know that well. Everyone was stunned. Harry was so pleased with his Master’s benevolence and mercy, that he nearly began crying again in happiness.

Finally it was George’s turn. He refused to speak, but his silence was accompanied by a hate-filled glare cast straight at the Dark Lord. Harry was both amazed and appalled. How could George not quake at the mere sight of his glorious Master? This was Lord Voldemort! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!

“Ah,” the Dark Lord said lazily. “Another Weasley, or am I mistaken? There are so many of you red-haired Blood Traitors. Which one are you?”

“Fred,” George lied.

“Interesting, as Fred Weasley is on the casualty list from the Battle of Hogwarts. Well, if you are deceased, then it shouldn’t matter if my sweet Basilisk feasts upon your flesh. You are, decidedly,  a more animated corpse than she is used to consuming. However, I’m certain she will think of it as a challenge. Obscuro. Harry, close your eyes once more.”

When the Dark Lord began hissing, George finally blurted out, panicked, “George! George Weasley, alright? And if you’re going to murder me, I want to see it coming!”

“A true Gryffindor,” Voldemort sneered. “So eager to die, but for all the wrong reasons. Also, Rodent, understand that execution is not murder. You have been spreading dissension amongst my people, our people. Spreading lies and discord. But I am a merciful Lord, as your young friend Harry can attest. Submit and I might find it in me to forgive you. After all, you have been misguided up until now. And our new world needs brave, creative young men such as yourself. So what will it be, young Weasley? Will you not bow to your Lord?”

“Go fuck yourself.” It was the last thing either twin would ever say.

Harry was spared watching Voldemort’s Killing curse hit his former friend, though he couldn’t block the ugly words or the quiet thump of George hitting the Chamber floor. He hoped that his Master would take him above ground to rest with Fred. They had been separated for too long already.

“Of course, Harry. There are enough meals for the Basilisk amongst the petrified rebels. You may open your eyes again. Nagini, come to me.”

Nagini unwrapped herself and slithered off of Harry, leaving him chilled. Harry opened his eyes and finally allowed himself to look around freely. Everyone was either dead or unconscious. Ron was dead. His eyes were open, as unseeing as his brother’s beside him.

Luna hadn’t survived. Her body was frozen forever, though she didn’t look frightened. She was gazing forwards as if in absolute awe at gazing upon such a fabled creature. Poor Luna. Felled by her innocent curiosity. Of all of them, she hadn’t deserved this.

“I can bring her back, Harry. I can bring any of them back. They aren’t even truly dead. Merely petrified—I have ‘muzzled’ the Basilisk’s gaze, so to speak. I could not risk losing the soul piece in you, after all, even if I am now able to resurrect anyone I so choose. In regards to the petrified rebels, however, a simple restorative draught will suffice in reanimating them.” Voldemort strode towards Harry, Nagini once again draped over his shoulders. “What say you, Saviour? Shall I be merciful? Who shall live, and who shall remain frozen forever?”

“Master,” Harry whispered, overcome with gratitude. “Yes, please be merciful to her, Master.”

The Dark Lord reached out and stroked the side of Harry’s face with the back of his fingers. Harry leaned into the caress, but Voldemort quickly pulled away and stepped back.

“I think I have been merciful enough, though, Horcrux. I have allowed you to keep the Mudblood, after all. And the Weasley girlfriend of yours. I wouldn’t want a repeat of Severus’ treachery, after all. This disgusting love,” Voldemort spat, derisively, “that makes you pathetic fools think to renounce your oaths to me.”

“Master, I would never…” and Voldemort’s hand was on his face again, but this time the fingers were painfully grasping his jaw, the sharp nails cutting deep into his cheek. Harry whimpered.

“I will allow one of them to live, Horcrux. Only one.”

So much for the Dark Lord’s mercy. Harry was barely scraping enough for himself right now, though. He couldn’t advocate any more on his friends’ behalf. They would have to fight for their own lives. Perhaps if they were recalcitrant and obedient enough they would be allowed to live. “Yes, Master,” he agreed. Voldemort released his jaw, and Harry bend down and kissed the Dark Lord’s feet. He had to prove his devotion. His Master thought he would betray him! For a girl!

His Master’s hand was ready to pet his hair when he was up on his knees again, then the gentle caress of fingers over the gouges on his face, followed by a quick Episkey, and the pain was gone. “Of course you wouldn’t, Harry. But had you not thought that I might betray you? I heard your thoughts. You had wondered if I would kill you too.”

It was true. Harry had doubted. “Yes, Master. Please forgive me.”

Another caress. “You shall have to make it up to me, Horcrux.”

Chapter Text

“I have the Map finished for you, Master.” Harry pulled the Mokeskin pouch from his neck, and held it out to the Dark Lord. “At least, I hope it is. I lied to the rebels and said I didn’t have it, so I was unable to take it out and check to see if it was complete.” He bit his lip, hoping that he hadn’t missed anything. Voldemort was in a volatile mood, and Harry didn’t relish displeasing him again.

Voldemort took the pouch and drew out the Marauder’s Map. He unfolded it and scanned it for the new addition. “Yes, the Chamber has been added. Now rise and choose your prize.”

His prize? Harry got to his feet, but looked stupidly around, as if this prize would manifest before him.

“Which girl!” Voldemort snapped, making Harry jump. “Pick one up and we can return to the Manor.”

Choose. Hermione. Ginny. Perhaps Luna?

Hermione. What kind of life would she, a Muggle-born, have in this new world? But she was so clever, had worked harder than all of them for her accomplishments. And Voldemort had said she would prove useful; that sounded promising. Besides, Ginny would never forgive Harry for submitting to the Dark Lord. Most, if not all, of her family had been cut down because of his cause. Also, and Harry felt selfish for allowing this to even sway his decision, he no longer felt the same way about her as he used to. His affection for her now was purely familial. What if, despite everything, she still wanted to be with him romantically? It was unlikely. She would be more likely to curse the living daylights out of him! Either way, being around her had already felt really awkward. Luna was such a wild card, he decided. Not to mention she was petrified, and though Harry knew it was wrong to doubt his Master, he decided that it was safer to choose a friend more easily revived. Perhaps if he was very good the Dark Lord would restore her at some point, along with any other rebels that weren’t too great a threat.

Hermione was heavier than she looked, and Harry was exhausted. It took all his strength to hoist her up, and then he realized that he still needed to carry her out of the Chamber. He hoped his Master had an easier way up than the pipe leading from Myrtle’s bathroom.

“If she is such a burden to you, Harry, feel free to set her down. I will send a few of my other Death Eaters to recover the remaining prisoners. She could be retrieved then, though I am not certain how gentle they will be with her.”

Harry didn’t trust the smug amusement lacing his Master’s words. “I can carry her, my Lord. She is my prize after all.”

Nagini had been ignoring the conversation so far, it being in English and unintelligible to her, but the sound of her Master’s quiet hiss of laughter drew her attention. “What is funny, Master?”

“Harry is worried that his Mudblood friend will be harmed by my soldiers, pet,” he told her. “I had agreed he could keep one of the rebels as a prize. He chose, but now is unable to carry her out of the Chamber. He won’t admit that he is not strong enough and needs help. And he does not trust my men to bring her out safely.”

Nagini glanced at Harry and tasted the air with her tongue. “Brother is too small. Perhaps Master can make the prize lighter so brother can do it?” she suggested, slithering down the Dark Lord’s side to the ground once more, then moving closer towards Harry. He silently thanked her, and hoped Voldemort would consider her idea. But then she looked at Hermione and hissed. “But Nagini does not think that little snakeling should be carrying it at all. Brother belongs to Master and to Nagini. He should not be touching this prize. Perhaps Master can make it fly instead?”

Fly? Harry wasn’t quite sure what Nagini meant, but the Dark Lord must have as his wand was quickly out, and soon Hermione was weightless in his arms after Voldemort cast a quick Levitation charm on her.

“Release her, Harry. We can float her out. I had no idea that having two willful Horcruxes would be so vexing. There, Nagini, Harry isn’t touching her anymore. And I hope you are grateful, Harry, that I am bringing her with us now. She doesn’t truly deserve my consideration. But if it will make you happy…”

“Thank you, Master.”

The way back to the Chamber entrance was easier with his Master lighting the way. When they came to the tunnel up to Myrtle’s bathroom, a hissed “stairs” from Voldemort caused a low grinding, as stone steps emerged from the bottom of the cavern floor. “Up, Nagini. Follow closely, Harry. Do not fall behind,” he warned.

Nagini obediently climbed back up to her Master’s shoulders and Harry moved so close to his Master that he nearly trod upon the man’s robes. As soon as they were all on the steps, the entire stone staircase moved upwards towards the distant washroom opening, similarly to the steps leading to the Headmaster’s office.

There were three cloaked and masked Death Eaters waiting in the washroom when they emerged, all of whom fell to their knees as Voldemort stepped out of depths of the tunnel. He ignored them and immediately strode out into the castle corridor, with Harry trailing closely behind. The Death Eaters rose as soon as the Dark Lord left the room, and followed behind them.

One of the Death Eaters was bold enough to hurry forward and take up pace right next to Harry. “Did the mission go well, my Lord?” It was Bellatrix. Harry edged away somewhat, though making sure to stay as close to his Master as he could. Hermione floated on his other side, and he didn’t want the Dark witch getting near his friend. She had enough scars from their last encounter.

“Exceedingly, Bella. Our newest recruit proved himself most admirably. He has even won himself a prize. Lead a team into the Chamber and remove the remaining rebels. Some are petrified, and others merely stunned. Keep them in those states, with no further injury, until I have the time to further consider their fate,” he told her.

“And the Basilisk, my Lord?” Bellatrix asked, warily. “Is it still…” she trailed off.

“Salazar’s familiar has been most gloriously resurrected by myself. She has retreated into her lair and should not pose a threat to you. If she does emerge, I strongly advise not looking at her. Though if there is a mishap, I may be inclined to bring the fool who disregarded my suggestion back to life. If I feel they are truly loyal to me and worthy of my time, that is.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Bellatrix sounded relieved. Harry hated that she felt confident enough to not doubt that the Dark Lord found her useful. Harry knew, from his visions and his Master’s own innuendoes, that the witch’s usefulness was not solely relegated to the battlefield. That knowledge made him a bit queasy. “I will take a unit down immediately.”

Bellatrix peeled back and motioned to the other Death Eaters following them, though not before smirking at Harry and saying, “If you need help breaking in your prize, I can spare an evening to help you train her. Though you went and lost my favourite knife.”

He glared at her, but said nothing, confident that his Master wouldn’t allow Bellatrix to hurt his friend. Hermione was Harry’s prize. He had earned her. Not that he knew what to do with her now. Mostly he just wanted to keep her safe.

“I can guarantee the Mudblood’s life, Harry, so long as she remains obedient and respectful of me,” Voldemort said, even as he took long strides down the castle corridor that Harry had to nearly jog to match, carefully steering Hermione alongside him. They had to round a corner too quickly, and her head nearly smashed against the stone. The Dark Lord didn’t slow to accommodate Harry’s burden, and Harry had to pull her along at a run once they came to a straight hallway. “Her ‘safety’, or rather her continued comfort, depends on both your own performance, as well as her ability to adapt to her new circumstances.”

“Master?” Harry questioned, not certain what exactly it was that he needed clarified. What more did he have to do to prove himself to the Dark Lord? Had he not given everything already? His very life, as well as his wand and all ties to his family and past in the form of the Map and his Invisibility Cloak. He had given his devotion…

“Oh, you can be far more devoted to me still, Harry,” Voldemort replied in an almost teasing tone, even as he slowed to look back at him from further up the corridor. The wicked smirk on the man’s pale face made Harry stop suddenly, and he could barely nod his acquiescence back to his Master.

How much more devoted could he get? He regularly kissed the man’s feet…

Voldemort turned back and resumed his quick progression down yet another hallway, then descended a steep set of steps. But not before Harry had watched as that smirk become something more sinister.

He gulped and, dragging his friend along, hurried to catch up.

***

Harry was not permitted to keep Hermione with him once they reached Malfoy Manor. After the Dark Lord had Apparated them to the opulent receiving hall, he had used Harry’s Dark Mark to summon Narcissa.

“Take this Mudblood somewhere reasonably clean. Secure her from escaping, but make certain she suffers no further damage in your care.” The Dark Lord sounded bored when he gave the orders, but, as always, when he spoke there was the underlying threat of dire punishment should he be disobeyed.

Narcissa wrinkled her nose in disgust at Hermione, only briefly, then set her face into a carefully polite mask as she turned back to Voldemort with a formal incline of her head. “At once, my Lord.”

Harry was only able to make out Narcissa drawing her wand and casting a number of cleansing charms on his friend—and she was clean already!—before Voldemort gripped his shoulder and steered him into the depths of the Manor. There were far too many stairs with their polished bannisters and galleries with unending fair-haired portraits for Harry to keep track of the direction. But soon enough they had reached what Harry now recognized as his Master’s wing of the house. The door to his own suites came into view. Voldemort didn’t stop there, but continued down to the next door. Harry paused outside his own door, not sure if he was expected to follow or not. The venomous glare that his Master bestowed on him when he turned and realized that his Horcrux was not directly behind him nearly made Harry yelp and rush to catch up.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. This was met by an irritated harrumph from his Master and a laughing hiss from Nagini. He was promptly pushed into the room. Voldemort entered after him and immediately cast a ward of some kind on the door.

The room was clearly an office. It was smaller than Harry would have expected. An ornate desk took up far too much space, and the shelves along the walls were crammed with ancient looking tomes and scrolls, many precariously stacked to the ceiling. It should have been a quiet room, nearly silent, but an ominous muttering enveloped the place, as if the books were filled with a deep disquiet and resentment, which made Harry involuntarily shudder.

In between the bookshelves, on either side of the room, was a set of matching tapestries. They mirrored one another, each depicting the Dark Mark. Just like the tapestry in my own room, Harry realized. The one alongside the wall adjoining his room was likely linked so that his Master could pass through without needing to exit into the public space of the corridor. He wondered where the other led to, if it was indeed similarly connected to another chamber.

The Dark Lord had seated himself at the desk and was ignoring him, so Harry moved towards the tapestry on the left side of the room, gingerly touching the fine threads that made up the image. It seemed as solid as the one in his own rooms.

“I  may tie you into the wards allowing you access in time, Harry. We shall have to see how things progress, yes?”

Harry murmured a quiet “yes, Master,” and turned back to the desk. He seemed to have Voldemort’s full attention now, which was both wonderful and horrifying in its intensity. The Dark Lord’s eyes were narrowed and it seemed to Harry the sort of expression that he might have right before he struck down an enemy.

“Come here, Harry.” Voldemort’s voice was too quiet.

Harry stepped forward and stood awkwardly in front of the Dark Lord’s desk. What had he done wrong? Should he kneel?

The air seemed charged all of a sudden, and he didn’t know why.

It seemed that, yes, he should kneel. But as he began to sink to the floor, his Master gestured to one of the chairs before his desk. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss and I want you sitting properly for it.”

Harry nodded, hastily obeying. He sat nervously, biting his lip as he waited for his Master to resume speaking.

It took a few minutes, the Dark Lord scrutinizing Harry the entire time. Harry didn’t know where to look…down at his folded hands? Up at his Lord? He found his gaze nervously wandering, taking in everything and nothing as he waited.

“You did not choose Miss Weasley,” Voldemort finally stated, his voice flat. He betrayed nothing with his tone, but his eyes were still narrowed. In thought, Harry realized. Not anger. But it was a dangerous contemplation and Harry was not relieved in the slightest. “I must admit that I had not expected that. I certainly hope that you have not dallied with the Granger Mudblood…”

Harry’s eyes flew up the his Master’s then. He shook his head quickly, and stuttered, “N-no. I…she was Ron’s…”

And Ron was dead. All the Weasleys were dead.

“I do generally abhor seeing a Pureblood line end,” Voldemort stated, picking up on Harry’s last guilt-ridden thought. “Blood Traitors or not. I always hope that there is at least one male to carry on the family line, even if in exile. However, I believe one Weasley remains alive. They are simply too prolific to wipe out, if nothing else. But we were not discussing the Weasleys. The Mudblood. Why her over Ginevra Weasley?”

Harry had thought that his Master had followed his train of thought in the Chamber when asked to choose his reward.

Or maybe this was a test?

A show of his devotion.

“Hermione is my friend,” he said, hoping it was enough explanation.

“Was your friend,” Voldemort corrected. “Death Eaters do not befriend Mudbloods.”

Harry gulped and reddened. “I…” He wanted to agree with his Master, on principle. He wanted to disagree, because…

How could he not be friends with Hermione?

“Should I have chosen Ginny?” he asked instead.

Voldemort surveyed him coolly for a few moments. “No.”

Harry didn’t know why this whole situation felt so dangerous. Voldemort’s words were knife-edged, it seemed. And Harry hadn’t realized until just recently what a coward he, himself, was. Two weeks ago he would have countered Voldemort with biting snark.

Now he only wanted to soothe his Master’s…his ego?

That was it!

Lord Voldemort wanted Harry to choose Him. Not his friend. Not his ex-girlfriend.

This was devotion.

Harry gulped, but forced his cowardice aside. He steeled himself and met his Master’s gaze. “In the Chamber you told me I would have to ‘make it up to you’. How can I do that?”

Voldemort’s smirk was back, even as his eyes narrowed further. Harry forced himself not to shrink back in his chair. The Dark Lord’s attention was terrible. “Do you even know what you are asking, Harry?” Voldemort whispered.

“No,” he admitted. “But I want to. I want to know how.”

The pause that followed was extremely uncomfortable. Voldemort sat watching Harry, his right hand trailing over Nagini’s back. Harry wished she was curled up next to him, so he would have something to keep his useless hands busy while he waited for his Master to respond.

After what seemed an eternity, the Dark Lord stood and strode to one of the overflowing bookcases. He trailed his hand along the spines, contemplatively, before he pulled out a thin volume bound in white leather. He dropped it in front of Harry. “Make yourself useful and search for anything regarding the transference of vital energies.”

“Yes, Master,” Harry replied, trying to keep the wariness from not only his voice, but from his mind as well.

The book’s title didn’t help calm him one bit:

Advanced Rituals in Sex Magic.

No, Harry decided. He had no idea what he was in for at all.

The book was surprisingly dry. Given the title, Harry had expected lurid illustrations at the very least. A Wizarding version of the Kama Sutra, perhaps. He’d blushed terribly when Voldemort interrupted his initial inspection of the book with “The Kama Sutra is a magical text, Harry. Remind me and I will procure a copy for your birthday.”

Harry resolved to do nothing of the kind. The Dark Lord’s amused hissing at his thoughts were not reassuring whatsoever.

There was no index and the Table of Contents was unhelpful, the topics all seemingly about conception and fertility. Harry wasn’t even certain what his Master had meant by ‘transference of vital energies,’ at least not in relation to the information presented in the work before him. He tried flipping through, hoping that key words would pop out at him. It didn’t help that the book was handwritten, old enough that the very lettering was unfamiliar. It was even harder to understand than the novel his Master had given him.

The Dark Lord kept pulling more and more off the shelves, until the stack rivalled any Hermione might have built during their OWLs. Another hiss from his Master—a displeased one, this time—made Harry vow to never compare their habits again.

Still, it was an idea, if it wouldn’t get her killed or him tortured for daring make such a suggestion. Perhaps if he worded it just right…

“Master,” he began. Voldemort didn’t pause in his work at heightening the towering stack on the desk, continuing to pull seemingly random books from the shelves around his office. When Harry didn’t continue, thinking perhaps he should wait until the Dark Lord had finished, his Master made an impatient ‘hurry up and talk’ gesture.

“Might I offer up my…” he trailed off, not really comfortable with the wording he was about to employ. “My prize to help with this, Master? She is quite good at research.”

Voldemort stopped short in the dissection of his office to glare at Harry, who pulled out the remaining dregs of his Gryffindor courage. He waved his hand at the mound of books and scrolls overwhelming his Master’s desk, and said, “She would be far better at searching through all this than me. You did say that she would be useful to you, Master. She can—”

“Enough Harry,” Voldemort said, though gently. “And it wasn’t a bad idea. I will, in time, give her a number of tasks to perform. Research tasks, if she is well-behaved and dedicated to the work. But not yet. She is not ready, and nor are you. And never with anything this sensitive.”

Harry nodded, and turned back to his slim volume while his Master tackled the rest.

They were at it for hours, it seemed. Harry had managed to get through his one small volume, only for Voldemort to thrust another at him. Potions For Use in Ritual Sex. Merlin. At least this one was type-set.

And this one was illustrated. Graphically so.

Voldemort pulled it from his hands as soon as he realized that Harry’s attention was caught on a puzzling diagram involving three wizards and a house elf.

“Why would—” Harry began to ask, unconsciously reaching for the book that was now in his Master’s grasp.

“Perhaps I should be censoring these for you,” Voldemort slyly suggested. He passed over a far more boring scroll.

Harry hadn’t known he could blush and pout at the same time.

The scroll was nearly indecipherable. It seemed to be half written in runes, though they could have been Chinese characters for all they meant to Harry. He had never bothered to even glance at Hermione’s Ancient Runes textbook. His life had always been complicated enough without adding seemingly dead languages to the mix, no matter how useful his friend had assured him they were. The magic he had felt he’d needed had been of the more immediately practical kind.

He was hopeless at this. He scanned the words, the ones he could recognize at least, as thoroughly as he could for any mention of ‘vital energies’ or ‘ transference’, and any synonyms of those terms that he could think of. He had long decided that he didn’t need to know their context. Hell, he didn’t think he wanted to understand their context, or was at least unwilling to admit that he was curious.

He was perhaps a little curious.

When he finally made it to the end of that scroll, having found nothing noteworthy, he selected a thick, modern-looking book. He bit back a sigh when he opened it, though: miniscule font; small margins; scholarly, complicated writing; and absolutely no pictures.

At least it had an index.

***

Voldemort returned Harry to his suite, not via the linked tapestry, but back through the hallway. Harry took the opportunity to glance down the corridor in the opposite direction, knowing that further along must be the door to whichever set of rooms the other tapestry in the Dark Lord’s office led to. Perhaps they were his Master’s rooms?

Perhaps they were Bellatrix’s. The thought made Harry’s stomach turn sour.

“You must be ready to see her again tonight. Be civil towards her, Harry,” Voldemort said, not satisfying Harry’s curiosity one way or the other. He ushered him into the now familiar rooms. Harry was happy that the desk here was empty. No more research! Settling Nagini in front of the fire, where she promptly curled up into a lethargic heap, the Dark Lord continued, “She has far more seniority within my ranks than you. Under normal circumstances, I would have little to no contact with a recruit as new as you. Bella would be directly responsible for both your training and discipline. I trust you do not wish for that, Horcrux?”

Harry didn’t wish for that at all. “No, my Lord.”

“I do not particularly want to explain my actions regarding you to her. She is a jealous creature, not unlike yourself, and will only begrudge you your connection to me.”

Harry hadn’t thought of that. Bellatrix seemed jealous enough already, without knowing that he held a precious piece of Lord Voldemort’s very soul within him. As unhinged and as knife-happy as she was, Harry could easily imagine her coming at his scar with a dagger, intent on cutting it out of him. Then somehow attaching it to herself. Harry paled at the imagery, feeling ill.

But…something about his Master’s words made Harry frown. ‘Not unlike yourself.’ But Harry wasn’t jealous, was he? Of Ginny? He didn’t even want her anymore. He had given her up, and all to satisfy what he knew were in fact his Master’s covetous tendencies.

But his Master had every right to feel possessive. Harry had willingly given Voldemort everything, but had secretly kept some affection for his friends. It was painful, but he knew he would have to work to overcome his lingering feelings for them. They wouldn’t welcome Harry’s affection anyway, not after his betrayal. It was better this way.

Voldemort didn’t comment on Harry’s disorderly thoughts, but the knowing smile on his thin lips as he departed promised that this discussion was far from over.

Nagini was useless. She was coiled so tightly in front of the fire that her head was barely visible, and she refused to acknowledge Harry’s hissed pestering. He supposed she must be worn out from their adventure. He was fairly exhausted, himself.

A quick nap, then a bath. Or vice versa, he decided, after a quick sniff. Harry was certain that a House Elf could easily clean the grime off the sheets had he indulged his fatigue, but perhaps the warm water would help loosen his muscles and relieve a bit of tension, both mental and physical.

The tub was quick to fill, and he poured nearly half the vial of scented bubble potion into the running water. He closed his eyes after settling against the back of the tub. He was more tired than he’d realized, and was worried that he might nod off and accidentally drown. It would be a humiliating way for the Boy who Lived to die: offed by bubble bath. He was unwilling to let his imagination wander far in that direction, though. He’d sacrificed too much to let his thoughts take such a morbid turn, no matter how amusing.

There wasn’t much else to occupy his mind, though, as he relaxed and waited for his muscles to absorb the warmth and unknot themselves. He refused to think about his recently completed mission. Refused to think of Ron, so willing to believe the best in Harry, even as he was led to…

No, he refused to think on it. He wouldn’t think of Ron, or George, or Luna or any of them. He wouldn’t think of Hermione. She’d be okay. Of course she would be. He certainly wouldn’t think of Ginny.

He forced himself to remember the tedious research he’d engaged in since his return to the Manor. Well, he tried to focus on the boring bits. His mind kept wandering to the diagram his Master had whisked away from him. He hadn’t the slightest idea what it had actually been about. Something about Sex Magic, though Harry had never heard the term before this afternoon. He wondered what other images might have been in the book.

Harry didn’t even notice his hand slipping under the bubbles, but through his scar he felt the warm, intoxicating pulse of his Master’s satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Harry had managed to pull himself from the bath before he fell asleep. He’d debated dragging one of the blankets off his bed and cuddling up next to Nagini in front of the fireplace, but after his poor sleep the night before, the prospect of a feather mattress won out. He was thankful for that decision when he woke, as the sheets hid a variety of sins. He wished for his wand, as he’d never managed a vanishing spell without it, and was happy that he had a House Elf to care for his sleepy indiscretion. Though, now that he remembered what he’d researched yesterday, he decided to not think of House Elves and, ahem, other things in the same sentence ever again.

A set of formal robes was laid upon the table, along with a note from his Master. There was to be a celebration this evening to honour this last victory. There was a scrawled aside at the bottom warning Harry to keep Nagini with him at all times, and that he was forbidden to engage in the evening’s more ‘exuberant activities.’ Harry guessed this meant that the rebels would be tortured, so he was relieved that he was exempt from participating. He didn’t have the stomach for such a thing, at least in regards to his friends. He was rather looking forward to paying Vernon back when he got the chance.

Harry was only half-dressed, and Nagini still asleep, when there came a hesitant knock on the door. His Master would never bother, Harry knew, so it must be another of the Dark Lord’s servants. He didn’t bother to rush to answer the door. Whoever it was could wait.

Another knock, louder this time. Harry did up the final buttons on his black robes and called, “Enter!” not bothering to hide his irritation at being disturbed.

The door opened and Draco Malfoy stepped in. Harry narrowed his eyes at the blond boy invading his personal space. These were his quarters. It didn’t matter that they were within Malfoy Manor; housing the Dark Lord and his entourage was no less than the Malfoy family’s responsibility to their Lord. “Did our Lord give you permission to enter my rooms, Malfoy?” Harry snarled.

“Potter,” Malfoy returned, his lips pinched tight in a satisfying mix of distaste and anxiety. “I was told to meet the Dark Lord in his study.”

Harry’s eyebrows raised. “And? So why aren’t you next door, then?”

Draco eyed Harry strangely, his eyebrows furrowing. “This is our Lord’s study, Potter. Or was,” he continued, looking about the room in confusion. Harry was glad he had pulled the blankets up to hide the sheets. “Next door?”

Harry nodded, and looked pointedly at the door, hoping Malfoy would get the hint and leave.

He didn’t. He stepped further into the room. Hadn’t his Master told him that wards prevented others from entering? Perhaps Harry had bollucksed that up by answering Malfoy’s knock. He had known it wasn’t his Master, after all, as Voldemort had the ability and right to come and go as he pleased, the door be damned. He should have just let Malfoy knock until he’d given up and left. Draco glanced around even more, striding over to the desk at the far end of the room. He ran his fingers over the surface, then raised his eyes to gaze out the window.

Harry took a calming breath. “If the Dark Lord is expecting you, I suggest you don’t linger in my room.”

Draco looked back at Harry, taking in his formal appearance. “Those suit you,”  he said, finally, gesturing to Harry’s dark robes. His Death Eater robes.

Harry scoffed. This from the boy who had viciously insulted him the last time they’d spoken. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he was envious that Draco’s home was so large that he was able to get lost in it, but the thought treacherously surfaced anyway. “Thank you,” he bit out. “Now leave.”

Draco nodded. On his way back to the door, he finally noticed Nagini and froze. She lifted her head, yawning. It was a harmless motion, but it revealed her long, pointed fangs. Harry heard a small, shocked intake of breath from his former classmate. He looked back at Harry, his eyes wide.

Harry smiled, his expression cruel and taunting. “Scared of snakes, Malfoy?”

Nagini, fully awake now, realized that someone other than her Master or brother was here, invading her territory. She reared up, hissing.

Draco scurried backwards to the door, faster than he had ever flown after a snitch. “Next door?” he asked again, far more hurriedly, and after seeing Harry’s confirming nod, shot into the corridor, slamming the door.

Supposed threat gone (Harry snorted at the idea of Draco Malfoy comprising any sort of threat), Nagini lowered herself into a sleepy mass once again. “What was the white-haired youngling doing in brother and Nagini’s den?” she asked Harry.

“Looking for Master. The idiot thought that this was his study.” Harry glared at the door, now wishing Draco had stayed longer, if only so that he could keep enjoying the other boy’s obvious fear of Nagini. He vowed that he would seek Draco out at the so-called celebration this evening, just so that he could see the blond’s eyes fill with fear again. Harry was surprised at how satisfying it was.

“This den was Master’s book room until brother came to sleep here,” Nagini hissed, slithering now towards Harry. She started to coil up his shoulders as she did so readily with Voldemort. Without the Feather-light charm on her, she was oppressively heavy. Harry could barely move.

Harry realized, then, that this was why his Master’s office was so small, so crammed with books. He’d sacrificed the larger area to make space for his Horcruxes’ living quarters. Nagini seemed knowledgeable enough, in this matter anyway, to answer another of his questions. “Do you know who uses the rooms on the other side of Master’s new study?” he asked. He tried to sound casual, but knew he was only fooling himself.

“Master, of course,” she replied. Her tongue darted out and brushed Harry’s cheek, sending a not unpleasant shiver down his spine.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good,” he whispered.

***

Draco was back at his door. Harry had ignored the knocking for a long time, until the rapping had become positively frantic, and even then he had taken his sweet time in sauntering over.

The door was locked. Oh, right. He’d forgotten that Voldemort saw him as little more than a possession, to be sealed away until needed. He picked up his novel and sat down at the table. Then, pretending to be busy, he called out for his visitor to enter.

Draco seemed more sure of himself this time, and he stepped inside without an invitation. Harry noticed that he was careful to not let the door close; he supposed it had been luck that it had remained open the last time, otherwise the two boys would have been stuck in there together. Malfoy looked smug, the bastard.

Of course Draco would have noticed Harry rattling the handle from inside, unable to open the door.

“You managed to find our Lord, did you?” Harry said, trying to divert attention away from the last few embarrassing minutes.

Draco nodded. “Hmmm, yes. I did. I’m here to collect you for the gala.”

Harry sighed, then hissed, “Time to go, sister.” Switching to English, he said, “Hey, Malfoy, I need you to cast a Feather-light charm on her for me. She’s too heavy without it.”

“Your problem, Potter,” Draco retorted. “As if I would point a wand at the Dark Lord’s familiar. Does it look like I have a death wish?”

Wonderful, he thought sarcastically. How was he going to make it all the way to this celebration with Nagini’s dead weight on him? He stepped away from her as she glided towards him, no doubt intending to climb back on his shoulders. “You’ll have to slither next to me,” he told her. “We’ll ask Master to make you light when we see him, and then I can carry you.” Then to Draco: “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

Draco glared at him for another second, but then smirked and said, “Not quite. I’m supposed to be your escort tonight. Keep you in line, and all that. But I refuse to go anywhere with you looking like that,” he sneered, his eyes glinting with derision in the general direction of Harry’s head. “Haven’t you ever heard of a comb, Potter? Of course, I never did expect much from a Muggle-raised barbarian such as yourself.”

Harry bit back several choice curse words, instead saying, with deadly calm, “I doubt our Lord would think highly of you for shirking his orders like that.”

Draco didn’t back down. “I doubt he’d be pleased that you hadn’t prepared adequately for tonight,” he countered. “Just brush your hair so we can get going. It’s bad enough that I have to waste the evening with you, of all people.”

“Fine,” Harry snapped, and stomped back into the washroom to brush his blasted hair. It did look disastrous, Harry was forced to admit. It had still been wet when he’d fallen asleep, and had dried awkwardly. He ran his comb under the tap, then dragged it through the cowlick, trying to make it lie flat.

It didn’t help.

“I thought you were going to fix your hair,” Draco said when he returned. He looked annoyed, as if it was his own stupid hair that Harry had messed up. He was a few steps closer now, but Nagini was barring the way; it looked like the blond had tried to follow him into the washroom and she’d stopped him.

“I tried. It just doesn’t…” Harry waved his hand vaguely at his head, indicating his hair. “It always sticks up.”

Draco eyed his black hair speculatively. “Maybe it’s an inherited curse.”

“My hair is not cursed, Malfoy,” Harry groaned. “Let’s just get going.”

Draco stepped back to the door, gesturing for Harry to follow. “It’s completely possible, Potter. And there are far worse familial curses than wretched hair.” He ignored Harry’s irritated growl, adding, “Just look at Gregory.”

Gregory? Oh, that was one of Draco’s idiotic minions. The one that hadn’t try to cook them all in the Room of Requirement. “What about Goyle?” muttered Harry, not really caring.

Draco led Harry down the corridor, then out of the Dark Lord’s wing. Nagini slithered alongside, hissing that she was tired and that Harry had better let her up soon. It wasn’t until they were striding down a broad staircase that Draco continued. “It’s a well-known secret that Goyle’s family was cursed centuries ago, which rendered the male line nearly mute. Surely you’ve noticed that Gregory rarely speaks. Much more than a grunt causes him considerable pain.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Nice try, Malfoy. I’m not that gullible.”

Draco shook his head, steering Harry across a beautifully appointed landing. “No lie. Almost every family has some kind of bewitchment on them. The Weasleys—”

“Shut up about the Weasleys, Ferret-face!” Harry spat, venomously. Beside him, Nagini, thinking Harry had been threatened, shot out towards Draco.

Draco let out a small shriek.“Call her off, Potter!” He was backed against the wall, his eyes glued to the massive serpent that looked posed to strike.

“Why should I! You were going to say something horrible about the Weasleys. They’re a far better family than yours, Malfoy!” Were a far better family, Harry corrected silently and reproachfully.

“Far better Blood-traitors, you mean! Don’t forget which side you’re on now!” Draco returned, though his face was still white and he was in obvious distress. “I was only going to say that they’re cursed to have male children. I wasn’t going to insult your precious girlfriend’s honour, except in saying it was practically a miracle she was conceived at all.”

Harry didn’t know if he believed that this was really what Draco had intended to say about the Weasleys before Nagini involved herself. He decided to let it go. “Don’t bite him, sister. He won’t hurt me.”

Nagini’s tongue darted out to towards Draco. “Brother must be careful. This one smells of fear, and prey can kill if they are too afraid.”

“So don’t back him into a corner,” Harry insisted. He realized, then, that this applied to himself, too. If he pushed Draco Malfoy too far, he would do anything to remain safe. It was the Slytherin thing to do.

Harry knew this first hand. It had been the reasoning for all his actions this past week, after all. He should keep in mind that he wasn’t the only one who might act out in fear. He vowed to try not to push Draco too far.

But he still didn’t have to like the spoiled git.

Nagini tasted the air around Malfoy a few more times, then slithered back to Harry. “Is brother certain he cannot carry Nagini? Nagini is tired.” Hissing should not be able to sound so much like a whine, mused Harry.

Still, he managed to get her moving again. “I didn’t know that about the Weasleys,” he admitted to Draco.

Draco gave a subdued snort, still shaking a bit from his supposed brush with death. “I’m not surprised. I’ve always known you knew next to nothing about most things.”

***

Nagini had complained the entire way to the Malfoy ballroom. She didn’t even stop when Harry was kneeling before Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord didn’t need prompting; he silently cast the needed charm and, light as air, Nagini wound her way up Harry’s body and made herself comfortable. She was soon fast asleep.

Harry wasn’t the only one kneeling at Voldemort’s feet. Bellatrix was already there, fawning over the Dark Lord. With a cursory “Off you go, Harry,” his attention was all on her. Harry couldn’t help regretting, then, how long he’d taken in getting down to the celebration. If he hadn’t argued so much with Draco, perhaps his Master would be paying attention to him instead.

Harry scuttled off the dais as quickly as his Firebolt when the Dark Lord beckoned Bellatrix forward between his thighs.

Harry pushed down a wave of nausea. He couldn’t look at that, wouldn’t look at that. It wasn’t that Harry was jealous of her. No, not that at all…it was just that it was… “Draco,” he began once they were well out of earshot (though never out of the range of his Master’s Legilimency), “Why are they even…isn’t she married?”

Draco looked at him as though he’d suddenly grown two heads. He looked a bit offended, Harry thought, but then all the Malfoys managed to continuously appear vaguely offended and put-upon, as if the entire world was found sorely lacking and not up to their standards. Still, Harry suddenly felt that he’d put his foot in his mouth, having made some unwitting social blunder and broken one of the bazillion completely tosh Pure-Blood etiquette rules.

“And?” Draco said bitingly, blushing. No, Harry suddenly realized—he sounded defensive. That was embarrassment reddening his cheeks, not anger.

Harry couldn’t help himself. Curiosity and something he wouldn’t name (no, it wasn’t jealously. It absolutely wasn’t!) won out over his concern for not rocking the boat, and all that. “Well, shouldn’t she be with her husband? Rodolphus, or whatever his name is?”

More blushing. Harry didn’t think what he’d asked was that embarrassing. “My uncles are no doubt busy entertaining each other,” said Draco, delicately.

Was that supposed to be some kind of explanation? When he just stared blankly back at him, Draco gestured to the more dimly-lit part of the ball-room, where Harry had been desperately avoiding looking. All he could make out was a sea of writhing bodies, a mixture of pleasure and pain. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, regardless.

This was what his Lord had meant by ‘exuberant activities!’ Harry was even more happy that he was forbidden to participate. He wasn’t ready for that. He doubted he would ever be ready, but it did explain how his Master managed to recruit so many young and healthy witches and wizards. Harry doubted that Dumbledore had offered such lurid incentives; no wonder his group could comfortably fit around the kitchen table at 12 Grimmauld Place. Still, the comparison had been made, and that brought forth some rather uncomfortable ideas. Harry forcibly banished the mental imagery of any of the Order of the Phoenix members engaged in sexual activities, regardless of knowing that was exactly how Mrs Weasley had ended up with so many sons.

So, the Lestrange brothers were engaged in…that. But ‘entertaining each other?’ Harry began to ask what that meant, but then a disturbing, and no doubt accurate, picture formed in his head. He refused to scan the moaning crowd more closely to see if he was right in his assumption.

“NevermindforgetIasked,” Harry mumbled. By the burning in his cheeks, he expected that his face was even more red than Draco’s, probably rivalling the brightness of Fawkes’ plumage. Then, more articulately, he asked, “So, how about a drink?”

Draco seemed relieved to lead the way to the buffet table set up, thankfully, far away from the mass of sex-enthralled wizards and witches, as well as from the quiet groans his Master was making from his throne. Harry had adamantly refused to look back towards the Dark Lord once Bellatrix had settled in front of him. She was obviously giving Voldemort a foot massage. A very, very good foot massage. One that washed over the link in waves of intense pleasure through Harry’s scar. He wished he had a migraine, instead.

Lucius and Narcissa were conversing in low tones near the punch bowl, though they stopped abruptly as their son and Harry came near. Harry couldn’t help but think that Draco must be pleased that his parents were here, talking, rather than making a spectacle of themselves with the rest of the celebrants.

Draco poured a glass of punch for himself and one for Harry.

“You’re not my date, Malfoy. I can serve myself.”

“My task tonight, as I explained earlier, is to escort you. The Dark Lord made me understand that I was to ensure your safety.” To Harry’s horror, the blond took a sip from both drinks. He flashed a toothy, sadistic grin at Harry’s look of disgust and held out one of the glasses for him to take. “See? Not poisoned. The snake might keep my aunt from getting too curse-happy with you, but she won’t taste-test your food.”

Harry ignored the proffered drink. “I’ll take my chances.” He might not be ready to die by his Master’s wand, but Harry wasn’t willing to spend his life living in a state of constant paranoia, like Mad-eye Moody. And there was not way his Master expected him to drink Malfoy leftovers. Draco was just being an arse.

Draco grinned, flashing his evil little pointy teeth. “Just so that I have a memory to show the Dark Lord, that I tried to keep you safe. A bit of insurance.”

Harry poured himself his own glass of the punch. It was actually quite delicious. It was possibly the most heavenly thing Harry had ever tasted.

Malfoy must have noticed his appreciation, because he bragged, “It’s a blend of Champagne and Elvish Banta juice. Prohibitively expensive, and Banta berries are impossible to import without the right connections. Especially now, with the war and all.”

Of course. The wanker. “It’s okay,” Harry lied.

The two boys nursed their drinks. Harry hadn’t had much experience with alcohol, and knew better than to drink too much. No matter how tasty it was, he wasn’t willing to be tipsy in a room filled with so many dangerous people, all of them drunk on a mix of endorphins and swanky punch.

“So, what is the point of all this, um…stuff?” Harry asked, finishing lamely. He refused to name it.

“The giant orgy?” Draco deadpanned. Harry noticed for the first time that he was also avoiding looking in that general direction. “What do you think?”

“Sex magic?” he asked. After spending most of that afternoon searching through ancient texts on the subject, it just popped into his mind.

“What?” blurted Draco, spilling his punch all down the front of his robes. Harry handed him a serviette, which Malfoy completely ignored.

“What I said,” Harry repeated, not understanding why Draco had suddenly lost his composure. He hadn’t even reacted this strongly to explaining his incestuous uncles. “Sex-magic. Transference of, uh…” what was the term? “…vital energies,” he ended, trying to sound like he knew more about it than he did. Even after spending hour after hour researching the topic, he still had no idea what it was all about.

“Is this what that old goat was teaching you?” Draco asked, looking vaguely disturbed.

Harry started, taken aback by Draco’s complete lack of respect. “How dare you speak about our Lord like that!” he spat, ignoring the vow he’d made to himself not an hour earlier. He reached up and began to stroke Nagini vigorously. She shifted, hissing nonsensically as the firm caresses began to rouse her.

Draco paled. “That’s not what I meant and you know it! You don’t need to wake her up, for Merlin’s sake!”

 “Then what did you mean?” Harry replied through clenched teeth. He relaxed the hand on his sister, and her disgruntled hissing settled back into a sleepy wheeze.

“Is something the matter, gentlemen?” Lucius interrupted. He must have been eavesdropping, or had at least sensed the tension flowing between the two teens. “Are we not meant to be celebrating our Lord’s newest and last victory this evening?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Father.” Draco was too quick to answer, in Harry’s opinion. Judging by Lucius’ narrowed eyes, he thought so too.

Harry surveyed the older man coolly before he answered. “I had asked your son a question, and he responded by insulting the Dark Lord.”

“I didn’t! You completely misunderstood.” Draco glanced frantically at his father. “He did, really!” he pleaded. “I was talking about Dumbledore.”

“And why,” Lucius asked, disdainfully, “would you even bring up that manipulative old coot, tonight of all nights. I suggest that you both find something more palatable to discuss. I will not hesitate to Silence you, Draco, if you cannot control that careless tongue of yours.”

“Why just me?” Draco whined. “It was Potter that—”

“Have you so quickly forgotten what our Lord said regarding our guest? Do not even think about casting anything upon Mr Potter, Draco, unless you wish to be reacquainted with my cane.” He banged it loudly on the polished floor in emphasis. “And for Salazar’s sake, Draco! Clean yourself up.”

“Thanks so much!” Draco bit out after his father left. He cast a quick Evanesco on his robes.

Harry shrugged, not caring if Lucius beat Draco black-and-blue. “No need to get your knickers in a twist,” he said, dismissively. “But your father is right about one thing, Malfoy. Don’t ever bring Dumbledore up in my presence again. He isn’t a fit topic for polite conversation.”

“A-and what you said is?” Draco spluttered. “About the Sex Magic?” This last was given in a desperate hiss.

Harry sauntered back to the buffet table. Draco could get all worked up; it was nothing to him. “What’s the big deal.”

Draco looked at him as though Harry was the biggest idiot he’d ever seen. But, Harry thought, that wasn’t far from his usual expression, so it didn’t really phase him. “Were you raised in a ditch, Potter?” A cupboard, thought Harry, but he wasn’t about to admit that to the arrogant boy before him. “Sex-magic is really taboo. It’s not quite the Darkest magic there is, but close.”

“We’re Death Eaters, Malfoy,” said Harry, pointing the cracker he’d just picked up at Draco’s left forearm in emphasis. “Who gives a shit about that?”

Draco just shook his head. “You don’t get it. It’s simply not done.”

“It can’t be more taboo than incest,” Harry retorted, his nose curling in disgust.

Draco at least had the good sense to look embarrassed by that. He sighed before admitting, “Well, maybe it’s not that it isn’t done. But really, Sex Magic has caused all kinds of problems in the past, has torn families apart. It used to be the leading cause of line theft, which was responsible for the ruin of several Pureblood houses in this century alone. And that’s just the beginning of the havoc it can cause. So, no, it’s not something generally discussed,” he finished. “And certainly not over appetisers. Despite what my aunt and uncles might get up to, the rest of my family has some sense of decorum.” He tugged his robes back into alignment, then ran his hand over his head, as if to smooth down the strands of his perfect hair. “We are respectable.”

Harry snorted. The Dursleys had prided themselves on being ‘respectable.’ “Malfoy, your family is literally hosting a Death Eater orgy right now.”

Draco sighed, then perked up. “No, it’s over, thank Salazar.” He turned to Harry and grinned. “Ready for some real entertainment?”

Chapter Text

‘Real entertainment’ involved torture, Harry soon realized. About a dozen prisoners, all grown men and women wearing torn ministry robes, were dragged in by a masked Death Eater and flung before Voldemort’s throne. Harry was relieved that he didn’t recognize any of their faces, and more relieved that his Master had finally finished with Bellatrix -- she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Harry hoped that she had performed badly and been sent away. Permanently.

The whimpers of terror brought him back to the present. Much to Harry’s consternation, Draco was inching forward through the massing crowd of Death Eaters. “I want a good view,” he said. “Follow me.”

Harry, on the other hand, had no intention of getting nearer to the oncoming action. He was even less comfortable by these events than with the evening’s earlier lechery. “I think I’m okay here, thanks.”

“Nuh, uh, Potter.” Draco appeared to be harnessing his inner Dudley. Perhaps he was involved in his cousin’s ‘care’ during his imprisonment, and some of Dudley’s more brainless mannerisms were rubbing off on him. The two were a right pair, really. In another universe, they would have gotten on well together. He decided to tell Draco this when he was especially annoyed at him, which would likely be later that night, given how things was going so far. “We’re going up front where the action is. And the Dark Lord wants you with him for this. He told me so when I met with him earlier.”

Draco set off through the crowd. Like Harry, he was slight and, though he was jostled a bit, he managed to work his way through to the front easily enough. Harry hissed at his rival’s arrogance in expecting him to docilely follow like a whipped Crup.

But if his Master had ordered him to the front, he certainly wasn’t going to disobey. Harry refused to elbow his way through the crowd like Draco had, though. “Wake up, Nagini. Time to frighten some prey.”

She yawned. Harry nudged her, and she hissed in annoyance.

“Open your eyes, sister, and terrify the people around me. Just a little. I want them to move out of my way.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “But then I’m going back to sleep.”

She did a fine job, though, at forcing a path through the blockage of Death Eaters. They quickly scrambled to either side as she bared her long fangs. Harry was briefly irritated that his own presence was so much less intimidating, before remembering that for years he’d wanted nothing more than to fade into the background. To just be Harry, not Harry Potter. ‘Harry Potter’ was an icon of false hope. Even now, what he really hoped was that no one would notice him. He didn’t want the prisoners’ terrified eyes drawn to him. He didn’t want to see their disappointment.

The Dark Lord had been waiting for him to emerge before the newest event began in earnest. “And the guest of honour has graced us with his presence.”

Harry looked around to see who had entered and thus garnered his Master’s attention. To his consternation, all eyes were locked on him. He stared back at Lord Voldemort, who beckoned him forward.

This attention was exactly what he had not wanted.

“Go.” Draco’s prodded him with his foot. Harry had the sense that Malfoy would have shoved him in the back, had he not risked upsetting the twenty-foot snake resting there. “Get up there, he’s waiting for you.”

Now Harry wished he’d made greater haste in coming forward. He hoped he wasn’t about to get publicly chastised for taking too long.

But there was a pleased glint in the Dark Lord eyes, and Harry’s scar was quiet. His Master didn’t seem angry with him for his tardiness. No, he seemed enthused, as if he was anticipating something exciting, something he’d longed for. Something more than a routine, celebratory torture session.

Harry moved to the front of the throne room and quickly knelt before the dais. “My Lord,” he murmured.

“Rise,” answered Voldemort, perfunctorily. He stood from his throne and came down the step to where Harry waited. He then reached out with his long, elegant hands and, grasping Harry’s arm, turned him so that he was facing the assembled crowd.

The Death Eaters had all donned their masks, and those that had stripped in their hedonism had redressed. Harry didn’t know why they bothered concealing their identities; it wasn’t as if any of the prisoners would survive the night. Besides, Voldemort had won. The Ministry was his. Wizarding Britain was his.

“It is for effect, Harry,” hissed his Master. “They cower more when we are the faceless horror they were taught to fear. But you, Precious,” and here Harry shivered, breathless, “they must see. Before they die I want them to know that their hopes for salvation were unfounded. That Dumbledore had told them nothing but lies.”

Harry refused to admit that he would give a lot to be called ‘precious’ again by his Master. “How may I serve you, my Lord,” he asked in English, for the benefit of the crowd before them.

He would prove to everyone, again and again if need be, that Dumbledore had indeed lied to them all. And always to Harry. Especially to him.

Voldemort smiled. “Well done,” he praised before turning to address the crowd, Death Eaters and the condemned alike. “Welcome, my loyal supporters, to what I know will be a fine celebration of our combined victory. And welcome to our Ministry friends.” The black-clad crowd laughed cruelly at the Dark Lords words, with a few creative jeers thrown in as well. Harry thought he heard Bellatrix’s voice, and was simultaneously dismayed that she was still here and pleased that she was at the back, far from his Master. “I am afraid you have missed the more enjoyable part of the night. But perhaps if some of you, or some parts of you rather, manage to survive the next hour, you may engage in the midnight reprise.”

Harry didn’t know what his Master meant by that last bit, and neither did the assembled prisoners, judging from their confused expressions. They were still terrified, though, as they had easily understood the Dark Lord’s main message. None of them were expected to live beyond the next hour, and the next sixty minutes promised nothing but pain.

The Death Eaters, minus Harry of course, seemed to understand perfectly the Dark Lord’s cryptic words, and their laughter pealed off the ballroom walls.

The Dark Lord took a deep breath, and gently squeezed Harry’s arm. “Keep being good for me, Harry,” he murmured. Nagini sighed in her sleep, her scales sliding comfortably along Harry’s neck. It was very soothing. Once the crowd had become quiet again, Voldemort continued his speech: “You all recognize the young man standing beside me. Many of you were present for his Initiation into our ranks, but one week ago. Since then, Harry Potter has completed his first mission, successfully apprehending the last of the rebels entrenched within the bowels of Hogwarts. Our captives from this last engagement are still being processed, so in their stead I have brought you the remaining Ministry dissenters. Please, gentlemen, I expect a good show. Try not to kill them all within the first five minutes.”

With that, the Dark Lord retreated to his throne, dragging Harry with him. He pushed Harry into a kneel next to his throne, and idly began carding thin fingers through his hair. Harry felt awkward at first. He was getting used to being touched by Voldemort, had begun to crave it, though still uneasily. But that was private, and this was most definitely not. Yet had he not been envious of Bellatrix when she had knelt before this very throne earlier that night? True, it was for a far different purpose. But he was the one now before their Lord. He was the one with their Master’s attention, the one whose devotion was payed back with fond caresses.

Harry heard his name being called by the Ministry employees, even as they were being surrounded by dark-clad assailants. Their words varied from pleas for him to help, to incredulity that he was kneeling before the Dark Lord, to curses at his betrayal.

He had never betrayed them. He had never promised them anything. They had rallied behind him because he was famous, and yet his claim to fame was in surviving. And that was exactly what he planned to keep doing. It wasn’t his fault they were unwilling to follow his lead.

Harry leaned into his Master’s touch, revelling in the way the long fingers scratched gently along his scalp, how they smoothed the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. The Feather-light charm on Nagini had been lifted at some point, and now he could feel the press of her weight against him, and the gentle rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed.

The screams from below were drowned out in the wake of his utter contentment.

***

It seemed as if nearly all the Death Eaters took turns with the prisoners. Harry recognized Draco, even with the mask hiding his face. His Crucio was standard, if torture could be called such. The witch he targeted writhed beneath his wand, blood pooling in her nostrils, but she recovered quickly after the curse was lifted.  Draco was pushed aside by another Death Eater who shot off a brutal Diffindo at the woman; she screamed as her left arm was severed several inches below her shoulder.

Harry closed his eyes. He was now beyond pleased that his Master had taken him out of the fray. He wouldn’t have been able to participate in this. But what if something else was expected of him? Something he couldn’t do?

“Do not fret, Harry. I have something special planned for you. Someone you will relish hurting.”

Harry couldn’t think who that could be. Who would he enjoy tormenting? Vernon and Dudley, obviously, but his Master had said something about Midsummer, which was more than a month away. Who did that leave? Snape?

But he’d barely managed to break Snape’s thumb when he’d had the chance. That felt like years ago, now.

“Not Severus. I realized, but recently, that I still have need of his expertise. There are several exacting potions I require that, while not outside my own capabilities, will demand more attention than I can spare during this transformative time. For now, at least, I will allow him to live. I promise you though, Harry, he has much to atone for in regard to his continuous betrayals. This is hardly a reward.”

Harry nodded, understanding. The Dark Lord was, above all, pragmatic. He didn’t need to forgive his foes to make use of them. But he had to ask, despite worrying that he’d be punished for questioning his Master’s judgement, “How can you be sure he won’t brew something poisonous, Master?” He tensed a little, anxious that Voldemort’s hand would tighten painfully in his hair, which would be but the first sign of his ire. Sometimes it took so little to anger him.

Voldemort didn’t seem bothered by Harry’s words, though. He continued petting him, the repetitive action soothing away his worries. “Do not concern yourself over such things, Darling,” which made Harry tense for an altogether different reason. “I will have Severus hobbled under so many vows that he will barely be able to stand straight. He will never be a danger to either of us again.”

Time seemed to flow strangely. On the one hand, Harry knew that little time had passed since the first of the prisoner’s screams, but it also dragged on forever. Harry’s Saving People complex was much reduced from what it was—he felt no desire to throw himself in front of any of them, to use himself as a shield—but he still felt empathy for them.

The Death Eaters had grown bored with the Cruciatus at some point, and had liberally used spells that Harry was less familiar with. He recognized the aftermath of the Entrail-Expelling curse, but Voldemort’s followers were above all creative in their sadism. Regardless of which incantations, which hexes and curses had been used to brutalize the bodies before him, the effect was the same. Excruciating pain, then death.

When there was but one captive still alive, a witch who was even now bleeding out on the gore-strewn floor, Lord Voldemort stood and said, “Friends, that is enough for now. Antonin, patch her up. We have one more event planned this evening, and this lovely young lady will be required to participate.”

A man with dark hair emerged from the crowd. Harry noticed that his robes looked wet with blood, much more so than many of the other Death Eaters in the room. From behind his mask he said, “Look alive, love.”  He cast a quick healing spell at the cowering witch. Judging from her pained yell, it must have stung. Like iodine on a cut, Harry thought, then chided himself for thinking like a Muggle.

As if Petunia would have wasted iodine on a freak like him, anyway. But for once that word—Freak!—which had once brought shame upon him, gave him a sense of pride. He was a wizard. He was powerful, superior.

And Petunia was dead.

Lord Voldemort seemed to be waiting for something. The room grew still, and all that could be heard were the muted cries from the Ministry witch. Dolohov quickly Silenced her, and all was quiet.

A rapping at the door. Then it opened, without leave from the Dark Lord. Who would dare…?

A witch with monstrously pink robes.

Umbridge, of course. She was pale, obviously frightened, but she plastered on a sycophantic smile and sauntered right up to the dais.

“My Lord,” she simpered.

“Dolores Umbridge,” he returned. He sounded mostly indifferent, but Harry knew better. His scar had flared to life with a pulsing sting. Anticipation. A hand was again in his hair, not quite the gentle stroking from before. This was a light pulling, a tugging. Almost a new branding. This is mine. “Welcome.”

Harry wondered if she lacked the good sense to never interrupt Lord Voldemort. The memory of her nightmarish speech from the Welcoming Feast of his fifth year made its way into his mind, and Harry kept waiting for the hated ‘hem hem’. But she seemed to have more respect for the Dark Lord than she’d had for Dumbledore, or at least a better developed sense of self-preservation. She waited demurely for him to continue.

“I have been told that you requested an audience with me, that you wish to join our ranks. Or was Yaxley misinformed?” said Voldemort.

No. This was worse than the Malfoys. Worse than Bellatrix, even. If Harry had to put up with that horrid woman at every one of his Master’s meetings…well, he would just beg to be excused from attending. The Dark Lord would hopefully understand. His Master’s hand had switched back to a soothing, repetitive stroke upon his head, his scar pushing soothing pulses upon him.

“Yes, my Lord. That is what I told him.” She giggled, then. It was a nervous giggle, but a giggle nonetheless. Who giggled in front of Voldemort? Bellatrix would cackle on occasion, true, but Harry wracked that up to her being completely nuts. Also, she had certain privileges. Harry relaxed into his Master’s touch, reminding himself again that it was he that was up here enjoying these pets, not her.

“Excellent,” Voldemort replied, his smile evident in his voice. “I am afraid you missed the bulk of this evening’s activities, my dear. But all is not lost. I am unaware…did Corban explain to you what an Initiation entails?”

“No, my Lord, but I am ready.” And with that, the odious woman fell to her knees and pulled up her sleeve, revealing her bare arm.

Voldemort hummed. “Rise, Dolores. We are not yet at that stage. First you must demonstrate your sincerity and your willingness to do my bidding.”

She scrambled to her feet, a pronounced blush upon her plump cheeks. Her lips were drawn to a tight line; she was becoming angry in her embarrassment, though within a moment she seemed to remember where she was. The silly smile she’d always worn in front of Fudge returned.

Not so much self-preservation after all, Harry decided.

Beside him, Voldemort made a small sound of amusement, which Harry guessed was due to his own thoughts. He took the slight scratch his Master gave to the top of his head as affirmation.

“All of my new followers must prove themselves to our cause by demonstrating their prowess. To be clear, we have left you the remnants of our earlier revels.” He pointed towards the centre of the ballroom, where the frightened Ministry witch was trembling. “Put her out her misery.”

Umbridge’s eyes widened as she took in the blood-slicked floor and the figure huddled in the middle of it. Someone had vanished the corpses at some point, but it was clear that a great deal of suffering had occurred there, and not long ago. Harry wondered at how she’d missed the mess on her way in. Maybe this was normal for her, he mused. She did have a penchant for torture, after all. Harry knew that first hand.

Still, Umbridge didn’t manage the Killing Curse at first. The assembled Death Eaters began whispering amongst themselves, bored, as the green-hued spell repetitively fizzled out at the end of her wand. Her failure wasn’t helping her victim, either. She knew she was going to die. She tensed, bracing herself, each time the curse fell from Umbridge’s lips, but nothing would happen. Again and again. Tears were running down her face, and Harry hadn’t felt so sorry for someone in a long time. Meanwhile, Umbridge’s cheeks got pinker and pinker with each failure, until they nearly matched her robes. She was so angry, it was unclear why she hadn’t managed to kill the woman. But…

“Enough.” Voldemort’s voice caused all to freeze.

All but Umbridge, that is. “Just one more…” and another failed attempt.

“Pathetic,” the Dark Lord said, then laughed, cold and cruel. Around her, the masked Death Eaters laughed along with their Lord. “Dolores Umbridge, how can I Mark you when you cannot perform this one, simple task for me.”

She turned to meet his stern gaze. “My Lord,” she said. “Have I not been serving you this past year? I have organized the Muggle-born Registra—”

“Enough!” spat Voldemort. “I did not grant you audience so that you might brag about how well you have served me. Did I ask you to set up this Commission? Did I give you permission to rob and to torture? To imprison? I do not recall giving such orders.”

“B-but my Lord, you—” Umbridge stammered.

“Silence,” he hissed. “As you might guess, Madam Umbridge, you will not be Marked this evening. You will not be serving me, just as you have not served me this past year. In fact, all that you have managed is to created a number of hurdles for my new government. You have endangered the Statute of Secrecy and made England little more than a laughing-stock with your poorly administered policies. And, worse yet, your agenda was thought to be my own. Even Harry Potter here believed this to be so. Did you not, Harry?”

Harry felt the weight of many eyes upon him, then. Kneeling at Voldemort’s feet, the skeletal hand still stroking his hair—he must have been quite a sight. “Yes, my Lord,” he agreed.

Umbridge’s beady eyes were the most piercing. “Mr Potter,” she said, bitterly. “And is he Marked?”

Voldemort laughed again, though this time no one joined in. “Such gall. It is almost admirable. Yes, Harry was Marked last week; you missed that celebration, too. Harry managed to kill his victim, didn’t you?” He waited for Harry to nod. “His own aunt. It was glorious.”

“I’m sure,” Umbridge replied, pale.

“But my greater contention with you, Dolores, is due to a different mark that young Harry bears. He has three notable markings, and I detest that one of these was not inscribed by my own wand. His famous scar, of course, was my own. And the brand upon his arm.” Harry pulled up the sleeve covering his left forearm, even as his Master flicked the fringe from above his right eye, revealing the famous lightening-bolt scar. “But there is one other mark, Dolores. On his hand. Come closer, and tell us what it says.”

Umbridge stepped forward hesitantly, her shoes leaving bloody prints upon the floor. She stopped several metres from the throne. “I must not tell lies,” she whispered hoarsely.

Voldemort scoffed. “You’re not even looking, yet you seem most certain. Closer, woman. And let us all hear that repulsive, sanctimonious voice of yours. Read it to us.”

It took a good minute before Umbridge could muster up the courage to obey. Voldemort, for once, was all patience, revelling in her obvious distress and terror. When she was close enough, Harry raised his right hand. The words he’d been forced to cut into his skin were now a pale silvery-pink, which over time had become easy enough to ignore. Until now, he hadn’t known that his Master had even noticed them. Umbridge cleared her throat, a pitiful, genuine sound so unlike the skin-crawling noise she usually made. “I must not tell lies.”

“Harry, why don’t you tell your brethren how it is that you came to have this scar. And why.”

Harry had always hated being placed in a spot-light, which was unfortunate since he’d been thrust there so frequently since he was eleven. He was glad that his Master was still petting his head. Yes, it drew further attention to him, but everyone was already looking at him anyway, and the touch soothed his nerves better than any dram of Ogden’s Finest. “Professor Umbridge,” he began, “didn’t like what I was saying about Vol—our Lord’s return at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. She had tried, and failed, to silence me before I even got to Hogwarts. When I was directly under her care--” and here Harry’s composure broke. He was angry, dammit. He took a calming breath before continuing. “She wouldn’t let any of us study Defense properly. She said we didn’t need it, that I had made everything up to get attention. I was given detention, and she made me write lines. But she used a quill that did this to me. Made the words carve right into my hand.”

“A Black Quill,” Voldemort explained to his assembled Death Eaters. He ignored Harry’s slip, when he’d almost called his Master by his chosen name; Harry hoped that he understood that, in reciting his story, his mind had fallen back into that of fifth year, when the name had foolishly tripped off his tongue.

“I wasn’t the only one, my Lord, though I received the most detentions. She wanted to make sure the words ‘sunk in’. But she made other students do this, too.”

“I don’t care about the other students, Harry,” Voldemort said. Then, to Umbridge, “I believe Harry said that this was not your first attempt to silence him. What was the first?”

But Umbridge was unwilling, it seemed, to answer that. Voldemort must have known what it was, anyway. He seemed to know everything about Harry, from either their soul-link or a more standard Legilimency.

“It is best,” the Dark Lord decided, “that you remain silent, I suppose. We are all tired, I expect, of your falsehoods by now.” And with an idle flick of his free hand, her mouth was gone. She reached up and groped at the blank stretch below her nose. A noise of panic could be heard, just barely, but that was soon drowned out by the cruel laughter from the congregated Dark witches and wizards.

Harry felt a gentle prodding of fingers at the back of his head. He looked up at his Master, and saw that he was gesturing for him to continue his story. Harry took a deep breath, then said, “She was the one that sent the Dementor to Surrey earlier that year. The one that attacked my cousin and me. And then I was almost expelled.”

His Master must have known. It had been all over the Prophet that summer, the attack and the trial. But it was as if Voldemort was only now making the connection. The soul piece within Harry could have been sucked out and destroyed before he’d even realized it existed.

Harry’s scar erupted in vicious fire, more painful than he could remember. He moaned, keeling over. That woke Nagini, who cinched around his neck in her own panic. Harry, choking, tried to push the snake off himself, but she was stuck fast. His vision going gray, he looked up in terror at his Master, his eyes begging for help. But Voldemort was gone from the dais now. Harry couldn’t see anything, and could barely make out someone screaming before everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Harry felt a cool cloth against his face. Close by he heard the murmur of a healing incantation, if the gentle brush of foreign magic easing the ache from his body was any indication.

“Wh—” he began, his voice cracking.

“Shhhh. Don’t speak. The snake nearly crushed your larynx. Give me a few minutes and the damage will be mostly healed. You are lucky that Draco was watching you just then or we might have lost you. Everyone else was watching the Dark Lord and Madam Umbridge.” The voice was gentle, if not clinical. It was a woman’s voice and sounded familiar.

Harry couldn’t recall what had happened, how he’d been injured. A snake had attacked him?

And Draco Malfoy had saved him?

Harry moaned his dismay. The soothing voice was back, misunderstanding his shame for a more physical discomfort. He recognized the voice now: Narcissa Malfoy. He hadn’t known she was skilled at healing.

He reached up and pushed the damp cloth higher, onto the scar which still stung wickedly. “Oh, of course,” he heard, and at once the pain diminished. An analgesic charm? Harry was involuntarily impressed. He’d not been able to find anything that would lessen the pain in his scar. He hoped she wouldn’t be punished for somehow diminishing the link between him and his Master.

But his Master was busy elsewhere, firing Crucios at Umbridge, rapid bursts of the violent curse. Nagini was wrapped around the Dark Lord’s shoulders, and, feeling bereft, Harry reached up to his own neck. The skin there was tender and hot to the touch. Narcissa swept his hand aside and resumed her barrage of healing charms.

‘The Snake nearly crushed your larynx.’

Nagini had done this? Why?

Then Harry remembered his Master’s rage and the subsequent events that had led to him being nearly asphyxiated. And with the Dark Lord’s attention all on Umbridge, he would have died had Draco not noticed. Harry was pleased, then, that he’d saved the other boy from the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement, and not only because otherwise his would-be saviour wouldn’t have been here now to prevent his own violent death. No, this way Malfoy wouldn’t have anything to hold over him. Their debts would equal themselves out. Still he fully expected Malfoy to mock him for this. Harry had enjoyed taunting the other boy for his just fear of Voldemort’s snake familiar. But in the end, and despite her affection, it was Harry that she’d nearly killed. Knowing Draco, he would milk this for all it was worth.

Harry shook those thoughts aside. He would worry about Draco later. In the meantime, the Dark Lord was punishing Umbridge, and how she deserved it! The Cruciatus would leave no lasting damage, none that mattered anyway. As his Master tortured the woman slumped on the floor, Harry began to make plans. He wanted her to linger in her suffering, for her death to fit her crimes and to suit her fears.

His Master was casting wordlessly, whilst simultaneously hissing chastisements at Nagini, a testament to his prowess and familiarity with the spell. As the Dark Lord had told Harry in the atrium of the Ministry, it was intent that mattered with the Unforgivable curses. And Voldemort fully intended on making Umbridge’s life as painful as he could. Distraction wouldn’t change that.

“Nagini is sorry, Master,” hissed Nagini during a lull in her reprimand. “Forgive Nagini.”

Harry wanted to go to her, to let her know that he was okay.

Voldemort continued his beratement, hissing, “I had you accompany him to keep him safe. You nearly killed your brother, Nagini, and so soon after he came to us. How can I trust you with him again?”

Nagini’s response was an insensible mixture of serpentine sobs and moans before she resumed her pleading. She did not once beg her Master for mercy; Voldemort would never harm her. Her remorse in injuring Harry was guileless; she made no attempt to mitigate any punishment. Harry had never known such unconditional affection, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be envious of her. He only wished to soothe her, to assuage her remorse, but was unable to find the strength.

Finally Narcissa was done and Harry managed to hiss, “Sister, I am fine.” He tried to get up, to go to her, but at once his Master turned.

“Stay there, Harry,” he scolded. He set Nagini down, warning her to be gentle and not wrap herself around her brother again. “You should be happy, pet, that he does not blame you for his injuries. Be gentle with him. He is small and cannot survive you if you’re not careful.”

“Brother is small,” Nagini agreed and slithered back to Harry. “Nagini is so sorry, brother. Pet Nagini?”

She was very needy, demanding reassurance of Harry’s continued affections. He set about stroking her even as Voldemort returned to Umbridge, circling her. He held his wand loosely, and Harry noticed that it was the original bone-white one. He wondered where the Elder Wand was. Likely in a spare pocket in those voluminous robes. Or perhaps hidden away like the Horcruxes had been, guarded by a host of dragons or sphynxes or chimaera. The Dark Lord needn’t use it to retain mastery over it. Harry had owned it, but briefly, and had never even held it, as had Draco. Harry remembered, then, the rush he’d felt that first day in Diagon Alley with Hagrid, holding his beloved holly wand for the first time. He wondered if that feeling was somehow more intense for those so new to the Wizarding World than those raised within it. This sudden, visceral understanding of their magic. Of course Tom Riddle would have felt it too, and Voldemort would still feel loyalty towards his yew wand, his first wand. It had been his initial link to the world of his maternal ancestors and a promise of power and of belonging.

Umbridge had recovered somewhat and, having pushed herself back to her knees, was eyeing that same wand in fear. It was well known what damage it could inflict, atrocities far worse than the torture curse. And as amusing as it would be to have her scream until she was a drooling mess, it was not enough, for the torment would be mindless and over too soon. Insanity would be an escape. No, she deserved to suffer, and know she was suffering, and know why she was suffering. She deserved to know she’d earned this fate.

She deserved to be punished.

“Harry thinks that sending you to the closed ward at St. Mungo’s, your mind tortured to vacancy, is not enough,” Voldemort said, coming to stand in front of her. “And I concur.”

His Master was listening to his thoughts again. Harry visualized how he wanted her to be punished. How he wanted her to suffer. How he wanted her to die.

Voldemort sighed then licked his lips, as if the suggestions were arousing. He said, “Are you strong enough to help me with this, Harry?”

Harry nodded. Both wizards ignored the small protest from Narcissa asserting that he wasn’t ready for anything of the kind. “Yes, my Lord,” he said as pushed himself to his feet. Sweet Circe, but talking still hurt and his legs nearly gave out beneath him.

Voldemort held Harry up by the shoulders when he automatically went to kneel at his feet. “Harry has a wonderful idea, Dolores. As amusing as it is to inflict pain on you, it would be far more fitting—and entertaining—to watch you torture yourself. After all, is this not how you conducted your detentions? Forcing your students to damage themselves?”

Umbridge made a muffled, but distinct, cry of horror. Her eyes filled with panic, she shook her head violently.

“No, I do not suppose you would consent to such. You will do it regardless. Lucius, fetch us a quill.”

Lucius gave a precise bow and left the room. Voldemort, meanwhile, cast an unfamiliar spell at Umbridge. “This particular charm,” he explained to his assembled followers,  “acts in much the same manner as Imperio. Unlike the Imperius curse, it does not allow the subject to fall into a fog of indifference. Dolores will be completely aware of what she is forced to do.”

Lucius returned. To Harry’s amusement, the quill he handed to Voldemort was fashioned from a long, white peacock feather. Lucius mumbled an embarrassed, “My apologies, my Lord, it was the first I could find.” In his other hand he held out a bottle of ink, but the Dark Lord waved it off.

“This is most satisfactory, Lucius. Thank you.” And then he was casting another obscure spell, this time aimed at the quill. To Umbridge he said, “It took numerous long detentions for Harry to carve those words into his hand. I’m afraid I simply can’t spare the time for that. This quill will do much the same, but more efficiently. Take it.”

Umbridge was helpless to prevent herself from reaching out and taking the quill. As Voldemort had promised, she was under no calming fog, such as the Imperius curse would provide. Large tears pooled in her eyes, and she had to rapidly blink them away.

Voldemort considered her, then muttered “Evenesco.” The pink robes vanished, and around the hall came a slew of lewd comments. Umbridge made to cover herself, but the Dark Lord stopped her with a magic-imbued “Keep still.” Her tears came faster, until she must have been blinded by them.

“Well, that won’t do. I want this evening to be as carved into your mind’s-eye as it will be into your flesh. Stop crying, woman, or must I vanish your tear-ducts as well? I promise that you will linger long enough to miss them,” the Dark Lord warned. He gave her a few moments to calm herself, before continuing, this time addressing the general room, “Any suggestions for phrases she will inscribe?”

“Umbitch,” someone called out. It sounded like Draco Malfoy, and Harry forced down a smile. That name had circulated through most of Hogwarts during fifth year. He hadn’t realized that it had made the rounds in Slytherin house. He had thought that the Inquisitorial Squad had loved the reigning Headmistress. Apparently not. A quiet, “Draco! Don’t be crass!” confirmed his guess.

“Does it have to be words?” Bellatrix asked. Her grin was, as always, manic.

“I suppose not,” said Voldemort. “What do you have in mind.”

She stepped forward and sneered at the former Undersecretary. “She wanted so much to be Marked, my Lord, it seems a shame to deprive her of your symbol. I suggest that she carves the Dark Mark into her arm.”

Voldemort considered this. With a sigh, he finally said, “Poetic, I agree, but this worm doesn’t deserve to bear my Mark. Any other—”

With a tenacity that only she could safely employ, Bellatrix interrupted the Dark Lord. “But my Lord,” she argued, “it would be but a pale imitation--a child’s scrawl—and a symbol of her undeserved arrogance, that she believed she was worthy to join you.”

Harry hated to admit it, but he could think of nothing better. And something about Bellatrix’s suggestion felt right. When the Dark Lord glanced back at him questioningly, he gave a little nod. He wanted this.

“Perhaps you are right, Bella. It is a good suggestion,” Voldemort said, approvingly,  and the Dark witch beamed at the praise. Harry wanted to kick her in the teeth. Turning back to Umbridge, the Dark Lord commanded, “Do not bother with parchment. Cut a facsimile of my Mark into your left forearm.”

It was impossible to make out her progress, what with the blood pooling around the cuts. She was going to bleed out before she could finish, Harry realized; the inner forearm contained vital arteries, after all. His Master must have come to the same conclusion, as his wand was out. By the smell of seared flesh, Harry guessed it was some sort of cauterization charm.

It took Umbridge longer to gouge the skull and serpent design into her arm than the traditional Morsmordre branding. And, as Bellatrix had predicted, it was a gross misrepresentation. Once the blood was willed away, all there was to show for her work was a series of wonky blobs intersecting one another, with a few jagged cuts on either side where the witch’s hand had slipped.

The Dark Lord declared it finished when Umbridge began to heave and then choke. Dribbles of vomit leaked from her nostrils, having no other outlet. She convulsed violently for about half a minute before collapsing, her face an alarming shade of blue.

Voldemort tutted. “She wasn’t quite done. Oh, well. Narcissa, is she still alive? I have one more thing in mind for her.”

Draco’s mother didn’t look too keen on getting close, but advanced enough to cast a diagnosis charm. “Barely, my Lord. She has aspirated a great deal of vomit.”

“Remove it and revive her. I want her conscious so she can appreciate my next proposal. Fenrir, the giant clan which aided us in battle. Is it still encamped within the Forbidden Forest?”

“No, my Lord,” came the rasping reply. By the look of the werewolf, the full moon was coming soon. “They were headed south. To Cornwall, if I understood them right. They have some kind of blood-feud to attend to, they said, now they are back on the island.”

“That should bring them close to Wiltshire. Inform me when they near the county.” Voldemort tapped his wand against his thigh. Then he said, “I will need to consult Severus in this matter, to ensure a viable sample is procured.”

Harry was apparently the only one, other than his Master, who knew that Snape was alive again. The hall erupted in whispers. Voldemort allowed the renewed chaos to go unchecked as Narcissa worked to revive Umbridge.

Once the naked witch was alert, the Dark Lord called for everyone’s attention. “Yes, I have restored Severus Snape to life. He is recuperating from his travels in the beyond and was thus unable to join us this evening. I am not certain how many of you had heard that I now possess this power, but I assure you that it is no idle rumour. It is far beyond anything seen before, at least in recent times. I do not speak of Inferi. Severus had been killed during the Battle of Hogwarts and is now back amongst us. He will not be returning to his position at the school once it is restored but will remain in my direct service.” There was no mention of either Voldemort’s hand in Snape’s death, nor of the Potions Master’s treachery. Voldemort, no doubt, didn’t want any of his followers to get the idea that they could betray him and hope to live.

“Madam Umbridge’s torment is not over,” the Dark Lord continued. “I expect her to linger for some time, which sadly means I will have to restore her faculties.”

As quickly as he had vanished the witch’s mouth, so it was restored. She opened it, and no one found out if she was going to beg for mercy or spit vitriol in response to the indignities she had suffered, as Narcissa muttered a quick Silencio.

“Thank you, Narcissa,” said Voldemort. Then, addressing the room he said, “Many of you are aware of Madame Umbridge’s xenophobic tendencies. I do not speak of her rightful hatred of Mudbloods, of course, but of her policies stigmatizing creatures: werewolves, goblins, centaurs. And for our purposes, giants. I had first thought it fitting to have Greyback turn her—it seemed propitious with the full moon occurring tomorrow. I realized, however, that would be an insult to our lycanthropic allies.”

The Dark Lord paused here to incline his head to the Werewolf Alpha, who responded with a much deeper bow and a toothy grin.

“Thus,” Voldemort continued, “I have opted for a different tact, one that will demand more patience but will prove more satisfying.”

The crowd of Death Eaters was eating up every one of the Dark Lord’s words. Harry was no exception. When he had projected his ideas to his Master earlier, they were vague, formless things. Make her hurt herself. Contaminate her with what she hated.

“You must forgive me, my faithful, for employing a Muggle idea, but otherwise our dear Dolores would not survive the initial stages of what I have planned. She shall be impregnated with a giant’s essence, unfortunately artificially as otherwise she would not survive the act of conception.” Voldemort paused until the low chuckles from his audience died down. “I will, of course, not abase myself with Muggle methods to achieve this. I will have Severus create a potion that will allow for fertilization and implantation to occur in the absence of coitus. I understand that, some years ago, he had been working on something similar to allow two wizards to jointly father a child using a surrogate. This should prove an easier task, as we know that such human-giant hybrids are possible, our late friend Hagrid being a prime example. In his case, however, it was a human father and giantess mother, which made the incubation period possible. For Madam Umbridge? Well, it is quite possible that the fetus will tear her apart. It will be a fascinating experiment, regardless of the outcome.”

So this was why they had studied Sex Magic all afternoon, Harry thought. But surely there was an easier way to impregnate her. He guessed that Voldemort had been referencing artificial insemination when he had spoken about Muggles, though he seemed adamant against using their technology. But surely the magical world had the means already to achieve this, and then they wouldn’t waste time developing something new or need to involve Snape. What about Polyjuice potion? She could drink some of that—maybe laced with a giantess’ hair—and then she’d be big enough for a male giant to mate with successfully. He decided that he would ask the Dark Lord about it later.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry barely noticed when Voldemort called for Umbridge to be hauled to the dungeons and for the resumption of the earlier festivities. It didn’t take long for the Death Eaters to finish with the Ministry witch, and soon they were milling about in small groups and attacking the appetisers. If you ignored the House Elves discretely vanishing the blood on the floor, it looked like any other respectable celebration. Nearly everyone had removed their masks. Narcissa was hovering over the buffet table, and it looked like she had dragged Draco along with her. Harry was too far away to hear what she was saying, but from Draco’s pout and Narcissa’s severe expression, he was being berated for something. Harry smiled. He was starting to like the blonde witch. It wasn’t her fault whom she was related to.

Speaking of which, Bellatrix sauntered up to where he and Voldemort were standing. “She’s secured, my Lord,” she said, her eyes sparkling. She ignored Harry.

“Excellent, Bella. Keep her healthy enough to survive her confinement,” Voldemort said, which made Bellatrix laugh. Harry didn’t understand the joke. “Make certain her ‘Mark’ does not become infected.”

“I already dosed it with fire-whiskey, my Lord. She screams well.”

“Making up for lost time, now that her mouth is restored,” Voldemort agreed. Harry hated their comfortable banter. He hated leaving his Master alone with her, but it was better than listening to them converse so familiarly; however, the Dark Lord gripped his arm after he gave a low bow and turned to leave.

“I will return you to your chambers in a moment, Harry,” he said.

Harry shuddered when this drew Bellatrix’s attention back to him. She cooed, “Is baby Potter too wittle to stay up and pway?” Then, with a predatory grin, she added, “I noticed that you didn’t join in the fun earlier. Not still a virgin, are you Harry?” She eyed him up and down, her gaze lingering for too long in the wrong area. “If you want, I can help you with…”

“Enough!” Voldemort snapped, harsh enough to make both Harry and Bellatrix jump. Then, in a seething whisper, “I believe I have previously told you, Bella, to whom he belongs.”

Bellatrix nodded meekly. “To you, Master. Sorry.”

Harry was beet red. So what if he was still a virgin? And it wasn’t as if it was any of her business.

“Is there anything else,” the Dark Lord asked his lieutenant. Harry was pleased by the obvious dismissal.

She went from deferential to excited in a split-second. “Yes, my Lord. I have an idea about Umbitch,”  she said.

Voldemort sighed. “Go on.”

Pleased, she continued. “It seems a bit of a missed opportunity to simply impregnate her with a potion. She’ll miss all the fun.”

“Bellatrix, were you not listening earlier? The point isn’t in having her raped. While that might be fleetingly gratifying, it will be more so to force her body to harbour a half-breed creature. We have discussed long-term strategies before. You need to develop patience, darling.”

She nodded. “Yes, my Lord. But I was actually thinking that a false memory could be created for her to enjoy. So she can experience getting fucked by—”

“Language, Bella,” Voldemort chided, but with no heat. In fact, his eyes were now gleaming with the same dark enthusiasm as the mad witch standing before him. “But…I approve your plan. A secondary impregnation, this time of her mind. Yes, have Rookwood see to it. And ask him to make a copy, so that anyone who is interested can watch the event in a pensieve.”

She grinned. Harry supposed she had good reason to be happy. Lord Voldemort had accepted two of her ideas that night. She lingered, perhaps hoping to get lucky again.

Voldemort glanced at Harry, smirking at the scowl he found there. “I will see you later, Bella. It is past Harry’s bedtime.”

***

Harry was saved the long walk back to his rooms. Voldemort had Nagini coil around him and, after ordering Harry to hold on tight, Apparated them directly back. Harry was pleased to be back, though he wished his Master hadn’t made his exit so humiliating. Bedtime indeed.

The Dark Lord was trying to urge his sleepy familiar onto her rug in front of the grate when Harry mustered up the courage to ask his question from earlier. “Master, I have something to ask about your plan for Umbridge.”

The Dark Lord stood, having finally pried the last of Nagini’s coils from his arm. He looked at Harry, nodding his permission to continue.

“Why can’t we dose her with Polyjuice so that she’s big enough to…you know?” he asked, blushing. “We could get a hair from the Beauxbatons headmistress, Madame Maxime. Wouldn’t that be easier? She would have the memories of, um, sex, then. Real memories. And then you wouldn’t need to enlist Snape, see? You wouldn’t need him anymore.”

Voldemort shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that, Harry. Such fragile bodily essences, such as male seed, cannot survive the transition from the Polyjuiced form back to the natural body. And that’s a good thing. The ramifications for Pure-Blood lineages alone could—”

“Line theft,” Harry said, remembering the phrase Draco had used earlier that night. He then paled, realizing that he’d just interrupted his Master. “My apologies, Ma—”

“Indeed,” Voldemort said, but he let it go. “I see Draco has been attempting to educate you. Good. But remember that much of what he will say is biased.”

Harry nodded. He knew that without being told, but he was surprised by his Master’s words. Surely whatever bias a Malfoy had would be the sort that Voldemort would want him to acquire as well.

“Besides,” Voldemort continued, walking towards the tapestry linking their rooms, “we did not spend our afternoon researching Sex Magic on account of your abhorrent former Defense teacher, nor is this the reason why I have spared Severus. And remember, Harry, it was your own thoughts that decided Umbridge’s punishment tonight. I admit that after spending this afternoon re-exploring this obscure branch of magic that it was in the forefront of my mind tonight when you suggested that she be ‘contaminated’.”

Harry waited, hoping that his Master would explain why, then, they had been researching Sex Magic. He seemed to be in a didactic mood.

Voldemort smirked and said, “Not yet, Harry. But I promise that you will know in time. After all, you will be directly involved.”

Harry’s disappointment at the lack of answer was quenched as soon as his brain caught up with the implications in his Master’s parting words.

Chapter Text

Harry curled up with Nagini that night. He tried to get the snake to join him on the bed so that he could enjoy her company as well as his soft mattress, not having to sacrifice one for the other, but she wouldn’t budge from her accustomed spot in front of the fire. When Harry pulled his pillow off the bed, deciding to make the rug as comfortable as possible, she seemed almost hesitant for him to join her.

“Brother should sleep in his own nest,” she hissed, shifting away from him when he laid beside her.

At first he was hurt. First his Master preferred Bellatrix’s company over his, and now Nagini was rejecting him. But then he realized that she sounded more anxious than anything. She was scared that she might injure him again. It took some coaxing, but Harry finally got her to let him get close. “I know you’re worried about hurting me, sister. But I’m fine. Just don’t wrap round my throat.”

“What if Nagini dreams she is hunting prey? Nagini might strike brother in her sleep? Then she will be alone.”

“You won’t. Of course you won’t,” he reassured her. “Even if you did—which you won’t—you would still have Master. But I’m not going anywhere.”

“Does brother promise?” Nagini was already moving closer to him. It hadn’t taken much, really, to convince her. She enjoyed his company as much as he did hers.

Harry promised,  though how he could guarantee that she wouldn’t kill him was beyond him. He decided that he would ask if his Master could charm something that would sound an alert if he was again in danger. Thinking on it, he was surprised that the Dark Lord hadn’t done this already. Either way, Harry relaxed beside her, as he had many times in the past week.

They were to be each other’s companion, after all. That was his role within the Dark Lord’s army and one that he was more than happy to fill. He would care for her and she for him.

It was an easy task, and as the days went by, Harry would occasionally wonder how it was that he was so content. His Master would visit on occasion, usually to share in a pot of tea. He would ask Harry how he was enjoying the novel. He offered few opinions of his own, allowing Harry to talk and Nagini to hiss her own uninformed suggestions. Harry mentioned his idea about some kind of object that would monitor his health, but Voldemort explained that he was perfectly safe within these rooms, that there were already surveillance charms in effect. He never stayed for long; the Ministry was in disarray and needed his near constant attention. And so Harry and Nagini were alone much of the time. No one knocked on their door, his house-elf came and went without notice. The two Horcruxes wanted for nothing but more attention from their Master. But he was busy, and for now they had each other and that was enough.

Harry thought about Hermione on occasion and wondered what she was doing and if she was being cared for. A voice in his head nagged that he should ask to see her, that he had chosen her, that she was his responsibility. Now that the adrenaline from his mission to the Chamber was gone, though, he was filled with doubts. Oh, choosing her still felt right, but how could she forgive him? And more than that, did he need her to? It didn’t feel so important anymore. He refused to admit to himself that this was his guilt talking, but as each day went by, it compounded. And so he didn’t ask about her and told himself she was all right.

Harry yelped the first time Nagini slithered into the room when he was taking a bath. “Can’t you knock?”

“No,” she replied. Of course she couldn’t, Harry belatedly realized. Then, because that was the way his luck went, she asked, “What was brother doing with his hands?”

“Nothing!” he spluttered, surprised. Unless she wanted petting, she rarely noticed his hands at all. A consequence of not having any, perhaps. “What did you want?”

“Nagini woke up and was alone,” she complained. And then, “Can Nagini swim, too?”

It was a small bath, and she was a big snake. Also: modesty. “After I get out. I’m almost done.”’

But she was already gliding closer. “Nagini has been alone long enough. She wants to swim now.” And then the bath was suddenly very cramped.

Harry pulled his knees up, trying to make himself as small as possible. Fortunately, the tub was charmed to keep the water nice and warm, as Nagini was content to relax with him in it for seemingly hours. Harry tried to leave several times with no success. She seemed completely uninterested in his nakedness, and he finally released the death-grip on his legs. It was a tight fit for them both, and they were pressed together. But they spent most of their time like that, the only difference now being his lack of clothes. For Nagini, clothes were inconsequential, a human unnaturalness, and so Harry determined to set aside his bashfulness.

They bathed together frequently after that, even if it meant that Harry’s hands had to be preoccupied with snake petting, rather than…

It was a small sacrifice.

Besides, the days were long and she slept more than he did. There were ample opportunities to steal away for a bit of privacy. And If he snuck away more often after a visit from his Master, no one was there to find out.

***

With no reliable way to track the passage of time, and each day a monotonous replica of the one before, Harry was surprised to find his formal Death Eater robes ready for him once again. He donned them and waited, nervously, at the table. Nagini was coiled next to the fire, asleep. Without her to distract him with her prattle, he called for a pot of the calming tea his Master had once given him. It arrived with a quiet ‘pop’, but Harry soon forgot about it.

Again, it was Draco who came for him. Harry hadn’t seen the other boy in weeks, but he seemed much the same. He hesitated outside the door until Harry motioned him in.

“She’s out of it,” Harry said, seeing Draco’s eyes linger on Nagini. “I doubt she’ll bother you.” He waited for some kind of barb, about how it had been Harry she’d nearly killed, but it never came. Draco had a healthy enough respect of her lethalness, perhaps, to not jest about it—even if Harry would be the butt of the joke.

“You’ll need to bring her. Next time have her ready,” Draco said. Quietly, he added, “Can you wake her safely? I understand if…I don’t know…if it’s too dangerous to rouse her.”

Seeing Draco so serious made Harry even more anxious. As he walked to Nagini, bracing against the inevitable onset of her complaints in being woken from her nap, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

Draco dropped into one of the chairs by the table. “Yeah, Potter, why wouldn’t it be.” The usual sharpness in his voice was absent.

Harry began stroking his sister, hissing, “Time to wake, Nagini.” She grumbled and slid about, uncharacteristically trying to avoid his pets—before pushing into his hand, that is, as she began to wake up and enjoy his touch.

“Is that safe? Waking her like that?” asked Draco. “If she strikes you, it’ll be me that—”

“It’s fine so long as I don’t startle her,” Harry reassured him. “She’s just a bit whiny, is all. She’s really spoiled.”

“I can believe that,” Draco agreed. “The Dark Lord has always given her anything she’s wanted, or so it seemed. But maybe don’t let her eat your uncle. Even she couldn’t manage that lump.”

Harry’s hand stilled, which got Nagini’s attention. “Brother, keep petting Nagini.”

He shook himself a bit and resumed stroking her. “What do you mean?”

Draco snorted. “How could you forget? The man’s a regular boule de suif.” At Harry’s raised eyebrows, he translated the French. “A ball of lard, Potter. Or he was, anyway. I admit he’s shrunk a fair bit in the past month and a half, width-wise anyway. But he’s still fat enough to give her indigestion,” he finished, gesturing towards Nagini.

It was Midsummer, Harry realized. That was when Voldemort had promised him that he could kill Vernon. Would Dudley be present, too?

Draco was still talking, seemingly not noticing that Harry had gone into a daze. “Before I saw him, I hadn’t thought much about what our Lord said during your Initiation. I figured you were scrawny because it was a family trait, or you were a picky eater or something. Your aunt was thin enough, after all. But seeing your uncle and cousin was an eye-opener. They really didn’t treat you properly, did they? They obviously starved you. What else did they do?”

Harry pinched his lips tight. There was no way that Harry was going to open up to Draco Malfoy, of all people, about his less-than-stellar childhood. “Shut up, Malfoy. Just…shut up.”

Draco raised his hands up placatingly. “I didn’t mean to pry, Potter. No need to get all worked up.”

Harry glared for another few seconds, pushing down the urge to stomp over there and smash the teapot, tea and all, over Draco’s head. Perhaps he really should have drank a cup or two earlier, as he could use the enforced calm right about now. Instead, he asked, “Is my cousin going to be there, too? And how big is this event going to be?”

Draco shrugged. “Bigger than last year’s Solstice festival,”—as if that helped Harry at all—"We don’t usually have live sacrifices, but I’ll bet that’ll change as the Dark Lord alters the laws protecting Muggles from their, how shall we say, involvement in our rites? And no, your cousin won’t be there. He was moved a few weeks ago.”

“Moved? Where?” Harry asked. And what was a Solstice festival, anyway? But he wasn’t going to ask Malfoy that. He’d find out soon enough. His Master knew that he was, unfortunately, ignorant of nearly all Wizarding celebrations and traditions. Dumbledore had him raised for slaughter, after all, and why would a sacrificial lamb need to know about his birthright? If Voldemort hadn’t thought it necessary that he was better prepared for the Solstice, then he needn’t be concerned.

Draco fiddled with the handle of the teapot. “Out of the dungeons, that’s all I know. I’m surprised you haven’t asked about him already, Potter. It’s unlike like you to not try to save people. Even if he is a disgusting Muggle, he was just a kid. Your family. He wasn’t the one who, I don’t know, beat you and stuff.”

“I was not…for fuck’s sake, Malfoy. I told you to shut up about that. Besides, Dudley was not some stupid, innocent Muggle. He was just as bad.” Harry ignored the memory of his cousin’s attempt to make good with him last summer. It wasn’t enough to excuse fifteen years worth of bullying.

“I don’t know, Potter,” Draco said, quietly. “Is it really a kid’s fault that they mimic their parents? It’s human nature, after all. Take me, for example. I was all set up to be a little Lucius. And he was raised to be like his father. All loyal to the Dark Lord’s great vision.”

Harry did look at Draco, then. He wasn’t sure what to make of that little speech. It was some strange blend of self-recrimination and empathy—not something Harry would expect to hear from the other boy. “Remember who I’m loyal to,” he cautioned. Then, because he couldn’t forgive his cousin for the Harry Hunting and all the forced isolation of his early childhood, he added, “Besides, it has to stop sometime, this passing the blame. All kids become adults. Is it only then that their actions matter? That they’re to blame? Even Hagrid knew Dudley was an arse. And even you have to admit how kind Hagrid was, what a soft heart he had.”

It was the perfect opportunity for Malfoy, who had never liked the former groundskeeper. Soft head, you mean. But instead, he slumped further in the chair and said, “Yeah. I guess.” He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair, which of course fell meticulously back into place right afterwards. “Let’s not be late this time. Is she ready to go?”

Harry nodded and told Nagini to follow him. She didn’t grumble about not being carried this time but slithered rapidly ahead of the two boys before turning to scold them for not keeping pace with her.

“She’s lively,” Draco commented.

“We haven’t been outside for a while. Six weeks maybe,” Harry said. “I hadn’t realized so much time had passed. I guess after this past year on the run I really needed the rest.”

Draco made a face. “You’ve been shut up since I last saw you? Huh. Well, quite a bit’s changed. You may get a few shocks.”

“I hope not,” Harry responded. Then, “Nagini, don’t get too far ahead!”

“Don’t worry about her, if that’s what your hissing was about. She knows the way well enough. Before she was shut up with you, she pretty much had the run of the manor. The only one who knew all the nooks and crannies as well as she did was Pettigrew. And that was only so he’d be able to get away from her when she was on ‘the hunt,’ as the Dark Lord called it.”

“Really?” Harry said. He smiled and said, “I’d love to see the memory of her hunting him, if you can get me a copy.”

“Sure thing, Potter.”

After a few moments, Harry asked, “Why didn’t Wormtail just transform back into a human if she kept coming after him like that?”

“Oh he did,” Draco answered. “But she would happily eat him either way. For a while, Pettigrew moved in with Professor Snape to get away from her. You can imagine how happy he was about that.”

“He must have been livid,” Harry said, picturing Snape sharing his home with one of the hated Marauders. “Before he betrayed my parents, Pettigrew was one of my dad’s best friends.”

“I know,” said Draco. Of course he knew. Everyone knew that, Harry remembered. The whole thing with Sirius and Peter, the broken Fidelius, the wrong conviction…

“Right,” Harry said and cast that part of the memory aside. It made him feel as dirty as any treacherous rat. “But that wasn’t my point. My dad and his friends went to school with Snape.”

“Professor Snape, Mr Potter,” Draco said, teasingly.

 “Not anymore, he’s not,” Harry said, forcing the words past his suddenly tight throat. “Anyway, they weren’t exactly friends. Snape and my dad’s friends, that is.”

Draco snorted. “Yeah, I somehow figured that out.” Then, with a playfulness Harry had never heard from the other boy, he gave a fairly good impression of the Potions Master’s soft, icy voice: “Just like your father. Five hundred points from Gryffindor.”

Harry laughed before he could stop himself. He didn’t want to be enjoying Malfoy’s company. Beside him, Draco was grinning. Harry sighed. “Yeah, that. Exactly. Have you seen him? Snape?”

Draco’s smile was immediately gone. His voice cracked when he said, “Yeah, but he was too far away for me to get a good look. From what I did see…he didn’t look all that great, to be honest. But I guess he had been dead and all. I really can’t imagine what that must have like.”

By now, they had passed through the long corridors that Harry recognized from his few trips through the manor. A wide staircase, carpeted in emerald green and framed by gleaming bannisters, was before them, leading down towards a set of double doors.

As they followed Nagini down the stairs, Draco said, “I still have a hard time believing it, you know. That he was gone. And that he can bring people back. It’s crazy.”

“I saw Snape die,” said Harry. “It’s real.”

Draco paused, holding a hand out to stop Harry from moving past him. “I know. It’s just so unbelievable. I mean…just…how?”

Harry nudged Draco’s shoulder. “Magic.”

***

He was surprised by the gaiety that met them outside. The lawn in front of the manor was strewn with ribbons and a group of musicians were standing to the side of the raked gravel drive, tuning their instruments. Small groups of house-elves were setting up tall poles a short distance away under Narcissa’s stern direction. Even they looked cleaner and happier, with freshly laundered tea-towels pinned round their torsos.

“This is not what I expected,” Harry said as he followed Draco onto the grass.

“And what did you expect, Potter?

“Not this,” admitted Harry. “This is nice.”

“Of course it’s ‘nice’,” Draco said, sniffing. His expression of mock-indignation was, however, quickly replaced with one of wicked amusement. “For now, anyway. It will stay family-friendly until the bonfires are lit.”

And then what? wondered Harry. But then he remembered.

Vernon.

The sun was still high. It would take hours for it to set. What were they supposed to do until then? Mingle? Have ‘fun’? What did pure-bloods do for family entertainment, anyway? Surely not lawn bowling. Harry supressed a snicker at the thought of Voldemort’s Inner Circle politely engaged in the genteel sport.

“My father told me that the Dark Lord has been working to loosen the restrictions against some of the more ancient ceremonies, so tonight should be something to remember. I hope he doesn’t give you a curfew like he did last time.” Harry glared, but Draco was watching the festival preparations. White tents were being raised, dotting the lawn. “It wasn’t any fun after you left. The Dark Lord didn’t even return after he escorted you out, and then my mother got into an argument with my father, and then my aunt left in a huff.”

Harry tried to remember what exactly had happened that night. He had been rather overwhelmed by everything, and all he could remember now was Umbridge screaming, naked and bloody. He recalled being embarrassed by something his Master and Bellatrix had said, but it didn’t seem all that important now.

“Why bother with the legalities?” Harry asked, decidedly not responding to the other things Draco had said. “He’s the ruler of the country now. Can’t he just order what he wants? Wasn’t that the point?”

“Of course he can,” Draco answered. “But the Dark Lord believes that the changes he desires will be more easily accepted by the general populace if they at least look legal. There are all kinds of referendums in the works to push through his agenda. They’re all staged, of course. But it looks good. The key is in making sure it doesn’t reek of corruption. That would ruin our image, internationally.”

“Why would he care about that?” asked Harry.

“The economy,” he said, as if that was some kind of answer. Draco must have assumed it was, as he changed the subject immediately. “You look so sombre in that outfit. Why didn’t you put on your summer robes?”

Harry sighed. “I don’t pick out my clothes, Malfoy.”

Draco looked him up and down, his head cocked to the side. “The cut is nice enough, and is that silk?” He reached towards Harry, to finger the material perhaps.

Harry stepped back and bumped into someone. He mumbled an apology, but when he looked over his shoulder he couldn’t see anyone there.

Draco said, “There’s no need to apologize to the help. It shouldn’t be getting so close that you trip over it the moment you turn round.”

It was a house-elf, already smashing its head upon the ground to punish itself for the supposed transgression.

“Hey, make it stop. I don’t like that,” Harry told Malfoy.

Draco scowled, but to the house-elf he said, “Hey you! Get out of here and make yourself useful with the maypoles.”

The small creature looked up, dazedly. “Thank you, young Master Malfoy. Tipsy will—”

Harry never found out what Tipsy would do, as the elf disappeared with a Crack! in order to avoid Draco’s boot. Harry bit his tongue to stop himself from automatically telling Malfoy off. After all, he’d done far worse than kick a house-elf in the last month and a half. And tonight he would be presented with Vernon. He couldn’t afford to be self-righteous, nor had he that right.

So, instead he talked about clothes with Draco Malfoy. He tried to pay attention when Draco explained that his own pale blue robes were linen, with only a hint of silk. That the cut was traditional within his father’s family, but that the embroidered daisies at the hem had been chosen by his mother. “It was either that or I wear an actual daisy-crown,” he said sullenly. “Which I refused, of course. I don’t care if it’s tradition; the embroidery is bad enough. It’s not too girly, is it?”

Harry blinked. He peered down at the hem of Draco’s ‘summer’ robes. “There are daisies there? I can’t even see them.”

Draco huffed. “Well, of course not. You’re nearly blind.” He ignored Harry’s glower and continued, “I told my mother that I wouldn’t wear them if they were too loud. These aren’t so bad, I suppose. When I was younger the stitching was far bigger, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.”

Before Draco latched onto the topic of their respective childhoods, Harry suggested that they find Nagini, who had slithered off. The misdirection worked well enough, and the two were soon peering under tables trying to find a twenty-foot snake, preferably before someone accidentally stepped on her.

They found her basking on a small stone within a circle of standing stones. She refused to budge, hissing, “This place is warm, brother, with sun and magic. Come back later.”

“She won’t come with me,” Harry said. “Maybe we should stay here. I don’t think I should just leave her.”

“I don’t think it’s you protecting her, Potter. She’s fine and it’s daylight still. The Dark Lord didn’t tell you to keep her with you at all times, did he? Let’s go back and ask my mother if she needs any help”

Harry paused, then realized Draco was right. Still, he couldn’t help hissing, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me, sister? You’re all alone here.”

She assured him that she was fine, that she was always with Harry and away from the sun, that her Master let her bask here last year before the ‘big fires’, as she put it. Harry tried not to feel hurt that she seemed to prefer a stone to him. He left with Draco, hissing a farewell to the sleepy snake.

On the way back to the front of the manor, Harry couldn’t help himself from saying, “You have a bloody miniature Stonehenge.”

“Not really,” Draco said dismissively. “It’s really nothing special. Every pure-blood estate has something similar for consecrating the eight quarter-days, as well as bonding rites and such.”

Harry just nodded, not admitting that he didn’t understand half of what Draco had just said. 

Draco continued, “And try to watch your language this evening, Potter. We are expecting a number of young children. They don’t need to be subjected to your crass vocabulary.”

Harry rolled his eyes, knowing that Draco could be just as vulgar.

Narcissa was pleased to see them, as harried as she was with supervising the festival set-up. “And where have you two been,” she scolded, even as she thrust flower-filled baskets at them both. “I saw you loitering about earlier. I could have used your help. Your father is so busy with our Lord that he won’t be here until the ceremony begins.” She glanced, then, at Harry, as if worried she’d said something he might report to his Master. “Not that he shouldn’t be at the Dark Lord’s side right now, of course.”

Draco didn’t seem to notice the wary looks his mother was giving Harry. “Potter needed to find the Dark Lord’s snake before he could relax. We found her on one of the menhirs.”

“I’ll tell the Dark Lord where she is when he arrives,” she said. As she turned, intent on some new task, she called over her shoulder, “You two boys get to work!”

Chapter Text

Harry was happy to help Draco’s mother with the festival preparations. She’d healed him after Nagini had accidentally crushed his throat, after all, and she never came across as cruel—unlike her sister or husband. Harry also enjoyed how she got after Draco. And so he smiled reassuringly at her. There was no need for her to concern herself over innocent words regarding the Dark Lord’s demands on Lucius’s time. If only she would worry more about the inordinate amount of time his Master spent with Bellatrix.

“When do you think the Dark Lord will arrive,” Harry asked Draco as they worked.

Draco paused in levitating a small bunch of yellow flowers to the top of a tent entrance. Distracted by Harry’s question, he forgot to apply the sticking charm and they tumbled to grass. “Damn,” he cursed under his breath. “Hand me another bunch of the millepertuis, then pick those up for me.”

Harry had been tying daisies to the lower tent poles, unable to charm them up as Draco was doing. He paused to hand over more of the yellow flowers from the basket, then gathered up the ones that had fallen. “Well?” Harry prompted. “And how about Bellatrix? When do you think she’ll show up?”

Draco took the flowers from Harry. “Wingardium Leviosa. I expect they’ll get here when the festivities start. You’re not worried, are you?”

Only if they arrive together, Harry thought sullenly. “Will she behave? No little kids are going to get Crucioed? No offence, Malfoy, but your aunt is a bit…” he trailed off, not knowing which label to use. His brain kept supplying ‘slutty,’ which didn’t really apply to this situation.

Draco was happy to offer his suggestions: “Unhinged? Psycho? Absolutely demented?” The last one was especially close to the mark. “Don’t worry, Potter. She’s crazy about kids these days, and not just in her annoying baby-talk way. Last week I heard her asking my mother odd questions about what I was like as a baby.” He grimaced at the memory.

“She did?” Harry tied another bunch of daisies to a tent pole, trying to picture Bellatrix Lestrange bouncing a tiny Draco on her lap. “But don’t all women talk about that stuff?”

“Normal women, sure. But she was asking in this obsessive, creepy way. I suppose witches traditionally conduct fertility rituals at Midsummer, so maybe it has something to do with that. The Lestrange family doesn’t have an heir yet, after all.”

“Huh,” Harry murmured. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

“So don’t worry about it,” Draco said. He levitated up another bunch of the yellow blossoms. “She’ll be fine. The Dark Lord will be fine. Everyone will be fine. There will be dancing and drinking. Have you ever celebrated Midsummer before? I thought even Muggles did that.”

Harry shook his head. “Not my Muggles. I’ve heard of maypoles and Morris dancing, but I’ve never seen either performed.”

“Morris dancing?” At Harry’s unhelpful shrug he said, “The maypole dance is fairly simple; you just weave in and around one another—even you can manage that. Usually it’s just youth and little kids that participate. Merlin, I hope Mother doesn’t rope me into it again this year.”

“At least you’d be dressed for it,” said Harry.

“If I have to dance, Potter, then you have to dance.” He paused to look at Harry, scrunching his nose again at the black robes. Then he reached forward and tucked a daisy behind Harry’s left ear. He smirked. “There. You’re all festive now.”

Harry straightened his glasses, which had gotten skewed. “The baskets are empty,” he observed.

Draco squinted in the sunlight, surveying the grounds. “The tents are all done, and it looks as if Mother decorated the manor earlier. So that’s it. We’ve finished!” He brushed his hands together, dusting off bits of pollen.

Draco led Harry to a marble bench placed in the shade of an ancient oak, then called for a house-elf to bring them each a lemonade.

“Is it always daisies and—what did you call those yellow flowers?” Harry asked after they’d been sitting for a few minutes. “Or do you switch the decorations up each year?”

“Millepertuis. That’s the French, anyway. Both they and the daisies are traditional Solstice decorations. The millepertuis is meant to ward off evil.”

“And yet, here we are,” quipped Harry, his voice lighter than his heart.

Draco hummed, though whether it was in agreement or contemplation, Harry couldn’t say. Then the blond shook himself and said, “I don’t know about the daisies, really. You could ask my mother. They’re just sunny, though, aren’t they. Day’s eye. Daisy. They close up at night.”

“I didn’t know that.” Petunia hadn’t allowed them to grow in her garden, so his own experience with the white and yellow flowers was in pulling them up under the hot summer sun.

“As I’ve said before, Potter—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an ignorant barbarian. No need to rub it in,” Harry retorted, but comfortably this time. Harry reflected on how changed their conversations were from that first one after his Initiation. Perhaps the isolation had influenced him more than he’d realized. With only his Master and Nagini for company, it was natural for him to gravitate towards another person, especially a boy his own age. Even if that boy was Draco Malfoy.

“I won’t hold it against you too much,” Draco said with a smirk. Then he groaned. “Looks like one of your questions is answered, Potter.”

“What question?” Harry followed Draco’s line of vision. His face fell. “Oh. Your aunt.”

Bellatrix was walking down the steps leading from the manor’s large entrance doors.

“She’s prettied herself up. As if it helps much,” said Draco.

And so she had. Even Harry had to admit that she looked rather fetching. Unlike her usual dark robes, she wore a gauzy dress in a verdant shade of green. As she came closer he could see that the fabric was delicately embroidered and inlaid with many small pearls. Her hair was plaited and swept up to coil intricately about her head, and woven into the braids were stems of lavender and…wheat?

“Hello little Drackykins,” she sang as she approached. She was grinning. For once the smile made her look truly happy, not just cruelly mad. “Don’t you look pretty today.”

“And you, Aunt,” replied Draco warily.

“Thank you,” she said, beaming. “I wanted to look extra nice. Did you know there’s going to be dancing later?”

“There’s always dancing at Midsummer,” Draco told her. “You know that.”

“Not like this. You’ll see.” She spun around, and the hem of her dress flared up nearly to her waist. From their seated position, the boys could easily see beneath her skirts.

“Auntie,” Draco hissed. “You need to put something on under there. We can see everything!”

She stopped spinning. “But I’ve anointed myself,” she protested, “and it’s so hard to get oil stains out of silk. Besides, Draco, you shouldn’t be so naughty and looking at me down there.”

“I wasn’t trying to.” Draco stood, and Harry was quick to follow. “But we were rather at eye-level, weren’t we? You know that little children will be arriving soon, don’t you? You won’t be able to dance at all if your skirts keep flying up like that.”

“Fine.” She pouted. “Though I think you’re being quite unfair.”

“What are you prattling on about, Bellatrix,” came Snape’s familiar drawl from behind Harry. The Potions Master gave a polite nod to Draco before sneering at the witch before him. He completely ignored Harry.

“Draco doesn’t like my dress. He says I’ll frighten the kiddies.” She twirled around in demonstration. Both Harry and Draco were wise enough to avert their eyes.

Snape was not so fortunate, though as he was standing rather than sitting he wasn’t subject to the full effect. “Your nephew is correct. That said, I’m certain you’ll manage to terrify the children regardless of what you are wearing. Or, rather, what you are not wearing.” Then he sniffed and raised an eyebrow. “Is that mint I detect?”

He looked more closely at Bellatrix, taking in her overall appearance. His eyes narrowed, and he said, silkily, “I would be careful if I were you, Bella. Unless this is all for your husband’s benefit.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Severus,” she answered, looking too nonchalant to be innocent of whatever he was implying. “Everyone dresses up for Midsummer. That is, everyone except unmannered half-bloods.” She looked pointedly at Snape before turning to do the same with Harry, looking disgusted.

Harry felt his anger rise. How dare she? Yes, he was ignorant of many traditional Wizarding customs. But that wasn’t because of his blood status; it was because of Dumbledore’s foolish decision to hand him over to worthless Muggles. Had he been raised in the Magical world, as was his due, he wouldn’t be so ignorant. Harry glanced at Snape, to see how angry he’d become because of her churlish comments.

Snape looked bored. Harry supposed he had heard it all before, had become inured to it.

“Some lemonade, Professor?” Draco asked, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Coffee if you don’t mind,” was the tired response. “I was up before sunrise gathering herbs and will need to be out again at midnight collecting fern seed. I had hoped to be excused from this evening’s revels, but the Dark Lord was adamant that I attend.”

“A Wide-eye potion instead? I know we have some of your own stock at hand.”

“The coffee will be fine, thank-you Draco. Black, if you will.”

Draco called for a house-elf. It was the same one from before, the one Harry had tripped over. It looked as exhausted as Snape.

“Is Flippy out here working too?” Harry asked after it had popped away on its errand. He wouldn’t recognize his elf by sight, as he rarely saw her. He knew house-elves were meant to be discreet, but he had only seen the small creature briefly once or twice. Perhaps she was wary of Nagini, though Harry knew his sister was forbidden to eat the ‘little ones,’ as she called them.

“I can hardly be expected to remember the names of all our elves, Potter,” Draco said, sneering.

Harry was taken aback. They’d been getting along quite well today—for the last while, at least. Perhaps Draco was reacting to Snape’s presence, taking up the old Slytherin-Gryffindor antipathy. Trying not to let his voice sour, Harry said, “She’s the house-elf that looks after Nagini and me.”

It was Snape that answered. “Then she is one of the Dark Lord’s own house-elves, Mr Potter. I suspect they do not partake in the manor’s regular upkeep. That would include the Solstice preparations.”

As Snape conversed further with Draco, Harry had time to get a good look at him. He looked mostly all right. Tired, as he’d said he was. But there was nothing else to suggest that the man was in his Master’s disgrace, or that he was still recovering from his recent death and resurrection. Harry couldn’t even see any scarring from Nagini’s wicked strike to his throat. Overall, he seemed the same as ever.

That was, until Snape’s sleeve pulled up as he brought his mug to his lips, revealing silver bands encircling each wrist. The Potions Master quickly tugged the cloth back down, covering them, but not before Harry saw that each metal cuff was carved with runes and inlaid with black stones. “Do you like them?” Snape asked him, and Harry’s eyes snapped up to meet the hauntingly dark ones staring down at him. “They were a gift from your Master.”

Harry’s Master. Snape always chose his words carefully, whether to instruct or to insult. Or to inform, as he was doing now. These bands, then, must be part of Voldemort’s restrictions meant to ‘hobble’ the traitor, as it were.

Harry stared into his former professor’s eyes, at any moment expecting to feel the brush of the other man’s mind against his own. Harry still had no Occlumency shields to speak of. But Snape didn’t attempt to enter his mind. Perhaps the bands prevented it.

“Fern seed?” he asked instead of answering Snape’s question. “I thought ferns reproduced with spores.”

Snape looked away. “They do,” he answered. “But if you paid the slightest bit of attention in Herbology, you would recall that Magical varieties produce seed under perfect conditions. And, again, a more attentive student would know that fern seed provides stability to certain rare and volatile brews. But of course, you never felt the need to listen during lectures, did you Mr Potter? Not when there were so many misadventures to be had, all far more pressing than mere schoolwork.”

Harry bristled. “I did well enough in Potions once you were gone,” he said bitingly.

“Ah, yes. Horace was always so nauseatingly complimentary regarding your performance.” Snape’s smile was thin and unpleasant. “But I think we both know the truth of the matter, Potter. Whatever did become of my old textbook?”

“Torched. Courtesy of Crabbe.” Harry managed to smile back at Snape. He hoped the man missed the damned book.

Draco spoke before Snape could respond. “Actually, sir, Professor Slughorn didn’t cover fern seed until seventh year.”

Harry noticed that Draco didn’t mention Herbology. Maybe he couldn’t recall what they’d covered in sixth year either. After all, both boys had been rather preoccupied that year.

“What potion will you be using it for?” Draco asked. He seemed genuinely curious.

Snape sighed. “A flight potion. This is one of few potions that use it as a primary ingredient, rather than as a modifier.”

Draco furrowed his eyebrows. “I didn’t know such a potion existed. We certainly didn’t cover that in our NEWTs.”

“Of course not,” Snape said tiredly. “It is my own invention. The recipe not widely distributed.”

A flight potion. Harry frowned, remembering his flight from Privet Drive: the Dark Lord emerging, broomstick-less, from the cloud cover. And then he recalled Snape’s startling escape from Hogwarts…

And McGonagall had thought it was Voldemort who had shared his skill in unassisted flight with the Potions Master.

“Are you listening, Potter?” Draco’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Huh?” Harry shook the memories aside. He looked around.

Snape was gone, moved to where Narcissa was still fussing over the Solstice set-up. He was helping her levitate garden chairs into a circle, all facing into the space within. A far larger chair—his Master’s, Harry guessed—was set apart from the others, facing west. One small chair was the exception, placed beside the Dark Lord’s throne.

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said, huffing. “It was just potions stuff.”

And so of course I wouldn’t be interested, Harry thought. “What should we do next?” he said instead, deciding not to get riled up by Draco’s (correct) presumption.

“Get something to eat?" Draco suggested. "I'm famished.”

The sun was lower now. By Harry’s guess, it was just after seven. Draco called for a plate of sandwiches and the two boys sat again on the shady bench. They spoke of meaningless things. Draco made small jokes, for once not at anyone’s expense (except his aunt’s, but Harry was happy to laugh at her).

Harry was grateful for the quiet camaraderie, for it took his mind off his nervousness at what the evening would bring. Vernon would be there. What was the Dark Lord expecting Harry to do? What if he couldn’t manage it? An hour ago, Harry had been confident that he would have no trouble bringing his uncle to his knees. That when his uncle begged for mercy he would laugh viciously, enjoying every delicious torment. He hated his uncle, oh yes. Harry was fairly sure that, wand in hand, he would have no trouble casting the Cruciatus Curse.

But Harry didn’t have a wand. He had Nagini, of course, and his sister would be more than happy to kill Vernon for him. But that was how Petunia had met her end. Harry knew it wouldn’t be enough for tonight—no, something more was required on such an auspicious day. He hoped his Master had something in mind.

He hoped that tonight really was a night to remember.

Chapter Text

Families were arriving, trickling in via the manor’s Floo or Apparating to just outside the wards and making their way up the great drive. Small children were soon underfoot, playing Wizarding games that Harry had never heard of and singing strange rhymes that would have had made Petunia press her hands to Dudley’s ears to block out the beguiling chants.

One child crashed his training broom into a pavilion, and Narcissa had been so kind, casting expert healing charms even as the boy’s nervous father had stammered his apologies.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” she told him. “My Draco was a Bludger of mischief at that age.” She kissed the child’s knee, which earned her a winning smile from the child before he ran off to rejoin his friends in some new game. Harry gulped down a vicious ball of envy, remembering that he’d only had a dark cupboard to nurse his own small hurts.

Lucius arrived. He gave his wife a quick peck before he disappeared into his home. That would mean, Harry guessed, that his Master’s work at the Ministry was nearly finished for the day—and sure enough, the Dark Lord arrived soon afterwards. He had a hooded cowl pulled up to conceal his serpentine features and, like Harry and Snape, was clad in familiar black.

Unmannered half-bloods indeed, Harry thought with a smirk, though the memory bought him a flash of pain courtesy of his Master’s indignation at the perceived slight. Voldemort beelined to his throne at the edge of the Solstice circle and then gestured for Harry to join him.

“I’ll see you later, Malfoy,” he said as he got to his feet. “Duty calls.”

“You’d best hurry. He looks ticked off about something.” Then he was calling over to some of his Slytherin friends to join him, and Harry was quickly ignored.

Harry didn’t wait to greet Parkinson or the Greengrass sisters. He started straightaway to greet the Dark Lord who, as Malfoy had suggested, seemed vexed. His usually elegant fingers were clawing at the throne’s armrests and he was drawing long, angry breaths. Harry hoped his Master’s poor mood was unrelated to his own idle thoughts; he had known better than to ever think of his Master as anything less than perfect. But when he rose from his customary kiss to the man’s bare feet he saw that Voldemort’s gaze was directed elsewhere.

With glee Harry realized that his Master’s attention was on Bellatrix. “That woman has more nerve than is good for her,” Voldemort muttered. Harry couldn’t see his Master’s face properly, shadowed as it was beneath the hood, but imagined a fierce scowl set upon the pale face.

Harry basked in it. He was pleased, now, that he was wearing the same dark colours as his Master (ignoring the fact that his hated professor was similarly clad). Bellatrix would rue any thoughtless words about his robes. He smiled giddily.

“Do not be foolish,” the Dark Lord reprimanded. “I don’t care about that. It is Bella’s own attire that irks me, unless I am quite mistaken as to her reasoning. Yet she seems far too pleased with herself for the alternative to be true.”

“Master?” Harry hated to admit that he didn’t understand. Despite his loathing for her, he thought Bellatrix looked quite lovely today.

“I would expect as much from Narcissa,” the Dark Lord said thoughtfully, almost to himself. “I know that she and Lucius long for another child. I have intimated the need for an heir to Rodolphus but as of yet he has seemed rather disinclined. With the war over they may have taken my suggestions to heart, though somehow I am not convinced that dear Bella has her husband in mind tonight.”

At Harry’s confused look, Voldemort explained, “Litha—or rather, the Summer Solstice— is a traditional time for witches to engage in fertility rites. Everything about Bella’s arrayment implies she is hoping to conceive a child.”

It was an echo of what Draco had said earlier that day.

And if not with Rodolphus?

No. No! “Master,” Harry implored, “You can’t—”

Voldemort turned, then, to face Harry, and his crimson eyes blazed from beneath his hood. “Never think, Horcrux that you have one say in what I choose to do!” he hissed, menacingly. But then he took a calming breath and said, “However, there is no need for concern. I do not intend to allow Bellatrix to succeed in this matter. I will continue to enjoy her company as I so desire, just as I do with you.”

Harry frowned. His Master never ‘enjoyed’ him as such. Why would he, when he had a crazed witch at his beck and call?

Voldemort chuckled darkly before saying, “You are wrong in that, Harry. I enjoy you immensely. Fetch your sister. Hurry. The dancing will soon commence.”

***

Nagini was loath to leave the menhir, moaning that the air was getting chilly and her stone was still sun warmed.

“You’ll be warm enough once we rejoin, Master,” he told her. When her response was to coil up even tighter, he risked nudging her from her perch. The push was light enough to allow her a quick recovery, though she still hissed disgruntledly as she hit the grass. Harry marvelled that he was one of only two humans that could touch her so fearlessly. “Besides, the stone won’t be warm after the sun sets.”

“There had better be something tasty waiting for Nagini,” she hissed crabbily as she wound her way between the outer ring of stones in parody of the dancing that would soon begin.

Harry shrugged, then realized that his sister wouldn’t understand such a gesture. “I don’t know. But let’s find out,” he suggested.

“Nagini is tired of rabbits and rats,” she sulked.

“It’s a special day. Shall I beg for a Muggle for you to eat?”

She hissed happily and agreed to follow him back towards the manor and the increasingly large throng gathered in front of it. Once safely away from the lure of the warm stones, she bolted forward, straight through the centre of the open solstice circle towards her Master. Harry, following behind, was unsure whether he should cross the empty space, but decided he’d had enough eyes on him to last a lifetime and walked the long way round.

By the time he’d made his way back to Voldemort, the large snake was happily ensconced around their Master’s shoulders, a beautiful and deadly boa. The Dark Lord was petting her whilst gently scolding her for giving Harry such a hard time. He paused in his recriminations long enough to gesture for Harry to take the smaller seat set directly beside his own.

Harry bit his lip, his happiness at having his Master’s favour warring with his desire to remain inconspicuous.

“You will never be so, Harry, so I suggest you banish your desire for anonymity. Be pleased that you are set apart. Happy or not, you shall remain with me for the remainder of the evening. You must not stray from my side, especially after the sun sets. It would be so easy to lose you amongst the chaos, dear one, and I will not have that.”

“Of course, Master,” Harry agreed, easily. He would be pleased to remain with the Dark Lord and close by his sister. He would escape his fumbling attempts at dancing this way, for starters. And his presence would hopefully prevent Bellatrix from attempting anything with his Master. Or, he realized, nearly snarling, he would simply be closer to the action. He drove away the detestable thoughts, telling himself that his Master wouldn’t subject him to such horrors; he wouldn’t be so cruel, not when Harry had been so well-behaved, so obedient. He asked in as calm a voice as he could manage, “Will there be a treat for Nagini tonight, Master?”

“Hmmm?” Voldemort was again looking at Bellatrix.

“Never mind,” said Harry. “It doesn’t matter.” He forcibly kept himself from slumping in his chair. He would not give Bellatrix the satisfaction of seeing him unhappy, nor give his Master any reason to reprimand him for his conduct.

The music began. Harry almost regretted his Master’s orders to remain by his side, for the maypole dance looked simple enough for him to join in. Even small children, some as young as three or four, were managing, though their ribbons tangled every few minutes. Harry was strangely saddened to see Draco up there, pulled over by a girl he recognized from Slytherin. So much for needing Harry up there with him. He reached for the daisy that Draco had slid above his ear. It was gone, fallen out somewhere in the bustle of preparations and no doubt trampled under someone’s heedless boot. It didn’t matter though, Harry decided. After all that he’d done, he belonged here, clad in pitch black amongst all this colourful revelry.

Draco didn’t even seem to notice his absence despite his threat to abstain should Harry not participate. He was laughing as he danced, holding a pale blue ribbon in one hand and a tambourine in the other. Weaving in and out amongst his friends, he seemed happier, more carefree, than Harry could remember. When had Draco ever looked so at ease? Here, in this moment, the blond boy had nothing to prove. It was Midsummer, and he was young and amongst friends and family. The war was over; his side had won. Why not be merry on such a lovely Midsummer’s eve?

Harry looked away, to his Master. He was happy here, here with the other part of his soul. Nothing was better than that. No one could match such a thing, no matter how free or joyous they might be. Harry was the lucky one. He had made certain of it.

Still, his Master hadn’t paid him much attention since he’d sat down and even then it had been sparse. Instead he was watching the dancing. He was watching Bellatrix dance, in particular. With resentment, Harry had watched her join in with the smaller children. Instead of cursing the kids, she helpfully untangled their ribbons when needed, all patience and sweet smiles. It was disgustingly maternal and made Harry want to sick up.

She must have taken Draco and Snape’s advice to heart, because there weren’t any shocked shrieks when her dress lifted as she spun amongst the smaller dancers. Instead they were incongruously happy that she was amongst them, and once the ribbons had wound their way, prettily, around the maypole, she kept dancing, taking the hands of the young children and spinning them about, giggling, in the fading light.

Narcissa approached the group with a basket slung over her arm, and the small girls were instantly on her, clamouring for what was inside. As Draco’s mother handed stems of an unfamiliar purple flower to each outstretched hand, Harry managed to make out their eager voices:

“Please, Lady Malfoy, can I have some orpine, too?” begged one of the smaller girls.

“Of course, Eloise. I have enough for everyone.”

“I love Midsummer,” chattered one girl with brown curls to her friend. Then to Narcissa, “May I please take an extra for my sister Marta? She wasn’t feeling well today and I promised to bring her some.”

Narcissa gave two flowers to the girl. “She may have a stem, of course, dear. But their magic will only work tonight when the night is shortest, so be sure to place it beneath her pillow. I would hate for her to be disappointed.”

Harry tried to remember anything Trelawney might have said about using this flower—orpine?—in divination. He came up with nothing and could not be sure if it was on account of his own lacklustre study habits, Trelawney’s general incompetence, of merely the fact that he’d dropped Divination after his OWLs.

“It is likely none of those, despite the accuracy of the first two in relation to your overall academic performance,” said Voldemort. “As you can see, every witch knows the uses of orpine from the time they are but small. It is an intrinsic custom, like Muggles wishing upon a falling star or a birthday candle. It is not taught in schools.” There was a short pause, then his Master murmured, “Well, this is amusing…”

The cluster of young witches flocked near Narcissa was waning. Soon Narcissa was handing over one of the purple flowers to the last child, but before she could close her basket, Bellatrix approached with her hand held out.

“You already have a husband, Bella. You know that orpine is for unwed witches,” said Narcissa. “Go and dream about him, instead.”

But Bellatrix was insistent. “Please, Cissy? Just one itty bitty blossom?” Her pleading went on long enough that Narcissa, with an exasperated roll of her eyes, handed one of the stalks of orpine to her sister before marching off towards a group of teens, none of whom looked as excited by her arrival as had the younger children.

“What is amusing, Master?” Harry asked, suspecting that he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Hmmm? Oh, that Bellatrix desires a stalk of the orpine. As her sister stated, it is only for unwed witches, used to divine their future husbands. The magic will not work if one is already bonded to another. I suspect that our dear Bella has something interesting planned for tonight.”

None of it added up to anything good, thought Harry. Fertility charms, foretelling flowers. But he knew better, now, than to say as much to the Dark Lord, so he bit his tongue and determined to wallow in his misery.

The thin tinging of metal on glass broke him from his sulk. Lucius Malfoy was standing upon a small platform in the centre of the clearing, rapping a spoon against a goblet. “May I please have your attention.” A pause as the crowd became quiet. “I welcome you to another Summer Solstice. I am pleased to be with you this year. I assure you all, your company is far preferable to that which I enjoyed last Midsummer.”

Draco’s father had been in Azkaban a year ago, Harry reflected. So much drastic change in one year—and certainly not only for Lucius Malfoy. Last June at this time, Albus Dumbledore had still been alive and was on his final push to manipulate him. The memory of his ‘lessons’ with the former Headmaster forced its way into his mind. Harry grit his teeth, his face heating at the recollection of the man he’d once held in such high esteem, yet who had deceived him so well and for so long.

A calming hand came to rub against his head, pushing his fringe up and tracing the scar beneath. “Breath, Harry. He’s gone.”

Harry blinked back tears and nodded, then forced himself to listen to the elder Malfoy.

“…think we’ve all enjoyed the festivities so far. Before night begins, and our youngest find their way to their beds and to their dreams, I propose a toast.” Another tap of silver on crystal.

House-elves appeared around the perimeter of the circle, each bearing a tray of wine goblets. Surprisingly, no Elf approached the Dark Lord. Instead, after about a minute, a young woman approached. She held a tray with a single, large goblet.

It was Hermione, and she was lovely. Her hair shone, slicked into a graceful bun, and the dark circles that had weighed down her eyes since last August were gone. “My Lord,” she breathed, balancing the tray even as she sunk into a careful kneel.

“Thank you, Ms Granger,” returned the Dark Lord as he took picked up the goblet. “Take your place beside Harry.”

She nodded, then stood. Eyes cast down, she took the few steps to Harry’s side before kneeling again. Harry looked between her and his Master, then bit his lip. He didn’t want her at his feet.

But Lucius Malfoy was again speaking, and the moment to intervene on her behalf was lost. “A toast,” the man repeated, “in honour of the brightest of our days and the return of the sun. And truly, dear friends, we are blessed, for our current days are bright indeed. The darkness of war has passed us at last.

“More importantly, the war was won, and it is with this victory that those of us who have long treasured our ancestry, our shared heritage, and our traditions can again emerge from the darkness that has been our lot for far too long. We enter into a new era where we no longer need to secret away our faithfulness to the old ways.

“It is auspicious, indeed, that such changes occurred even as the days grew long, heralding this coming Solstice. Even as plants sown during the waxing moon grow tall and vibrant, so we can anticipate the necessary changes we’ve implemented in our world to prosper until our vision spreads far and becomes so entrenched that it can never be uprooted.”

Lucius paused at the fervent applause that broke out amongst the gathered witches and wizards. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you. And we must make a toast, also, to the one who led us to this victory, to the man who has diligently worked for more than half a century to bring about this new order. I speak, of course, of our Lord, who has at long last come into his rights as the ruler of our most blessed country. Everyone, please raise a glass to the Dark Lord.”

The applause this time was thunderous. Lucius didn’t even try to regain order. He raised his wine glass, and soon everyone followed suit, the sound of clapping replaced by clamours of “To the Dark Lord!”

Harry had not been given a glass and, feeling left out, looked up at the man in question. Lord Voldemort was like a god revelling in worship. He lifted his ornate goblet in acknowledgement of Lucius’s accolade, then drank deeply. A heady warmth pressed through to Harry through their connection. For once, it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Around the circle, the Solstice-goers followed Voldemort’s lead, bringing cups to lips. Even the smallest child was drinking in his honour.

All except Harry.

But then, his Master looked down at him and held out his drink. “You will drink to your Lord, will you not, Harry Potter?”

Harry beamed, taking the glass. “To the Dark Lord,” he said, the quietest of echoes. He raised the goblet to his lips and sipped greedily. The taste was of grapes and honey and the endlessness of summer evenings.

Lord Voldemort, standing now, plucked the goblet from Harry’s grasp. He turned to address the crowd. “My dearest friends,” he said. “I thank you all for coming this evening. Thank you for the lovely dancing that has entertained us so far and for the spirited tribute. But mostly, I thank you for the trust you show in me. It has been too long since I have been welcomed by the greater Magical community to events such as these. The invitation I received from Lucius to join in celebrating one of our most sacred days with you all brings me much happiness.

“I have too long worked in shadow. For more than a decade, I was little more than a shadow, in fact.” Voldemort paused, then took a deep breath. “And I am tired of it. Even now, I walk hooded amongst you. My name has become synonymous with fear, my face with terror. This was as it needed to be.

“But it is not fear that will rebuild our country. It is not terror that will make us strong. Fear. Terror. These were useful tools to break down the faulty foundation of corruption and hypocrisy that had for too long plagued our world. And now this task is done? And the walls of the Ministry fallen?

“As Lucius suggests, the Summer Solstice is a felicitous time for us to step into the light. We do not speak of Light versus Dark magic—no. We speak of truthfulness and candour. We speak of walking the path of our true selves.

“Let us never be afraid again. Happy Litha to you all!”

 “Happy Litha!”

***

Flickering light began to dot the clearing and Harry could hear snatches of unfamiliar song. Small children whined to be allowed to stay, their parents letting them jump over the small bonfires a handful of times before coaxing them away. Slowly, the demographic shifted until it was largely Death Eaters who remained. It was hard to tell, for with the exception of Harry and Snape, they were clothed in festive dress.

Bellatrix had meandered over to them after the toasting was done, her eyes dark and heavy. “Why not leave your pets with the Mudblood and come through the fire with me, Master.”

“I will do no such thing, Bella. If you wish to engage is such frivolities, find someone else to proposition. Your husband, perhaps.” He leaned forward in his throne and beckoned her closer. As soon as she was within reach, Voldemort seized her hand and twisted her wrist until she whimpered. “And Bella,” he said, “never suggest such a thing again.”

He pushed her away. She sniffed, cradling her wrist against her stomach. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Master. But you looked so lonely here, all by yourself.”

Harry gritted his teeth. He was right there.

“I assure you I am not,” Voldemort said. Then with a smirk he added, “I should think Lucius will bring our guests out soon. Will you be entertaining us with a dance tonight?”

Her eyes lit up. “Of course, my Lord. And are the rumours true?”

“Rumours, darling?” he asked in mocked confusion.

“About the reward? For the dance?” She pouted when his response was a raised brow. “Master, I’ve been working so hard, getting my dance just perfect.”

Voldemort chuckled. “I look forward to seeing it, then.”

To Harry’s relief, he shooed her off after this exchange. She twirled away, though her eyes kept turning back in their direction. One time, she blew a kiss back at the Dark Lord.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Do you not believe I deserve her devotion, Harry?” came the dangerous query.

There was no good answer. Or rather, the only correct answer was one that was painful to give: “You do, Master.” And because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “But I don’t like her, my Lord. I don’t like her, and I don’t like that you like her back.” He gulped. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t my…my place.”

A few moments of quiet. Then, “No, it most certainly is not your place. And Bellatrix repeatedly steps out of line as well. Yet it gratifies me that neither of your behaviours is due to some drive for advancement. Bellatrix’s reverence, like your own, is genuine. It irks me that neither of you believe I am capable of keeping you both in my affection.”

“She called me a pet,” spat Harry, ignoring the spasm of pain in his scar.

“And how is that not true, Harry? You are brother to Nagini, are you not? Perhaps Marking you has gone to your head, that you think you are more than you are.”

Maybe it was true, thought Harry. He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. His voice quavered as he asked, “What did she want, Master?”

Voldemort shook his head. “Your ignorance is appalling,” he said. “If I didn’t know the reason, I would chalk it up to laziness.”

Harry felt shame blush his cheeks and looked away.

With a sigh, Voldemort said, “Bella desires many things, I am sure. In regards to the bonfire? It is customary for sweethearts to leap through the embers together on Midsummer. I fear Bella has misinterpreted my attention for something more than it is.”

“She loves you,” Harry said, his voice soft.

“Perhaps,” Voldemort said. He drained the last of his wine. “I didn’t ask her to. It’s not something I can return.”

Harry would have revelled in the admission if he hadn’t known that it applied to him as well.

Not that he wanted Voldemort to love him…

Except, he realized, that yes, that was exactly what he wanted.

Voldemort didn’t say anything regarding these stray thoughts. Harry guessed he’d known long before he had figured it out himself, though how such a loveless being could intuit such in others was a mystery.

Harry found it easier just then to look anywhere else. The evening’s next event was still being readied, so there wasn’t much to distract him. No one else approached.

There was a small movement beside him. Hermione had been so still that Harry had mostly forgotten about her. He risked giving her a tiny smile, but she missed it, her eyes cast to the middle of the clearing and the largest of the bonfires. Harry poked her in the shoulder, the same friendly touch he’d given her many times before when she’d become too immersed in her studies. “Hey.”

Except she didn’t look up to him in mock glare as she used to. She didn’t roll her eyes and ask what could possibly be so important as to disturb her thoughts.

No, she clenched her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll be more careful. Please.”

“Hermione?” He reached over to her, thinking to rub her back.

“Don’t touch her.” Voldemort stood abruptly, his hood falling back. He pulled Harry from his chair, then picked that up and placed it on the other side of his throne. “And you, Mudblood—make your way back to wherever it is Narcissa keeps you.”

Harry watched her scurry away, feeling guilty. He shouldn’t have touched her. Even kneeling next to him, at least she’d been there, participating in the celebration in her own small way. And she’d been here, with him—that counted for something, though he felt the weight of his guilt at having ignored her for the past month and a half. Now where was she going? What would she have to do?

At least she looked as though she was being taken care of, though he wondered at her outburst. Her words were uncomfortably familiar; he’d said ones much like them once, before Hogwarts. He’d learned to not say them again.

Voldemort sat back down. “If you are smart, Harry, you will stop thinking about the girl.”

“What about her being my prize,” he argued as he started towards his repositioned chair. He’d not moved a foot before his Master’s wand was out, aimed at his chest. Harry froze, his heart thumping. He clenched his jaw and waited for the curse to fall.

Instead, Voldemort said, “I believe you have forgotten something, Harry. That surrender of yours? Did it not include all your possessions? That would include your Mudblood prize, my dear. Or…” he raised his palm, as if he were being magnanimous, “you could abdicate your claim on her. I leave the choice to you.”

His claim on her. What did he need with her, anyway? He couldn’t be her friend anymore. He couldn’t touch her. Apparently, he didn’t even think much about her. Out of sight, out of mind. He’d never realized how apt the proverb was.

“I only ever wanted her safe.”

“And that was provisionally guaranteed. You do not need to associate with her for this to be so.” Voldemort rolled the yew wand between his fingers. “I must admit, Harry, I grow tired of being generous. Too many people need too much from me, and my patience is thin. Do not test me on this matter again. I nearly cursed you for your impertinence. And this was meant to be a joyous night.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” he said. The words came before he knew why he’d said them. But it wasn’t hard, really, to come up with reasons: for being a nuisance, for asking too much, for being needy and jealous. For loving his Master, when such love was but a burden.

Voldemort tucked the wand away and guided Harry back to his chair. “Don’t apologize for loving me, Harry; just don’t expect it to be returned. You are precious to me. Know that and let it be enough.”

Chapter Text

The sun had set. Only the central bonfire remained lit. The wizards and witches who had stayed to enjoy the darker elements of the Solstice took turns feeding the flames, casting sticks into the crackling heat.

“My offering is beneath my throne, Harry. Toss it into the fire, then return at once.”

Harry got down on his knees and rummaged under Voldemort’s throne. His fingers brushed against something unidentifiable. He grasped it and drew it out, hoping he’d found the offering and not some frightened creature ready to bite him for his carelessness. It turned out to be a branch about the width of his wrist. Oak, judging from the few remaining russet leaves. Harry almost asked if he had his own branch to toss into the fire. Perhaps there had been one, tucked away. Perhaps his Master had vanished it, and this was his way of reminding Harry that he was but an extension of himself. Or perhaps he was overthinking it all, and he would be a lot happier if he just tried to enjoy the rest of the night.

The music shifted on his way back from his errand. Gone was the lilting song of harp and fiddle; the tambourines were silent. The cheerful instruments had been set aside and something more vital, more ancient, began. A tribal rhythm pulsed. It had begun so faintly that Harry hadn’t known the music had even continued. Now, though, the throb of the drums was insistent, had become the earth’s own heartbeat.

By the time Harry regained his seat, Voldemort had again risen from his throne. He cast a wandless Amplifying charm and called, “Bring out the Wicker Man.”

Lucius nodded at Snape, and they exited the clearing, disappearing into the darkness beyond. When they returned they were levitating an enormous figure. Harry had seen something like it before, in one of the tour booklets the Dursleys had brought home after a holiday.

It was a cage crafted from woven boughs of willow. Inside were people, so many of them, all crammed together. They were crying out, but only the sharpest wails could be heard over the insistent drumming. Vernon was in the giant’s head, his face a familiar shade of puce.

Voldemort didn’t bother silencing the music as he addressed the crowd with his enhanced voice. “Friends, may I present to you the townsfolk of the Muggle village of Avebury. They are the first victims of our land reclamation projects. I know that rumours have been circulating these past few weeks, and I am pleased to announce that the ones concerning the restoration of Magical sites across the country are true. Muggle settlements surrounding key ley lines and wizarding monuments are set to be destroyed. In an act of mercy, the Muggles therein are given warning so they may depart with as little loss of life as we can allow.

“Avebury, however, acts as our example. As many of you are aware, the village was built in the very centre of the largest of our country’s henges. In times past, acting on their superstitious faith, they had even dared to bury our sacred stones. Their descendants shall pay dearly for this arrogance.

“A Wicker Man has not been used for human sacrifice in many, many centuries. Tonight, witness its revival. Every Litha, from now until time ends, we shall stuff the giant’s gullet with Muggle meat and roast them in the name of Lady Magic.

“But before we set them alight, I thought we might allow them one last pleasure. My Faithful, you must understand that even Muggles are not so witless as to miss the significance of the Summer Solstice. Of course--as ever--they appropriated it, stripped it of its true significance, and bestowed it with Christian meaning.

“Instead of Litha, it has become the day celebrating St. John the Baptist. I need not delve into the full mythos surrounding this figure as the only thing you need to know is how he died. As the story goes, a great beauty—Salome—danced before the region’s ruler, Herod. He was so mesmerized by her that he promised her anything her heart desired. She famously asked for the head of John the Baptist, severed and presented to her on a platter. In honour of this titillating story I have proposed a contest, open to any free witch or wizard present. Dance for us. The most talented amongst you shall be granted a boon.”

Cheers and the clamorous stamping of feet followed this pronouncement. The unwilling audience of Muggles seemed less enthused, though after the promise of death, the Dark Lord’s generosity may have fallen flat.

Nagini was restless; she slid against her Master’s neck unceasingly, hissing in agitation. Voldemort put up with it for a minute or so, but eventually urged her onto the ground beside his throne. “What is the matter with you,” he asked her.

“Nagini does not like the storm.”

“There is not storm. It is drums that you feel,” Voldemort told her, but he was unable to reassure her. Her tongue darted in and out, nervously, before she hid herself under the throne with only her tail peeping out. “Foolish thing,” he muttered.

Harry would have held her if she’d asked him to. Hell, if he could fit, he would have liked to have coiled up under his Master’s throne with her, instead of having to watch the dancing. He supposed he didn’t want to miss out on Vernon being cooked alive, though, so he just sighed and waited for the supposed entertainment to begin.

He didn’t have long to wait. Silhouettes were forming in front of the bonfire, dancing and swaying to the beat. There were only a few performers, but they were mesmerizing. There was one witch, however, that was outperforming the rest: Bellatrix was in the centre of the contestants, and Harry hadn’t known that hips could move like that. Her hands were never still, and she undulated her arms and upper torso pleasingly, erotically.

Harry slid from chair into a kneel and guided his Master’s fingers to his hair. He needed human contact. Voldemort froze for a moment, perhaps to consider his reaction to this unsolicited and presumptuous move. Then, compliantly, he began to stroke Harry’s soft, unruly locks, punctuated every so often by a violent tug.

The drums rolled faster. Then faster. Bellatrix never faltered. She was magnificent. The other dancers slowed, then fell away. Now everyone watched as she shimmied her chest, the music cresting to mirror her every movement. It was chaotic and it was beautiful. It was pure Bellatrix. Cymbals and bells joined in, becoming louder and louder, soon overshadowing the tribal thrumming of the drums with their fierce clanging. Bellatrix danced with the same wildness as the flames behind her. Harry knew then that, for this moment, his own ignorance meant nothing. Because this? This was witchcraft. Bellatrix was, at that moment, the embodiment of all magic, and as much as he hated her, Harry was grateful to see her now, in this perfection.

The hand in Harry’s hair was steadily tightening. Harry would have whimpered in pain had he not relished the sting and the way in which he’d been drawn back until his head was pressed tightly against his Master’s knee.

Bellatrix fell to her knees as the music rang out in a final crash of brass, her head tipped back, throat bared in a long, sinuous line. She paused there, an exquisite fallen statue, until the final bell finished reverberating. Then she sprang up and curtsied with one last, sultry flourish. Unsurprisingly, she was met by thunderous applause and more than one vigorous catcall. Voldemort released Harry’s hair to clap. Though she’d earned every bit of the praise, Harry didn’t join in.

The Dark Lord pushed Harry aside with his foot. With his voice still magnified, he said, “I believe we have a clear victor. This year, the title of Salome goes to our own talented Bellatrix. Come forward, my dear, and claim your reward.”

Bellatrix, glistening with sweat, made her way to the throne, her hips still swaying to a beat that now only she could hear. She eyed Lord Voldemort with unconcealed hunger.

Harry raced back to his own seat, not wishing for her to stand so closely above him. Even so, was unprepared when she bypassed all expected obeisance and swung her leg up and straddled the Dark Lord’s lap. Voldemort’s quick intake of breath indicated that he hadn’t expected it either. He didn’t push her off, though. Harry hoped that Voldemort wouldn’t moan as she pressed herself wantonly against him; the Amplifying charm was still active, after all.

The Dark Lord gently kissed her brow and ushered her off his lap. “My darling, you are as brazen as your dance,” he said.

To the amusement of the laughing crowd, Bellatrix winked, then twirled much as she had demonstrated to Harry and Draco mere hours before. Her skirts, once again, rose to show the same uncomfortable expanse of bare skin.

“My reward, Master?” she asked. Her eyes shone with anticipation.

Voldemort inclined his head, then said, “As in the classic narrative, you may choose your prize. For how could I deprive you of your desires, my sweet Salome?”

“Then, my Lord,” she said, “it is fitting that I ask for the very reward she demanded.”

“Of course, my dear. Anyone—with a few exceptions.” A sideways glance at Harry made it clear to her that he was off-limits.

She nodded, making the stray hairs that had come loose in her dance fly about. She declared, “I ask for the death of my husband. For the head of Rodolphus Lestrange.”

***

Chaos—that is what Harry would have called what followed Bellatrix’s demand, had he not so recently lived through the Battle of Hogwarts. The Lestrange brothers immediately tried to flee, casting red and green spells indiscriminately at anyone near them. That began several small but lethal skirmishes around the circle. There was a time when Harry would have been ecstatic to watch these Dark wizards and witches destroy each other. Now, though? This backstabbing mayhem was counter to his Master’s wishes, as Harry’s sudden, splitting migraine proved.

Voldemort didn’t often brandish his full magical strength. Harry had seen it but once, at the Ministry of Magic when his Lord had done battle with Dumbledore. Normally, the sheer threat of his dormant power was enough to cow his followers into obedience.

Now, with his followers in such disarray, the Dark Lord leapt up, the black silk of his robes billowing out behind him. Guttural words accompanied the wild, spiralling gestures of his wand: “Gofvathda. Mergoushlavai. Herkospd Thrumas.”

It sounded nothing like the Latin of common European spell-work. A dire, sizzling energy shuddered through the air. All the yelling, the cursing, the screaming stopped at once. Everyone stopped, held in place by the Dark Lord’s magic. Even the curses flying towards unhappy victims were frozen in bright zigzags and flashes, and who knew that the Killing Curse had golden starbursts scattered amidst its deadly green?

It was beautiful.

Harry clenched and unclenched his hands, just to see if he could. In the quiet aftermath, Nagini had emerged from beneath the throne and was slinking about the circle, crawling up and down wizards and witches in a way that would normally induce heart attacks, or at the very least, soiled pants. She steered clear of the frozen spell-light. She’d been with Lord Voldemort long enough to know the danger there.

Now that his Death Eaters weren’t at risk of annihilation, the Dark Lord turned his attention to Harry. “How interesting. I suspected you might not be affected by that spell. I am pleased that my supposition was correct.”

“What was that?” Harry breathed.

“A time-stopping spell,” he said, as if breaking even Wizarding laws of physics was nothing. That he hadn’t just done something completely unprecedented. “Now Harry,” Voldemort said. “I know you have heard of this spell. I suspect you are the only one here who has, other than myself. Before I wake these wretches and resurrect those who weren’t smart enough to evade a simple Avada—"

—because such a thing was so easily done—

“I ask that you try to recall where you may have come across magic such as this. Perhaps in a fairy-tale?”

Harry frowned, trying to remember the different spells cast in Tales of Beedle the Bard. Hermione had read them one particularly cold winter night that last year as they huddled together in the tent. It had taken their mind off the futility of their mission for a few hours. There were no spells like this though...

“Think further back. Perhaps to your primary school. Even Muggles spin tales.” A quirk of his hairless brow indicated that this was a hint.

‘Spin tales.’ There was the story of the girl who could spin straw to gold. “Rumpelstiltskin?” he guessed. But no, that was about boasting, about greed, and about an impossible payment. Nothing about stopping time.

“Really, Harry, I am surprised. I was thinking of Sleeping Beauty, of course. I admit that modern European retellings have focused on the wrong element: love,“ he sneered, “and weakened the magic itself to that of slumber. I suppose their infantile, Muggle minds had difficulty comprehending time in the first place, let alone conceiving that it might be possible to stop its flow.

“But the seed of the story germinated from somewhere. When I was younger, I thirsted to unravel the origins behind the last remnants of magic still found in a world otherwise devoid of it. My love of the killing curse, for example, began as a fascination with the bastardized use of the incantation in Muggle stage magic. Abracadabra,” he said, smiling at some memory (perhaps of a small Tom Riddle being amused by a bumbling street magician). “As for wizards toying with time? Do you not recall the Time Room in the Department of Mysteries? Bellatrix told me of the havoc you and your friends wreaked there. And you’ve made use of Time-Turners before. Admittedly, all well-known Temporal Magic relies on artifacts imbued with the Sands of Time. Spells such as I have just now demonstrated are decidedly more esoteric. Still, it pleases me that you admire my sorcery.”

“Why didn’t you freeze me, too?” asked Harry.

“I did not, in fact, intend to omit you. The spell has but one target: all who are not the caster. My guess is that the magic recognized both you and Nagini as extensions of myself, thus sparing you the effects. It is an interesting occurrence and certainly worth exploring further. But not now.” He sighed, then turned back to survey the anarchy scattered throughout the clearing. “Because now I have to deal with this mess.”

Harry still had so many questions: Why hadn’t Voldemort made use of such a powerful spell before? Was everywhere stopped in time, or just here? Where had his Master learned such wonderous magic? Could he learn it, too?

“Quiet your incessant thoughts!” Voldemort said sharply. “I must concentrate.” He moved off to examine the damage his Death Eaters had done to each other.

Harry took a deep breath. He tried to clear his mind, though he knew from his awful experience with Occlumency how well that would go. He almost called for a house-elf to bring him some of his calming tea, before realizing that the poor creature would get stuck by the time-stopping spell. If they weren’t already frozen, that was…

Harry shook his head, as if that would sweep his racing thoughts away. He needed to distract himself, without also disturbing the Dark Lord.

All at once, he smiled, knowing what to do.

The wicker giant was settled at the outer edge of the clearing. In truth, it should have been hard to ignore. Bellatrix’s dance, however, followed by the short-lived uprising and then the beauty of his Master’s impossible magic, had pushed the Muggle-stuffed cage far from Harry’s mind. Now that all was unnaturally quiet, he might as well take a closer look.

It was enormous. A whole village was packed inside: men and women and children. It was impossible to tell now, as they were all suspended in time, but Harry wondered if some of them weren’t already dead. The ones in the middle had to be. What would it be like to have a mountain of dead and dying flesh pushing you against these willow bars? And they stank, a hint of decay underlying the stronger reek of piss. How long had they been in this cage?

Vernon was still alive. His eyes were, if not bright with intelligence, ablaze with wrath borne of terror. His cheeks were puffed out, his lips pressed together tightly as if trying to reign in words that would only make things worse. Because there was worse than this, Harry knew. And if Vernon had been Voldemort’s prisoner for the past six weeks, he would know it too.

Was this enough? It was enough for Vernon, to be sure. Burning alive in this hell would be enough for Grindelwald. But was it enough for Harry? Was it enough closure? The branches were woven in such as way that they could be climbed like a ladder. Harry had never been one to climb trees, but he’d been a star athlete. He could make it to the top, he knew. But the Muggles filled every cavity, bulging out of the bars. He’d have to touch them. Harry didn’t need to be told not to. If he even brushed against their filthy skin, he’d never feel clean again.

Harry wished he had his broom. Or maybe some of that flight potion Snape had talked about. Then he could soar up, straight to Vernon. Maybe he’d even steal Bellatrix’s knife. He’d carve his uncle’s face right up, yes, he would. Carve ‘freak’ on his forehead. Carve ‘boy’ on his cheek. It wasn’t enough. Maybe he’d stab his eyes out, cut off his dick and stuff it in the mouth that never said one kind thing to him.

He almost wished his friends were here to see it, see who he was now. The thought surprised him. For weeks he’d battled with his shame in choosing this path, for saving himself over them. He’d practically killed Ron, George, Luna. And those that were alive probably wished they weren’t. Now what would they think of him? Would they be shocked at his vindictiveness? Appalled?

Fuck them.

No, burning Vernon wasn’t enough, and he wanted horrified witnesses.

Voldemort was busy binding any wizards that had been involved in the skirmish. Nearly a dozen confiscated wands stuck out of his hip pocket. Three bodies were sprawled on the grass, but Harry couldn’t tell if they were dead or just stunned. The light of spell-fire looked strange, hovering lonely in mid-air and cut off from a wand, almost like fireworks. What would happen if he walked through that flare of green? Would it hurt if he touched it with a fingertip? Would death come at once, or spread like rot, inching up his arm like the curse that had killed Albus Dumbledore?

“Do you want to see me restore them to life, Harry?”

The Dark Lord had the Resurrection Stone in his hand. It didn’t look like much. Harry thought it resembled a die from that Dungeons and Dragons game. Dudley had begged for a set when he was about nine—probably so he could hide the pointy dice in Harry’s trainers—but it had been too freaky for Vernon and Petunia. A group of older kids used to play it in the library at their primary school, and Harry could vaguely remember them whispering things like ‘attack rolls’ and ‘saving throws.’ Harry mused that the Stone was the ultimate saving throw.

“Would you bring me back if I died?” Harry asked.

“Why wouldn’t I? You know you are precious to me.”

Harry sighed. “Maybe as a Horcrux I am, Master. But what if death separates our souls? What if only mine comes back? Dumbledore said—”

“Dumbledore said many things,” said Voldemort. “It is believed that the soul piece is lost when the Horcrux is destroyed. But a living Horcrux is undocumented, as is bringing a wizard back to life. That said, recall that I wasn’t willing to risk you with the Basilisk. Do not seek your death, for I understand what you are really asking, and I have no ready answer.”

Calling the souls of his Death Eaters back to their bodies was straight-forward. Voldemort rolled the Stone over in his hand three times, and a shadowy mist poured out of it. A single breath pushed the spirits towards their hosts, and with a shudder they gasped and came back to life. That was it.

“That’s brilliant,” Harry said after his Master shoved Rowle’s soul back into him. “You’re like a god.”

Voldemort hummed. “Care to rephrase that, darling?” But he was smiling.

“You are a god.” And my God, Harry thought, the word felt right, and he didn’t even care how Muggle it was. “What will you do with them?”

“I promised Bellatrix a beheading, did I not? As for this rabble, they can watch the Muggles burn from a closer vantage point than is comfortable. Perhaps a few scorch marks will help them behave.”

All but one of the wizards (and the lone witch) that had involved themselves in the fray were bound to the maypoles, which Voldemort shifted closer to the Wicker Man. Then he drew his wand and conjured a wooden device Harry recognized from history books: a guillotine. He floated Rodolphus over and placed him upon it, facing down towards the waiting basket.

“I had considered facing him upwards so he could see the blade fall. I don’t care about being humane. He should have submitted at once, but instead I had to clean up the mayhem he caused in his escape attempt.” Voldemort glared at the condemned man. “But I suppose face-down is traditional.”

“Why don’t you get McNair to behead him with his axe?”

“Because I like guillotines and have never had cause to use one before. Besides, Walden is a little tied up right now,” Voldemort said, glancing towards the maypoles. “He’s good friends with the Lestrange brothers. Asking him to execute Rodolphus would be a dangerous test of his loyalty. I won’t push my followers too far over something as trivial as this. And, as I said, I like guillotines. It will be fun to chop off one of their aristocratic heads.”

Voldemort was as finicky as a director lining up his actors. When everything was in place, he drew his wand and incanted the re-animation spell.

The noise of everything shifting back into time was startling. The fizzing of spells, the yells of Death Eaters. Even the bonfire was shockingly loud.

The most interesting sounds were the terrified shouts from Rodolphus and the delighted singsong from Bellatrix.

There was a bang and a grunt of pain.

“Now Rodolphus, the circle was sealed against Apparition before the festivities began, as is pure-blood custom,” Voldemort said, his scolding half-mocking, half-serious.

“My Lord?” Rodolphus cried out and seeing such a terrifying man near tears was exhilarating. “Please have mercy—I’m still useful to you!”

“Bellatrix, will you do the honours? There is a rope knotted to the side of the guillotine. Once it is untied, simply release it.”

She fumbled in her giddiness, but soon she held the rope in her hand. “Bye bye, dear husband,” she said.

She let go and the blade fell.

Rodolphus’s head dropped into the basket. Blood spurted from the neck, spraying several feet before the flow subsided and began to drip more slowly onto the wooden slats. Bellatrix giggled, then reached forward and pulled out the head.

Harry was close enough to see the man blink. “He’s still alive.”

“Not for long,” sang Bellatrix. “His magic can only keep him alive for another minute or so.” She poked her nearly dead husband in the eye.

“Spike him, Bella, and let’s get on with the evening,” ordered Voldemort. While Bellatrix sharpened the end of the maypole her now ex-brother-in-law was tied to, the Dark Lord explained to Harry what would happen next: “The Wicker Man will soon be moved to the centre of the circle near the bonfire, and the Midsummer flame will be transferred to it with a torch. I want you to do this, Harry. I know you were hoping for something more personal in regard to your uncle. I realize you want more, to pay him back for his abuses. But my dear, I do not believe you could follow through on those desires. I want to help you succeed. Placing you in a position where you might fail, and with such an audience, is untenable.”

“But Master, I—”

The Dark Lord shook his head. “They will think you are weak. My men prey on lesser failings. No, I promised you a sacrifice; I’ve given you a sacrifice. Be content that I’ve kept my word, or perhaps I’ll allow Draco Malfoy the honour of setting the cage alight.”

“Please, Master, let me do it.” Harry couldn’t lose this last satisfaction. “But can I talk to him first? To Vernon? So he knows it’s me?”

“Of course, pet. I’d have it no other way.”

Chapter Text

“I wish I could send Nagini up with you. Her presence would add a certain flair to your appearance,” Voldemort said as he watched Lucius and Snape levitate the Wicker Man onto a pile of dry brush near the bonfire. “She is, however, scared of heights, and I don’t want a repeat of her panicking whilst around your neck. So, you’ll be on your own.”

Harry quickly decided that he preferred flying on his broom over being levitated by another person’s magic, even Lord Voldemort’s. The ground seemed so far away, and his stomach fell away as in a lift that sped too quickly between floors. He swallowed down the vertigo and forced himself to release his lip from between his teeth. He mustn’t look nervous or weak.

He hadn’t been able to get a good look at Vernon from the ground. He was still rotund, especially round the middle, but his face was noticeably thinner. Skin drooped from his chin and neck, not being elastic enough to accommodate his weight loss. He didn’t look any less menacing for the change. In the cage, surrounded by mewling bodies, he seemed demonic.

“Hello, Uncle.”

“I should have known,” Vernon spat at him. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you destroyed our family. You’re are all are the same. Monsters, the lot of you.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re a bigger fool than I thought if you believe that.”

“If I’d known…if I’d had the slightest inkling of any of this,” he said, struggling in his confines. “An orphanage was too good for you, boy. And to foist you on us—and see how you repay us? Too good, I say.”

 “I should have been drowned at birth,” Harry suggested. He felt more confident now that he’d levelled out. It didn’t feel like he was flying at all. The air beneath him was solid.

“Right you are,” Vernon agreed. “It would have spared us all, you ungrateful little whore.”

Harry blinked. “What?” Where had that come from?

“You heard me. Then again, you’ve always been an unnatural freak. This was bound to happen. ”

“Don’t call me a freak,” Harry said, but it was automatic response; he’d barely heard the insult.  “Why did you call me that. That—that other word.”

Whore.

Vernon grinned. “It’s what all your new friends are calling you. You’re even a freak amongst freaks.”

His new…? “What friends?”

Vernon’s eyes held the same piggy self-righteousness as when he’d burned Harry’s first Hogwarts letter, so long ago. “Dudley went all soft, always asking about you. So they told us what you’ve been up to.”

Harry really wished Nagini wasn’t afraid of heights. He needed her so much right now. “Who told you? Tell me what they said,” he forced himself to ask.

Vernon was too smug for someone about to be burned alive. “I don’t think I will.”

Harry groped about in his pockets. There had to be something there—anything at all—that he could use to hurt this son of a bitch. A knife, maybe? There wasn’t, he knew, but just maybe…

Goddammit. Nothing. Harry spat in his uncle’s face. “Maybe that’ll wash away some of the filth before you burn, Muggle.”

Harry look down to his Master, who was frowning as he watched from below. Harry started to descend, though he barely noticed. Above him, Vernon was yelling something. Harry tuned him out. Nothing the man was saying (‘burn in hell’; ‘even your worthless parents would turn you away’; ‘freak’; ‘freak’; ‘whore’) was worth anything. The man was a liar--Harry knew that. He forced himself to remember all the lies the man had ever told him, beginning with the car-crash that had killed his mother and father, and ending with this new fiction.

Whore.

But Vernon believed this lie, Harry could tell. Someone had said something, conjured up the image to mock his uncle. Whoever it was must have hoped that maligning Harry would torment him—‘Oh, your little nephew? Guess what he’s up to now? And lies, lies, lies—not realizing that Vernon would grab and shake anything that made Harry look bad.

“May I please have Nagini with me,” he begged once he’d landed.

“After you light the pyre,” Voldemort told him.

Harry nodded. He could do that. He could definitely do that. Then he and Nagini would sit as close to  the fire as they could comfortably get, and they would listen to every scream. Then he’d ask his Master to save the memory in a flask so he could remember this night forever.

Draco came forward with the unlit torch. “You okay?” he asked. “Your eyes are red.”

Harry wanted to tell him to shut up and mind his own business, but he didn’t trust his voice.

Maybe Draco had been the one to call him that awful word. The blond had mentioned earlier that he’d seen Vernon in captivity, and then he’d spouted off all kinds of pity at Harry (as if anyone wanted to be reminded of the indignities of childhood). Harry had no problem in associating the Draco Malfoy he’d known at Hogwarts with whichever bastard had said such things to Vernon. The Draco from today, good-natured and full of concern? Maybe that was the act.

Harry took the torch and held it to the bonfire. It ignited in a rush as the pitch caught, and stray sparks floated off like fireflies in the night. The Wicker Man wasn’t far away, just a few short steps. The brush underneath would ignite at once.

Before he could transfer the flame, a thin arm stretched out as if grasping for his hand. “Please don’t,” came a whisper. It was a child, maybe ten years old. A small boy with dark hair and green eyes. He looked much like Harry did when he was younger, especially in how the clothes hung off his thin frame. “Please.”

“I’m sorry.” And he was. But Vernon had to die, and this boy was needed as kindling.

More Muggles noticed him now. They called out to him, pleading for help, as if they could rely on him for something. They ignored the torch in his hand.

“Have you seen my daughter?” a man asked. “She’s wearing—”

Nagini slithered behind Harry, hissing for him to hurry so they could bask together in the warmth of the fire.

“I don’t think so,” Harry told the distraught man. Besides, what could he do?

“A pink dress. She’s blonde and wearing a pink dress. She’s three years old. Look at me for fuck’s sake! Did you see her?”

Harry looked up at him. The man wasn’t angry, though he should have been. He was frantic, though, his tears falling without care. This was what his parents must have looked like as the Dark Lord descended on them.

Harry almost lied and said she’d gotten away. Was far, far away now, and safe. Really, he should have said that. He was capable of one last mercy.

“She’s over there,” he said instead. He pointed upwards to the Wicker Man’s enormous belly. Then, as an afterthought: “It is a pretty dress.”

***

The Muggles at the bottom, including the man who’d asked about his little girl, pulled desperately at the green boughs that caged them even as the fire began to lick up their bodies. The willow bars were either too green to burn, or more likely imbued with protective magic. Still, they let out thick plumes of acrid smoke which was soon overwhelmed by the stench of burnt hair and cooked meat.

A small figure darted through the haze, and Nagini lunged before Harry could warn her back. She struck at the escapee’s neck; he fell at once, convulsing violently before going still. Harry crawled forward, under the smoke, and yanked the body closer. It was the boy, who was small enough and panicked enough that he’d scraped through the narrow bars.

He really did look a lot like Harry had at that age. Harry slipped off his glasses and rested them on the Muggle boy’s face. Just like him.

“Stop being macabre,” Voldemort said to him. “Remove those and get back on the grass. Nagini, stay away from the fire.”

Harry obeyed. He found a place nearby—not too close—and persuaded Nagini to rest her head on his lap. He stroked her mindlessly as he listened to the screaming. The flames were still low, but the heat was dreadful; Harry was glad he was no closer than he was. Voldemort was casting something at the cage which allayed the smoke and made the fire burn hotter and higher. Harry could see the Muggles writhe now, as they roasted as on a spit. So many kinds of screams, from quick high shrieks to animal-like bellows. They made a strangely discordant harmony. A cacophony, though pleasing.

The bound Death Eaters were near enough for their skin to redden. Rabastan was the closest to the fire, and his face was beginning to blister, though perhaps the tears on his cheeks helped soothe the burn. Harry wasn’t well acquainted with any of them, though he did recognize Alecto Carrow and her brother from his adventure at Hogwarts. He didn’t know McNair without his hood, though he’d been involved in the escape-attempt, too, or so his Master had hinted.

It was strangely pleasant curled up here on the grass. The show was spectacular. All that was missing was fireworks. The stars would be out at this hour, though even after his Master’s last spell it was far too smoky to see them clearly. It was usually chilly this late at night, even in late June, but everything was warm, the ground nicely toasted.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Nagini,” said Harry, leaning back on his arms. “I’ve always loved watching the way flames dance. They’re always changing, like clouds.”

“It’s warm,” she answered, as if that was the most important thing. To her, it was. Harry pet her, from her head all the way down to where she looped behind his back. Her skin was beginning to rough up, and soon she’d need to shed her skin. He gently scratched her and she hissed contentedly.

“I can’t figure out which scream is Vernon’s. Which do you think it is?”

“Snakes can’t hear, silly brother,” she reminded him.

“You hear me just fine when I talk,” he muttered.

“Brother is not talking. He’s hissing. Keep scratching Nagini’s back.”

***

The flames died down after about an hour. The cage was still standing, smouldering but intact. It seemed nearly empty now, a far cry from how packed it had been. There were blackened husks at the bottom and piles of ash. Some of the Muggle flesh had been more protected, though, and the occasional limb could still be found sizzling away. Voldemort had levitated his throne closer, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was to get a better view, or to keep his Horcruxes nearer to him.

Now that the screaming had subsided, snatches of conversation could be heard. Snape approached the Dark Lord, begging permission to leave and attend to his work.

“Midnight quickly approaches, my Lord,” he said levelly. “I suspect this new potion you requested will require fern seed as a stabiliser, which must be collected imminently. And do you need me to brew more Flight Potion as well?”

“Of course,” Voldemort replied. “Consider that a standing order.”

“Then I will require help if I am to gather enough within the small window of time that the seed can be viably harvested,” Snape said. He sounded tired. “Might I take Draco with me?”

Voldemort was silent as considered this request. At last he said, “You may. But I promise you, Severus, if I suspect even the smallest treachery, I will not hesitate to the tear the boy’s mind apart to find it.”

“I only need an extra set of hands, my Lord. Have I not sworn to you—”

“You swore oaths of allegiance to me twenty years ago, and look what became of those,” was the harsh reply. “Your newest promises will not be so easily cast aside, my Half-Blood Prince. And remember, do not fear what is to become of you, for your sentence has been set and is immutable. But Draco…” He left the threat floating in the late-night air.

“Yes, my Lord,” Snape said. “I will keep it in mind, always.”

Snape set off then and approached Draco. At first, the blond boy was hesitant to leave. He and his friends had found a spot at the edge of the clearing, far from the bonfire. Draco looked happy, his head in one of the Greengrass girl’s laps. She had dismantled the daisy crown she’d been wearing and was teasing a flower over Draco’s face. He kept batting it away, but she’d return to tickle him with it again and again. Harry was too far away to hear his conversation with Snape, but Draco finally stood, and they left together.

The smoky haze was dissipating. More and more stars could be seen, small pinpricks poking through velvet black. At Hogwarts, they’d learned about the individual stars and planets and their movements, but on the run this year, with so much time (and so little, really), he and Hermione had sat in the tent entrance, naming what constellations they knew and making up ones they didn’t. The stars were different now. He couldn’t find Orion’s Belt, which had always been a familiar splash across the winter sky.

A few more minutes passed, and then Harry heard Mrs Malfoy asking, “Can I offer you another glass of wine, my Lord?”

“Yes, thank you, Narcissa.” There was a pause. “I was most pleased with the preparations for this evening, my dear. I am grateful, in fact, for all your work lately. You are a most gracious hostess and I hope you do not think me unappreciative of your labours and sacrifices.”

“Of course not, my Lord. It is our honour to have you here. Both Lucius and I were pleased that you requested our grounds for this celebration, too.” It was the only safe response.

“I’m sure,” Voldemort said, amused. “Do not fret about any damage the bonfires wrought. I will ensure that every last blade of grass is replaced. Even as a young boy I admired this estate, and I would not see it sullied in any way. Next year, we shall move the Midsummer festivities to a new location. Perhaps even Avebury.”

“Fitting, of course,” she said. “But, as I said, we do not begrudge you the use of our lands.”

“Perhaps not, but I believe the change will be advantageous. And it will be a fresh start and will allow those who were punished this evening to experience the Solstice without the remembered embarrassment of tonight clouding their enjoyment.”

A short pause. “You mean Rabastan?”

“As well as his brother and the others who engaged in the escape attempt.”

“I don’t understand, my Lord,” said Narcissa. “You had Rodolphus beheaded. My sister—”

“I have no more qualms with Rodolphus than I do with any other of my men. I plan to restore his life, my dear. It was only meant to be a temporary death, and a rather graphic divorce.” He sighed. “Your sister grows bold and increasingly difficult to reign in. She has always been impetuous, even as a young girl. Your father had hoped her marriage into the Lestrange family would ground her and provide her with the stability she needed. Obviously this hope was unfounded.”

“I do not believe their marriage was ever a happy one,” said Narcissa. A hint of sadness laced her voice.

“They suited each other for a time,” Voldemort said. “But no, they were not happy. It is not the same thing.”

“If I may, my Lord, I would speak about my sister.” She waited for a murmur of assent, then continued: “You are correct, my Lord. She does grow bold. Please forgive me for asking, but what are your intentions in regard to her?”

“My intentions,” the Dark Lord echoed, his voice flat. He could be annoyed or amused, it was impossible to tell. Knowing Voldemort, either was dangerous.

“I do not mean to overstep,” Narcissa said carefully. “But I worry for her. You seem to enjoy her company--”

He certainly does, Harry thought bitterly.

“—but I believe she expects more, my Lord. I fear for her.”

“Exactly what is it you fear, Narcissa? That I will hurt her feelings? Torture her for her ambition? Or perhaps you worry that I might reciprocate.”

“Any of those things. All of them,” she said cautiously. “I understand, my Lord, how rude I am being. And I beg you to believe that these concerns are strictly relegated to family matters—my support of you and your politics is unwavering.”

Voldemort hummed, unconvinced.

“And I thank you,” she continued, “for your restraint so far, and in letting me speak candidly. But yes—I worry for her. Her behaviour tonight—”

“Enough. I have already spoken with Bella regarding her behaviour this evening. You need not concern yourself in this matter. And as for your worry that you might have one as loathsome as I for a brother-in-law—”

“No, my Lord! That is not—”

“I promise you, my dear,” he said, his lips curling, “I will never sully your family in such a manner. Not for her sake, however, and most certainly not for yours. I simply have no interest in such commitments, even as loose as they so often prove to be. I will, though, continue to take what is on offer for so long as it pleases me. And as far as your sister is concerned, her behaviour is a familial responsibility. Not mine. Be sure not to raise this matter with me again. For next time, I just might take offense. And I am quite sure that is not the outcome you desire.”

Lord Voldemort stood. “I am done here. Good night, Lady Malfoy. Again, thank you for your work today. Keep these miscreants in place for the remainder of the night; I will free them come morning.” He gestured to his men tied to the maypoles. He ignored Mrs Malfoy’s curtsy. “Bedtime, Harry. Up.”

He levitated Nagini off Harry’s lap, and quickly headed back to the manor entrance. Harry followed more slowly than he knew was safe, given his Master’s mood. His right foot had fallen asleep, though, and he stumbled as he tried to match his Master’s quick pace. He hopped carefully in place for a moment, to ease the prickle in his wakening limb.

Voldemort was paused at the door, waiting for him. Nagini was still hovering in mid-air. “I’m so pleased you’ve decided to join us.”

Harry was getting a migraine. He thought to excuse his delay. It hadn’t been his fault—Voldemort hadn’t given him enough time—but this wasn’t about him, he knew. Best not to draw further attention to himself.

They didn’t talk as the Dark Lord stalked through the manor, Horcruxes in tow. His step was heavy, and had he worn shoes they would have echoed off the polished marble. Harry, having to rush, stepped lightly, quickly to keep up, his sad tap-tapping waking the portraits on the wall. He ignored their snobbish glares and hurried along.

The heavy doors leading to the Dark Lord’s wing flung open as they approached. The first door along the corridor led to Harry’s suite of rooms, but Voldemort didn’t stop there. Harry hesitated. What was he supposed to do? Enter his rooms alone, without his sister? He didn’t think he could bear such a desertion after Vernon’s ugly words.

“To me, Horcrux.”

Voldemort was waiting for Harry outside the third door.

He recalled his question to Nagini, so long ago: ‘Do you know who uses the rooms on the other side of Master’s new study?’

Harry’s breath hitched, but he obeyed, slinking towards the entrance to his Master’s chambers.

He was pushed inside.

Chapter Text

Voldemort went straight to a polished cupboard, which was well stocked with spirits and liquors. He poured himself a finger of an amber drink and downed it, then poured another. Idly swirling the drink in his hand, he asked, “Have you ever had Scotch?”

“I’ve had Firewhisky,” said Harry.

“Then, no, you haven’t. This burns in an altogether different way.” He poured Harry a bottom-full and handed him the tumbler. “I’ve always preferred this—Slughorn’s fault, him and his damned parties. Don’t tell my men.”

“I won’t,” Harry promised, pleased that he’d been trusted with such a secret. A small thing, yes, but his alone. He would keep it safe for his Master.

Voldemort strode to an armchair facing the fireplace, which roared to life as he sat, and lowered Nagini onto the plush carpet at his feet. He ignored everything after that but the dancing flames.

Harry took the opportunity to study his Master’s room. He’d thought about it often these past weeks, knowing it was just down the hall. He’d not wanted to ask Nagini about it; she liked to tease him for any such interest, he’d learned. But he would imagine what these rooms were like. In truth, he now saw, they were very like his own. More opulent, certainly—everything was fancier, shinier: silk and satin, gold and mahogany. Everything was larger, too, though not overwhelmingly so. But the layout was much the same. There was the desk by the window. There was the door leading to a washroom. And there was the tapestry leading straight through to Harry’s room. Well, nearly straight through. A glorified walk-in-closet-turned-study wasn’t much of a barrier.

Harry tried a sip of his Scotch and immediately regretted it. He remembered Vernon praising an aged bottle of Glenlivet he’d bought to butter up his boss at Grunnings--‘Smoothest there is, this one. I’ll be a shoo in for the promotion.’ But this was vile and astringent. Harry almost spat it back into the glass.

There was an amused snort from near the fireplace.  “It’s an acquired taste, I admit. I’ve learned to roll it under my tongue and let it seep down to my throat. That way, the bite misses the offending receptors on the tongue,” the Dark Lord lectured.

Harry’s chest warmed, and not from the whiskey. He wasn’t being ignored. He set his tumbler on a side table, deciding that he’d test his Master’s technique some other time.

“Come closer,” his Master said to him. “Remove your robes and shirt.”

Harry’s breath caught. But he had to obey, especially with Voldemort in so volatile a mood. He came to stand before his Master, with his back to the crackling heat. His fingers, shaking, reached up to unfasten the top button of his robes.

Whore. His uncle’s words slammed into his mind.

“Master?” he asked. His voice was shaking.

No answer. His Master wasn’t even looking at him, his gaze still locked on the fire, as though he hadn’t watched enough burn that night. Harry worked at his task, slowly, then neatly folded his clothing and left it upon the hearth. He licked his lips and forced himself to not cover his chest with crossed arms.

“Closer,” his Master said, until Harry was right next to his chair. With the lightest of touches, he guided Harry into a kneel. The tickling of nails scratched across his torso, tracing the runes carved there. “These have scarred well. I should have checked them earlier. I have been remiss in my attention to such matters, my Horcrux.”

“I’m fine,” was Harry’s ingrained response.

“Of course,” the Dark Lord agreed. “I’ve rifled through your memories. I have given you greater care than you’ve received since my soul joined with yours.”

Harry nodded. It was the truth.

Voldemort’s nails skimmed up his chest, to his neck, across his cheek. They ended up in his hair, plunging into his soft, messy locks. “Who do you belong to, Harry,” he whispered.

Harry swallowed. “To you.” His migraine was lifting, even as the Dark Lord’s fingers in his hair gentled and the warmth of the Scotch bled through their connection. “Master? Do you really think you shouldn’t have Marked me?”

“Hmmm?” Voldemort took another sip, his eyes glued to the fire. “What are you talking about?”

“You said earlier that maybe you shouldn’t have Marked me,” reminded Harry. 

Voldemort sighed. His hand trailed down Harry’s face to lift his chin. “I said that Marking you had gone to your head. But here, with you kneeling so prettily next to me, I realize I was mistaken. You do seem to know your place, darling.”

At your feet, Harry thought, blushing.

Whore.

He had his shirt off, even now. Was nearly nude. His Mark was a black stain, marring the milky whiteness of his body. He ran his fingers across the brand, tracing the coils of the snake, avoiding the skull and its promise of death. The serpent’s model was close by, just out of reach. He stroked her likeness sketched on his forearm.

“Whose skull was it?” he wondered aloud.

“No one’s,” was the soft reply. “Maybe everyone’s.”

So long as it wasn’t his own, Harry decided. He’d traded too much for his life already.

Again, his Uncle’s vicious words ran heavy through his mind.

After a long silence, when Harry was almost too exhausted to remain upright, his Master said, “I was right about your uncle. You couldn’t have managed more than you did.”

Harry nodded. He couldn’t talk, all his thoughts drowned out by Vernon’s last insult. He looked up at his Master, up at what his cowardice had bought. His Master’s eyes gleamed down at him. He knew Harry’s every treacherous thought, whether they lingered on shame or (more frequently) self-satisfaction. And wasn’t he most guilty of that, now? The ease of his new life had blanketed him. And he was okay with that. Was starting to relish it, even. Even wandless as he was, his current life was cocooned in its own special magic.

“I’m pleased you think so, Harry,” was the quiet reply to these idle thoughts. “If you give me a moment, I will fetch a new book for you. Some poetry, I think.”

He stood, drawing Harry up with him. Harry followed him to the tapestry, but before they could go through, his Master placed a thoughtful finger to his mouth. “I still haven’t keyed you into these wards.” He sucked his teeth, then guided Harry the few feet to the bed. “I will return momentarily. You may sit here whilst you wait—you look tired enough to fall asleep standing.”

Harry sat. He murmured, “Thank you, Master.”

True to his word, the Dark Lord soon returned. He sat next to him on the coverlet and lay the gift on Harry’s lap. “I believe you will enjoy this.”

Harry glanced at the title. Goblin Market and Other Poems. He couldn’t imagine what would be particularly interesting about goblins. They’d always come across as the harshest of creatures, all teeth and snarl. The cover illustration was pretty, if not confusing given the subject matter. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll try it, but I haven’t finished the last book you gave to me.”

“It is merely a gift, my dear. I like giving you things.”

Then taking them away, Harry thought, remembering his last present. What was Hermione doing now?

“You are fortunate, Horcrux, that I don’t punish you for your thoughts,” the Dark Lord warned. He raised his hand to squeeze the base of Harry’s neck.

There was a knock on the door. Harry made to move, to get off the bed, to curl up next to Nagini, to rush home through the unwelcoming tapestry—

“Enter,” his Master called, holding Harry’s neck more tightly.

The door opened slowly, and Bellatrix stole in clutching her stalk of orpine. She was still wearing the pretty green dress from before, but her hair was now loose and the flowers that had been woven into her braids were beginning to fall out. She was barefoot, walking on tiptoe. Her eyes were coyly cast down as she skimmed over to the bed. She looked up confusedly when she saw there were two pairs of legs hanging off of it.

“Is there something I can help you with, Bella?” Voldemort asked. He moved the hand not already squeezing Harry’s neck to the book on his lap, pressing down to keep his frightened Horcrux from darting away.

 “I…I had thought you may be in need of company, Master.” She eyed the book, then reddened.

Voldemort’s fingers wandered to caress the title and the image of the girls printed on the cover. “Harry is already providing all the company I require.”

The hand at Harry’s neck dropped lower, tracing down his naked spine. Harry shivered, nearly pulling away from the rousing shockwave that washed through him, but his Master’s grip moved to his waist and he was drawn closer to the Dark Lord instead. “If you are lonely, my dear, I suggest visiting our newest mother-to-be. How is she faring?”

Bellatrix pulled her gaze from the book on Harry’s lap. Even shielded so, he hadn’t appreciated her scrutiny of his lap. She said, “She’s been sicking up much of her food. She has lost weight, my Lord, even though she is with child. I had thought she meant to find an easy exit by starving herself to death, but my sister says her nausea and an initial drop in weight is not unheard of.”

“I trust Narcissa in this matter,” said Voldemort. “And our resident toad is large enough to survive a bout or two of morning-sickness, though do not allow her to become anaemic. I want her to survive as long as possible. We don’t want her dying of malnutrition before her baby grows large enough to rip through her womb.”

Bellatrix nodded in agreement with this last fiendish sentiment. “My sister thinks a diversion would be of benefit, my Lord. She believes it will stimulate her appetite and alleviate her depression.”

“Then find something for her to do,” Voldemort told her. “So long as it does not decrease the horror of her situation, I think it a good plan.”

“What about knitting?” Harry suggested, forgetting himself. He immediately wished he’d held his tongue. But it was too late; he now had their full attention. At Bellatrix’s curious expression, he said, “Have her learn to knit, then she can make something for her baby.”

“She’s not going to actually survive childbirth,” his Master reminded him. “She will inevitably miscarry, and both mother and child will be lost.”

“Ripped to pieces,” Bellatrix almost sang.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I know. But that makes it even better. Futile. Like writing lines in detention,” he explained. “You know, Snape used to burn the lines he had us write, to drive home the point that we were just wasting our time.”

“So make her knit something for her baby, then burn it!” Bellatrix exclaimed, her eyes bright.

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Have her knit something for a baby who will never be born, the one that is her death sentence. As a bonus, she might find the act of knitting soothing, which will help her pregnancy along.”

“A very good suggestion,” his Master said, making Harry smile at the praise. “But who will teach her? None of my followers will know this skill.”

Harry thought for a moment. Mrs Weasley, knitter of many a sweater, was dead. Then it came to him, and it was perfect!

“Hermione,” he said, grinning. “She learned to knit back in school. And forcing the creator of the Muggle-born Registration Commission to take orders from her would be an extra slap in the face.”

Bellatrix started cackling, delighted by the irony. “If the Mudblood bitch needs to live, I think this a perfect use for her.”

Harry rolled his eyes but kept his temper and let the slight go. He was getting more and more used to pure-blood bigotry, after all. He had to.

“I agree,” Voldemort said. “Tell Narcissa; I believe she had been keeping Ms Granger in the kitchens. Give her this new task, and provide her with the needed paraphernalia: wool, needles, and other necessary tools. Make certain the needles are charmed to not penetrate skin—I don’t want anyone impaled. And move Umbridge somewhere more comfortable.”

“Someplace pink,” Harry offered, picturing the witch’s garish office. “And put decorative kitten plates on the wall.”

Voldemort looked fairly disgusted, but said, “If that will help her to relax. In addition, provide her with texts on pregnancy and infant care, and perhaps some novels featuring happy mothers-to-be. I want her, for a time, to forget her fate. Then, as she begins to fall asleep each night, caressing her belly and thinking fondly of her unborn child, I want the horror to come upon her. To remember, in the dark, that a monster is slowly growing inside her.”

Both Harry and Bellatrix’s mouth had fallen open in wonder at their Master’s words. Yes, this was a man who no one should dare cross. Forget the Cruciatus. The green light of the Killing Curse was immediate, and (probably) painless. Voldemort’s cruel genius lay here, though, in the sadism of kindnesses offered, then yanked away. Yet there was no real deceit here. Umbridge had been told, in lurid detail, what awaited her. The real torture was in allowing her to forget it for a time.

Harry shook himself, then found his voice. “How far along is she?”

Bellatrix was the one who answered: “Three weeks.” Then, proudly, she added, “Cissy taught me fertilization detection charms, and I used the toad as my puffskein and was the one who realized that the giant seed took. She hasn’t even missed her menses yet.” As if Harry wanted to know that, about Umbridge or any woman.

“Puffskein?” he asked, bewildered.

“They are typically used in magical experiments. The wizarding equivalent to the guinea pig,” Voldemort explained. Then, addressing Bellatrix, “As interested as I am in the status of Umbridge’s gestation, I am more interested in why you were attempting to master a fertilization detection charm in the first place.”

Bellatrix smirked. “Is it not a spell all witches should be familiar with, my Lord?”

“I suppose,” Voldemort said with narrowed eyes.

Bellatrix’s gaze moved again to Harry. “When is your pet leaving?”

Harry scowled at her, but bit down a snicker when his Master deliberately misunderstood his lieutenant. “I will be keeping Nagini with me this evening, as I have missed her these last weeks. Harry will need to stay to keep her company, as they have become inseparable.”

“Oh.” She licked her lower lip, then tried, “Would you like to share in a nightcap?”

“Not tonight. Perhaps another time.”

“Another time,” she echoed. She looked up into the Dark Lord’s eyes. Whatever she saw there made her sigh, and she backed towards the door. “If you change your mind…”

“I know where your quarters are,” Voldemort said. “Good night.”

She left as quietly as she came, leaving behind only the faint scent of her perfume and her disappointment.

Voldemort’s lifted the book off Harry’s lap as his other hand traced up to the middle of Harry’s back, the nails scratching a bit too hard. Then, with no warning, he pushed Harry off the bed. “Do you require a pillow? A blanket?” he asked. “Or will the fire and Nagini suffice?” He pulled an emerald night robe from off the headboard and was already striding to the washroom.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, wondering if he would get a chance to brush his teeth. Such mundane thoughts were all he could process right now, with the prospect of sleeping in his Master’s bedroom, even if it was on the floor.

Voldemort didn’t say another word to him, not then, and not after the lights were spelled out. The fire slowly died until it was banked. Nagini loosened her coils enough for Harry to slide next to her. He was overtired, overexcited, and overthinking everything, and it seemed impossible that sleep would ever come for him that night. He pressed an ear against his sister, the rise and fall of her breathing familiar, and tried to pretend he was in his own room and that the soft rustle of fabric nearby were his own curtains moving in the night breeze.

***

When he awoke, he was in his own bed. Nagini in front of his own fire. And he was fully dressed.

Chapter Text

The table by the fire was laden with fruit. Mounds of cherries and brilliantly red strawberries spilled off a platter and onto the table. Harry popped a grape into his mouth. Its thin skin burst, giving way to sweet juice with the slightest pressure of his tongue.

The book of poetry his Master had given to him was set beside a plate. A silk ribbon lay within and was wriggling about to get his attention: Open here! Read! Read!

The book was old, though not as old as the Darkling Childe. Not even close: 1862, the cover read. As with the other book, Harry could feel the soft pulse of a protection charm. Even then there was a faded stain of what looked like peach juice on the page he opened to. He picked up a ripe plum, then read:

 “Buy from us with a golden curl.”

She clipp’d a precious golden lock,

She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,

Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:

Sweeter than honey from the rock,

Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,

Clearer than water flow’d that juice;

She never tasted such before,

How should it cloy with length of use?

She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more

Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;

She suck’d until her lips were sore

Harry bit the fruit in his hand. It was sweet and tart all at once, and so juicy that it pooled out his mouth to drip down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and kept on reading and tasting the succulent plums, and then the peaches offered up next to a cluster of raspberries. He sucked their juices from his fingertips, finally sated. He thought of Laura, the girl in the poem, who became addicted to the goblin fruit and was left in a constant state of want and unfulfilled desire. Poor thing. But she should have known better than to trust a goblin.

A folded sheet of parchment had been tucked inside a teacup. His Master’s neat script told him to expect Draco after lunch. Nagini, the note explained, had complained that, now that the days were longer and warmer, she had been stuck inside long enough. She and Harry were to take daily walks around the manor grounds, escorted by the ‘young Malfoy heir.’

Harry muttered choice words to himself as he washed and got ready for the day. He had no proof, none at all, that Draco had anything to do with the nasty things his uncle had said.

Whore.

He had no proof that anyone had said anything of the sort. Vernon might have been lying to him, riling him up, getting in one last blow.

But the words had struck home. For his life, Harry had sold something far more precious than his virginity, and like a prostitute he had to be shameless about it. On top of that, his Master did not possess only Harry’s loyalty. He owned all of him: body and soul. Considering the gifts of poetry and fruit, combined with Harry’s own admission of love (as silent as it had been), surely Voldemort would not leave his human Horcrux alone for much longer. A time would come when he would demand more.

The fruit he’d gorged on sat heavily in his belly, and at once Harry wished he’d had but a slice of toast for breakfast. He wanted a cup of tea, the comfort of something familiar, but was now too full. Why couldn’t he have eaten more slowly? Why had he not more sense?

Was the poem about regret, he wondered. Was that his Master’s message? But Voldemort would not want to raise doubts in him. Not at all.

Perhaps it had been just a gift. A thoughtful gift for a foolish boy. He set his new book on his bedside table and looked forward to when he’d see Voldemort again and they could talk about the poem together.

***

Draco’s eyes were lined with his fatigue. He didn’t bother entering Harry’s room, but leaned against the corridor wall outside.

“How long did you and Snape look for those fern seeds?” Harry asked him. Judging from the other boy’s exhausted demeanor, their walk today would be a short one. Harry was fine with that. He’d been outside for long enough the day before and was ready for another month-long hibernation, safe in his rooms.

“A couple hours.” Draco stifled a yawn. He pushed open the door leading out of the wing and said, “But then he made me sort them all and lay them out to dry. After that he needed help with everything he’d harvested yesterday at dawn. We were at it for hours, tying up herbs and hanging them up. You know how finicky he gets. Everything had to be done just right.”

Harry nodded. He easily remembered Snape’s severe exactness. He, himself, had never been able to meet Severus Snape’s demanded perfection. Hell, he’d stopped trying after realizing he’d be marked down regardless, just because he was his father’s son.

“So, he had me do it one way, then checked his notes. Then he made me take everything down, untie every fucking thing, then hang it all up again,” Draco finished, sighing.

“Huh.” Harry remembered his own confusing night and wondered who’d gotten the better deal. He quickly decided that anything was better than spending that much time with the greasy Potions Master. And bonus: he’d gotten to watch his Master reject Bellatrix. Remembering how her hopeful expression slowly slid from her face made him feel light again.

“What are you so pleased about,” Draco grumbled, nearly tripping over Nagini. She was excited at getting back outside so she didn’t notice and undulated her massive body quickly down the corridor.

“Just remembering something from last night,” he said.  A smile played at his lips.

“Glad someone enjoyed himself.” Draco’s scowl belied his words. “Forget Snape. I ran into my aunt this morning before coming to get you. Considering she won that stupid contest, you’d think she’d be happier.”

“You’d think,” Harry agreed.

They were coming down the grand staircase and Draco waved his hand in a wide arc, gesturing. “Look at this mess.”

There were scorch marks on the wall, and a mirror which hung near the door was destroyed, the silvered glass a mass of spiderweb cracks and the gold frame melted at the base. They came closer and Draco glared at his broken image with disgust. “One angry curse, and a priceless antique completely destroyed. I wish my mother’s parents had disowned her too.”

“What made her so upset,” Harry asked, trying not to smile or betray that he already knew the reasons behind Bellatrix’s latest distress.

“She went out to get my uncle’s head off its spike, but both it and the body were missing.” Draco reached forward to trace a crack in the glass, then swore and sucked a drop of blood from his finger.

“What did she want with his head?” Harry asked as Draco muttered a hasty Episkey.

“The fuck I know,” Draco said. He beckoned for Harry to follow him and Nagini outside. “Some Dark magic thing, no doubt.”

Knowing Bellatrix and the general Black family aesthetic, Harry thought she had probably hoped to mount it on the wall. The image of the horrid elf heads at Grimmauld Place assaulted his mind, and Harry was suddenly glad that his Master had chosen Malfoy Manor for his base. The décor may be outlandish and opulent to the point of gaudiness, but he would take sneering portraits and well-polished furniture over the gothic, mouldering halls of a Black estate any day.

The Death Eaters who had been tied up overnight had been released. The maypoles, their tall bodies still festooned in silk ribbon, stood lonely guard over the empty Wicker Man. It loomed hungrily over the lawn, as if hoping to gobble up anyone who dared approach. By some unspoken agreement, Harry and Draco walked in the other direction.

“Want to go flying?” Harry asked, remembering the Quidditch Pitch he could see from his bedroom window.

Draco yawned. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

They followed Nagini, who was wandering towards the standing stones. They watched her slink in and around them, her tongue darting in and out, tasting for her choice bed. If she just wanted to sleep, Harry thought, they could have stayed inside. He and Draco wandered the edges of the circle, then down a pea gravel path which led to a small garden.

Draco flopped onto the first bench he saw. He closed his eyes for a minute, and Harry thought he’d fallen asleep. But then Draco said, “I’m glad he’s dead.”

Harry almost didn’t want to disappoint him; it looked as if he’d topple under the weight of the smallest disappointment. But he’d find out soon enough. “The Dark Lord has planned to bring him back.”

Draco’s head snapped up, all tiredness gone from his eyes. “He did?” And then, with a hint of concern he asked, “Are you okay with that?”

Harry shrugged. “I guess. It’s not like it matters to me.”

Draco stared  at him incredulously. “It sure didn’t look like that yesterday. I was watching you.”

Harry shifted on his seat and wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself. “Well, don’t.”

“Your eyes were red. He didn’t say anything to you, did he? He’s not worth getting upset over.” He shook his head then looked back towards the empty maypoles.

“Why would I be upset about it? He’s your uncle, after all. Or was. Ex-uncle.”

“My…? I was talking about your uncle, Potter. The Muggle.” He glared more fiercely at the maypoles. “Well, it’s no wonder Aunt Bella was so miffed. But why would he bring Rodolphus back? What was the point in killing him at all?”

“Honestly, I think it was for show,” Harry said. “To prove he could. No one, other than me and Hermione, saw Snape die. Maybe he thought his followers didn’t believe it. It’s hard to argue with a head that has been reattached and is speaking again.”

Draco nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. But Rodolphus wasn’t the one who upset you. What did your uncle say to you up there?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, his voice flat. Then, because it had worked all his life: “I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”

Draco ground his teeth but looked more frustrated than angry. He unclenched his jaw, took a breath, then repeated, “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’ll never say it again.” A tremor ran through his shoulders and down his spine.

Whore.

Why did the words even affect him so much? He had always had his uncle’s disdain; this was nothing new. In a way, being thought a whore could be considered a step-up in Vernon’s estimation. A whore had value, after all. Before that, Harry had been nothing but a worthless freak.

Freak. Whore. Freak. Whore.

“He doesn’t have to, when you’re saying it for him,” Draco snarled. “What did he say?”

Freak. Whore. The more he thought them, the less meaningful they seemed.

Whore.

“Only something he was told,” Harry said. He looked Draco in the eye. “Perhaps you’ve already heard.”

Perhaps you started the rumor, he nearly accused.

“Heard what?” Draco said. He shifted away. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Like what, Malfoy?”

“The same way the Dark Lord looks sometimes,” Draco told him. He backed up further on the bench.

Harry’s smile was vicious and false. “Am I? We’ve gotten pretty close, he and I.” He raised his eyebrows in challenge. “Perhaps he’s rubbing off on me.”

“Perhaps,” Draco said sadly. “It’s not like you see anyone other than him.”

He hadn’t caught it. Draco hadn’t noticed his (admittedly feeble) quip. If he’d been the one to feed the slander—whore whore whore—to Vernon, surely he’d have pounced on Harry’s wordplay. Was it not a wizarding euphemism? Or perhaps Draco was innocent and had never said anything to Vernon.

Was Draco really trying to be kind? Was he trying to be a friend?

It would seem so. Perhaps Draco was extending his hand again, willing to forget Harry’s snub on the train seven years ago and the years of animosity that followed. They weren’t kids anymore. They weren’t rivals anymore, either. They’d grown up, brutally, the both of them.

“I see Nagini,” Harry said, his voice warming. “And I’m seeing you now.”

Draco nodded. “I’m glad you get to go outside more.”

Harry shrugged. This was all right, he guessed. And now that he was fairly sure that Draco hadn’t been the one to give such ammunition to his uncle, Harry realized he wouldn’t mind spending more time with the other boy.

“And tomorrow we’ll go to the pitch and play one-on-one. A Seeker’s match,” Draco said, returning the smile Harry flashed him.

***

Voldemort forbade Quidditch.

“What were you thinking?” he roared after he’d caught Harry on a broomstick.

Harry shuffled forward, dirtying his knees. Draco quivered beside him once the Dark Lord released his sustained Crucio.

Harry lowered himself even more to press his throbbing forehead to his Master’s feet in supplication. “Please forgive—”

A wave of Voldemort’s wand and Harry was thrashing, too. The curse ended swiftly, but then Voldemort reached down to pull Harry up by the hair. “If you enjoy falling from heights, my dear, I can arrange a tumble off the Astronomy Tower.”

“I wasn’t falling, Master,” was the wrong response. Swinging by his hair while every nerve blazed with fire was something he never wanted to happen again, though, so when his Master lifted the curse he started babbling: “Never again, never again, I promise, Master. I promise.”

Voldemort threw him back into the mud. “Never again,” he agreed.

Draco was curled around his stomach. He was breathing quick shallow breaths. His mouth was bleeding, and he was still shaking. How long had he been under the torture curse? It had seemed a long time.

Harry looked up to his Master, then tentatively stood. His Master watched his careful movements. Anger still flared in his scarlet eyes, but it was muted, and he’d tucked his wand away.

Harry knew that his Master would never toss him from the Astronomy Tower. A month ago, he had feared a dark imprisonment; for a moment, that same terror had clutched his heart. But in his soul—the same soul he shared with the man before him—he knew that his Master’s threat was an idle one. It was the sort of terrified bluff a parent might snarl at their child who’d followed a ball into the street. False words, spoken in fear. The warmth that suffused Harry when he realized this pushed out every lingering Crucio-induced tremor.

Draco wasn’t getting up.

“Give me your arm,” the Dark Lord ordered brusquely.

Harry pulled up his sleeve and held his arm up to his Master. With one hand, he caught Harry’s wrist and pulled him closer. With his other hand, he pushed a sharp nail into the Mark, breaking the skin. Harry’s entire arm throbbed as Dark magic pulsed through it, though the pain paled in comparison to that meted out minutes before.

Narcissa answered the call. Her eyes went wide and she rushed over when she saw her son lying nearly lifeless at the Dark Lord’s feet.

“Your son requires your attention,” Voldemort told her dispassionately. His eyes were cold but no longer cruel. There was nothing in them to suggest that he’d had anything to do with Draco’s plight.

Narcissa sank to the ground and cradled Draco’s head in her lap. She traced trembling fingers over his forehead, smoothing out the tense lines of pain that had formed there.

“Is he going to be okay?” Harry asked her.

Narcissa started, then looked up at him. “Yes,” she said. “I think so.” And then she was all business, calling house-elves to bring draughts and poultices and blankets. She examined Draco’s mouth. “He’s bitten his tongue, but it’ll be okay. He’ll be fine.” And she kept repeating this last phrase, quietly to herself, even as Voldemort pulled Harry away, his strong fingers still pinched round his wrist.

They didn’t talk as they strode down the path leading to the cluster of standing stones. Nagini was, as expected, sunning herself in a coiled heap. Harry’s stomach lurched as he was suddenly lifted by his Master’s magic up onto the tallest stone, which stood at about eight feet. He wasn’t high up, not really, but standing on the small surface put his head at over thirteen feet from the ground. He eyed Voldemort warily, before cautiously lowering to sit.

The Dark Lord uttered something under his breath and the air shimmered around Harry. “I know it’s not as high up as you would like, my dear Gryffindor, but this will suffice until night falls.” He smirked and walked away without a backwards glance.

Harry was too startled to call out after him. He wasn’t even sure what had happened—had his Master just stuck him up here? As some sort of punishment? It was a pretty weak one, if that was the case. He wasn’t high up at all. If he shimmied onto his stomach, he could get himself low enough to safely jump down.

It turned out, though, that he couldn’t. Whatever Voldemort had done to the air around him had  effectively sealed off his escape. He was stuck up here.

Harry shrugged. It wasn’t so bad, he told himself. Better than what Malfoy had gotten. His throat tightened a little; he’d been the one to suggest they go flying. He should have known better. He should have guessed that Voldemort would react in such a way. Again someone else suffered because of his poor choices, and now Harry was stuck here, helpless.

Just for the afternoon, he reminded himself. And Narcissa had said that Draco would be okay. Harry would just be more careful from now on, and everything would be fine.

The rock seemed to get harder as each minute passed. He and Draco had headed to the broom-shed right after lunch, and they hadn’t been flying for long before the Dark Lord had seen them and put a stop to their fun. It was still early summer, and the sun wouldn’t set for a long while. Six or seven hours, Harry guessed unhappily.

After an hour, he began wriggling in discomfort. How could Nagini lay on her hard rock for hours on end? He supposed her long coils gave her a greater surface area, the bulk of her weight spread down her length. And she also was coiled in and around herself. She could shift, and a new part of her would be pressed against stone, the majority piled up using her own body as a cushion. All Harry’s weight was settled on his arse.

He tried to stand, hoping for a respite from the worsening ache, but he got dizzy at once. Closing his eyes to block out the height only made it worse. Knowing that a barrier would prevent his fall didn’t help at all, though it made it a little less terrifying to lower himself to his knees.

There wasn’t enough room to relax into sleep. All he could do was keep watch over the desolate landscape. Not a soul ventured this way, though if Voldemort’s followers were aware that the standing stones were Nagini’s favourite haunt, that was hardly surprising. Harry supposed his loneliness was a blessing; at least no one came to laugh at his plight.

He tried, a few times, to wake his sister. She slithered a bit after he called to her, and for a moment he’d thought he’d succeeded; her eyes were open, as they always were, and she called out to him. But she was hissing in her dreams, he soon realized. He couldn’t hiss loud enough to wake her, and it was making him thirsty to try.

She finally woke up as the sky began to darken and she got cold. She slithered to the ground and circled around and around his own stone. Watching her made Harry giddy.

“Brother,” she hissed. “Nagini had the best dream.”

“I don’t care,” he told her.

She stuck her tongue in and out, as if to scent the reason behind his sulky tone. “Why did brother climb up there?”

“I didn’t,” he grumbled before falling silent, refusing to say more to her. His loneliness had settled in too deeply.

Voldemort didn’t seem to notice his sullenness when he came to retrieve them. He conjured a rabbit for Nagini to chase, dismantled whatever wards had kept Harry in place all day, then told him to get down.

Sitting in such a confined space for hours on end had exhausted Harry, and his movements were clumsy. His ankle rolled badly as he landed, and he fell to his knees. His Master didn’t even wait for Harry to bend to kiss his feet, but swiftly followed Nagini into the gloom.

Harry stared at Voldemort’s retreating back for a moment before hobbling after him. The Dark Lord never got too far away, no matter how hastily he seemed to cross the Malfoy lawns. Harry even stopped for a moment, had to stop—his foot was throbbing—and his Master didn’t wait for him. But even as Voldemort seemed to retreat into the darkness ahead…he somehow didn’t.

Harry hurried after him as best he could. With Nagini on his shoulders, Voldemort finally stopped at the steps leading up to the manor’s grand entrance. He narrowed his eyes at Harry, who was steeling himself for the worst of the journey. Why did Malfoy Manor have so many effing steps?

He fell on the first one, hissing in an equal mix of humiliation and pain.

“And that was but a short fall,” Voldemort commented. “Imagine if you’d been higher up. Picture the Malfoy house-elves scraping your brains from the lawn. All your sacrifices in vain, for one fleeting enjoyment.”

Harry paled at the imagery. After so many mishaps and near-misses during his Quidditch years, he knew that his Master wasn’t exaggerating. One wrong move, one reckless error, and he’d be dead. A Horcrux was destroyed along with its vessel; he’d be worse than useless without his Master’s soul piece. Perhaps his Master would bring him back just to feed him to his former sister…

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” Voldemort said, rolling his eyes. He came closer and held out a hand. Harry grasped his fingers and was Apparated back to his bedroom. “I suggest you get some sleep, darling. You have another big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

***

Harry’s foot was swollen when he woke up. It wouldn’t take his weight at all. He called for his house-elf, but it refused to fetch him a healing potion or even a cane. Harry had to stop the poor thing from ramming its head against the bedpost in penance.

“It’s all right, Flippy. And you are right to obey Master’s orders over mine.” He managed to calm it down by asking for a more generous breakfast than normal, which was waiting for him once he’d crawled back from the washroom.

The pain worsened as the morning went on. This had never happened at the Dursleys, and Harry had definitely been hurt just as badly there, if not worse. He usually tried not to dwell upon his time at Privet Drive, but now he remembered his uncle giving a particularly harsh blow to his shoulder one evening when he’d not been quick enough getting to his cupboard. With half of his left arm throbbing in pain, he’d had trouble finding sleep on his thin cot. But come morning, the soreness and swelling were gone and his arm as good as new.

What was different now? The pain had most definitely not gone away overnight. It seemed to be worsening, in fact. He wasn’t sure what to do; the house-elf had been no help and Nagini was unsympathetic. Then again, she only appreciated feet when she was playful and hoping her prey would run before she could strike them down.

He tried to read to distract himself, but it didn’t help at all. In the end, he crawled back to the bathroom and filled the tub with icy water. His foot quickly numbed. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but he was desperate.

Voldemort sneered at him when he found him propped on the tub edge and his foot immersed in the frigid bathwater. “Why aren’t you dressed?” he demanded. He didn’t wait for his Horcrux to answer, but swiftly levitated Harry to the other room and dropped him on the bed. “Surely you don’t wish to venture outside in your nightclothes?”

Voldemort transfigured Harry’s soft black sleepwear into a scratchier version of his day robes. Nagini was already slithering up their Master’s body, and then Harry found himself side-Apparated back to the standing stone circle.

“Master, please don’t leave me here,” he begged as the Dark Lord deposited him back on the same stone as the day before.

But the Dark Lord was unmoved. “Narcissa tells me that Draco will need several more days rest before he can resume his duties. Until then, this is were you shall spend your afternoons. Both you and Nagini need the sun, and you are safe here. You cannot harm yourself, and Nagini will keep watch over you”

“She does not,” he argued, pouting. “She slept all yesterday afternoon on that stupid rock of hers. And besides, I’d be just as safe on the ground. It’s not like I can run off anywhere.”

For a moment, Voldemort’s sharp look softened. He drew his wand, and Harry’s heart soared, until he realized that his Master was only reconstructing the wards preventing him from jumping down—not that he’d have managed that with his ankle so swollen.

“Not only are you safe here, but there is another benefit to this arrangement. You see, I rather enjoy this—” The Dark Lord gestured at Harry and his stone prison with his wand,”—tableau. A Horcrux on a pedestal.”

Harry looked away, blinking back tears. “Your Horcrux is damaged,” he said. He wasn’t sure that he was strictly speaking of his ankle.

“It will be mended soon,” his Master told him. He strode closer. “Consider all this a natural punishment for displeasing me. You will think more carefully of your actions in the future.”

Harry gave a slight nod. He sighed, then said softly, “I don’t know why my foot still hurts. It’s just a stupid twisted ankle—it should have mended overnight.”

“I didn’t want it to,” Voldemort said. “Your magic is now directly bound to my will, or had you forgotten your pretty words at your Initiation? Well, darling, consider this a subtle reminder.”

He had forgotten, Harry realized. It had been easy. Without his wand he’d not thought much about his magic at all, except to miss the comforting presence of sleek holly in his palm. But now his Master had taken away the innate magic that would more quickly heal him.

“Can I have it back?” he asked desperately. Without his magic, was he even still a wizard?

“It’s not exactly gone, Harry. Think of your magic as on a choke-chain.”

Harry closed his eyes, tentatively searching for any hints of remaining magic. There. He could feel it, bound uselessly within himself. It felt thin, taut, and completely outside of his control.

At least it wasn’t gone.

“I would never take it from you.” Voldemort stepped back. His eyes never left Harry’s. “Not unless I wished you dead. A wizard cannot live if deprived of his magic. They can, however, suffer the loss of so many other things: comfort, freedom, sanity.”

A reminder, Harry told himself.

“I won’t displease you again,” he whispered.

Voldemort looked at him carefully. “I would be a poor Master if I held you to such a promise, darling,” he finally said. He shook his head. “I will retrieve you at sundown.”

Chapter Text

Four exhausting days later, Draco was ready to resume his duties in chaperoning him. Harry was more than done with being a living statue, and he vowed to himself to never warrant such a punishment again. He veered far from the stone circle, ignoring Nagini’s whine that she wanted her brother with her for yet another long day of basking.

He turned his face to the warm sun and smiled at the knowledge that he was once more, relatively, free. Free from punishment. Free from responsibility. Free to wander and explore and, above all, relax. So what if his ankle hadn’t completely healed, and that he still had to hobble along with a cane (graciously presented to him that very morning by his Master)?

“You look happy,” Draco said as they wandered along one of the manor’s many flowered avenues. He hadn’t complained at Harry’s slow progress; he was making slow progress of his own.

“It’s been a rough few days,” Harry said. But they were over. Over. He sighed in contentment. They had the whole day before them, and he wasn’t confined to a stupid rock for the next eight hours. Life was good.

Draco looked at him stonily. “You don’t say?”

Harry’s heart dropped a foot. He’d just decided that Malfoy wasn’t the biggest shit on the planet (after Bellatrix, of course), and wasn’t ready to lose the easy camaraderie they’d forged earlier in the week. “I’m so…” he faltered. “I’m…”

“Do you even know how much the Cruciatus hurts, Potter?”

Harry could only nod. Of course he knew.

“Mother told me that another minute and he’d have destroyed my mind. I’d be catatonic. As it is—” Draco lifted his hand. It was trembling, as if suffering an earthquake of its own. “I can’t stop shaking, and that’s after double doses of nerve-restorative tonic specifically brewed to counter the effects of the curse.”

Harry swallowed. “I think even he was surprised that he reacted so violently. I don’t think he meant to. He was just so angry.”

“When is he not?” Draco asked bitterly.

A lot of the time, Harry thought, thinking of the times his Master would visit with him and listen, amused, as Harry told him his thoughts on the books he was reading. How he’d patiently tell Harry about his day working for what he believed would make a better Magical world, for all wizards and witches.

Instead of that, Harry said, “I’m glad you’re okay.” At Draco’s incredulous expression, he added. “I can’t believe I missed you, but I did.”

Draco didn’t say anything for a while. They’d reached a bench looking out over a pond. “I can’t go through that again,” Draco said quietly. He sounded so vulnerable, so young. But worst of all, he sounded resigned.

Harry nodded. “We’ll just be careful. Take no unnecessary risks.”

“Circe, we’ll be so bored,” Draco said. He sighed. “But it beats dungeon duty, I suppose. Or going on raids.”

“Who do you still have in the dungeons,” Harry asked.

“Mostly just rebels you brought back from your mission,” Draco said. He scuffed his shoe in the dirt.

Harry gaped at him. “The rebels?”

He’d forgotten about them.

“Sure. The Weaslette, some Irish half-blood, a Mudblood—not sure why he’s still alive, to be honest. A whole pile of living statues, too:  Weasley; one of the Patil twins—the stupider one. Oh, and that kooky blonde Ravenclaw. My father keeps eyeing her up. It’s kind of creepy.”

Harry shuddered. “You don’t think he’d…?”

“I try not to think about it, Potter.”

That was fair, Harry decided. He’d do the same if it was his dad. At least Luna was petrified and couldn’t be harmed. Or would at least be unaware if she was.

Poor Narcissa, too. What did she do to get landed with such a scumbag? Though surprisingly, the couple seemed well-suited to each other most of the time. He supposed there was no accounting for tastes.

They fell into silence for a few minutes. A trio of Death Eaters wandered by, whispering amongst themselves. They paused when they came close, eyeing the boys with a mix of curiosity and  contempt. One of them cast Muffliato, and their conversation cut off at once.

“As if we care about the Ministry Dark-creature emigration amendments,” Draco scoffed. “It’s not exactly top-secret. It’s been in the work for weeks.”

“I don’t think they’re talking about that,” Harry said as he watched the Death Eaters walk away.

One of them kept looking back at the two boys, a vicious smirk plastered on his lips. Just before he disappeared around a hedge, he mouthed something at Harry.

It could have been anything. He could have been calling back a good-natured ‘cheerio.’ Judging from the silent laughter that shook the three men, though, it was nothing so friendly as that.

Besides, Harry knew exactly what the man had said. He’d been whispering it to himself for days. He could feel the shape of the words even now trespassing in his mouth. Such a simple word, barely a syllable really. 

“Do any of them work in the dungeons?” Harry asked. “Or had spent time with my uncle?”

Draco looked to where the men had last been, as if in doing so would conjure them back to examine. “Most likely,” he said. “Dungeon duty is drudge work, and gets pawned off a lot. There’s a lot of guard rotation. Why?”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t know why this was even bothering him still. He’d almost come to terms with what Vernon had said. So he surprised himself when he said to Draco, “My uncle said something to me on Midsummer. Something nastier than usual, that is.”

“Yes, I remember,” Draco said quietly. He’d asked Harry to talk about it almost a week ago, after all.

“I keep hearing it in my head, over and over. It’s not going away.”

Draco nodded attentively as Harry spoke. After a moment he said, “And you think one of them—” he gestured at the hedge—“heard him that night? And is now repeating it amongst the other Death Eaters?”

“No.” Harry ground his teeth. “Someone planted the word in my uncle’s mind. Someone’s spreading lies about me.”

Lies for now, an unhelpful voice reminded him.

Draco sighed. “That kind of character assassination amongst the Dark Lord’s troops is not unusual,” he told Harry. “But no other Death Eater is in a position akin to your own, nor with such a history with our Lord. Perhaps you should raise the issue with him. He might think it warrants investigation.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, knowing full well that he’d say nothing about this to his Master.

“What did your uncle say to you?”

Harry glanced over at Draco. The other boy looked genuinely concerned, so open and willing to listen to any of Harry’s problems, even when he was still suffering on account of him. Harry made a quick decision. “He called me a whore.”

Draco paled. “And you think one of the guards told him that?”

“I thought it was you,” Harry told him. “You’d said to me earlier that day that you’d seen him and Dudley. I thought you’d fed him those words.”

“Fuck, Harry, I swear I—”

“I know. It wasn’t you. Bellatrix, maybe—though I honestly think she’s too jealous of our Lord’s affection to say anything like that. No, she’d have come up with something else to slander me.”

“I think you’re right,” Draco said. He swallowed. “You really don’t think it was me?”

“It wasn’t you, was it?” Harry asked quickly, then snickered at Draco’s horrified expression. “No, I don’t think it was you. And Malfoy?”

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah?”

Harry grinned up at him. “Do you realize you just called me Harry?”

***

It was a turning point in their friendship. And wasn’t that strange? Being friends with Draco Malfoy? Their quiet carefulness around each other gave way to something more boisterous, more playful.

Even their shared horrors fell prey to their good humour. Harry supposed it was healthier than the alternative.

“Don’t those idiots know he’s banned you from broomsticks?” Draco said, laughing, as they passed a scornful group of Death Eaters in the corridor. His lewd gesture brought the innuendo to life, in case any of the other men were too stupid to figure it out for themselves.

Harry felt his face heat up. But he grinned and shot back, “They wouldn’t know a broomstick from their wands.”

“And from what I hear,” Draco said, trying to keep a straight face, “those are already on the shorter end. No matter how thick they may be, with tools like that at their disposal, their reach will always be way too short.”  

One of the Death Eaters glared at Draco. “Wait until I tell your father about this,” he spat before he stormed off.

Harry and Draco looked at each other for a moment before they both burst into fits of laughter. Draco wiped tears from his eyes. “I used to be such a little shit,” he gasped out when he finally found his voice again.

It was the second Saturday in July. The boys had been shut up for nearly a week due to rain. Nagini had sulked by the fire the first day Draco came by to pick them up to wander the manor, but eventually Harry’s pestering payed off and she followed along. So far Harry had been introduced to the conservatory, the formal dining room, and at least five beautifully appointed parlours. Harry didn’t understand why Narcissa needed such diversity in order to entertain pure-blood witches over tea and scones, but he’d complimented the rooms just the same.

Today Draco led him into the Malfoy library. The ceilings were high and rain-spattered windows stretched up the wall to let in the soft, diffuse light. A table, circled by low-backed chairs, was set in the centre of the room. Comfortable looking armchairs, replete with brass lamps, were scattered around the elegant space. Myriads of shelves, all of them brimming with handsome leather-bound books, filled the rest of the space.

Harry whistled. He wasn’t even particularly interested in reading and he still found the library intoxicating.

Draco grinned. “I think even the Dark Lord gets gooseflesh when he comes here.”

Harry nodded, though he wasn’t really listening. His thought had turned to his former best-friend. Hermione would have loved it in here. Her eyes would have lit up, her sharp mind cataloguing the books as she trailed a finger along their spines, restlessly pulling one out here and there to browse the contents. Such thoughts were absurd, though, for the Dark Lord would fall before a Muggle-born would be allowed to peruse the Malfoy library.

And the Dark Lord would never fall. Harry had made sure of that.

Draco must have noticed his conflicting thoughts. “You can borrow books if you’d like, Harry.”

Harry forced a smile. “That would be great. Thanks.”

“Or we could play chess. My father keeps a set somewhere around here.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “No.” At Draco’s concerned look, he added, “Ron played chess.” It felt explanation enough.

Draco stared at him for a moment. “I didn’t know that,” he said softly.

“He was really good at it,” Harry told him. He swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. Why was he even telling Draco this? Draco had hated Ron since they’d met. Given wizarding family feuds and the antipathy of Blood Purists to Blood Traitors, he’d likely hated him long before that first train ride to Hogwarts.

Memories of that day washed over him without leave. Dirt smudges and corned beef sandwiches. Chocolate Frog cards shared. Friendships forged.

And were those tears? Fuck—was he crying? Why now?

“What else was he good at,” Draco asked him.

“What?” Harry wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I think you need to talk about them,” said Draco gently. “So talk. Tell me about your friends. About Weasley. About Granger. Merlin’s balls, tell me all about Longbottom if you want. Just talk to me.”

He led Harry over to a pair of leather armchairs, and—thank fuck—there was Nagini coiled on one of them. Harry hissed at her to make room for him, and she shifted over and he petted her silky, soothing scales. She didn’t seem to care if his motions were harder, more frantic than usual. She hissed happily under his attention.

Once he’d calmed a bit, he tried to explain. “It was the books. I saw them…then I saw her. I saw Hermione wandering the stacks. Smiling. Happy. She’d have loved it here.”

“She does love it here,” Draco said. “She was granted library privileges over two weeks ago.”

Harry’s mouth fell open.

“So long as she is escorted and her selections censored. My father was rather displeased, but our Lord’s word is law.”

“The Dark Lord said she could use the library?” That was unexpected.

“He said it was your idea,” Draco said, confused. “That since she was adjusting well to her new status, she could be allowed a research position rather than work in the scullery.”

Harry’s mind flashed to that awkward afternoon following his mission to Hogwarts. He had suggested that Hermione might help them in their work. And what had his Master said?

 “I will, in time, give her a number of tasks to perform. Research tasks, if she is well-behaved and dedicated to the work.”

His Master had kept his word to a promise that Harry had forgotten all about.

Harry hadn’t even noticed Draco calling a house-elf, but suddenly a teacup was put in his hands. “Watch the snake,” Draco cautioned as he retreated into his own chair. “Don’t spill any on her.”

“Thanks.” He leaned over the armrest, away from his sister, and took a few sips before placing the cup on an end table.

“Granger comes in around now most days. I’d thought you’d like to see her. But if you’d rather not…”

“I would,” Harry said. “No, I would. Very much. But I’m not so sure she’d like to see me.”

“We can leave if it gets awkward,” said Draco with a careless shrug. “Or make her leave. After all, it is my library.”

It wasn’t a terrible plan. He had to see her sometime. And without his Master there, perhaps Harry would actually get a chance to say something to her. He said, “Let me make the call for us—or her—to go. And is there any way I can talk to her alone?”

Draco shook his head quickly. “Not a chance, Harry. She might not have a wand, but neither do you. I won’t have you defenseless against someone who might want you dead.”

Harry scoffed. “She doesn’t want—”

“You don’t know that. You helped bring about the utter ruin of the Light side. You pretty much doomed England’s Muggles and Mudbloods. Muggles like her parents. Mudbloods like her.”

“Her parents aren’t even in the country.”

“You’re deliberately missing the point.” Draco breathed deeply, then tried again. “Look, I know that you and Granger were close.” All at once he looked disturbed. He grimaced and asked, “You weren’t…um…together, were you?”

Harry shook his head. “She and Ron were, though.”

Draco nodded, satisfied. “So, think about it. You condemned her to slavery. Pretty much had her boyfriend killed. She has ample motive for wanting revenge. And as much as I hate to admit it, she’s smart enough and resourceful enough to find a way to act on that.”

Harry started to say something, but Draco held his hand up. “No, Harry, let me finish.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m just trying to warn you; she might not be the friendly face you’re hoping for. And I don’t trust her. You can talk to her, fine, but I’m not leaving. And don’t forget that she’ll have her own escort.”

Harry had forgotten. “Can’t you both slink behind a shelf or something and watch us discretely? Be all ‘Slytherin-y’?”

“Slytherin-y? What does that even mean?”

“It means sneaky, and you know it,” said Harry. A smile re-emerged at his lips and Nagini urged him to begin stroking her again—as he’d calmed, he’d slowed his ministrations to a near stop.

Draco laughed. “If I remember right, it was you who sneaked all around Hogwarts in your invisibility cloak, Captain Gryffindor.”

“Your father’s invisibility cloak,” came a pinched voice from about ten feet away. Hermione had just come in, trailed by some nameless Death Eater. She looked emotionless, as if seeing Harry meant nothing to her. “Dumbledore trusted you with that. If he’d known what you’d end up doing, he’d have never given it to you in the first place.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t think of how to reply. He felt both wronged by her accusation and rightfully chastened, all at once.

Fortunately, Draco had a ready response. “According to Wizarding law,” Draco told her pompously, “Dumbledore had no right to hold on to inheritances, Magical or otherwise, carried down through a Pureblood line to the declared heir.”

“As though Death Eaters have ever cared much for the law,” Hermione said. She kept all traces of emotion from her face, but still managed to convey her contempt.

Draco’s pleasant mood soured instantly. He sneered disdainfully at Hermione and said, “We have only ever tried to keep hold of ancient Wizarding customs and institutions.”

Hermione scoffed. “And that accounts for all the torture you and your Lord so enjoy? Do you know what I think, Malfoy? I think you’re just trying to justify sadism and violence.”

“Violence is sometimes the only way to bring about change,” Draco countered.

Hermione shook her head. “Oppression is never justifiable. Nor is torture or murder. You speak as though you Purebloods were the minority.”

“Those of us who wish to maintain our roots? To bring back our traditions? Yes, we are the minority. And it’s all because your kind came along and ruined everything.”

Hermione glared at him. “Muggle-borns have been around for as long as there have been wizards and witches. We’re nothing new.”

“Of course not,” Draco said, sneering. “But historically, a Mudblood would have been summarily dispatched as soon as a local coven was alerted to her existence. Reviling filth is a nothing new. It’s the natural way of things.”

Hermione looked as if she wanted to explode something. Her fingers twitched, as if she desperately missed her wand. Harry hoped that texts on wandless magic was one of the subjects she was banned from perusing, for if she picked up that skill she would become trouble very fast.

“I won’t ever believe that, and you’re a fool if you do, Malfoy. Who do you think the first wizards and witches were? They were the aberrations. Not Muggles.”

Draco was nodding. “You just proved my point, Granger. You newcomers simply refuse to acknowledge the Magical world’s venerated history, reducing it to something you can understand. This is why our traditions have eroded. This is why our holidays have vanished. Because of Mudbloods like you, who could never begin to understand that which you deny and destroy.”

“Any changes brought about regarding Wizarding traditions happened via lawful reform through the Ministry,” Hermione declared.

“Exactly as our Lord is doing now.” Draco said with a smile. “You can’t have it both ways.”

“Some of us apparently can,” she said, glancing towards Harry.

Harry very much wished he had his invisibility cloak again at that moment. Forget sneaking around Hogwarts; the cloaks true value, he decided, was to hide from such hostile eyes. He settled for looking down at his feet.

“Harry did what he needed to do to survive,” Draco snarled. “You have no right to judge him.”

Hermione sniffed. “I won’t need to. History will judge him well enough.”

“This is stupid, let’s go,” said Harry. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. He urged Nagini down and started towards the library door. As he passed Hermione, he said to her, “I know you’ll never understand why I chose this.”

“Oh, I think I do,” she said. “It’s really fairly obvious.”

Draco scoffed. He looked about to say more, but Harry held up a hand and said, “The only one who could possibly have foreseen this, Hermione, was my uncle. And that was only because he only ever thought the absolute worst of me.”

Hermione stared at Nagini, who was slithering around and around Harry’s feet. Then she looked up at Harry’s scar before staring coldly into his eyes. “I hope it was worth it.”

Chapter Text

“She knows.”

Voldemort sat at the desk in Harry’s room the next day sorting through a stack of Ministry documents. “Who knows what, darling?” he asked distractedly as he scratched out several lines on the top parchment.

“Hermione,” Harry said, pacing back and forth in front of the fire. “She knows I’m your Horcrux, Master. I know she does!”

“Really?” Voldemort set his quill in its stand and cast an ink drying charm on the parchment. “That’s too bad. I suppose you expect I will kill her now.”

Harry stopped his pacing. “Won’t you?”

Voldemort turned to look at him. “I could. Or we could explain to your former friend that, as Master of Death, my immortality is no longer linked to either you or Nagini. But really, Harry, I am not concerned. She has sworn oaths which render her harmless to both you and your sister, so unless you have had a change of heart and wish it so, she will remain unharmed.”

This was not how Harry had expected this conversation to go. He’d nearly kept it secret—as secret as anything was from a master Legilimens who had a particularly direct link into his mind. In the end, he couldn’t keep it to himself. The words had spilled out of his mouth, as if they’d pressed against his lips until he could not longer prevent their escape.

“I haven’t,” Harry said when he realized his Master was awaiting an answer. “I’m just disappointed that she was so hateful towards me. It wasn’t as if I expected her to be try to hug me or anything.”

“If she does, the Death Eater entrusted with her care has been sanctioned to hex her violently,” Voldemort said. He turned back to his work and crossed out another line on the parchment. “And I will be displeased with you as well, dear Horcrux. I ordered you not to touch her.”

Harry nodded. “I won’t,” he said. Besides, he rather thought she would slap him if he did.

“If that girl so much as lays a finger on you, I will have Bellatrix slice them all off, one by one.”

“Yes, Master.” Harry couldn’t quite supress a shudder. “What I don’t understand is why she didn’t seem angry with me at Midsummer.”

Voldemort signed the document he’d been amending, and immediately the parchment rose up in the air, glowed brilliantly golden, then vanished with a small pop. “I suspect she hadn’t realized your value to me until then. Remember, too, that she was in close proximity to me; she had every right to be reserved that night. She probably feared that should she displease me that I would find space enough for her in the Wicker Man, no matter how stuffed with vermin it already was.”

“I doubt I’ll ever so much as speak with her again,” Harry said. He couldn’t stop the sadness from creeping into his voice.

Voldemort hummed skeptically, as he often did after Harry made such assertions.

The Dark Lord worked steadily for a while. Harry picked up his book of poetry, hoping to find solace in the verse, but nothing held his interest for long and he was soon pacing the room again. As much as he enjoyed it when his Master found time to visit, Voldemort was still usually preoccupied with his work. During these times he was tolerant of the occasional interruption from either Harry or Nagini, explaining that if he required silence he would work in his study (cramped though it was). More important, he said, was spending time with his living Horcruxes.

“I think it’s time for a break,” Voldemort declared as he gathered up the parchments into a neat pile.

Harry stopped his pacing and followed his Master to the table. Almost at once, a tea set and a small meal of scones and fresh fruit appeared. Harry had taken to pouring out the Dark Lord’s tea. He wasn’t sure if his Master was humouring him, or expected such small services as Harry enjoyed providing, but the result was the same—two content wizards. Harry basked in the warm brush of rare happiness that washed through his scar. He did that, he marveled. He’d made Lord Voldemort happy, and with so small a gesture.

Food, combined with his Master’s satisfaction, settled Harry’s nerves better than poetry. The scones  were so fresh they crumbled even as he spooned clotted cream onto them. Combined with the fresh strawberries, they were heavenly. Harry sighed his contentment. This was better than death, he told himself, taking another blissful bite. Far better.

The Dark Lord was not eating. He’d taken a few sips from his tea, but had chosen, instead, to watch Harry as he ate. He cleared his throat, and when Harry looked up, he said, very seriously, “You are in the very summer of your life, Harry. So young and fresh. Seeing you like this—enjoying such simple things without a care at refinement or propriety—is a delight to me.”

Harry flushed at the words. He licked an errant smear of cream from his thumb.

“It occurs to me that your birthday will be here before too long. We are already half-way through July. Have you given any thought as to what you would like for a gift? I am feeling benevolent this morning. I encourage you to take advantage.”

Swallowing down the scone that had become inexcusably dry in his mouth, Harry said, “Well, Master, you had promised me that book.” He flushed even more fiercely.

Voldemort chuckled. “Ah, yes. The Kama Sutra. I had not forgotten; in fact, I procured an interesting copy for you with your birthday in mind. That gift comes with a caveat, however. You are not to make use of the information within, at least not without my explicit consent. You will not, and I am deadly serious here, engage in any sexual activities.”

“I won’t,” Harry said. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Voldemort was possessive of him.

“You are not stupid, no,” Voldemort told him “And yes, I am very careful of my things, as you well know. But that is not all. I need you to retain your virginity. I have a particular ritual in mind that needs make use of it.”

Harry wished he could sink right into the chair. If he did, he was certain that on his way down he’d surely light it on fire, his face was flaming so. He wrangled out a weak, “Of course. As you wish.”

“I very much do wish. You will not like my reaction should I find you’ve spent your innocence casually. You may, of course, engage in any solitary acts of pleasure. I would not deny you that privilege, nor will the magic consider you spoiled from the occasional private interlude.”

All Harry could do was nod.

“You have no idea how pleased I was when, in searching your mind that first night, I discovered that you were unspoiled. You must understand, my dear, that I lost my own virginity at a rather young age. Too young, in hindsight, though at the time my youth and body were commodities I believed worth exploiting.”

As Voldemort spoke, Harry pictured the unfairly handsome and suave Tom Riddle he’d met in the Chamber. He could easily picture how the manipulative boy would take advantage of his charms and use them to his benefit in forging alliances. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as his imagination filled in too many details.

Voldemort continued, “With a portion of my soul in you, I am surprised it did not influence you in the same way. You are hardly unattractive. Even as I detested you after my rise, I realized you were on your way to becoming a beautiful young man.”

Harry tried to take a sip of his tea. His hands shook, though, and he lowered the cup back to the table.

“I still wanted to crush you beneath my heel, darling. I wanted nothing so much as that.” Voldemort’s eyes were momentarily fierce, his glare crushing. Then, almost immediately, his expression softened. But not before Harry remembered the way his Master had so gleefully stepped down on his head during his surrender in the bomb-shelter cell. To his horror, he realized he was more humiliated by his body’s treacherous reaction to that memory than he was by the submission itself.

Voldemort smirked. “I won’t leave you wanting for long. Perhaps a month, or so, once the transference ritual is complete.”

“Transference ritual?” Harry frowned. “Is this what we were researching that afternoon, Master?”

Voldemort nodded but infuriatingly said nothing more.

 “What will this ritual do?” Harry asked him, hoping to draw out more information.

“Nothing terrible; you need not worry. It will simply transfer our respective seed. Late in my teen years I came to realize how foolish I had been to use my body for social advancement. That is not to say it didn’t work—it did, all too well—but I had  other advantages I could have used instead. By the time I realized the Magical uses of virginity, it was too late. I had lost my innocence and a number of powerful rituals were no longer available to me.”

Harry frowned; he was not sure he understood where this was going.

“Severus has nearly completed the potion that we will need for the transfer to be successful.”

“And this will transfer our…?”

“Our seed. I believe that the ritual, with the addition of the Horcrux residing in you, will allow me to make use of your own innocence. When I ejaculate, it will be with your virgin semen. But insofar as the magic of the ritual I will use it for is concerned, and given that we share both blood and soul, it will be my own.”

“Oh.” Harry looked weakly at his hands. “What sort of rituals?”

“Mostly ones to heighten a wizard’s power. As a young man I had been particularly interested in one potion that promised increased longevity, though that seems rather irrelevant now. Perhaps I will brew it anyway.” He looked at the clock above the fireplace’s mantle. “I am afraid that is all the time I can spare, darling.”

Harry stood. “I will see you tomorrow?”

“Most likely, so long as all goes well in the Wizengamot this afternoon.” Voldemort stopped to reach down and pet Nagini for a moment. She hissed sleepily at him, pleased at the attention. To Harry he said, “I trust I have impressed upon you the importance in obeying my command regarding your virginity?”

“Yes, Master.”

Voldemort nodded and said, “Good boy.” He disappeared through the Dark Mark tapestry.

Harry was alone again but for the now-sleeping snake. He hesitated for only a moment, then rushed  into the bathroom, repeating his Master’s last words to himself as he sought his relief.

***

“You have to see this.” Draco had barely given Harry time to pull on his boots before he was dragging him down the corridor with Nagini trailing behind in a series of graceful undulations. Both boys had finally recovered from their injuries, and Draco led Harry at a good clip along the maze that was his childhood home.

Finally, they arrived at one of the drawing rooms. The ‘lavender parlour’, Harry remembered before he cursed himself for having recalled the names of any of these fusty aristocratic rooms. The door was ajar, and Draco put a finger to his lips before gesturing for Harry to covertly peer through with him.

Under the French windows, on one of the elegant settees, sat Hermione and Dolores Umbridge. Hermione sat very primly, her back straight and her hands resting demurely on her lap. Her smile was strained but unwavering, as if she’d vowed to herself to be pleasant, no matter how distasteful the situation. Umbridge was not even trying; her falsely sweet demeanor was absent and she was grimacing at Hermione with open contempt. In an armchair not far away sat a bored-looking Death Eater who was idly toying with his wand.

“Let’s begin with something simple,” Hermione said. She reached into a basket that lay beside her and pulled out a ball of pink wool. “I think a washcloth would be a good first project.”

Then she dug out a pair of wooden knitting needles from the basket. “I’ll cast on for you, as that can be tricky as a first step. Then I’ll show you how to make the stitches.” She made a knot in the wool yarn and began wrapping it curiously around the needle. The way the stitches formed on the needle was, in Harry’s opinion, its own kind of magic.

After about a minute, Hermione handed the beginning knitting over to Umbridge and set about doing the same with a second set of needles and ball of wool. She held this up and said, “Okay, watch what I do. Hold the needles like this…no, not so tight—more like a quill.”

Draco snickered. Harry elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“That’s right,” Hermione continued. She was speaking much more pleasantly than she had to Harry in the library, which he thought unfair, but he shoved that thought down and kept listening as she explained the mechanics of knitting to the disgruntled witch beside her. “Insert the right-hand needle into the first stitch like this. Good. Now wrap the yarn counter-clockwise around the right needle.”

Umbridge huffed. “Counter-what?” she snapped. Nearby, the bored guard sat up a little straighter. Umbridge breathed heavily and forced out one of her sickly smiles.

“I meant widdershins,” said Hermione. “Wrap the yarn widdershins around the needle--keep the yarn taut—then poke the needle under the stitch on the left needle. Now draw the loop off the needle tip. Yes, just like that.”

Umbridge, when she tried, managed to follow what Harry thought were overly complicated instructions. Maybe it was easier if closely demonstrated.

The two worked civilly for a while, with Hermione giving the occasional correction to help Umbridge correct her grip or pick up a dropped stitch.

After another few minutes, Harry felt a hand at his elbow. Draco had obviously had enough and was attempting to pull him away from the door. Draco whispered, “Not the cat-fight I’d hoped we’d see. Let’s see if we can find—”

“How far along is your pregnancy?” Hermione was asking, which made both boys turn hastily back to the door.

Umbridge made a noise akin to a growl. “Almost seven weeks.”

“I don’t think I ever said congratulations,” Hermione said. Then she asked, “Are you having any morning sickness?”

Umbridge shuddered, for once looking sickened by something other than the Muggle-born witch seated near her. “It’s been terrible,” she said. “And I’ve not been allowed anti-nausea potions.”

Hermione’s tentative smile slid off her lips. “That’s awful. Why ever not?”

Umbridge’s beady eyes filled again with malice. “I don’t need your pity, Mudblood.”

“Tell her, Umbitch,” drawled the Death Eater. He was again spinning his wand between his fingers, but the quick motion no longer looked casual.

Umbridge sniffed. “I’ve been told that I must suffer through every aspect of my punishment.”

Hermione frowned for a long moment before finally saying, “What punishment? Don’t they know you’re pregnant? It’s important that the fetus—”

“The pregnancy is my punishment, you foolish girl,” Umbridge snapped.

Hermione didn’t have a response to that.

The Death Eater sat up straighter, suddenly interested. “Tell her who the father is,” he ordered.

Umbridge grit her teeth and ground out, “You know I can’t.”

Draco leaned in to whisper in Harry’s ear. “She’s been Tongue-Tied. She can’t say anything about it being a half-giant baby to anyone who doesn’t already know.”

“Why?” Harry whispered. He wasn’t as quiet as Draco, and Umbridge’s sharp eyes shot towards the door.

Draco grabbed Harry’s shoulder and pulled him back before she caught them lurking there. He shook his head and mouthed, “Later.”

The Death Eater scowled and slumped in his chair, disappointed. “Let’s just say he’s tall, ugly, and not very bright,” he said to Hermione.

She raised her eyebrows and nodded. “Well, I’m sure he makes up for it with personality.” It was courteously phrased, but it was obvious that she scarcely believed her own words.

The Death Eater began to laugh maliciously. “He has a big one, that’s for sure.” He made an obscene gesture.

Even Draco couldn’t keep quiet at that. He snorted in a terribly undignified manner, barely pulling Harry down the hall before collapsing in a fit of giggles. Nagini stayed by the door after they’d departed and poked her head in a metre or so, eliciting a scream from Umbridge and an alarmed “Harry?” from Hermione. But no one followed Nagini out when she rejoined the boys in the corridor, and the parlour door slammed shut behind her.

“Sweet Merlin,” Draco gasped out. “A big one. She has no idea.”

“That reminds me,” said Harry. “Someone was supposed to create a false memory of the, um…consummation. Have you heard anything about that?”

“I thought that was just rumour,” Draco said. “But I hope not. I would pay good Galleons to watch that.”

“The Dark Lord authorized it. But I can’t imagine the mechanics at all. How would it fit?”

“Well, it wouldn’t need to be doable in real-life,” Draco said. “Anything would work in a fantasy memory. Potions. Stretching Charms. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if they cast an Undetectable Expansion charm on her dried-up cunt?”

Harry pictured Hermione’s beaded purse and all that fit inside. “I think that would be a perfect solution.” He thought for a moment, then asked, “Wouldn’t that have worked in real life?”

“Not a chance. Undetectable Expansion and Wizard Space charms can’t be used on living creatures. Even if it were a viable option for the act itself, it would be impossible to cancel the charm without disrupting conception. And we hardly want the Wizard Space charm to remain in place, as then she might successfully carry to term. And I really want to be there when the little fucker tears her apart.”

“I doubt it will be anything so graphic as that,” Harry pointed out. “She’ll probably just rupture internally. She might scream a lot, but it won’t be anything to look at.”

Draco shook his head. “I bet the Dark Lord accounted for that. It’ll be a show, that’s for sure, and I want a front row seat.”

“I’ll see if I can ask for that favour,” Harry said. “Her punishment was a sort of gift to me, and you and I are friends now. Now tell me, why was she tongue-tied? Wouldn’t it be more humiliating to make her tell everyone who—or rather what— the father is?”

“Pretty much everyone knows that already, except Granger,” Draco reminded him. “And do you think she’d willingly help Umbridge learn to knit if she knew the truth? That girl has had a Doxie up her arse since first year. She’d refuse to co-operate out of some misguided principle.”

“In this case it’s not all that misguided, but I know what you mean. Do you want to know why she learned to knit in the first place? To make hats to free the Hogwarts house-elves. She left them all over Gryffindor Tower for unsuspecting house-elves to accidentally pick up.”

“Circe. How embarrassing,” Draco said. “Didn’t she realize she was insulting them? And anyway, that wouldn’t have even worked. If they were freed after picking up random clothes strewn about, then how would they manage to do our laundry?”

“Hermione is really smart, but sometimes she doesn’t see the big picture. She thought all the happy house-elves were brain-washed to enjoy working for free.”

Draco nodded. “This is the perfect example of the dangers posed by Mudbloods entering our world. They try to shove their own standards down our throats, not understanding why we do things the way we do. It destabilizes our entire society. If the Dark Lord hadn’t won when he did, it might have been too late, we’d have been too far gone for the damage to be fixed. It’s too bad he didn’t succeed in taking over sooner.”

“Sorry,” Harry said softly, looking down.

Draco looked up, seemingly shocked. “What? I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean you, Harry. It wasn’t your—”

“It was, though,” Harry said. “A bit, anyway.”

Draco tried a smile. “You came round in the end. Just in time.”

Harry sighed. This had gotten serious far too fast. He forced a smile and said, “Guess what she called it? Her group to free the house-elves?”

Draco shrugged his shoulders. “Tell me.”

“S.P.E.W.”

“Well, that explains one thing.”

“What?”

“I’d always wondered why she got together with a Weasley. Even for a Mudblood, it seemed a step-down. I see now that they were better matched than I’d thought.”

Harry scowled in mock-indignation. “I’ll show you a step-down,” and he knocked Draco into the wall good-naturedly, and they wrestled in the hallway until they tired, with Nagini carefully joining in to pin Harry to the ground.

“Traitor,” Harry hissed, laughing.

Chapter Text

Nagini rarely woke Harry in the morning. Most days, he’d washed and dressed long before she budged from her spot before the fire. On the morning of his birthday, however, he woke to the crushing weight of her body pressing him into his mattress and the tickle of her forked tongue on his cheek.

“Snakeling must wake. It is brother’s hatching day. Wake up! See what is waiting for brother? Wake and see!”

Harry batted her away sleepily and tried to shove her off, with no success. A gurgled “Can’t breathe” had her shifting enough off his torso that he could take in air easily once more. Once he’d found his glasses, he blinked blearily around the room, searching for what had his sister so excited.

On the table near the fire sat a series of wrapped gifts. He hurried over, with Nagini trailing closely behind him. He picked each present up one at a time, setting each down reverently. There were no tags or labels to indicate who they were from. “These are all from Master?”

“Master was in this morning. He put them here himself and told Nagini to let brother sleep in because it is brother’s hatching day.”

Harry glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even six-thirty, more than an hour before he would normally wake. Well, he was up now, he decided. “Which should I open first?”

“The one with the holes!” Nagini suggested excitedly.

Harry picked the small square box with holes up, and nearly dropped it again when something started scratching frantically inside. He held it at arms-length as he cautiously peeled off the wrappings. “What is it?” he wondered.

“Master said that was Nagini’s special treat.” She had slithered to the floor and was watching every move he made with great interest.

Harry rolled his eyes. No wonder she’d woken him early. He set the box on the floor with the lid facing his sister. “It’s awfully small to be much of a meal for you. I hope you’re not too hungry.”

“Nagini does not care how little the prey is. It smells tasty.”

Harry wished he had a tool so he could safely open the box without whatever was inside jumping out at him. He didn’t want to be bitten by Nagini’s breakfast. Or by Nagini, for that matter; she looked ready to lunge as soon as Harry released her prey. “Don’t strike me by accident,” he warned.

Nagini darted a tongue in and out and hissed out as much agreement as Harry thought he’d get. As quickly as he could, he lifted the box lid and stepped away.

Nothing darted out. Harry walked over so he was next to Nagini and peered inside.

It was a tiny person, no taller than Harry’s index finger. He was cowering against the back of the box. As Harry inched nearer, he saw that the man’s silence must have been magically induced, for he appeared to be screaming in abject terror. In his tiny fists he held a sheet of paper, as if that would save him from his fate. Harry reached in and pulled it out; the person only let go when he realized that if he kept his makeshift shield, he’d be pulled out with it.

It was a note from Harry’s Master. In Parseltongue, he read aloud : “Don’t let Nagini eat this Muggle right away. Tell her to play with her food first.”

Nagini hissed her agreement and so Harry gently shook the box until the Muggle tumbled onto the floor. The miniature man sat there dazedly for a moment, before looking about in horror. To Harry’s disgust and amusement, a stain was spreading on the Muggle’s light grey trousers. The man looked down at the wet spot for a moment, and then back up at the incomprehensibly massive boy and snake looming above him.

Harry peered more closely at the tiny figure. It looked filthy and was sporting a short but very ragged beard. Its clothes hung off of it, strongly reminding Harry of his own ill-fitting cast-offs from Dudley. This Muggle hadn’t been recently snatched off the street. No, it had obviously been a prisoner for quite some time. But why would a Muggle warrant such a lengthy confinement? Why keep it alive so long? Even Vernon had been kept only long enough to—

Wait a moment…

Harry squinted at the shrunken man’s face. Sweet Merlin, it was Dudley. He braced a hand on Nagini’s long neck and hissed, “Don’t kill him. I know this person. I want to talk to him.”

“It is Nagini’s treat,” she argued. “It is Nagini’s, to hunt and kill.”

“Yes, but just wait. That can be your birthday present to me,” he urged.

She slunk back behind him and hissed unhappily. It would do for now.

“Dudley?” Harry lowered himself to his elbows. “It’s me. It’s Harry.”

Dudley looked up now, his eyes wide with terror, but his crazed expression seemed to lesson as he focused on Harry. He opened his mouth and tried to say something, but he was of course still Silenced.

“Can Nagini chase it now?”

Harry looked back at his sister, then again at his cousin. Dudley was on his knees now, and there was no mistaking that he was pleading for mercy. His hands were raised in supplication and his face was wet with tears. He shut his miniscule eyes tightly as Harry reached out. He was shaking badly, but he didn’t try to move or to get away. Harry stroked his thumb over Dudley’s head as gently as he could. Behind him, Nagini was squirming about impatiently.

Harry shifted to the side, granting her access. “Just chase him for a bit,” he told her. “Give him a good scare but don’t kill him.”

“Nagini is hungry,” she hissed angrily.

“And Dudley is not remotely a meal for you. You deserve a big Muggle. This one would be less satisfying than a mouse. Just play with it for now, sister.”

Her tongue darted in and out, tasting the air. She got closer and closer to Dudley, until her tongue was but an inch from his face when extended. She looked very much like a Basilisk, as big as she was beside Dudley. No—at this scale, she was far larger than that. She was the Midgard Serpent herself.

“Why does this prey smell like Nagini’s brother?”

“Because he’s my cousin. He’s Dudley. I told you about him a long time ago.” After a moment’s thought, he frowned in dismay. Only a few minutes ago, Nagini had said that her present smelled tasty. He nearly sniffed his own arm to see if he smelled of anything that would be enticing to a huge snake but realized how ridiculous that would be before he could make a private fool of himself.

Nagini got even closer, until when her tongue darted out it licked Dudley flat in the face. He opened his eyes and took in the great snake mere inches away.

“Yes, Nagini remembers when snakeling told her about this one. Yes, and Nagini was right. Dudley is the prey now, not brother. It is the prey—Nagini’s prey.”

“I think I want to keep him for a while. But he can still be your prey, sister, so long as you are careful.” He stood up and smiled down at his cousin. He was a god up here; one well-placed foot and Dudley would join his mother and father in whatever hell existed for abusive Muggles.

“I think it’s time for some Dudley Hunting.”

***

Harry stuffed Dudley back in the box he’d come in after Nagini had grown bored of chasing him around the floor. It hadn’t been as entertaining as either she or Harry had hoped it would be. Dudley had fallen badly after only ten minutes into the game and was unable to do much more than clutch at his leg and make piteous faces. He’d given up begging for mercy, not realizing how much he’d already been granted.

Harry set the box on the mantle and turned to examine his other gifts. A book shaped package proved to be the promised Kama Sutra. It was newer than Harry had imagined, and he opened the cover to read the inscription his Master had left for him:

Dear Harry,

Happy Eighteenth Birthday.

This is a newly illustrated edition published by a Wizarding press in Mumbai. Remember to keep yourself unsullied until I otherwise allow.

Lord Voldemort

Harry ran his fingers over his Master’s signature. Then he opened the book to a random page and froze in amazement. Unlike with that illustration of the wizards and house-elf, there was no mistaking what this witch and wizard were doing. And as it was a magical edition, the illustrations were helpfully moving—

(No, that was a gross understatement—they were fucking)

--and it was obvious from the look on both participants faces that they were both experiencing extreme pleasure. They were naked, and the woman sat bouncing on the man’s lap, facing outwards. Her breasts were on the small size, but they jiggled proudly every time she lifted up and slammed down again. The man had an arm wrapped around her waist, his fingers vigorously rubbing the topmost part of his partner’s genitals. The curve of the man’s cock was barely visible at this angle, but if he looked just right…

With an embarrassed flush, Harry realized that he was stroking himself in time with the animated thrusts. He pulled his hand from out his night robes and—

The hell with it. If his Master had purposefully given his what was essentially porn, then Harry would enjoy it—within the demanded parameters. So, for now anyway, he would enjoy it alone.

He turned the page to find something even more exciting. Yes, here—now he could see the action more easily. But that wasn’t the right hole—and that wasn’t a woman underneath the man. It was…it was a very happy man, judging by the look of ecstasy on his face. Holding the book open with one hand, Harry lowered his fingers back within his pants and trailed them down his hardened cock, his touch light and teasing. He came to his balls and gently cupped them, squeezed until they ached in his palm. Then he trailed lower still, just testing.

His pucker was dry and closed tight. It resisted the slightest prod. He brought his hand out again, and spat on his it, not having anything else handy for lubricant. Watching the men in the illustration, he again reached back and teased the tight ring of muscle with his fingers. He managed to slip the tip of his index finger in, but not only was the spit not helping that much, he wasn’t finding it at all pleasurable. And it made him feel just a little dirty. He reached back up and focused on his erection instead, slowly sliding his wet fingers up from the base to the top before gliding them round and round the head in long, delicious twists. His index finger shallowly entered his slit, in and out, before he squeezed back down to the base.

All the while, he watched the men. From his vantage point he could see the man on top pull his cock nearly out of his partner’s arse before ramming back in. The man being penetrated was arching his spine and pushing back against the cock lodged within him, as if to drive it more deeply into himself. One of his hands was stroking his own member in time with each thrust.

Harry’s own hand began moving faster, pulling down from the head to the very base of his cock, squeezing then moving up to swipe the pre-cum leaking from his slit around the head, and then back down and up.

“Uuungh…”

Harry softly panted, clutching himself as he came down from the high of orgasm. He carefully drew his messy hands from his pants and went to wash up in the bathroom.

He took the time to get dressed, and by the time he emerged a small tea tray with a continental breakfast had joined the remaining gifts on the table.

He poured a cup of tea and breathed in the familiar scent before taking a bite of a chocolate-filled croissant. The flaky pastry seemed more delicious than normal, as if his house-elf was offering up a present of its own in the only way it could. Just when he’d polished off the last bite, another tray laden with tempting treats popped onto the table.

Harry whispered a quiet “Thank-you” to the elf before turning to the remaining gifts.

A rectangular box—this one without breathing holes—turned out to be a box of chocolates. Harry’s heart fluttered when he read the label; Honeydukes. The last he’d seen of Honeydukes was on the mission to betray his friends. He took another sip of tea in an attempt to dislodge the uncomfortable lump that had formed in his gut and told himself that the chocolates were a good sign. It wasn’t meant to be a reminder or his guilt. No, the chocolates were proof that the Wizarding world was being rebuilt. Businesses were opening once again; people were getting back to their lives and families. Well, those who had survived the war, anyway.

There were still three gifts left to open. One looked like another book. Harry tore open the wrappings to reveal a paperback with the illustration of a dragon on the cover. He flipped the pages, noticing at once that they were crisp and new. The Hobbit. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. An inscription on the flyleaf read:

Harry,

I received a copy of this novel on the Christmas immediately preceding my eleventh birthday. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I did.

Your Master, Lord Voldemort.

Harry set the book aside, promising himself that he’d try it soon. Perhaps he’d read it aloud to Nagini every night before bed. With a mug of chamomile tea and a tray full of chocolates…perhaps his Master would make a reader of him yet!

A tiny box held a necklace. A chain of silver that gleamed nearly white slunk through his fingers with a fluid grace rivalling that of its serpent pendent. Harry held the chain up to the light and watched the snake weighed down on the fine silver links spin this way and that. Emerald eyes caught the sunlight shining through the window. It was very pretty. It was obviously very expensive.

Harry took it into the washroom and held it up to his throat. As he suspected, it looked very girlish. He’d not cut his hair in some time, and already his black curls were tumbling half-way down his neck (which admittedly, made them easier to tame). If it wasn’t for the brush of dark stubble on his cheek, he could be called feminine. And to add such pretty jewellery to the mix?

“That’s it, I’m growing a beard,” he said to himself even as he reached for his razor and scraped the new growth away. He’d not realized he’d rushed through his ablutions that morning, though his facial hair still grew slowly enough that he wasn’t always bothered with it. He brushed his teeth again for good measure, then ran an appraising hand through his hair before returning to his bedchamber.

His Master was standing over the remaining gift on the table. His red eyes narrowed as he took in the chain that was still in Harry’s hand.

Harry brought the necklace up and fumbled with the clasp.

“Allow me.” Voldemort came behind him and expertly fastened the necklace. He turned Harry and examined him critically. “Lovely.”

Harry flushed.

Voldemort indicated for Harry to sit back at the table, then took the other seat. Harry poured a cup of tea for his Master and offered the tray of small pastries, though the Dark Lord waved it off.

Harry reached for the last present cautiously, feeling far more nervous with an audience.

“Be cautious with this one,” Voldemort murmured, then sat back and watched Harry carefully peel back the silver wrappings to reveal a polished wooden box. Resting inside, cushioned in velvet, was a small silver-filled vial.

Memories.

The question was, memories of what...

Voldemort smirked. “Do you really want me to ruin the surprise? Darling, it is the false memory I had Rookwood create. You are under no obligation to watch Umbridge’s defilement. I leave that up to you.”

Harry nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to watch such a violent rape, but what was the use in being a Gryffindor if he didn’t valiantly forge ahead, prepared or not? Even his surrender could be set in such a light.

“Indeed,” his Master agreed in response to Harry’s thoughts. “I would have bargained for more, had it been me.”

Harry rather thought that bargaining for his life had been sufficient. He looked down at the table, feeling unaccountably ashamed.

Voldemort reached forward and gently gripped Harry chin, forcing eye contact. “I wouldn’t have granted more than what you’ve been allowed, regardless. Perhaps I would have given you less had you demanded more. Tell me, Harry Potter…”

His Master’s grip tightened. His sharp nail threatened to rip flesh. Harry opened his mouth, trying to relieve some of the building pressure to his jaw.

Voldemort leaned in closer. Harry could make out the slight sheen of scales on the man’s otherwise smooth cheeks, one more reminder that his Master was no longer wholly human. He gulped.

“Tell me,” his Master repeated. “Are you happy here?”

Was he happy? Harry tugged back and, surprisingly, his Master released his hold. “More than I expected I would be,” he answered. Then, “Yes. I am.”

Voldemort stood and quickly stroked the top of Harry’s head. “You make it easy to be a good Master to you, my dear.”

Harry looked up and made a quick decision. “Master, may I ask for something? Or rather, two related somethings?”

The Dark Lord looked pointedly at the torn wrapping paper littering the floor, then sighed. “What is it?”

Harry stood and took down the box that caged his cousin. He opened it and picked up Dudley and set him on the table. “First, Master, I was hoping I could keep this as a pet. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed seeing him this morning.”

“Your worthless Muggle cousin was supposed to be a treat for Nagini.”

“My second request was for a replacement offering for her. She had fun chasing Dudley around, but it wasn’t as if he’d satisfy her appetite, shrunken as he is.”

“I could enlarge it again,” Voldemort suggested, tilting his head in consideration.

“I guess…but I kind of like him small like this.” Harry said with a shrug.

Maybe his Master and Nagini were right. He didn’t need Dudley as some sort of pet. Why keep such a reminder of his past? And he hardly needed the company. He always had Nagini with him (even if she slept much of the time) and he spent most afternoons with Draco. Best of all, his Master visited when he could.

“You may keep it,” Voldemort said after he’d considered it. He drew his wand, and moments later a collar and chain materialized around Dudley’s neck. A wave of his wand and Harry’s new ‘pet’ was lifted off the table. “Keep it in the bathroom, preferably behind the toilet. That is where filth belongs.”

“Thank you Master,” Harry gushed. “Will I be able to release him? So that Nagini and I can play with him? She liked chasing him around.”

Voldemort nodded. “The chain’s catch will be sensitive to a Parseltongue command. As for your second request, we still have a Mudblood rebel rotting in the dungeons.”

“Dean?” Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about trading Dudley for Dean.

“He would have been killed regardless, if that is your concern,” Voldemort said with a scowl. “ I might have spared him, but he and that Irish half-blood proved too belligerent to let live. I will not tolerate further dissention.”

Harry nodded. That was satisfactory, then, he decided. If Dean was already set to die, then he need not feel guilty about having him take Dudley’s place as Nagini’s breakfast.

“This is what happened to your mum,” Harry whispered to Dudley as they watched Nagini slowly swallow Dean Thomas. “My sister ate her, just like that. Served Petunia right, the bitch.”

Harry had wrapped Dudley’s chain around his limbs in such a way that he could dangle him by it without cutting off his air. Whenever Dudley closed his eyes in horror, Harry flicked him hard on the back.

“I think the worst part of being eaten alive,” Harry mused, “isn’t even knowing you’re about to die. It’s the idea of being consumed and digested, then finally shat out. Imagine ending up as nothing but snake shit?”

“Language,” Voldemort absently reminded him from the desk, where he was making careful amendments to the parchment set before him. He withdrew a potion vial from a pocket and held it to the light, then tapped the side twice with a sharp nail. “Perfect. Severus managed to balance the viscosity as I’d asked.”

“Master?”

Voldemort began gathering the parchments. “Secure your toy and be ready to leave within the next five minutes,” he said as he stood up. He hid the vial within his robes.

“Fun’s over, Big D.” Harry unwrapped the chains from his cousin’s legs and arms, then took him to the bathroom and hissed “lock” as he held the chain to the floor behind the toilet. A small charge zapped through his fingers, not strong enough to do anything but give him a static shock. Dudley, on the other hand, spasmed wildly as the pulse of magic washed through him.

Harry observed Dudley, slumped against the white tile. “I suppose I ought to feed you,” he said with a sigh. He went back into the main room and fished a few croissant crumbs off his plate, then took them in to Dudley. “What do you say?”

Dudley gaped up at Harry, but when he noticed the small offering his face lit up. To such a small, starving man, it must have seemed a feast. He mouthed, “Thank you!” with as much fervour as he had once thrown into his tantrums.

Harry smiled down at his little pet and dropped the food to the floor.

***

“What is this place?” Harry asked reverently as his Master prodded him into a chamber deep within the bowels of Malfoy Manor.

His Master had been quiet as he’d led his Horcrux by lumos-light down countless stairs, far past the dungeons and their moaning inmates, into a corridor carved into the earth itself, then finally to this cold, dark room.

This place is ancient, Harry decided. Far older than the Malfoys. It gave off the same primordial energy that he’d sometimes felt in the Forest of Dean when he’d managed a few minutes alone and had the presence of mind to actually feel at peace, rather than hunted. He wondered why Draco had never brought him here on his grand tour of the manor. This was something worth boasting about, far more so than conservatories, parlours, or ballrooms.

“You feel it,” the Dark Lord said to him, his voice not much louder than the rustle of their robes. “I had hoped you would. Not many still can.”

“I feel something,” Harry admitted. That he was one of few that could discern the raw otherness of this place filled him with unaccustomed pride. Though perhaps anything setting him apart was only due to the Horcrux within him. Perhaps it was only the piece of him that was Voldemort that felt anything.

“The prophecy chose you for a reason, Harry,” Voldemort told him. He placed a firm hand on his shoulder and made him look up at him.

Harry’s heart skipped as he took in his Master’s intense look of possessiveness.

“And while no doubt my soul within you feels reverence for a place of power such as this, I believe that even without it you would feel the pull of magic here.”

He spun Harry around and pulled him against his chest. Where Harry’s heart had nearly stopped before, now it began beating wildly. “Why are we here?” he asked as he breathed in the warring aromas of musk and patchouli incense which plumed through the air.

Voldemort waved a hand, and a perfect circle of red candles flickered to life. “For the transference ritual.” He brought out the vial he’d been examining earlier and held it to Harry’s lips. “Drink.”

Harry’s lips parted and his Master tipped the potion into his mouth. It was creamy, slightly salty, the taste reminiscent of freshly mown grass. At least that was what Harry tasted before all his senses were overwhelmed by a horrible tingling sensation. It felt like ants were swarming in his mouth, hundreds and hundreds crawling all over his tongue. He nearly spat but—

“Swallow,” Voldemort ordered, releasing him.

With tremendous effort, Harry swallowed all those prickling, creeping legs. It’s all in my mind, he told himself. It’s just a potion. Think of it as Snape’s sadistic birthday present.

It seemed to take forever, but the sensation lowered and lowered down his body, inch by terrible inch. Finally, it found its destination—his balls—and Harry nearly fell to his knees.

“Remove your garments,” his Master said before taking his own swallow of the potion. He gave a small grimace but gave no other sign that the brew affected him.

Harry had removed his outer robe and shirt quickly enough. He paused before he unfastened his trousers and looked to his Master. The Dark Lord’s robes were simple and more easily shed, and he was already stepping out of his silken pants. Harry blushed and looked away, though it wasn’t lost on him that this wasn’t the first time he’d seen Lord Voldemort nude.

He was wary about lowering his own pants—what would he see? Were his testicles as red and irritated as they felt? Even the soft cloth brushing against his groin caused him to nearly lose control and begin scratching viciously.

Everything looked the same as ever.

Voldemort took Harry by the shoulder again and steered him into the ritual circle. “Kneel. Then mirror my actions exactly. Do not interrupt my chanting.”

Harry carefully knelt upon the stone floor, then watched in awe as his Master followed suit. The ritual circle wasn’t large, with only about three feet separating them. His Master held his eyes for a moment before reaching down to his own penis. He began to stroke it languidly, at the same time beginning to chant.

Harry gulped, as he watched; he couldn’t look away. His Master, laid bare, pleasuring himself: this was something he hadn’t even dreamt of seeing.

(He was such a liar).

A jolt of pain burst through his scar, and he jolted his eyes back up to meet his Master’s narrowed gaze. Voldemort raised a brow and looked pointedly down towards Harry’s own, unattended crotch.

Right. He was supposed to mirror his Master’s actions.

Harry brought shaking hands to his own cock and began stroking it to hardness. He let his gaze fall again to watch his Master’s graceful fingers at work and soon they were both moving their hands up and down and up in time with the ritual words. Every pull of his hand, though, worsened the horrific crawling sensation, until he felt he would tear his balls off to be rid of it.

Biting his lip, Harry gazed back to his Master’s face. Voldemort wasn’t trying to catch Harry’s eye anymore. He was unabashedly watching Harry’s moving hand. Harry flushed, flustered by the lascivious attention. He worried, for a moment, that his erection would flag under such pressure, but no, he was hard, so hard, the reddened skin hot beneath his tugging fingers.

He let his eyes wander to his Master’s cock. It was pale, as Harry had guessed it would be, but a soft blush of pink was faintly visible, breaking the otherwise perfect expanse of pearly skin. A small dewdrop was leaking onto the smooth head now, and Voldemort’s hand sped up, brushing the bead of pre-cum over the ridge of his cockhead, pulling and swirling his fingers.

Harry squeezed his aching cock tighter, the burning in his scrotum building but at the same time now irrelevant, as mixed as it was with the expected build of his arousal. He began pumping in earnest now and marvelled at how the Dark Lord followed his pace, his hand almost a blur as it chased the promised climax.

He was close; they were both close now. Already Harry could feel the anticipatory tensing in his balls; they rose as he neared orgasm and—

Spurt after spurt of come jetted into his fist, leaking out between his clenched fingers. Harry’s breath came in quick pants, and he watched as Voldemort pumped his hand faster, faster, to finally come into his own waiting hand. Amazingly, through the entire erotic ordeal, his Master hadn’t broken his chant; indeed, he was still speaking the same short magical phrase over and over. They weren’t done, not yet.

Harry watched as his Master withdrew his come-slicked hand from his own groin and, leaning forward, brought it to Harry’s. Only another flash through his scar reminded him that he must act as well.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was mirroring his Master again. And what his Master was doing was caressing Harry’s balls, spreading the come pooled in his palm against the soft flesh, massaging his own quickly cooling ejaculate into the most delicate, most sensitive area of Harry’s body. As he did so, the fierce crawling, itching sensation fled at once. Voldemort’s come instantly soothed like a miracle balm.

Harry’s heartrate, which hadn’t had time to slow, sped up dangerously as he slicked his own fingers against his Master’s scrotum. Voldemort had given no indication that he was similarly affected by the potion, that he was also suffering from the maddening sensation of insects, of burning. But knowing that he might be easing his Masters’ torment made it much easier for Harry to smooth his semen onto his Master’s skin.

Harry watched in awe as the creamy white of his own come spread over the Dark Lord’s hairless balls; he could feel them roll about beneath the soft, now glistening, skin.

He finally pulled back. Voldemort’s chanting changed; it sped up, growing louder and finally stopped and—

The burning was back—

—no, now it was tearing, slicing! And oh, sweet Circe, oh—

He was dying! This was—

The pain disappeared, all at once, as quickly as it came. Voldemort stopped chanting.

Harry moved to cover himself but:

“Don’t move. You must let my seed fully absorb into your skin.”

So they stayed like that, spread out before each other. The room—really no more than a cavern dug within the earth itself—was far too cool. Harry wrapped his arms tightly around himself. Voldemort had closed his eyes; perhaps he was hibernating like snakes do in winter. All Harry could do was shiver.

And not only with cold.

Chapter Text

For the first time, Harry was invited to supper in the Malfoy dining hall.

Lord Voldemort was seated at the head of the table, naturally. Harry was ushered to his Master’s right, where he stood waiting permission to sit. Draco caught his eye from the other end of the table and mouthed “Happy Birthday.” Lucius stood at the table opposite Voldemort, at the foot; his wife and child took their places on either side of him. Bellatrix waited next to Narcissa. Other Dark wizards and witches found their places, their names done in calligraphy on place-cards set beside their water goblets.

Harry was momentarily shocked when he realized who stood at Voldemort’s other side, across from him. It was Albert Runcorn, the Death Eater he had impersonated during his nearly disastrous infiltration of the Ministry of Magic earlier that year. The intimidating man’s mouth twisted in distaste when he recognized Harry. On Runcorn’s other side was Snape. Harry was surprised that the jaded traitor was welcome at the table at all.

Finally, Lucius sat. Everyone else followed suit.

There were no speeches. The food was carried in, served, enjoyed. Harry tried not to hunch over in his chair. The last time he’d eaten with so many people had been the Leaving Feast at Hogwarts in his sixth year, and that was hardly preparation for this elegant affair. The only noises were the quiet scrapes of silver on porcelain and of hushed conversation.

Runcorn was questioning Voldemort about which policies would be next enacted within the Ministry. Harry almost tuned out their discussion, but then:

“Harry will do no such thing,” Voldemort spat.

Harry looked up, startled. To his horror, everyone else had fallen silent, their own conversations forgotten at this new bit of intrigue.

“What won’t I be doing?” Harry asked nervously, speaking for the first time since he’d entered the room.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about, Potter,” Runcorn told Harry with a sneer.

Voldemort sniffed. He turned to Harry and said, “Albert has requested that you make a public statement regarding your upbringing.”

“My upbringing,” Harry echoed. He gulped. “You want me to go public with how the Dursleys treated me?”

It was Runcorn that answered. He smirked maliciously and said, “You’ve been a poster boy all your life. This is just more of the same.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Severus here had us all convinced that you lived better than Lucius. The liar fooled even himself. But that wasn’t it at all, was it? Those worthless Muggles treated you worse than a house-elf. That should be proof enough to get the bleeding hearts to stop the last of their protests.”

“What protests?” Harry asked weakly. He was surprised anyone was still brave enough (or foolish enough) to protest anything. “Has anyone been arrested?”

Runcorn snorted. “It’s mostly just middle-aged witches and their mothers writing opinion pieces to Witch Weekly. No one’s been thrown to the Dementors. Yet.”

Harry nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

“As I said, you will not be doing anything,” declared the Dark Lord. “I will not have you engaged in Ministry affairs.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Runcorn said smoothly. “But as I previously mentioned, my department has still not successfully completed the compilation of Muggle-born names, and part of the problem is that these same protestors encourage non-compliance with the Registration Act. If you still desire to segregate—”

“You know that I do,” Voldemort snapped. “Absolute Magical and Muggle segregation remains one of our top priorities. But you do not need Harry to make a statement to further that goal. I will not have him in the public eye. He is done with that.”

Harry stared down at his food. He certainly didn’t want to make a statement about his home life. Thoughts of the cupboard under the stairs, the bars on his window, and the cat-flap still made him feel ashamed, not to mention the emotional abuses and general neglect he’d suffered at the hands of his relatives. If after seven years he couldn’t admit these wrongs to his friends, how could he even hope to tell the press? He shuddered as he pictured Rita Skeeter pouncing on him for such an interview. She wouldn’t need to embellish a thing; the truth was as wickedly fascinating as it was humiliating.

He felt a hand on his knee. He looked up to meet Voldemort’s red, concerned eyes. Harry forced a smile; his left hand slid under the table and brushed his Master’s fingers.

Then he remembered what those fingers had been doing earlier that day, and his pulse quickened. He could still feel the now-dried residue from his Master’s semen on his skin. Voldemort had prohibited him from washing it off until the next morning, as the ritual potion would continue to absorb their essences through the skin. Voldemort had also warned him off ejaculating until that time, as that would disrupt the transfer. Harry had already been hard-pressed to leave his cock alone—the idea of what, exactly, had been rubbed onto his balls had brought him back to hardness rather quickly once the ritual was complete. When he’d embarrassedly brought up his concern about his inevitable wet dream, his Master had conjured a peculiar ring. “This should help with that, darling,” he had said, then had attached it to the base of Harry’s cock before trailing a teasing nail up the sensitive vein along his length.

“I understand your position, Albert,” Voldemort said as he gave Harry’s hand one last, comforting (and very distracting) squeeze before drawing away. “Ideally, if Harry were to make such a statement, it would help our people understand why the removal of Muggle-borns from their families is necessary. Even forgetting the Statute of Secrecy, there are too many instances where Magical children raised in Muggle households are subject to persecution. And my primary concern regarding the infiltration of Muggle customs within our world cannot be disregarded.”

Runcorn closed his eyes for a moment, as if to reign in his building frustration. Still, he sensibly kept his tone respectful as he argued, “This sacrifice on Mr Potter’s part will solve many of our problems. One interview and—"

“Find someone else,” Voldemort hissed, dangerously. “Or I will find someone who can.” He then picked his knife and fork back up and returned to his meal, taking his anger out on his steak and roast potatoes.

Runcorn nodded. “Yes, my Lord,” he said, his tone coming out meeker than seemed possible for such a giant of a man.

“What about Severus?” Bellatrix asked from further down the table. She giggled at the lethal glare the dour man sent her way. “We’ve all heard the rumours of how well his daddy treated him.”

Snape rolled his eyes and, when he realized that he now had everyone’s attention, drawled, “I haven’t the same public sympathy as our Mr Potter. My popularity is such that if my treatment at the hands of my father were known, Britain’s wizards and witches would be lining up to shake the hand of the first drunken Muggle they could find and congratulate him on a job well done.”

“Surely my defection is publicly known by now,” Harry pointed out. “No one will be outraged to hear of my…um…my childhood, and how it wasn’t that great. They’d probably be happy about it.”

Lucius cleared his throat and everyone turned to him. “On the contrary, the public has only been told that a Ministry inquiry has determined that you were not responsible for the death of Albus Dumbledore or any acts of sedition. Your name has been cleared.” He took a sip of wine, then frowned and added, quietly, “Your fellow ‘Undesirables’—your friends—have not been so lucky. The Prophet is still listing them as complicit in the former Headmaster’s murder. The press has reported that many of them were killed resisting arrest, and that those who surrendered themselves into Auror custody are awaiting trial. In addition, through the media and general changes in policy, we are seeing a shift in the public attitude to both Dark magic and our Lord’s reign. If your new status was to become more widely known, it will not be seen as a defection at all. If anything, it will seem a wise choice on your part, that you were able to break through Dumbledore’s and the former Ministry’s manipulations and restrictions.”

“How is it that my friends are condemned for being complicit in a murder of someone that you—um, I mean we—are condemning in turn?”  Harry asked.

“Because murder is still murder, you imbecile,” Snape snarled. He gripped his cutlery viciously. Harry imagined that Snape was imagining using them in a rather less innocuous manner than called for at a formal birthday dinner. Considering that Dumbledore had died by his own hand, Harry rather thought that Snape was the biggest hypocrite that he’d--

Actually, looking more closely at his former professor, Harry could see the tired remnants of a year-long battle with self-recrimination. And anger, so much anger, and bitterness. Snape’s whole life for nearly two decades had been so tangled a web that it was no surprise he’d been caught in it at the end. His survival, along with Harry’s, was truly the only surprise. Harry wondered if the man was more upset by his own guilt, or the fact that innocent children were now taking the fall. Not that he’d seemed to care all that much when it had been Harry that was in disgrace…

Harry glanced to his Master, to see his reaction. To his amazement, Voldemort wasn’t paying his Potions Master any attention. He was still attacking his beef, though for the first time Harry noticed that he wasn’t actually eating it. He was simply slicing it into tinier and tinier pieces. When both steak and potatoes were completely shredded, he began smashing his peas with back of his fork, rendering them to mush.

Harry hurried up eating his own meal. The only way out of this uncomfortable situation was for everyone to finish eating, so he might as well do his part. Then he could get back to his rooms, have a bath, give The Hobbit a try, and valiantly ignore his other new book. Maybe he’d even play with Dudley for a bit. Perhaps he could teach him some tricks, like any pet should know: rolling over, fetch, lots and lots of begging. Harry brought another forkful of carrots to his mouth, ignoring his lack of appetite.

But of course, there was still dessert. The tension had only been building as the meal continued, and Harry had been ready to dart back to his room as soon he was allowed. To his dismay, he found that instead of a being able to leave once the Dark Lord had finished and, ostensibly, the meal was done, that he was instead once more the centre of attention. A huge cake, layer upon layer of icing and cream, was levitated in front of him by a proud looking house-elf. The small creature didn’t seem to notice the palpable tension permeating the room, or perhaps this discord was standard for Malfoy dinner parties. Considering who was gathered here, that was actually rather likely.

“For yous, Mr Harry Potter sir,” gushed the happy elf.

Harry looked dazedly at the confection. “Thank-you?”

A series of disgusted snorts came from around the table, along with at least one mutter of “ignorant half-blood.” Harry ignored it all.  

“Yous is being most welcome,” the house elf said, then it snapped its fingers and at once the magnificent cake was cut into even pieces, each one levitated to a china dessert plate and whisked before a guest.

All eyes went to Voldemort, no one daring to eat before him. Harry picked up his dessert fork and waited for his Master to do the same.

But instead of picking up his fork, the Dark Lord pushed his serving away and stood. “Well,” he snarled. “What are you all waiting for?” and he strode out of the room in a billow of black silk.

Harry almost put his own fork down. He wasn’t hungry at all, and it was only because he felt bad for the poor, excited house-elf that he made himself taste the cake. It was, as expected, perfect, and he told the elf so--again to the disgust of his fellow diners. Harry tuned them out.

With Voldemort gone, everyone seemed to feel free to enjoy their dessert. The tension in the room subsided, though Harry still felt on edge. Bellatrix became a lot more raucous, laughing at just about everyone and everything she could, but mostly Snape.

The Potions Master got even more practice at rolling his eyes and didn’t stay long after the Dark Lord left. As he turned to go, he quirked his mocking lips at Harry and drawled, “Congratulations on surviving to your eighteenth, Mr Potter.”

Harry grumbled an ungracious thank-you to his former professor.

“Oooohhh, yes. Congratulations.” Bellatrix said, watching as Snape stalked out of the room. She leaned across the table to get a good look at Harry. Despite her words, he did not get the feeling that she was at all pleased that he’d survived at all. “So, tell me. What did our Lord give you for your birthday?”

The remaining diners perked up at her question. Was it so obvious to everyone that the Dark Lord Voldemort would have given him, Harry Potter, birthday gifts?

Harry shrugged. “Just some stuff. What did he give you for your birthday?” He almost kicked himself after he asked, though. He didn’t really want to know just how much his Master favoured her…and fuck, he’d asked outright.

She grinned. “I’ll tell you after you show us what he gave you.”

Harry battled with himself. As much as he was pleased with all his gifts, they would hardly wow a witch such as Bellatrix. The necklace, though—that was something she would no doubt covet. For a brief moment, Harry even worried that he’d been given it only to provoke their mutual jealousy; it was his Master’s style to play them off each other.

In the end: “Well, he gave me this…” He reached into his robes and pulled out the necklace. The delicate snake pendant spun on its chain, the emerald eyes glittering under the chandelier’s many candles.

Even Bellatrix couldn’t hold back a small gasp as she beheld his gift. Narcissa stood to get a look and smiled at Harry before sitting back down and resuming her dessert.

“It suits you,” Runcorn told Harry in an unflattering tone. “And I mean that sincerely.” Harry ignored him.

“It is very pretty,” Bellatrix said with a wavering voice. She began shovelling cake into her mouth.

Harry tried another forkful of his cake. It tasted far nicer now, he decided. “So, what did our Lord give you for your birthday?”

There was no answer for a long moment. Then Bellatrix said, offhandedly, “A necklace, too. I’m not wearing it right now,” which was obviously a lie. Everyone present knew that had the Dark Lord given her any jewellery at all, she would wear it night and day. Harry vowed then that he would never remove his own necklace, not ever.

She took another bite of cake. Then she smirked wickedly and said, “Oh, and one other thing. He always gives me one special thing.”

“What’s that?” Harry asked. He braced himself, knowing he’d not like her answer.

And he was right, for Bellatrix smiled prettily at him. She licked her lips, her tongue flicking away a smudge of icing.

“Lingerie.”

***

“Catch.”

Harry missed the gaily wrapped present that Draco tossed at him. It smacked into the table, knocking over his dessert plate. Only Harry’s seeker skills prevented Narcissa’s best china from crashing to the floor.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling at Draco.

“It’s from Mother and Father, too. It’s nothing special, but it’s not everyday that a Wizard turns eighteen, and we missed your coming of age last year.”

Harry began picking at the gift’s spell-o-taped seam. “Your father came round a few days beforehand to say hello. Everyone did. It was very exciting.”

Draco looked confused for a moment. Then he swallowed and looked away. “That’s not funny.”

“My life up until recently has pretty much been a joke,” said Harry. “And everything has changed so much, it’s hard to even remember the Harry that came before this.”

Draco looked back at him. “I like the new you,” he told him. “You’re a lot more fun.”

Harry playfully punched Draco in the shoulder. “I’ve always been fun. It was you that was such a pretentious git.”

Draco rubbed his shoulder. “For that, Potter, I should take that back,” he said, playfully taking on the clipped, arrogant tone he’d used all through Hogwarts. He reached out to snag the gift.

Harry whipped it away, just in time. “You’ll need better reflexes than that, Malfoy.”

Shifting aside the last layer of tissue paper, Harry was stunned by a rich gleam of gold. It was a pocket-watch. Each roman numeral was a series of tiny, twinkling diamonds.

“Mother noticed that you didn’t have one of your own. It’s—”

“Traditional. Yeah.” Harry swallowed, remembering his last birthday. He had no idea where the battered watch that the Weasleys had given him was now. He’d had it up to the eve of the Battle of Hogwarts, but it had gone missing since. He didn’t remember taking it off. “This is really…” He floundered.

“It’s too much,” he ended up saying.

Draco waved his hand dismissively. “Every young man needs a watch. Even silly Gryffindors. Can you believe she wanted to have the gems inlaid in the shape of a lion? Father told her that was going too far; I think he was worried that it might offend the Dark Lord. This was the compromise. You like it, don’t you?” he tacked on, his tone suddenly worried.

Harry smiled. “It’s brilliant. I’ll have to say thanks to both of them.” He lifted it out of the box. It was heavy, far heavier than the hand-me-down from Fabian Prewett.

Draco shifted in closer. “And that is quite the necklace you’ve got there. My aunt is probably getting into her cups. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so jealous.”

“I think my Master is going to have a hard time fending her off,” Harry said. At least for tonight, he knew that Voldemort would keep her at a distance, and her damnable lingerie would be useless to her.

Draco rubbed at his neck. His pale face was flushed, and he looked sideways at Harry.

“What?” Harry asked him, suspiciously. “What are you thinking?”

Draco shook his head. “Let me help you with that,” he said as he plucked the watch from Harry’s fingers. He expertly attached it to a button on the front of Harry’s shirt and dropped it into a pocket. He still didn’t meet Harry’s eye.

Harry had the suspicion that Draco thought that the Dark Lord would be unwilling to ‘entertain’ Bellatrix because he had a prior engagement. He recalled, then, how his Master had brought him to his quarters on Midsummer, using Harry for just such a thing. Oh, Bellatrix’s delicious disappointment was still a delight to remember. Nothing untoward had happened that evening; nothing would happen now, at least not until his Master’s rituals were complete.

But after that?

Again, the memory of his Master’s fingers, fondling him so gently. He felt himself start to stiffen.

What if he’d been in a more compromised position that evening? What if, when Bellatrix had knocked, he’d been on his knees before Voldemort, his lips not at the man’s feet, but focused elsewhere?

He then remembered the book his Master had given him that night. All at once, Harry was certain that Bellatrix had recognized it, Muggle though it was. Goblin fruits indeed. Pure temptation, more like it.  And that line—sweet Circe!

She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more

Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;

She suck’d until her lips were sore

Harry was as flushed as Draco now. The ring his Master had encircled his cock with was starting to dig into his growing erection. This was not the place for this! Harry lifted himself a few inches off his chair, hoping to shift his trousers and ease his mounting discomfort.

He needed a distraction.

He turned to Draco and asked, “Do you have a pensieve?”

Chapter Text

It was fake. Harry knew it was fake, but it seemed so very real. The rustle of wind in the high branches. The soft sunlight filtering through the canopy. The thick stench of unwashed bodies. He’d seen enough memories—including Slughorn’s faked ones—to have a basis for comparison. And this one was perfect, or near enough to perfect that it didn’t matter.

“Merlin,” Draco said as he took in the scene before them.

Of course Lucius owned a pensieve, and he’d been more than willing to lend it to them for an hour. With apprehension, Harry had tipped the silver wisps of falsehood into the basin. Both boys had leaned in and –

They found themselves in the Forbidden Forest. Harry rather thought it was the same clearing he was meant to die in during the Battle of Hogwarts. If it was, it didn’t matter, for it wasn’t a murderous Dark Lord waiting there, nor was Harry the target for the promised violence.

Chained to one of the Forest’s massive oaks was the giant. Harry had, of course, caught a glimpse of one of Voldemort’s giant allies during the battle, but the sheer size of the creature still took his breath away. It was much larger than Grawp. Harry was reminded of a story that a teacher had once read to his primary class: The BFG. This monstrosity was certainly no friendly giant. No, this one must have had a name such as Bonecruncher of Childchewer.

Harry’s gaze sped to the loincloth covering the monster’s privates. Something nasty was bulging there, a tip of mottled pink peeking out the top. Normally he would have averted his eyes the moment he realized he was seeing something so lewd. Not this time, though. He stared at it and shook his head. “There’s no way that’s going to fit. Not even Wizard Space could work that magic. It’s bigger than she is.”

“I can’t wait to see her stretch around that monster,” Draco said, grinning. “Do you think they’re really that big, or was it enhanced for the memory?”

Harry cocked his head, considering. “It looks proportionate,” he decided. “I think they’re normally that size.”

“I can’t even begin to wonder how half-breeds work. Obviously, like our Lord said, you’d have to have a human father and a giant mother. I’ll bet that oaf Hagrid’s mother didn’t even feel it when his dad—”

“Shut up about that,” Harry said quietly. He didn’t want to start a fight with Draco, but he still felt bad about Hagrid dying. He’d been a good friend to the very end.

Draco went quiet. Harry began to worry that he’d offended him after all, but then the other boy was laughing and saying, “Here they come. Fuck, look at her. She looks like a Knockturn Alley whore.”

An unknown masked Death Eater was pulling Dolores Umbridge along. Her wrists were tied with coarse rope and she stumbled along in high heels. Her pink shift rode up her thighs with each wobbling step and she almost fell where the path dipped, but her guide tugged her forward ruthlessly.

“Move your arse,” he grumbled. “Vurgk’s waited long enough for your cunt.”

Umbridge whimpered as she looked up at the chained giant. Like Harry, her attention was caught at its midsection. “Please, no,” she begged, shaking her head in desperation. Her face was wet with tears and snot. Harry noticed that she still had a stupid bow tied in her disheveled hair.

The Death Eater yanked her ropes violently, and she would have fallen had he not caught her by her rounded shoulder. He let go at once and backhanded her hard, and then she did crash to the ground. “Disgusting bitch.” He cast a cleansing charm at his hand, then tugged again at her lead. “What are you waiting for? Crawl to your lover, Princess.”

She shook her head and started to crawl backwards.

The Death Eater sighed. He drew something from a pocket and said, “I’d hoped I wouldn’t need to use this, but my Lord warned me that you might be stubborn.” He flicked his hand and a sinewy whip uncoiled. He gave the air a practice strike. “Move forward, doll, and I won’t have to use this on you.”

Harry looked at the whip with derision. “How is that much of a threat? It can’t be worse than getting the belt.”

Draco looked at him strangely before saying, “I don’t think that’s a normal whip, Harry.” Then he turned back to the spectacle unfolding in front of them. Under his breath, he said, “A belt?”

Harry tried to ignore his slip. The giant was getting restless; he’d noticed Umbridge now. His massive fist moved to his loincloth and dipped inside.

The whip sounded again, but this time was followed by a yelp, then an urgent cry of “I’m going, I’m going,” but the whip was already descending again. It still didn’t look like much to Harry. Her dress wasn’t even torn, but Umbridge’s face was white, and she scurried forward on hands and knees, closer and closer to the giant waiting to destroy her.

“Stand and strip,” her guard ordered lazily. He returned Umbridge’s indignant scowl with another whip strike. The witch obeyed immediately after that, quickly shedding her dress. When her hands dropped to her feet, to unfasten the clasps of her unwieldy shoes, the Dark wizard ordered, “Leave those on.”

Umbridge was just outside the giant’s reach now, and he strained at his bonds trying to get to her. One hand was still working his enormous cock, which was still obscured by the filthy loincloth.

“Vurgk,” the Death Eater called. “Sit down so she can reach you.” He waved a wand and the bit of cloth hiding the giant’s modesty vanished.

The giant didn’t seem to notice, though he apparently knew enough English to understand what was asked of it, as it sat heavily. Its cock jutted up between its hairy legs. Laid bare, it was easily the most repulsive thing Harry had ever seen. Warts the size of a man’s fist covered its length, and the huge head was crusted with a very unappealing substance. Below that, the most massive balls in the world were mounded upon the earth, like two fleshy boulders.

“Do you know what to do, sweetheart, or do I have to spell it out for you?” When Umbridge didn’t move, the Death Eater shoved her forward. She crashed to her knees again.

“I can’t,” she whispered, panicked. “It won’t fit.”

“Of course it will. You just need to moisten it up a bit, then it’ll slip right in. Go give it a few licks. Wet the head up a bit. Vurgk came all this way to meet you—you don’t want him to be disappointed.”

Disappointing Vurgk seemed to be the last thing Umbridge cared about, though another crack of the whip got her moving again. She crawled the last few metres, keeping her eyes glued decisively to the forest floor.

Harry couldn’t begin to imagine what compulsion could make an otherwise sane, albeit sadistic, woman move her face towards that disgusting organ. Umbridge obviously wasn’t being controlled via the Imperius or any other spell, but that whip—something about the whip spurred her to obey.

The Death Eater waved his wand and uttered a quiet levitation spell, and Umbridge was brought higher up so that her mouth was at a level with the horrible mushroomed tip of the giant’s cock. It was bigger than her head, hair and bow and all. It would need a lot of licking to moisten the whole thing.

Umbridge grimaced even as she stuck her tongue out and gave a long swipe across the massive glans. The giant didn’t even react, not right away. Umbridge pulled away, nearly retching. Even from here, Harry could see where her tongue had cleansed a stripe from the repulsive, crusted member.

“Lick faster. Make him feel it, bitch,” came the snarled demand from below.

Umbridge began licking the cockhead faster, though Harry decided that Vurgk’s cock was getting wetter from Umbridge’s thick tears than from her mouth. The Death Eater mumbled another spell, making the ropes binding her wrists loosen, then he ordered her to massage the glans with her fingers too, to make up for her pathetic mouth.

It took a few minutes, but soon the head of Vurgk’s cock was glistening all over. The entire organ seemed to have swelled even more. A giant fist was working the base of the penis, stroking it savagely, and one finger had come to push down on Umbridge’s head, making her rub her whole face back and forth over the bulging, red flesh. At least one time her face seemed to disappear, and Harry wondered if Umbridge had been pushed face-first into the giant’s eager piss-slit.

This had been a mistake, Harry realized as he watched. This was certainly distracting him from thoughts of his Master, but it wasn’t at all a relief to his own aching member. That goddamned ring! And he couldn’t take it off until the next day. Godric, his balls felt so full, close to bursting. And it wasn’t even his own semen filling them up, he realized. He wondered if this connection was making his Master ache too. This had been such a bad idea…

There was still the insemination to come, too. At the rate that Vurgk was fisting his cock, he’d blow before his cock even entered Umbridge properly. The Death Eater guard must have decided the same thing, for he levitated her a few feet. Then he uttered a few incomprehensible words, seemingly directed at the giant. A huge fist grabbed the witch out of the air, then turned her around and tried to press into her.

“Open your legs, princess. Don’t be shy.”

She wouldn’t, of course. Another spell shifted her legs aside. At once, Vurgk pressed her down and down, spearing himself into her relatively tiny pussy.

A thick bulge slowly distorted her belly, before it moved slowly up and up her torso. It was as if she’d had her ribs removed, the way her chest pushed out with the intrusion. Eventually, after pushing her flush against his inhuman balls, her neck bulged grotesquely, and her head pushed up a few inches.

It was all in. Somehow, the monster had managed to bury its entire cock into her.

“Fuck,” Draco murmured.

Harry could only nod.

And then Vurgk drew out again, just as slowly, almost all the way, with only the tip buried inside.

“I can’t understand what I’m seeing,” said Harry, finally finding his voice. “What am I seeing, Draco? What is this?”

“Fuck.” Draco could only repeat himself, shaking his head, his eyes wide.

And the giant did just that. He got rougher and rougher, moving in and out of Umbridge with increasing speed. Each time he levelled out, her whole body seemed to lengthen, and her head bobbled at the end of the thickened neck. A grotesque squelching noise drowned out any other forest sounds.

The Death Eater had unabashedly moved his non-wand hand into his robes, stroking himself in time with Vurgk’s destructive thrusts. Harry looked discretely at Draco. The blond was motionless, though his hand did twitch now and then in the direction of his own tented crotch.

Harry licked his lips and cursed himself again for suggesting they watch this when he had no hopes of relieving his arousal afterwards. Of course, he hadn’t expected that it would turn him on this much. Now his cock was aching for release, and there was nothing he could do about it until the next day.

The Death Eater began pumping even faster than Vurgk was fucking into Umbridge, quicker and quicker, until he was coming onto the forest floor. Harry hardened even more, straining the ring that prevented him from doing the same. He felt that if the evil thing wasn’t binding him, he would have come in his pants by now. What happened if he ejaculated in a memory? Would his pants be messed in the real world, even as his face lay pressed into the pensieve?

“He’s finishing up,” Draco said, drawing Harry’s attention back to the main event.

Vurgk wasn’t pulling out much now, but kept his cock nearly buried to the hilt inside Umbridge’s far-too-small body, only pulling back a foot or so before ramming back in. Harry thought for a moment that she’d passed out, but no; she was opening her eyes again but briefly before squeezing them shut in pain and fear.

After one especially brutal thrust, the giant mostly stilled. He pushed Umbridge further down, and her head strained up and up until it seemed absolutely reasonable that it would pop off entirely. He grunted as he unloaded deeply inside her. After what seemed an eternity, he pulled her off and tossed her to the forest floor. She crumpled in a trembling heap, and a river of glutinous grey began to flow from her abused pussy. Harry marvelled that he hadn’t drawn her innards out with his cock when he’d pulled out so swiftly.

Vurgk was done with her. He stood up again and started pulling at the chains securing him to the oak.

“I’ll let you loose soon, big guy,” the Death Eater said as he tucked himself back into his robes. He cast another spell at Umbridge, and the flood of semen dammed. “I just need to plug up this slut. We don’t want her to spill out all your hard work, now do we?”

The bulk of the giant’s load still distended Umbridge’s stomach. She looked pregnant already. She didn’t look at all a happy mother-to-be, though she seemed to have the same idea that Harry did as she ran her stubby fingers over her bloated belly.

“Get moving, Umbitch, unless you’re hungry for more.” The ropes binding her wrists were spelled back into place, and she was pulled summarily away, her clothes left behind to soak up the spilled, congealing sperm.

Chapter Text

It was hard for Harry to make eye-contact with Draco after he pulled out of the pensieve. He turned away, shifting his robes about as discreetly as he could.

“Want to know something funny?” Draco said to him. “I used to picture Umbridge naked whenever I needed to squelch an unwanted erection. So much for that.”

Harry laughed weakly. “You can always picture Dumbledore,” he suggested. It had always worked for him.

Draco shuddered. “That’s going too far. You take that back.” Then more seriously, he added, “So the necklace and the memories. What else did the Dark Lord give you?”

“A couple books. He gave Nagini a Muggle to eat, too, but I stole it from her.”

Draco grimaced. “Why would you want to eat a Muggle?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to eat him, obviously. It was my cousin. I wanted him for a pet. Do you want to see him? Don’t worry about Nagini being cross. I asked my Master to give her someone else to eat instead.”

“I guess one Muggle is as good as another,” Draco said, though he looked uncomfortable at the idea of Nagini feasting on anyone at all.

“Actually, I traded Dudley for a Mudblood. He wasn’t shrunken like my cousin was, so it was a better deal for her.”

Harry managed to drag Draco to his rooms after a bit of coaxing. His sister was asleep by the hearth, though she was unable to coil up tightly due to the thick lump distorting her length.

“Who was it,” Draco asked as he eyed the unwieldy bulge in Nagini’s belly. “Was it one of the rebels?”

“Yup.” Harry went into the bathroom and released Dudley’s chain. “Rise and shine, Big D.”

Draco was still staring at Nagini when he emerged. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t Granger was it?” He looked almost horrified by the thought.

Harry frowned. “No, of course not. It was Dean Thomas. He was in my year in Gryffindor.”

“Weird. You shared a room with him for, what, six years? That would be like watching her eat Blaise or Theo.”

“It is not weird,” Harry said sharply. “And neither Zabini or—what’s his last name? Nott?—opposed the Dark Lord. It’s completely different. Besides, it was him or Dudley. And I wanted Dudley to play with.”

Draco looked rattled, but he forced a smile. “Okay. Well, show him to me then.”

Harry set Dudley on the ground, then sat down. Draco scrunched his nose but followed suit.

“I only got him this morning, so I haven’t taught him any tricks yet. Other than chase, that is.” He snickered at his own joke.

Draco’s mouth was twisted in an odd mix of revulsion and fascination. “What sort of tricks were you thinking of teaching him?”

Harry shrugged. “Normal pet tricks. Not that I ever had a dog or anything. Do you have any ideas?”

“Fetch? I don’t know.”

Harry had Flippy bring them a plate of chocolate biscuits to share, making Dudley perform small but ridiculous tasks to get a few spare crumbs.

“Food was always a big motivator for you, wasn’t it?” Harry said to his tiny cousin, who was still limping from his run-in with Nagini that morning. “I’m going to fatten you up with cake and cookies. So fat you have to roll about to move at all. Would you like that?”

Dudley shook his head. He was mouthing something, but Harry didn’t bother to try to figure out what it was.

“I’d have thought you’d like me to spoil you, Dudders. It would be a lovely reminder of your Mummy and Daddy,” Harry said in a sickeningly sweet voice that reminded him of Petunia presenting her precious Diddykins with two slices of pie.

“Leave off him,” Draco said. “He’s only thin because he was starved in the dungeons. I expect he sees the weight loss as the only bright thing in all of this.”

Harry picked his cousin up by the chain. “I can do with him as I please.”

“Not for long,” Draco pointed out. “You’re strangling him.”

Harry looked lazily down at his cousin. Dudley was ineffectually pulling at his collar. Harry watched him start to turn to blue.

“I’ve got to go,” Draco said abruptly. “I’ll see you in a few days.” He rose and didn’t even bother brushing the wrinkles from his pants.

“I’m free tomorrow,” Harry said. “I was hoping you could show me around the forest I can see from my window, the one by the Quidditch Pitch. Nagini will be ready to go by then. It didn’t take her long to digest my aunt, after all. Dean shouldn’t be any different.”

Draco shrugged apologetically. “My father needs me at the Ministry tomorrow.”

“He’s never needed you before,” Harry said. He put Dudley back down on the floor. His cousin kept groping at his neck. Harry scowled down at him and snarled, “You can breathe now, stupid. Stop being dramatic.”

Draco was nearly out the door. “You’ll be okay here for a few days. You have ‘Dudders’ to keep you company, after all.”

***

It wasn’t the bright sunlight streaming through the curtains that woke Harry the next morning. No, it was the awful ring that his Master had ‘gifted’ him with the day before. It was digging in worse than ever, pressing painfully against Harry’s morning wood. But it had done its job—he hadn’t come in his sleep—and now he could take the blasted thing off. Unfortunately, he found that the thing was too tight to even hope to move it. He’d need to calm himself first.

Dumbledore. Dumbledore. Dumbledore. Harry felt thick waves of revulsion blossom up and down his spine, and thankfully his erection began to wilt. He smiled at his easy success and tried to tug the ring down his length, then off.

It still wouldn’t budge. Hell, it wouldn’t even rotate. Harry sighed in frustration and stormed to the bathroom. He relieved his bladder, not caring if he made a bit of a mess. He was still a bit hard and it was hard to aim, after all…

Dudley started at the rude awakening. He automatically swiped the stray splashes from his cheek and blearily looked about. When he finally looked up and saw Harry give his prick a last shake, he gagged in revulsion and began scrubbing at his face with his tattered shirt.

Harry ignored him and began rummaging about in the cabinet beneath the sink. There were so many bottles under here, potions for this and that and who knows what. There had to me something here—some bath oil, perhaps. Anything that would help him slip this thing off his dick.

Perfect! He grabbed a bottle of lubricant and rushed back to the bedroom. He stripped his night pants off and laid back on the bed before pouring a glob onto his palm. He’d never used the stuff before, but at once he realized how much better this was to his own spit. It was already warm and sent pleasing tingles into his skin. It wasn’t ticklish at all, but rather it seemed to heighten his sensitivity to touch. Made everything that much intense. After he got the ring off, he decided, he’d reward himself with a good wank and really test this stuff out.

He smoothed the lubricant all around the ring and the neighbouring hard flesh, but still it wouldn’t loosen even a teensy bit. He even tried to catch his fingernails under the horrid thing, deciding that he just needed a better grip—

“Ouch!” he hissed. Now his cock was throbbing with the sharp sting of his nails as well as his arousal, which had naturally raged back as soon as he began paying it more attention. It was worse now than when he’d first woken up. What was he thinking, spreading that sensitising potion all over himself—how could he be so stupid! His penis was turning an alarming shade of purple. He tentatively brought his hand back towards the inflamed organ, thinking to check it as a mother might a child’s forehead for fever. But before he could even touch himself this time, his cock jumped excitedly towards his fingers, seeking a touch that would never bring relief.

Harry tried to think of Dumbledore again, but that didn’t help a second time. He was too flustered to concentrate. He had to get this thing off now. It was cutting off circulation! His Master could help—but looking at the clock, Harry realized that Voldemort was unlikely to visit him for another three hours, if he came at all. He’d woken early, and the midmorning visit was a long way off. He couldn’t wait until then. Every lost minute brought fears of amputation—no, of castration!— into his mind.

“Master, help!” he moaned. There were monitoring charms in place. He had a mind link with the Dark Lord. He wouldn’t be abandoned now. He shut his eyes tight and focused as best he could on their connection. Help Help Help!

He pulled his sleeve up and stared forlornly at his Dark Mark. If he had a wand, he could use it to summon his Master. He prodded the Mark with his fingers, but of course nothing happened. He even pressed the brand to the scar on his forehead. Something had to work.

But his Mark didn’t activate. His pleas did nothing. His Master didn’t come. His penis remained a livid shade of purple.

In the end, he opted for a cold, cold bath.

***

He had let his lunch grow cold. When it had first appeared, the tomato soup had looked very inviting. The flecks of freshly ground pepper sprinkled on top had tickled his nose as he’d leaned in to breathe in the delicious aroma. But he’d figured that he could wait a few minutes. His Master often came to share an early lunch with him.

Voldemort didn’t come. Harry waited a bit more, long enough that the enticing steam wafting from his bowl had long disappeared. He knew he could have called for his house-elf to warm it up for him, but he couldn’t be bothered. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

Nagini was still exhausted from her meal the day before. As she was after eating Petunia, his sister was no longer swollen from her meal, but she was still a lazy lump of a snake. Harry reflected that she wouldn’t have been up for a romp in the nearby woods, even if Draco had been free this afternoon. Hopefully Lucius wouldn’t be taking Draco to the Ministry with him on a regular basis from now on. He’d become a solid part of Harry’s life. Merlin, it had only been a day and he was already missing the spoiled prat. And of course, without Draco or his Master to escort him, Harry was stuck in his rooms.

It wasn’t long ago, he reflected, that he’d been just fine with that arrangement. Before Midsummer, his chambers had been a sanctuary. He hadn’t felt the need to leave them; he’d practically been forced out the door, in fact. But now that he’d had more freedom…

Well, he knew it wasn’t freedom. If he was free, he could open his door himself. Just to be sure, he went over and tested the handle. It was still locked.

But he’d expected that. He’d surrendered both his autonomy and liberty in the Forbidden Forest, nearly three months ago. He’d had a lot of time to get used to the idea. Besides, he’d never really been free. Not really.

Being resigned to his lot didn’t make him any less bored, though. There was nothing to do. His bath had been a success, though he hadn’t relished immersing himself in the chilly water at first. In a fit of sadism, he’d decided that misery loves company, and had tossed Dudley in first. The stupid boy had struggled to stay afloat at first, and Harry had had to rescue his nearly drowned cousin from the bottom of the tub. It was strange watching someone fiercely hacking up the offending water while Silenced. He wondered if not needing to listen to the pathetic moans (not to mention screams) from the other boy had hardened him at all. He certainly didn’t feel particularly bad or guilty about Dudley’s current situation. Really, his cousin should be grateful for being rescued from Nagini. He should be on his fucking knees every time Harry so much as walked by, thanking him for his mercy, and he told Dudley so.

But now Dudley was again restrained behind the toilet, insensate and useless. It wasn’t until after the magic had spasmed along the chain, far more fiercely than it had before, that Harry realized that water intensified the locking spell’s shockwave. But his pet was still alive and would recover in time, though it left Harry with no one to play with now.

Eventually, he’d tried the new novel his Master had given him. It took him a bit to get into The Hobbit, and he’d almost given up altogether when the Gandalf made his appearance, as the book’s description of him was so much like another wizard, one that Harry had known rather well. Of course, as he had learned this year, he hadn’t known as much about Dumbledore as he’d once thought. All he knew for sure was that he was a manipulative bastard of a man who would easily send an innocent man on an impossible, deadly quest. This Gandalf was promising to be just as meddlesome, just as much trouble. Harry wanted to scream at Bilbo Baggins to not bother answering the bloody door, and not be fooled into setting out on this ludicrous quest that didn’t concern him in any way at all.

Get out now while you still can, he almost screamed at the book. He slammed it shut, vowing to leave Bilbo to his idiocy and doom.

But there was nothing else to do. He picked the novel back up, and was swept away to adventures far, far beyond the Misty Mountains.

***

It was hard to fall asleep that night. He hadn’t realized how easily his hand wandered when he was trying not nod off, but he kept clutching at himself as he drifted off. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t be an issue. Mostly he wouldn’t even stroke himself to completion but would just hold himself softly until he fell asleep. But now, with the knowledge that he’d be stuck hard and wanting? His thoughts couldn’t help but spiral into more and more erratic, and erotic, directions. His touch was no longer a comfort.

And when he woke?

Oh Merlin, when he woke! The buildup from the day before, and the night—and oh fuck, the dreams he’d had, all of his Master. Before his birthday, he’d only been able to imagine him thus, but now he knew. He knew just what those perfect fingers would look like manipulating something other than his yew wand.

It was still night, still dark. He could feel the sharp, sweet false assurance of burgeoning release, his aching balls drawing up and up and he’d not been thinking, still half-asleep, and his hand had naturally moved to his cock and began to fondle—

His mind was flooded with the image of his Master’s long fingers stroking a larger, softly scaled cock. Nimble twists. A flask set to catch his emission. The cauldron bubbled close by, waiting for this final ingredient, and then he’d complete the ritual that had simmered in his mind for so long. And after? He would call for his Bella and let her prove her loyalty once more. But not yet, not yet. First the potion. As he pleasured himself, he let his thoughts wander. He’d enjoyed watching his Horcrux during the ritual the day before, on the wonder and embarrassment warring on features he’d hated until so recently. That saucy mouth that begged to be conquered. How easily he could imagine it, and how much more delicious would Harry’s plump lips be around him than his own hand.

Harry had been thrust back into his own mind right as his Master’s fingers had tightened and stilled. His own body tried to mirror the release, but of course the cock-ring still prevented his orgasm. He clutched at the sheets, trying to keep himself from uselessly bucking upwards. It was like his ejaculate just got stuck, halfway along the promise of climax. And the knowledge that his balls weren’t even filled with his own come was not helping him calm back down whatsoever. When his Master had told him about how and why he’d planned on transferring their ‘vital energies’, he’d not gone into much detail regarding how it would affect his human Horcrux. Harry certainly hadn’t expected it to be quite this uncomfortable.

His scar was throbbing, but not with pain. It was the same throbbing that pulsed through him when he came. And now his forehead was warm, as if coming down from a delicious high.

And then he realized: Voldemort had thrown their connection wide open. He hadn’t been dreaming of his Master. He’d been given a vision. And if his memory wasn’t wrong, he realized that Voldemort’s night was far from over.

He grit his teeth, ran another bath, and settled into the frigid water, attempting to clear his mind as best he could.

He couldn’t stomach the alternative.

***

“You look exhausted. Why are you still in bed?”

It was the second of August, and his Master had come through the tapestry shortly before lunch. Harry had already suffered through at least one more arctic bath and was feeling rather rejected by Nagini, who had refused to share the fire while her brother was so cold.

“I had trouble sleeping,” Harry said, wrapping the blankets around himself even tighter.

Voldemort eyed him with a smirk. “Are your rooms not warm enough? Shall I call Flippy and punish him for his negligence regarding your care?”

Harry shook his head. “No, Master,” he pleaded. He thought the Dark Lord was only teasing him, but it wasn’t worth the risk. “I took a cold bath.”

His Master’s smirk grew to a grin. He gestured for Harry to elaborate.

It was the last thing Harry wanted to do. But his Master was here now, finally. He couldn’t lose this opportunity, no matter how embarrassing it was to ask for help. “I couldn’t get the ring off,” he admitted. “And the bath…it helped me deal with that.”

Voldemort chuckled. “Of course you could not remove it, my dear. It was charmed so that only I could release it.” At Harry’s look of dismay, he added, “I had intended to take it yesterday morning. That was before you misbehaved.”

“Misbehaved?” Harry shook his head in denial. He hadn’t done anything he shouldn’t.

“You did, Harry. I left the ring on you as punishment for your arousal the night of your birthday, when you were watching Umbridge defiled. It was most unwanted, for it bled through to me while you were away from your rooms, when I was unwilling to sever the connection to you out of concern for your safety.”

Harry slumped against his headboard. “I needed you,” he whispered. “I was really scared when I couldn’t get it off.”

“Scared?” Voldemort looked sceptical. “You are always safe in your rooms.”

“But it was really, really tight. I was scared it would fall off.” Harry’s face was burning. He didn’t want to think about how red his cheeks must be.

“It?” Voldemort sounded amused.

Harry pinched his lips together and gestured towards his groin. “I tried to call you, but you wouldn’t come.”

“I have been thoroughly Occluding since you returned here, darling.” He sat at the table and motioned Harry forward. “But I decided that you had learned your lesson by now.”

Harry nodded, though the only lesson he had learned was not to get horny outside of his rooms when Voldemort was not in a position to relieve his own arousal. Considering that this transference of their semen was a one-time thing (he hoped), that was hardly a lesson he needed to remember.

“On the contrary,” Voldemort said as he casually pulled the waistband of Harry’s sleep-pants down; his cock sprang proudly, hopefully into view. “There are many circumstances where I might not be able to take care of such needs. I do not like distractions, Harry. Remember that.” A whispered spell and his fingers were coated in a shiny substance.

Harry gasped as his Master wriggled his lubricated hand over the cock-ring, shifting it this way and that before slowly pulling it off and banishing it with a wave of his hand.

When Harry went to pull his pants back up, Voldemort held up a hand. “We still must reverse the transference ritual.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. He had to go through that again?

Voldemort laughed at Harry’s horrified expression. “The reversal is far simpler.” He drew a small bottle from one of his many pockets and removed the cork. Then he grabbed at Harry’s swollen balls with one hand and poured half of the bottle onto them.

Harry braced himself for the sensation of crawling, swarming insects. Sure, this potion was different than the last--topical for one thing--but he didn’t trust Snape to have brewed anything pleasant. He was therefore surprised when he felt nothing but the slight coolness from the potion itself washing over his scrotum. That was, he felt nothing until Voldemort tightened the grip on his balls.

“You really are full, aren’t you?” he said to Harry. “Did the knowledge that it was my come inside here make it easier or harder for you to ignore your—” another squeeze—“predicament.”

Harry bit his lip. “Harder,” he said. He closed his eyes as his cock took his words to heart. His Master eyed his erection in amusement and released him with a final, teasing caress of his oiled fingers. Harry couldn’t help whimpering at the loss of contact.

Voldemort licked his lips. “I must admit, when I was fucking Bellatrix yesterday, I imagined it was you I had filled with come. Remembering that you already were was a delight.” He finally lifted his gaze from Harry’s erection. “Ah. And I meant to congratulate you.”

“Master?” Harry watched as Voldemort parted his own robes and poured the remainder of the potion onto pale balls that didn’t look needy at all.

“Yes, dear. On finally becoming a man. I’ll wager that you hadn’t expected that someone would spend your virginity for you.”

It took Harry a moment to understand.

Spent his virginity for him? How was that even possible?

“Wouldn’t that mean that I wasn’t a virgin from the moment we conducted the transference ritual?” he finally asked. “As my body had taken on your more, er, experienced…ah…essences?”

Voldemort just shrugged, as if the answer wasn’t all that interesting to him. “It’s all semantics, isn’t it darling?’

Harry didn’t really think it was, but the Dark Lord was right about one thing: it didn’t matter. What would he do with such virginity? It wasn’t a value that was meaningful for him to spend. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But of course it had to have been Bellatrix that his Master had filled with his…

No, he wouldn’t think about it. And besides, in a way, she had it far worse. When he came, he was done with it. It was out of his body at once, usually into a tissue, or washed immediately from his hand. Out of sight, out of mind. But Bellatrix wasn’t so lucky. And if she thought it was Lord Voldemort’s come? Harry imagined she’d tried to keep it in her as long as physically possible, or would at least relish every slimy trickle spilling from her nasty pussy.

He almost thought to tell her, just to witness her disgust. Hell, maybe she wouldn’t so trustfully spread his legs for the Dark Lord, not knowing what exactly he was pumping into her. But Harry was far from suicidal. Bellatrix wouldn’t hesitate to curse him into oblivion if she knew what had really happened, even if it hadn’t been remotely his fault.

And regardless of who’d been the first to be filled by his ejaculate, he was still a virgin in many ways. No one could take that from him.

Well, that wasn’t quite true, he reflected.

A warm bath was in order, along with another test of that sensitising lubricant. He flipped through the Kama Sutra until he found something that really caught his attention and imagined all the ways that he could have the remainder of his virginity taken from him.

Chapter Text

Nagini was restless. Harry was restless.

Even Dudley seemed restless, though Harry spent less and less time playing with him. He was fine where he was, chained to the bathroom floor. Harry had gotten bored with his cousin fairly quickly, and especially with the chore of remembering to feed him. Eventually, he’d given Dudley the leftovers from his treacle tart one evening and had warned Flippy not to clean it up, no matter how mouldy it might get. It was enough to last the tiny Muggle for a while, he figured. He’d check on him again after a week or so.

Draco still hadn’t come. A few days after the cock-ring fiasco, Harry had finally asked his Master if Lucius Malfoy would need his son to assist him at the Ministry for much longer.

Voldemort had looked sideways at him. “What are you talking about Harry? Draco has not been to the Ministry recently. Has he not been attending to you?”

Harry had shrugged. Then talk had turned to more mundane things before his Master had to leave.

Nagini was climbing the walls. Literally.

“Be careful you don’t fall,” Harry told her. “The curtain rod doesn’t look very sturdy.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Harry really needed to get out of this room if he was starting to anthropomorphise her scenting behaviour.

She slithered down and began undulating in thick waves across the floor. “Nagini needs to go outside.”

You and me both, Harry thought. “Let me read more of my book to you,” he hissed. It was the closest thing to an outing either were likely to get just now.

She grumbled, but finally coiled up near him and listened as Harry described how Bilbo Baggins wandered the seemingly endless, dark tunnels under the Misty Mountains, his only light coming from his enchanted sword. Both he and his sister sat up, alert, when the hobbit came to the cavern with the lake and the wicked creature Gollum who lived there.

‘Riddles in the Dark.’ The name of the chapter nearly took Harry’s breath away. Had his Master felt the same thrill at seeing his name printed here? Or had he always flinched from it? Harry didn’t feel the same way at all. Tom Marvolo Riddle. There was that thrill again. Lord Voldemort.

Master: yes, that was best. But Riddle was still a luscious mouthful, so long as Harry didn’t utter it in his Master’s presence.

After all, the Dark Lord didn’t punish him for his stray thoughts.

The cavern Gollum lived in was easy to imagine. Harry simply remembered the cave that Dumbledore had dragged him to in his sixth year. The similarities were too great to ignore—cave, lake, boat, island. Best of all, there was a treasure hidden on the island: Gollum’s ‘precious’ ring.

Harry’s Master had called him—Harry—precious. Was this a threat? A reminder that if he wasn’t good, he could still take the place of the locket, tucked away in a cavern? But no, he didn’t think so. His Master had seemed happy with him lately. And Harry had been so good. He was loyal, obedient, willing. He was just reading into things.

But that ring. That precious ring. Why did it remind him so much of a Horcrux?

Was it one?

Was this children’s novel the first time Tom Riddle had come across the idea of a Horcrux?

Of course not, Harry told himself, scoffing. The idea was absurd. Laughable, in fact.

He hoped Draco came soon. He’d been shut in too long. He needed to get outside before he went completely mad.

The knock at his door was sharper than normal, the rhythm off.

Finally, Harry thought, swinging his legs from the bed and striding half-way to the door. “Enter,” he called. He bit back the “It took you long enough,” that threatened to spill off his tongue.

He was glad he’d restrained himself. The blond hair attached to the person who entered was too long to belong to Draco. “Mr Malfoy?” Harry exclaimed. He moved closer to Nagini and prodded her with his bare foot. She roused at once and reared up, hissing at this new threat.

Lucius sniffed and raised an eyebrow. “Our Lord has asked that I escort you and his familiar onto the grounds today. Get yourself ready at once, for my time is limited.” He began tapping his elegant cane on the hardwood near the entrance, as if counting down the seconds Harry was already wasting.

“Where’s Draco?” Harry asked as he pulled on a pair of socks.

“My son is indisposed. Tell the snake I have permission to enter these rooms.”

Harry glared at him. Thinking about it, how was Harry to know if Lucius did, in fact, have permission? Though Harry rather doubted that the door would open for anyone the Dark Lord disapproved of, he wondered that since this was Lucius’s ancestral home he had certain rights written deep into the manors wards that even his Master could not contest.

“I do not trust this wizard,” he told Nagini. “He is taking us out, but do not stray far from me.”

Nagini lowered herself and slithered in and out of Harry’s feet, nearly pushing him over in her haste to leave their rooms. “This is one of Master’s men,” she hissed. “He has given Nagini rabbits to eat. But he is slippery as a hatchling snake. Nagini will watch him.”

“I told her,” Harry said to Lucius, smiling.

Lucius didn’t look reassured. “Follow quickly. You will be returned in one hour, no matter how long it takes for you to get outside.”

With a roll of his eyes, Harry followed quickly after the Malfoy patriarch with Nagini in tow. He rather thought it was unfair that his time was measured from when he first left his rooms. The manor was so large, a quarter of his allotted time would be eaten up just getting to the entrance.

“Follow me,” Lucius said as soon as they were outside.

Harry hesitated. “Where are we going?” he demanded. He’d already had to call Nagini back to him; as soon as they’d left the manor and she’d felt the sun warm her back, she had forgotten his direction to stay close and had set out at once for the standing stones.

“We are taking the air,” Lucius said as he strode forcefully down a gravel lane. He looked angry. Perhaps he thought this new task was beneath him. It was, after all, glorified pet-sitting. Well , Harry rather thought the anger was misplaced. It was Draco that had ducked out on his duties.

Thinking of his new friendship in such a way made his stomach sour. He’d not felt lately that Draco was but his escort. Harry had thought they were bonding; Draco had obviously seen Harry as another chore. His willing smiles had been relief at an easy assignment.

Perhaps all he could depend upon were his sister’s affection and his Master’s possessiveness.

Nagini glided in and out of flower beds, though she kept a watchful eye on her brother and—more importantly—Lucius. She was hardly discrete, but Harry rather thought she served her purpose as guard snake better if people felt they were under constant threat. It was his Master’s modus operandi as well.

At least she was getting exercise, though that would mean she’d conk out on the hearth as soon as they returned, and his loneliness would press into him until he was bored enough to call his house-elf for a chat. Merlin forbid he become so desperate.

He should have had Draco to talk with. Harry pinched his lips together. It had been easier before he knew that Draco had lied to him about why he wasn’t visiting. It had been easier before his father had shown up in his place. It had been—

“Stop dawdling,” snapped Lucius from further up the path. “Must I remind that I do not have all day?”

Harry huffed. “You wouldn’t need to bother with me at all if your son was doing his job.” He looked away, pretending to care about Narcissa’s carefully tended rosebushes.

Lucius bristled, then stalked towards Harry. He bravely stepped over Nagini when she barred his path. “My son is in St Mungo’s.”

St Mungo’s? “Why is he—?” But this was likely some new lie. Harry set his teeth. First it was the Ministry, and now the Wizarding hospital.

“I do not know why.” Lucius was so close now that Harry could see the man’s bloodshot eyes. He saw anguish there, but no deceit. “But I suspect you have something to do with it. If you weren’t under our Lord’s protection—” He clenched his teeth together before he damned himself with his threat.

Harry exhaled sharply. Why was he always taking the blame for everything? “Why would I know?” But then he realized, immediately and absolutely, why he was at fault. At once the image of the bedridden Longbottoms flooded his mind’s-eye, but this time a familiar, aggravating blond was laid up near them. He forced himself to ask, “Which ward?”

Lucius eyed him coldly. “Spell damage.”

Oh gods!—“Not the Janus Thickey Ward?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Of course not. He has been admitted to a private room until he recovers. Besides, the Janus Thickey Ward has been dissolved. A Ministry committee recently decided that our resources can be better spent than in supporting patients with no hope of recovery or re-entering society.”

Recovered. Harry stopped listening as soon as he heard that Draco would be all right. He breathed a sigh of relief. “I hope he comes home soon.”

Lucius seemed to soften. “As do I.”

“I didn’t mean to get him in trouble.” Harry didn’t know why he felt like he had to explain himself. He wasn’t trying to make excuses. “Draco had told me that he would be busy with you at the Ministry. I had only asked my Master when he would be free to visit me again.”

Lucius nodded, and his voice was clipped when he said, “It would seem that there have been a number of misunderstandings. I will ask my son about his motives for misleading you when I visit him this evening.”

This was twice now that Draco had suffered his Master’s wrath because of him. The other boy wouldn’t want to spend time with him again—if he ever really wanted to in the first place. “Tell him ‘hi’ from me,” he said softly. He knew it wasn’t worth much, but it was all he had to offer.

Lucius swallowed and looked away. “I will.”

The sunlight didn’t feel so pleasant anymore. Nagini had wandered closer and had begun scenting the air near Lucius. The older man looked wary but was admirably stoic in the face of her attention.

She turned to Harry and hissed smugly, “This one tastes afraid.”

“He is frightened for his son,” he told her. “Master has hurt Draco.”

Nagini slithered a few metres away. “I am tired of slithering about. I want to sunbathe.” Then she darted off to the standing stones. Harry watched her for a few seconds before realizing that she was leaving him alone.

“Wait up!”

As he rushed after her, Harry could hear Lucius’s grumbled, “So much for my appointment with the French delegation.” But he conjured a rabbit for Nagini to chase anyway, and the afternoon ended far more pleasantly than it had begun.

***

It was another week before Draco showed up again. “I owe you an explanation. And an apology for misleading you,” he said as stepped into Harry’s rooms.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry told him. He’d come to terms in his own involvement in Draco’s hospitalization. He’d only asked an innocent question. He wasn’t to blame, not really. He had also decided that he didn’t want to hear any excuses about why Draco had felt the need to lie to him about why he wasn’t visiting.

But it seemed that Draco wasn’t willing to let it rest. He paced Harry’s room. He opened his mouth a few times, as if he was about to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

“Just tell me, if it’s so important,” Harry asked from where he lounged on the bed.

Draco nodded. “I have to see something first.” Then he shocked Harry by going into the washroom. “Come in here,” he called.

Baffled, Harry pushed himself up and followed Draco.

“Look at him.” Draco was looking at Dudley.

Harry looked. His shrunken cousin was sprawled against the bathroom tile, as ever. “What about him?”

“This—” Draco gestured to Dudley. “This is why I didn’t come.”

“Because of Dudley?” Harry didn’t understand. What had his cousin to do with anything?

“Not just that. I needed to think about a bunch of stuff. He was just part of it.”

Harry crossed his arms. “You were avoiding me.”

It wasn’t a question, but still Draco nodded, looking embarrassed.

“Because you needed to ‘think’.”

Again, a nod. “I need to ask you something,” he said softly. “Harry, did your uncle ever take a belt to you?”

Harry clutched his arms tighter around himself. “My uncle is dead. Why are you asking this?”

Draco swallowed. “Something you said on your birthday made me wonder,” he said. “You shouldn’t take your rage out on your cousin.”

“He tormented me, too,” Harry said flatly. “He deserves it. Besides, he’s just a Muggle.”

“You’ve changed.”

“We’ve all changed,” Harry nearly snarled.

“You’re becoming like him.”

That took Harry back. He didn’t need Draco to elaborate. Not really. He just didn’t think it was a fair comparison. Not that being compared to Voldemort wasn’t an honour…

And if he was becoming more like his Master, which was debatable—laughable, really—then there was an easy explanation. But Horcruxes weren’t something he was free to explain to the other boy, even if he wanted to.

“Good,” Harry said. “Besides, you told me that you like the new me.”

Draco sighed. “Most of the time I do.” He knelt down and unsuccessfully tried to release Dudley. “Unchain him. Let me take him back to the dungeon if you aren’t bothered to take care of him anymore.”

“He’s mine,” Harry argued, though he wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t bothered to even check on his cousin lately. He was bored of him by now, but it was the principle of the thing.

Draco had never looked so sad, Harry thought. Distraught, yes (Harry would never forget the boy’s misery in Myrtle’s lavatory—right before he’d nearly killed him with that foolish Sectumsempra) but not mournful like this. It was as if he was grieving. “Please,” he said to Harry. “You don’t need him.”

“No.” Harry would feed Dudley to Nagini before he let Draco take him away. “Is this the only reason you came? To badger me about my pet?”

For a long moment, Draco didn’t say a word. Finally, he sat on the bathroom floor and leaned up against the tub, rubbing his hand across his eyes. “No,” he finally said. “I wanted to talk about some other things, too. We’re friends—”

“Are we?”

Draco opened his eyes and stared at him. “I thought we were.”

“Don’t lie. Not again. I’m an assignment to you, nothing more. I just hadn’t realized it until you disappeared.”

“No,” Draco said, shaking his head. “That’s not true. You’re not. If you were, I wouldn’t have ended up at St Mungo’s. I wouldn’t have risked my health—my life!--over some assignment. We are friends.” With a softer voice he added, “At least I hope we still are.”

Harry fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “Even if you don’t like how I’ve changed?” And he had, Harry knew. There was no denying it. He looked at Dudley chained up. He hadn’t been cleaned since he’d arrived in his rooms; his pants must be caked in filth.

Yet he didn’t feel at all guilty about it, and he knew that he should. That, more than anything else, horrified him.

He didn’t waste any time unfastening Dudley’s chain. “Take him,” he said, dropping his cousin onto Draco’s lap.

Draco started. “Really?” His surprise was insulting.

“Just get him out of my sight.” Before Harry changed his mind.

A few seconds later and Dudley was hidden inside one of Draco’s pockets. Harry was impressed, actually, that the blond wasn’t more repulsed at having the disgusting thing anywhere near him. He made a quick bet with himself that he’d never see those particular robes again; no doubt they’d be burnt as soon as possible.

“Thank you,” Draco said. “It means a lot that you did that.”

“I can’t see how,” Harry mumbled, not quite meeting the other boy’s eye. “Fix him up. I might want him back later.”

“Of course,” Draco said placatingly. Harry got the impression that he’d never see his cousin again. “Now, I was hoping we could talk about something else. Maybe we should sit somewhere more comfortable?”

They ended up at the table near the fireplace. Harry called for a pot of tea and resigned himself to an uncomfortable conversation. “Is this about my uncle?” There was no point in drawing this embarrassing discussion out further.

 “I think it would be helpful to talk about him,” said Draco.

Harry rather thought Draco sounded like an overpaid Muggle therapist, which was not what he needed at all. Considering what life had thrown his way, he rather thought he’d done all right, and he’d never felt the need to ‘unburden’ himself to anyone. He’d made his way through his adolescence rather well-adjusted—thank you very much—and with far more than childhood abuse to shove him into darkness. It wasn’t until this last year that things had gone so—Well, not wrong, per se. So much had changed, rather, and so unexpectedly.

He didn’t have to talk about his home life if he didn’t want to. Draco couldn’t do anything to make him spill about Privet Drive.

Except not be my friend, Harry reflected. He compared the last week to the ones preceding it. Friendship versus loneliness. Did a few moments discomfort outweigh more isolation?

Not really.

“It wasn’t really that bad,” Harry said, then winced at his lie.

“I’m not going to judge you for something that wasn’t your fault,” Draco said to him. “Here, I have an idea.” He pulled Dudley back out of his pocket. He pointed his wand at the tiny figure and uttered a quick Rennervate.

Dudley stirred and whimpered. Soon Draco had him sitting on the table  and had even conjured a miniature cup of something for him to drink. “I need him to pay attention,” he explained when Harry almost yanked his pet back at this undeserved kindness.

“Master doesn’t allow him on the table,” said Harry.

Draco sighed. “Oh for…Fine.” He gently picked Dudley up. “He can sit on the edge of the tub. Bring in those chairs for us.”

Harry rolled his eyes. This was so stupid—but he brought the chairs into the bathroom anyway.

“Set them there. Good.” He sat and gestured for Harry to follow suit. “Now, I want you to tell your cousin all about how shitty your childhood was. Tell him everything. The fact that he already knows it all should make it easier for you to talk about. Pretend I’m not here if it helps.”

“But you are here,” Harry grumbled. He dragged his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I know.” But Draco didn’t relent.

Harry rolled his eyes, then faced his cousin. “You ready for this, Big D?”

The mug in Dudley’s hands shook, but still the tiny head nodded. Harry leaned in close to get a better look at his expression and was baffled that it mirrored Draco’s. More than anything, Dudley looked sad. For the first time, Harry wondered what his cousin thought of him. He’d never really thought that Dudley had seen him as a child. Not really. He had been the Freak under the stairs. The burden. The punching-bag. Potter. Boy.

When had Dudley ever seen him as Harry? How ironic that now, when he was filled with the desperate otherness of his Master’s will and was the furthest from himself that he’d ever been, that his cousin would finally begin to look at him. What did he see? Harry still looked much the same, if not older and not so malnourished. Did he see what Draco said was so apparent? A fundamental shift in his character?

Had he changed so much?

Dudley had been there through his childhood, but he’d never ever seen him for anything more than when Petunia and Vernon said he was. Otherwise, he’d have never engaged in Harry Hunting. He’d have never frightened off every chance of a friend. He’d have asked why Harry slept in a broom cupboard when their house had two empty bedrooms.

Dudley had no right looking so sad for Harry now.

“I don’t need your pity,” Harry told him. “Just so we’re clear.”

A small noise from Draco—was it encouragement to keep talking or surprise that Harry had said such a thing? No matter. Draco wasn’t there, not really. This was between him and Dudley.

Harry closed his eyes. He left the washroom and Draco and the manor behind. He pictured just him and Dudley. Just the two of them, all of ten and eleven years old. They were in the reptile house at the zoo. Dudley was, once more, stuck behind a pane of thick glass. No one else was in sight.

Dudley was trapped, but unlike so many years before, he was unpanicked. He nodded to Harry, as if to say, ‘Go on’. He still had on that same stupid, sad look on his face.

“You were always so spoiled. Do you know that?” Harry began. “You had everything. Everything.”

Dudley nodded. He didn’t try to speak. There was nothing to say.

“The worst part was that I didn’t know it was wrong. How I was treated, that is. I thought that it was normal. That it was okay for one child to have everything, and another nothing at all. You had two bedrooms. I slept in a cupboard. You got—how many presents for your birthday?—I can’t even remember. So many you couldn’t count them. And it still wasn’t enough for you, because you expected that and more. I expected nothing, and that was exactly what I got.”

Dudley nodded. He mouthed something. It could have been “I know” or “I’m sorry.” Harry didn’t care enough to figure it out.

“You know what the dumbest thing is? I thought I was really very ordinary. That there was nothing remotely special about me. Forget magic and my overblown status in this world—even if I were just a Muggle, I was pretty fucking special in how terribly I was treated by you lot. It’s not normal to treat a child like that. I don’t care how much you’d rather not want to take him in, you don’t treat a little boy like that. Take your eleventh birthday. I didn’t mean to stick you behind this glass. It was an accident. You mother would have known; she grew up with my mother, after all. She knew what Accidental Magic was. But I was punished for it. I didn’t eat for a week after that. That is not normal. That is not okay.”

Now that he’d begun, Harry was surprised at how quickly the words came. Had he really been storing all this hurt up like water behind a dam? For a moment, he tried to bite what came next, but: “I’d say thank Merlin that it hardly ever got physical, that Vernon barely raised a hand, but that would be a lie. Draco wanted to know about the belt? Yet that was nothing compared with being told lie after lie about my parents and being told that I’d never amount to anything. Perfecting the art of pretending not to exist was perhaps the worst thing I learned in your home, because it made me realize just how unwanted I was.

“And you, Dudley? If you had been only a bully to me, I think I could have forgiven you. Most kids are arses. Take a look at Draco here. He reminded me so much of you that I was more than happy to reject a friendship with him in favour of Ron.”

Harry snorted when a sharp, half-amused “Hey!” rumbled through his mindscape.

“But you weren’t simply a bully to me. You were my—what….my contrast? We were juxtaposed against one another. You were there to show me everything I couldn’t have and everything I wanted. Fuck magic. I only ever wanted a family. That was something you and your parents held over me every single day.

“You were my reminder of everything I’d never have. And it wasn’t something that I could ever escape.

“You know what? I don’t want you anymore. Let Draco take you. I don’t need a reminder of everything I missed out on.” Harry screwed his eyes up tight and willed the reptile house away.

Draco was staring at him unapologetically when he opened them again. When the blond eventually realized that he once more had Harry’s attention, he gave a weak smile. He whisked Dudley back into his robe pocket. “Thank you,” he said. “I know that was tough.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said.

Draco sighed. “It’s not. You’ve really got to stop saying that. Well, I think that’s enough for now—”

“Do not expect me to talk about this again,” Harry warned. “You heard all the good stuff. Oh, except for the frying pan. But that hardly counts, as I almost always ducked. No doubt the continual dodging honed my Quidditch skills, so you can blame my relatives for me trouncing you each match.”

Draco was making that face that Hermione always used to make when he accidently referenced his childhood. “I think that the intent at smashing you with it was enough,” he said. “And stop trying to make light of all this.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “How else am I supposed to deal with it?”

“I don’t know,” Draco admitted. “But I think this is a good start. Really!” he added, vehemently, at Harry’s disbelieving expression.

“My telling you about it changes nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Draco told him. “It lets you come to terms with it. To accept that it happened and that, yes, it did make a difference in who you are today. And you should accept that, too. Even if you don’t want to. Especially if you don’t want to.”

“You going into Mind-Healing?” Harry scoffed. If someone had told him four months ago that Draco Bloody Malfoy was going into counselling, he would have laughed in their face. But he expected that if he ever was forced to talk to a real mind-healer, he would feel just this kind of uncomfortable, so the other boy must be doing something right.

Draco stiffened for a moment. Then he stretched his back and put on his typical, arrogant look (which was so much better than that pitying one). “Perhaps. Why? Are my services not adequate for the great Potter.” There was a mischievous light in his eye, though, and Harry had trouble keeping his lips from turning up when Draco added, “Really? I reminded you of a Muggle? How insulting.”

“So much so that I asked the Sorting Hat to put me in Gryffindor, just so I didn’t have to room with you,” Harry said. And he was so glad for this banter. He’d missed Draco far more than he had known. Yes, sacrificing Dudley was worth this friendship, even if he had to suffer through more of Draco’s amateur therapy sessions.

“As if you had a choice,” Draco drawled.

Harry raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Are you so sure?’ Then he hissed, “I wish now that I’d listened to it,” for good measure.

He refused to translate.

Chapter Text

The next time Harry saw Hermione, he and Draco had been strolling about the manor grounds. It was  an early September afternoon, and the boys were pleased to be outside after three days of steady rain that had kept them cooped up inside. The grass was still sodden, though, and Nagini had complained enough that Draco had decided that the only thing for it was to head for the gazebo on the western side of the estate.

“I thought the gazebo was on the north side,” Harry said.

“You’re thinking of the arbour in the rose garden,” Draco drawled. The funniest part was how unselfconscious he was by his family’s exorbitant wealth, and he looked confused when Harry mock gagged.

Unfortunately, Draco wasn’t the first to remember the gazebo. Hermione and Umbridge were already sitting together on a bench. Their Death Eater guard was sitting far closer to them than the last time Harry had seen them and seemed to be making both women jumpy. That might have been due to who the guard was, though, rather than her proximity.

“How did my aunt get stuck with guard duty?” Draco asked as they approached. But he wasn’t quiet enough in this remark, and the Dark witch in question perked up.

“Draco!” she exclaimed happily. Her expression morphed to one of disgust as she noticed Harry. She sniffed. “If you must know, I requested to accompany Ms Granger and Madam Umbridge on their walk today.”

“And for the past week as well,” added Hermione. She didn’t seem at all pleased by Bellatrix’s new and seemingly respectful form of address. Perhaps she would have preferred the honesty of a slur.

Umbridge was looking healthy, of all things—though massively pregnant. For a moment, Harry forgot that the pensieve memory had been fabricated and wondered how she retained the vestiges of her sanity after such an ordeal. But, of course, she’d had those memories implanted—how real would it feel to her? Could she recall the painful echoes of her torment? He almost asked her, then remembered that Hermione was supposed to remain unaware of the baby’s parentage.

“Harry,” Hermione said. It was more declaration than greeting. She looked as if she were trying to meet his eye but couldn’t quite look past his chin.

He didn’t know what to say to her. As far as he knew, she had figured out that he was a Horcrux and would have seen him dead if it meant his Master’s defeat. He’d done his best to keep her safe, but would she allow the same for him? Not bloody likely.

Draco rescued him from needing to respond. He ignored both Hermione and Umbridge. “We didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, addressing his aunt. “The Dark Lord’s familiar wished for somewhere dry, but we can move on."

“Nonsense,” Bellatrix said, grasping Draco’s arm and pulling him onto a bench. “Ms Granger was just about to begin a lesson—you’re just in time to learn how to purl!”

Draco raised both eyebrows. “Why would I—why would you want to learn to…? What does that even mean?” He turned to Hermione. “I thought you were teaching the Toad to knit?”

Hermione sighed. She set her knitting needles down. “It is knitting,” she told him. “And I am teaching her, though she has progressed so much that my presence isn’t particularly needed anymore. Madam Umbridge, show them what you’re working on.”

Umbridge held up a misshapen mass of pink yarn. To be fair, it wasn’t that different from the strangely shaped things that Hermione had knit for the house-elves back at Hogwarts. He supposed all skills had a learning curve.

“It looks very nice,” Harry commented instead of reminding her that she had few months left to improve. Draco was trying to help him relearn empathy since the incident with Dudley. He didn’t feel at all bad for her, but apparently the very act of being kind built up the correct sort of connections in his brain. It all sounded too much like Muggle science to Harry.

“What is it?” Draco asked the pink-clad witch.

“A hat, obviously,” Bellatrix answered cheerily in Umbridge’s stead. “I’m going to make one, too.” She held up her own knitting supplies. More needles, more offensively pink yarn.

Draco and Harry shared a look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Auntie, but I don’t think that’s your colour.”

Bellatrix didn’t seem offended. “It’s not for me. It’s for the baby.”

Harry didn’t think that Umbridge’s ill-fated offspring needed more than one poorly made hat, but what Bellatrix chose to do with her free time was her own business, so long as her business remained far from the Dark Lord’s bedchambers. Harry hadn’t shared any vile dreams about her and Voldemort since the incident right after his birthday, but that didn’t mean much considering his Master’s Occlumency. But ignorance was bliss, or so the saying went.

Hermione took a breath and picked up her knitting needles. “I’m going to go over the purl stitch again. The most important part of knitting—or any new skill, really—is building up muscle memory. You both have the knit stitch down pat, but I think we could all use a bit more practice with purling, so here we go: first insert the right-hand needle—” and she went on and on, demonstrating the motions as she explained.

Rain was still dripping from the gazebo’s eavestroughs, and the railing was still damp. It was chilly for late summer, and Harry wished he’d worn a cloak over his robes. Nagini had wound her way up one of the support beams and had became a shadow in the rafters. He wished he could join her. The treeline of the forest that bounded the Malfoy estate was about one hundred yards off. Harry wondered what creatures lived there. Was it filled with unicorn and thestrals, like the Forbidden Forest? Or were deer the wildest animals to be found there.

He decided to ask: “Hey Draco—” but when he turned, he found that his friend was busy. Bellatrix had, indeed, roped her nephew into learning to knit. His lap was covered in a snarl of green wool and he was frowning over the mess.

“Don’t use magic to untangle that,” Hermione cautioned. “I learned that the hard way.”

“Maybe your failure was due to your magic, rather than the method itself,” Umbridge said nastily.

The bushy haired Gryffindor maintained her civility towards Umbridge far better than she ever did in their fifth year. “No, that wasn’t it,” she said politely. “Mrs Weasley told me that the problem is intrinsic to the knitting. No one has managed to overcome this issue.” Her voice cracked with remembered grief.

My Master could find a way to overcome such a mundane thing, Harry thought. It would take him but a moment to solve the problem. He gritted his teeth when Bellatrix offered the same opinion.

No one dared contradict her, though Harry caught Hermione pinching her lips together, as if the effort to not speak blasphemously was itself a trial. And he wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught the tail end of Draco rolling his eyes.

Harry didn’t want a repeat of his friend being hospitalized, and for so small a thing. But at times it didn’t seem to take much to draw the Dark Lord’s wrath. He rather doubted that Bellatrix would rat out so small an act of disrespect, and he certainly didn’t want to tattle. But Voldemort had complete, propriety access to Harry’s thoughts and memories. If he went looking for disloyalty…

And that was to say nothing of Voldemort’s lesser followers who would malign Draco in hopes that it might raise their own favour. Draco, himself, had told him that such tactics were common amongst Death Eaters. Harry resolved to have another uncomfortable talk with Draco, but this time he would be the one leading the discussion.

“I can’t make heads or tails of this,” Draco said after he’d spent several minutes half-heartedly trying to untangle the wool. “And I’ve lost one of the needles, anyway.” It was obviously an excuse to stop. An Accio would have retrieved it within seconds.

“Maybe Harry stole it,” Bellatrix said. Her tone was still light, but her eyes flashed viciously.

Umbridge nodded. “He always was trouble,” she agreed. No one paid her any mind.

“Why would I steal his knitting needle?” Harry asked. “I don’t want to learn to knit.”

Bellatrix gave him a crooked smile. “Everyone knows how you love taking that which isn’t yours.”

In the silence that followed, Harry could make out Nagini hissing praises to herself for finding a songbird nest.

“It was for nothing if he stopped short,” he heard Hermione mutter.

He didn’t understand what she meant, until Bellatrix drawled, “I wasn’t talking about my vault, though how the Dark Lord forgave you for that when he punished me so severely I can’t begin to understand.”

“I guess our Lord doesn’t trust you as much as you think he does,” Harry told her. If he did, then Bellatrix would know not to question his own value, after all.

“I am his most faithful,” Bellatrix said. There was fever in her eyes and iron in her voice when she added, “He will remember that soon. Very soon.”

***

His Master was waiting in his rooms when they returned. Draco bowed low at the waist and was dismissed with an ominous, “I will see you and your parents later.”

“Come sit, my Horcrux. Tell me of your day,” Voldemort said once they were alone. Harry rose from his knees and went to obey.

There was but one chair at the table, and his Master was already seated in it.

The desk chair was gone as well.

He could sit on the bed…

“Do not be foolish, darling.” The Dark Lord patted his thigh in invitation. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Harry bit his lip. It had been a long time since he’d been touched by his Master. Weeks. Unlike with knitting, his body didn’t need to have built up muscle memory to respond, though whether that response was appropriate was debatable.

As soon as he was in arm’s reach, his Master gripped him by the upper arms and guided him into a straddle. “Calm down, my dear,” he was told. “Let me look at you.”

He could do that. That was easy. Where he should rest his own eyes was harder. He took in the pleats of his Master’s silk robes, the tall line of his body to his neck, his inhuman face, so familiar now yet still so strange.

Red eyes wandered up and down Harry’s body, too. Voldemort released his arms, and his hands smoothed the front of Harry’s robes. “You are damp.”

“It began drizzling again just before we left the garden,” Harry explained, as if this were any other conversation. He moved to get up. He should have remembered to take off his outer robe, if nothing else, even in the face of Voldemort’s unexpected demand.

Voldemort held him down. “I did not say you could rise.” His hands moved downwards to rub circles on Harry’s chest, on his stomach.

Harry wanted to reach out, too. But he had not been granted permission to touch. He had been allowed to sit, and so he focused on the press of his Master’s thighs on the back of his legs and on the trace of his Master’s fingers through his clothes.

“So obedient.” The praise made Harry’s heart beat faster. His arousal grew more insistent. It was hard to sit still.

“Are you uncomfortable? Would you rather kneel?” Hands circled his waist, dipping low and across the swell of his arse.

Knees. Harry could do knees.

The hands moved again, and Harry keened at the loss, which elicited a low chuckle in his ear, but the hands were back on his chest again, pushing him off his Master’s lap. Voldemort then stood, scraping his chair back—a tall tower of black above him.

Harry moved to his knees. His eyes fell to his Master’s feet. As he’d now done so many times, he leaned in and kissed the tops of the bare feet. Voldemort never wore shoes, not even on the cold mornings when dew still clung heavily to the ground. Harry was glad for it, as this way he could always test the perfectness of his Master’s skin.

Kiss. Soft, adoring. Harry’s lips parted, and for the first time tasted his Master’s skin with his tongue.

“Higher.”

Harry kissed higher up Voldemort’s foot, to his ankle. Up his clothed calf, higher as his Master had demanded. A hand plunged into his hair, tugging him further upwards, until he came to a high kneel.

He looked up at his Master, took in the blown pupils and the thin, parted lips. He figured he had permission to touch now; he reached his hands to circle around the Dark Lord’s hips and pressed into and kissed the silk-covered hardness between his Master’s thighs.

“Stop.”

Harry looked back up. What was he doing wrong? Judging from his Master’s heavy breathing, the answer was nothing.

Voldemort released Harry’s hair, but before his heart truly sank, Harry realized that his Master was reaching for his own robes, was opening them.

“Remove your clothes,” Voldemort demanded huskily. “All of them.”

Harry’s hands raced to his shirt; he unbuttoned it in record time.

Voldemort pulled his thick cock from the folds of black silk. Harry’s breath caught in his throat at the sight. He discarded the rest of his clothes and went back on his knees before his Lord. He moistened his lips and waited.

This was it.

The fingers were back in his hair, drawing him forward. The tip of his Master’s cock butted against his lips, almost pressing in. Harry dared to dart his tongue out, to lick the glans, to taste the small bead of pre-come that leaked out.

Salt. Earth. Wholeness. Harry lapped it up, hoping for more. His own cock was hard and throbbing and very exposed, jutting out between his legs and begging for attention it was unlikely to get just now.

An insistent push at the back of his head urged him to open his mouth and move forward. Harry had no idea what he was doing, but figured that suction was a good thing. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive head, then sucked, slowly, as far down Voldemort’s cock as he could.

With the hand not grasping Harry’s hair, Voldemort caught hold of the silver chain of his necklace, twisting it snug against his throat.   

Harry sucked his way back up the hard shaft, then kissed the blunt head of his Master’s cock with more reverence than he’d ever granted the tops of his feet. Harry barely felt worthy of this newest task, but he’d be damned if he gave it up. He lapped again at his Master’s slit, hoping to squeeze out another few drops of pre-come.

“Take me back into you mouth, darling,” his Master told him. “Suck me.”

Harry did just that. He sucked and bobbed his mouth up and down, as well as he knew how. His hands moved, one fondling Voldemort’s heavy balls, the other sliding up and down the base of his cock where his mouth wouldn’t reach.

I’ll practice, Harry told himself. I’ll practice until I can take him all the way. It was big promise, given how large his Master’s cock was. He sucked and swirled his tongue clumsily, hoping he was at least adequate.

His treacherous thoughts wondered what was taking so long. Surely this felt good, no matter how inept he was. His mouth was warm and wet. He sucked all the more, hoping that soon his Master would climax. It wasn’t that he wanted it over with, even though his jaw was beginning to ache. Rather, he wanted to be proven good enough. And he wanted his Master to flood his mouth with his release. If it tasted as good as the promised pre-come, Harry wanted more. Much more.

Voldemort’s grip in his hair was tight, pulling until it hurt. Harry moaned at the pain.

“Yes, that’s it. Just like that.” The Dark Lord pushed deeper into his mouth, hitting his throat, but pulled back again almost at once. And back again, pushing, prodding . “Try swallowing around me.”

Harry tried, but he just gagged. Voldemort didn’t seem to care. “Suck harder.”

Harry did, and his Master’s movements quickened, and thankfully he pulled back, and started thrusting shallowly into his mouth, speeding up, faster, faster—

Until he faltered and dug what seemed like talons into Harry scalp. The tide of semen came, pulsing in salty waves over Harry’s tongue. He tried to swallow it down, but his abused throat wouldn’t work properly, and most of it dribbled obscenely from his sore lips and down his chin.

Voldemort pulled his softening cock from Harry’s mouth and wiped it clean on his cheek. “You’re quite beautiful, Harry,” he said as he tucked himself away again. “I hope you know that.”

Harry nodded, though he didn’t believe a word. But what he believed no longer mattered. He stood shakily, keeping his eyes cast down, taking in the contrast of his own aroused, nude body and the Dark Lord’s clothed one. He swallowed thickly; he could still taste the last bitter remnants of his Master’s seed.

Voldemort gently gripped Harry’s chin. “Look at me.”

With great effort, Harry obeyed. His Master’s eyes were a gleaming crimson. No longer were they filled with the urgency of arousal, but something else glimmered in their depths, something steadier and more meaningful. Wonder, perhaps.

A thumb pulled down his lower lip, which Harry had been unconsciously biting. Another hand came to tug at the hair at his nape, pulling his face up. Before Harry’s brain could begin to comprehend what was happening, Voldemort was leaning down and pressing his mouth to Harry’s. Voldemort was already pulling away before Harry could react.

Thin lips quirked in an unfamiliar smile. “I can taste myself on you.”

Without thinking, Harry licked his lips, as if chasing the memory of the kiss. He longed to lean in again, to take back the sensation of their lips connecting, this time not frozen in surprise. But he daren’t lean in. He wasn’t willing to disrupt the balance in their unspoken arrangement. Master and Horcrux. Voldemort ordered; Harry obeyed. So far it was working well, and in both their favours. Harry wouldn’t step out of line, not like Bellatrix did. His Master had enough of that already. He wouldn’t overstep like her. Not anymore.

“My good boy,” Voldemort said to him. “I always know what you need.”

His Master leaned in again, bringing their lips together. This time, neither drew away.

 “Are you ready for more responsibilities, my Horcrux?”

Harry had put his pants and trousers back on, but his Master’s question made him feel more naked than he had but moments before. What would the Dark Lord have him do? His mornings were filled with reading and hopes of a mid-morning visit with his Master. The afternoons were spent with Draco, wandering the manor grounds or visiting the library. His evenings were usually empty, though tonight proved a stellar exception.

“You are under no obligation. I only wish for you to take on this task if it is something you wish to do,” his Master added, taking in his hesitation. “Trust me when I say that no offense will be taken if you should refuse, though I will take it upon myself to find another who can pick up your slack.”

Harry nodded his understanding. “What is it, Master,” he asked. Then a well of hope swelled in his chest, and he asked, “Will I be spending more time with you? At the Ministry, perhaps?” Then he felt immediately foolish and needy. Besides, he knew that Voldemort was committed to keeping him out of the public eye and having him attend him at the Ministry would hardly mesh with that agenda.

Voldemort gave him a sideways grin and said, “This position involves directly attending to me, yes. But not at the Ministry.”

“Either way,” Harry said. “Whatever it is you need of me, Master, and I will obey at once. I promise—”

“No promises until you know what the task entails, darling. You need not prove your devotion further.” He took in Harry’s still naked torso. “You have me convinced by now.”

Harry flushed, finally noticing that he’d not finished dressing. He pulled his shirt on. “What is it you wish me to do?”

“Tell me, Harry, are you ready to be granted access to the wards on the tapestries connecting our chambers?”

The tapestries—“You would allow me to…” Harry began. Such unbridled movement between their bedrooms was not something he ever thought he would ever be granted. It was a show of absolute trust on Voldemort’s part.

Did he deserve such trust?

“I don’t believe you have a deceitful bone in your body,” he was told. Voldemort stepped forward and placed his forefinger beneath Harry’s chin and forced him to meet his thoughtful gaze. “I am confident that you can be trusted with this privilege, if you desire to take on this new duty. Or I can always request Bellatrix—”

“I’ll do it!” Harry blurted.

The finger propping up his chin was joined by its brethren, and they gripped his jaw fiercely. “Do not interrupt.”

Harry tried to nod, but he only succeeded in driving his Master’s nails deeper into his tender skin. “Please forgive me,” he hissed, the sibilant sounds more easily made with his jaw so restrained.

Voldemort released his hold, but his hand moved to Harry’s hair. He began stroking it, unpleasantly hard at first, but the motion eased until it was soothing. “Of course. I can forgive your exuberance. Your duties, should you accept this task, will involve waking me each morning.”

That was it? Harry tried not to let his face mirror his disappointment but was fairly certain he failed. By Voldemort’s amused chuckle, he knew he hadn’t succeeded.

“You do not think I deserve such a succulent alarm clock as yourself, Harry?” asked Voldemort. “Or are you concerned that you aren’t skilled enough. If you are worried about that, I can see if Bella would submit to a demonstration, though I daresay you proved most adequate earlier.”

Succulent? Demonstration?

Oh Merlin—did his Master wish him to do what he thought he meant? It would seem he would get that practice after all. He licked his lips; the taste of his Master was practically gone by now, what with all the snogging—

“Dark Lords do not ‘snog’,” was the teasing response to these thoughts. There was no mention that his conclusion was wrong.

“So, you want me to…” And why was he still so shy about this? He’d just had his Master’s dick practically down his throat. He had no business being shy, not if he wanted to keep this new assignment for himself. If he lost it to Bellatrix—

There was no way he would let that happen. This was his task. His. He swallowed and tried again. If he was wrong—well, that was not to be thought about. Imagine if his Master only wanted to be waiting with a glass of orange juice and warm slippers, and Harry had the nerve to slide beneath the sheets and—

“I want you to pleasure me awake,” Voldemort said, finally taking pity on him. He rose from the chair. “Your thoughts are exhausting, my darling. Amusing, but exhausting. Now follow me.”

He directed Harry to the Dark Mark tapestry, then told him to present his palm. With a sharp nail, he sliced through skin. Harry hissed out a pained gasp and watched as red began seeping up through the wound to pool in his hand.

“Press the cut to the skull in offering,” his Master told him.

The blood did not stain the tapestry, but was absorbed, as if the skull were drinking a fine wine. I am being drunk by death, Harry thought. And still the blood flowed from the cut, was absorbed, and Voldemort drew his wand and pressed the bone-white tip to the centre of the skull’s forehead. At once the fabric caught fire. Harry tried to pull his hand away from the blaze but it was stuck, and he watched with mounting horror as the fire rushed to glow like embers all through the tapestry’s fine weave, and braced himself for the onslaught of heat as he, himself, went up with it.

The whole thing began and ended too quickly for him to react beyond his failed knee-jerk response to pull away. He hadn’t cried out, nor closed his eyes. He hadn’t begged his Master for help. And now it didn’t matter, because the fire was out, and the tapestry was as it had been before. Only now his unburned fingers, still touching the fabric, did not feel the hard stone wall behind it. He pushed again, and his hand went through the portal, as if the tapestry and the wall were not there at all.

“Wicked!” he exclaimed as he pulled his hand back. The skull released him this time.

Voldemort wasted no time in grabbing his hand and casting a healing charm on it. “Now you are able to come through each morning. But you are not permitted to explore my study. My shelves are warded against trespass, and you would do well to heed my warning to not touch anything. And do not think to barge in on me at any time. I expect you at six each morning, and not at any other time unless I send word. As you have imagined, simply slip beneath the sheets and gently wake me with your mouth until I allow you to do otherwise. None of that delicious suction you employed before; not until I am grasping at your hair and pushing more deeply in.”

Harry bit his lip as his cock took interest in these words and strained against the fly of his trousers. He nodded to show he understood. “How am I to be sure to wake in time?” he asked. He had no alarm of his own.

“How about a vibration charm?” suggested Voldemort. Before Harry could ask what he meant, the Dark Lord had uttered a few Latin words and then pressed his palm to Harry’s trouser front. “There. I dare say you won’t sleep through that. But be sure to attend to me before yourself. I expect you to be punctual.”

Yes, Harry rather expected that the alarm charm that Voldemort had just applied would be enough to wake him each day. His whole cock had begun to tingle. It was not unpleasant—not at all—and nothing like the horrible sensation the transference ritual had caused. This was irritating, but in a pleasurable way that made Harry want to dip his hands into his pants and jerk himself off immediately.

And the tingling wasn’t going away. It wasn’t getting worse, but it wasn’t easing off either. His Master’s hand was still pressed against his clothed, hard shaft, and it took an enormous amount of will to not buck into his fingers. He was sure he was sweating with the effort to resist the urge.

A familiar chuckle, and then his pants were unzipped, and he was pulled out. “I try to be a benevolent Lord, and yet I quite forgot about your own needs. Come sit with me and let me watch you take care of yourself.” He wrapped long fingers around Harry’s hard penis and tugged him along to the chair, where he sat, drawing Harry onto his lap once again. The hand on Harry’s cock shifted to urge his Horcrux’s legs apart a bit, just so everything was better on display.

“Pleasure yourself for me.”

Harry had never felt so on display. He felt all at once as though he’d been flayed open, more naked than naked. He brought his hand to his erection and began to slide his hand mechanically along his length. He’d done this countless times before. He’d even once jerked himself off in front of this same man, but then his Master had been bringing himself to completion at the same time. And it was for the ritual, too, and his senses had been rather overwhelmed by the potion he’d ingested.

His thoughts were all at once overwhelmed by a slick tongue tasting his earlobe. A hiss in his ear: “Stroke yourself, my pet. Squeeze your cock for me.” A hand took his free hand and guided it downwards. “Lift your balls up for me to see. Roll them about.”

Harry was panting heavily by now. He tried to look up to his Master, but he couldn’t wrench his eyes from his own pelvis and the lewd display. He’d never really watched himself before, except for maybe the first time he’d experimented, and then only for a few minutes so he knew what he was doing.

He knew what he was doing now, though. He knew just what made his pulse quicken. To watch it, knowing that he was watched in turn, was very hot.

And his Master’s voice again: “I’m watching you very closely, my Horcrux, my precious boy,” was the hissed agreement.

“Do you like what you see,” Harry dared ask, nearly breathless. He was twisting his fist around his cockhead now. He felt his balls rising in his other hands. He was close, so close. Just a few more pulls. His hips twitched forward, and he thought he could feel a renewed hardness pressing against his arse.

“Yes. Let me see it all,” his Master demanded. “Come for me, my pet. Now.”

And Harry squeezed tighter with his fingers, and he was coming hard. He watched the thick, white spunk spurt out, arcing bravely to the stone floor. He felt oddly compelled to fall to his knees and lap it up and wondered if it was his Master’s desires flooding through him.

“Would you be so wanton for me?” was the heavy query. And yes, there was definitely a hardness pressed against him now.

A slight nudge was all Harry needed. He slid from Voldemort’s lap to the floor. He lowered his mouth to stone and began to lap up his spilled come. He hoped he came across as sultry, as teasing, and not like some low life reduced to this depravity.

He didn’t feel depraved under his Master’s lustful eye. Not at all. He felt desired.

He heard his Master rising from his chair, and then a soft panting. He was more than watched now, he knew. He felt warm pleasure rippling through him. He stuck his tongue out on display and kept lapping up small swipes of come, trying to draw out the show for his Master’s entertainment.

A harder fapping behind him, and then warm stripes landed on his back. He licked up the last remnants from the floor.

“Take a bath,” his Master ordered. “I will see you at six.”

Chapter Text

Harry regretted washing the lines of Voldemort’s pleasure from his back. If it had been up to him, he would have slept with the evidence of how he’d been so well-behaved, so pleasing to his Master. He’d done something Bellatrix could never do. She hadn’t the right equipment.

She can do other things, suggested a treacherous voice. She has other pleasures to offer up to the Dark Lord. Other talents.

He might grip her hair as he rode her pussy hard.

He might suckle at her firm, round breasts.

He might taste the sweetness between her legs.

He might pump one, two, three holes full of his seed.

Harry was under no delusions that his Master might kneel before his thighs. Hands alone would be his pleasure.

He wondered what it felt like to be fucked. He’d spent enough time watching the men in the Kama Sutra to know that the one receiving must feel pleasure too, though he couldn’t imagine how. He’d not tried again to tease his opening open, and he wouldn’t without incentive. He imagined it would hurt to have something large pounding into him.

Would Voldemort keep to his mouth? He imagined his Master’s thick cock would want, eventually, to find a tighter heat.

And if he didn’t find that with Harry, there was a willing witch close by.

Harry’s skin was scraped red by the time he finished in the tub. He hadn’t meant to be so vicious with himself. He towelled off and brushed his teeth, regrettably, mint replacing the memory of his Master. But his mouth would be used again soon, he reminded himself.

He’d known this was coming. He’d known it for more than two months. All that was surprising was his Master’s reserve in waiting so long, Harry thought as he crawled under his covers.

He wrestled with wakefulness. Knowing that he’d be up earlier than normal for his new duties made it all the harder to find his dreams. After tossing about for what seemed like hours, he was suddenly startled by Nagini crawling up on the bed with him.

“Nagini cannot sleep,” she complained. “Brother is too loud. Did Master hurt you when he played?”

Harry had thought she’d been asleep through that. Did she understand what they’d been doing? He wasn’t sure how he felt about a witness. Voldemort had been voyeur enough (and Harry had never thought being watched would be so hot).

“We weren’t playing,” he told her. What did a snake know of pleasure, anyway? Though now that he thought of it, she had likely witnessed his Master taking his pleasure in a long line of—what would the word be for them? Not ‘lovers’, certainly. Partners? Harry didn’t feel at all as if he were in any sort of partnership, though his status was unique. He was a possession. He had no rights (though had his Master not given him a choice in taking this new assignment?).

What of Bellatrix? She had a choice, or so he assumed.

What if she said ‘no’ one night when the Dark Lord demanded her company? Would she survive the refusal? How much did Voldemort care about consent?

And why was he thinking of this now when he desperately needed sleep? Nagini’s massive head now took up all his pillow. She never followed him into bed, and now she was hogging the whole thing just when he needed to find rest as soon as he could.

But her breathing was familiar and her scales smooth. He wrapped a leg over her torso, and she hissed contentedly at his warmth. She slowly shifted beneath him, and a heavy exhaustion filled him.

But still sleep evaded. And at times he thought he was still lying next to Nagini, but then he was at once in a larger, softer bed, and wicked ideas filled his mind, entertaining him in the dark hours of early morning. But he needed sleep, for before long his new alarm clock would wake him and he wouldn’t last to put his precious Horcrux in his place without stamina.

***

He hadn’t thought he’d even fallen asleep when the buzzing began, but he must have dozed off at some point, for Nagini had wrapped nearly around him in her sleep. He pushed at her coils, hissing, “I am not your prey, sister. Wake!”

She gave one terrifying squeeze before she loosened. “Nagini was dreaming she was chasing one of the little ones. She wants to taste one. Please, brother? Can I have one for breakfast?” She was still half-asleep. Harry was glad there were wards preventing her from harming him accidentally. One bad dream (or one good one, he supposed) and she could easily kill him.

He stroked her neck, “You know the house-elves are off limits, Nagini,” he told her. “Perhaps another prisoner from the dungeons, instead?” Who was left down there, anyway?

It didn’t matter. Not now. His prick was hardening by the second. The vibrations were the opposite of unpleasant, but he had to hurry to take care of his Master’s needs first.

Harry was still amazed that he was trusted with this task. He tested the tapestry again, stroking his fingers along—then through—the snake on the woven Dark Mark. The wards were still fluid to him. He passed through, and he was once again in his Master’s study. It had been nearly four months since he’d last entered here. So much had changed in that time—but not the study; it looked the same as ever. Books and scrolls were heaped up so haphazardly on the shelves that they had to be charmed to not topple over. On the desk, a quill and bottle of ink were set near a stack of Ministry parchments, ready to be signed. Harry nearly stopped to see what laws, if laws they were, his Master was about to ratify.

But no, he had been warned to not touch anything here. And it wasn’t his business, anyway, and so he ignored everything but the tapestry leading to his Master’s bedchamber.

Suddenly, doubt seized him. What if he hadn’t been linked to this tapestry, too? What if only the one tapestry, the one in his room, recognized  him? What if he was stuck here until his Master came, angrily, to find his wayward Horcrux? He pushed through the tapestry fearfully, not really trusting that he’d make it through. But of course he did. His Master had added him to the wards, and Voldemort would never make so silly a mistake.

And now the darkness of his Master’s chambers met him. It seemed as if Flippy had not made his rounds here yet, as the fire was unlit. The room was frigid, and Harry had goosebumps even in his night robes.

Was he supposed to be wearing them still? His Master had not said otherwise, but what if he was expected to slide in naked beneath the sheets? As far as Harry knew, though, only his mouth was to be of use this morning. He licked his lips, and his cock (still gently buzzing, dammit!) jumped fruitlessly at the images and memories that flooded his mind.

Very quietly he crept closer. His Master lay so still. His pale head was the brightest thing in the room, and his hands, too, folded neatly on the coverlet. Harry had never seen Voldemort looking so vulnerable, and it threw him for a moment. Oh, he had no delusions in thinking that if he were truly threatened, that the Dark Lord wouldn’t pull his wand out from under a pillow and blast an attacker to dust. But Harry was no such enemy—not anymore, never again. He had felt many things for Voldemort over the years: horror, hate, rage, disgust, terror; hope, admiration, attraction, lust. But never before such tenderness as welled in him now.

Harry’s first desire was to softly kiss his Master’s closed lips. But that wasn’t why he was here. He swept his eyes down to where his attention was due. How was he to slip under and begin his task without waking the Dark Lord?

Well, his Master had not demanded perfection. And even if he had done, Harry had long perfected the art of muddling through, usually successfully.

Carefully, he lifted the edges of the coverlet and sheets, just enough to slip under. His Master was tall, and the bed was big. Harry took care to not pull the covers off Voldemort, and carefully felt his way, up a leg, across a hip. Unlike Harry, Voldemort did not wear sleep pants to bed, but a simple robe that was easily pushed aside.

It was dark as night beneath the blanket, even compared to his Master’s still dark bedroom, but from his gentle exploring Harry discovered that unlike Harry, who always seemed to wake to a morning erection, Lord Voldemort’s penis was flaccid. With gentle fingertips, then his probing tongue, he could feel the foreskin wrapped like a blanket around the sleeping cockhead. Even soft as it was, Voldemort’s cock was thick and heavy in his mouth; before too long, saliva began to pool in his mouth and he couldn’t help how he shifted his tongue in trying to prevent it from dribbling past his lips. No suction, his Master had said. Not yet.

But Harry was meant to slowly wake his Master up, after all. He began to softly tongue the slightly scaled flesh. With satisfaction, he could feel his Master begin to wake—or rather, felt his Master’s cock beginning to wake, to swell. He paused for a minute and let the shaft dip as far back as it could. Was he able to relax his throat? Already he felt his gag-reflex protesting, and that would not do. Perhaps there was a potion to eliminate it.

He imagined seeking Snape out: “Hey, would you make me a potion to help me deep-throat the Dark Lord?” Yeah, that would go over well.

Until such a solution he had to move back up the shaft, especially now as his Master’s cock seemed to grow with every second, until Harry’s lips were stretched wide.

But now his Master was stirring. A tired hand came to rest in his hair, and soon was pushing, as if to urge Harry to move.

Harry began a gentle sucking as he bobbed as far down as he could, then up. He tried to lick around the head as he came to the top, but he was slow and clumsy, and now the Dark Lord was becoming more insistent, and pushing him further and further down with less respite, so instead Harry worked on taking his Master deeper and deeper. To hell with a potion. He’d manage this on his own. He tried swallowing around the invasive cockhead again—it felt like it was jammed, wouldn’t move!—but now Voldemort was truly awake, and his desires had become urgent, his grip strong. He pushed Harry down and down, until breath seemed a memory, and finally past the accursed catch of his throat.

Just before Harry was sure his Master would fuck the last of the oxygen out of him, he pulled off. At once, Voldemort yanked Harry from out the blankets and flipped him on his back, then straddled his face. The dim light was bright compared to the pitch from a moment ago, and Harry just made out the beautiful shaft demanding entry before his lips were forced open. His Master pushed easily past his gag-reflex this time and was soon bottoming out, his balls slapping against Harry’s chin in time with his choking thrusts.

And what was air when he could watch his Master enjoy him like this? Voldemort’s face was bowed. In concentration? In reverence? Harry neither knew nor cared. He suckled as best he could and felt his Master’s pleasure wash through him. His own penis was crying out for attention, and he couldn’t help but buck into the air as his Master pushed in as deeply as he could and seemed to press in and in and in, coming what seemed like forever down his abused throat.

Harry was on the verge of passing out when Voldemort finally pulled out until just the softening tip rested in his Horcrux’s exhausted mouth. When Harry had recovered, when both their breaths had levelled again, the Dark Lord removed the tip of his cock, and rested the head against soft lips. Harry gave it a soft kiss, and then it was taken away from him.

“Good morning, Master,” he said. Or rather, he tried to say. His voice was far rougher than usual.

A pleased chuckle. “Good morning, darling.” A vial of pale-blue potion was thrust into Harry’s hands. “You should find that soothing.”

Harry downed it at once, and a wash of ice slid down his ravaged throat. Within a moment, all soreness was gone. “Thank you.”

“Of course. I will care for you always, my Horcrux. But some things you must see to yourself.” A hand on the front of Harry’s sleep pants. The stimulation spell was still active, and his Master didn’t seem bothered to remove it. “Head back to your rooms and tend to your own needs. The enchantment will ease once you climax.”

And so, Harry was dismissed. He bowed low to his Master, who lazily watched him from the bed, and went back through the tapestry to his own rooms.

***

Something of a routine was established. He would wake, slip through the tapestry to tend to Voldemort’s morning needs, and then his own. After a bath he would read, usually cuddled up next to his sister, and the two Horcruxes would hope that their Master would visit for a time before Draco came to collect them after lunch. The afternoon’s activities were largely weather dependent, but if it was sunny the three would take to the manor grounds for hours. They would come in for supper: the Malfoys ate late, and though Harry was almost exclusively taken back to his chambers for a private meal with Nagini, his meal arrived closer to eight than six. His house-elf always had a light tea waiting for when he returned to his rooms, though, so he never went hungry.

One evening when Harry was sprawled out in front of the fire—and it was getting chilly this late in September, the evenings cold if not for the roaring comfort of the hearth—there came a crash to the window.

He jumped and knocked over the plate, then felt at once foolish. It was likely just a bird. Perhaps it was one of Lucius’s ridiculous peacocks. Harry frowned as he wondered if peacocks could fly, even. He’d seen one on top of a hedge, he was sure, but how those foolish feathers could get such a large bird even a foot off the ground was beyond him. No, he decided, he was too far up for a peacock to assault his window.

An owl? But surely there were wards preventing owls from finding him, or else he would have gotten letters by now, even if they were requests from The Prophet for an interview. Or hate mail (Merlin knew he probably deserved them). But not a single owl had sought him out since—

Two summers ago? That couldn’t be right.

Another bang at the window, this time louder. He was beginning to worry. Should he open the curtains and see what it was? That wouldn’t be risky, he didn’t think. The window was closed and surely Voldemort’s wards would keep out anyone who meant him harm.

Besides, it was probably just an owl.

But the wards…

Harry glanced to the tapestry. There was an exit should he need it. But could Nagini follow him through to his Master’s rooms? She’d never crept through before, not even when she was so lonely for the Dark Lord’s touch. He would not leave her trapped here without him should danger come for them.

The vibrations from the second crash had woken her. Almost. “Stop throwing things,” she hissed, half-asleep still. “Nagini wants to sleep.”

He nudged her, ignoring her tired protests. “Wake up,” he urged. “Something is at the window. We need to be ready.”

“A bird. Nagini will eat it.” She slumped back, with a few twitches here and there, as if already hunting in her dreams.

Harry drew a deep breath, then released it slowly between clenched teeth. She was no help. He crawled over to the window—there was no use in letting his silhouette make his presence known before he was ready. Slowly, he rose to peep over the casement and—

Bang!

He fell onto his arse. Of course, Nagini had woken enough to see that and was hissing laughter at him.

“This is serious” he told her, annoyed. “We could be in danger!”

She slithered over. Try as he might, he could not wrestle her back down when she raised her body to peep through the curtains. “It is not safe!” he hissed, trying to force her powerful head back down.

Her eyes gleamed as she took in the night. “It is a boy on a stick,” she finally said.

Draco? Harry wondered. He peeped over to see.

It was not Draco. Not at all.

Short red hair framed a freckled face.

Ron? Harry pressed both hands to the glass and gazed out at the spectre. But Ron was dead. Dead. And his Master had no reason to bring him back, whatsoever.

Though he could, Harry reasoned. Lord Voldemort could bring him back. But why would he? And why release him to wander the grounds alone? He scoured the skies for anyone else. An escort? His Master? Any other rebels?

There was no one else. Just Ron.

Nagini scented the window glass, then thumped her blunt nose against it, then once more.

“Stop that,” Harry murmured. He stared into Ron’s fierce brown eyes. There was no friendship remaining in their depths, only malice.

Brown eyes? But Ron’s eyes were blue.

This wasn’t Ron. Now that he looked, the figure was too small, the face too delicate. And too dangerous. Harry had seen Ron spitting angry more than once, and there had never been this viciousness. This was a rage worthy of his Master’s most murderous fits, the kind of ungodly cruelty he’d once felt pulse through him when Voldemort was in the midst of meting out hell.

Ginny had once been possessed by Tom Riddle, by Voldemort, schoolboy though he still was then. No, not boy. Horcrux. Harry reached out a hand, as if he could sense Ginevra’s soul pulse through the glass, see if it was her own still. What if she, somehow, was Horcrux, too? He licked his lips, tasting the possibility of sharing such a thing with her.

The idea sickened him.

Nagini was still trying to ram her nose through the window. Her prey was in sight! Why could she not strike! She certainly sensed no kinship with the angry witch outside.

Ginny was mouthing something to him, but he couldn’t make it out at all. He shook his head and shrugged. Whatever she wanted, it wasn’t anything to do with him. She wasn’t his concern, not anymore. “Go away,” he told her, but she would hear him as well as he had heard her—that is, not at all.

Harry grabbed Nagini by the neck and tried to pull her back. “Let’s have a bath,” he told her. “There’s no point remaining here.”

But as they turned to go, there was another crash. A tremendous crash, far greater than before. Harry turned and was at first confused.

Then horrified by what he saw. Dread rushed through him faster than a Basilisk gaze rendered life to death, flesh to stone.

A crack ran across the windowpane. Outside, Ginny reared back and prepared to strike again. What was that in her hand? Something glinted silver in the moonlight.

Crash! The broken glass was feathering out and out, and Ginny was readying another blow, and in the split-second before she swung her weapon, Harry realized what she held.

It was the Sword of Gryffindor. Harry hissed in fear. “Get back!” he called to Nagini as he scurried backwards. “Get away from the window!”

Nagini looked back at him, and that was when the glass finally smashed completely, splintering down upon her. She recoiled, more in surprise than pain, as shards cut shallowly into her scales. But it was good that she did, for a moment later goblin steel slashed down to cut deep into the windowsill, sticking fast into wood. In leapt a lithe figure—Ginny—who pulled at the jewelled hilt. She kicked out at the snake at her feet.

Harry watched, paralyzed in terror, as his sister struck at Ginny’s legs—once, twice. Ginny screamed in pain, but kicked harder for it, and finally yanked the sword out of the sill and lunged towards Harry.

Harry flung himself backwards and the blade fell short. Nagini reared up and, jaws gaping, struck Ginny in the back, sending her sprawling with a cry of pain. The sword clattered to the floor, half-way between Harry and his former girlfriend. She was down on her knees, and Nagini was beginning to crawl over her, but Ginny wasn’t giving up. Her hand reached out towards the weapon that could easily kill both Harry and Nagini; her fingers were but inches from touching it. She struggled and was soon but a finger-width from grasping the hilt.

Harry darted forward and smashed into her, trying to roll Ginny away from the sword. He couldn’t let her have it. It would be death to both him and his sister.

She punched him in the eye-socket, and his glasses smashed into his face. “Fucking traitor!” she screeched at him. Another punch broke the lenses. At first there were the bright flash of the blow, then blackness and pain. Another blow, and a crack to his nose.

He couldn’t see, but he stretched out blindly and grabbed hair and pulled Ginny down and finally wrestled her under him. He slammed her head once, twice, against the floor. She swung a flat palm to his face, then rammed her forehead against his, then she struggled out from under him and elbowed him in the temple. “That’s for Ron!” A heavy blow to the back of his head. “And for—"

She screamed. Harry thought he made out “goddamn snake” and then another terrifying crash of metal. And then everything was still. He still had hold of a fistful of Ginny’s hair, but she no longer fought back or struggled from his grasp.

But that relief was nothing as he couldn’t hear Nagini anymore. “Sister?” he cried out, shoving Ginny off of him, but there was no response. He couldn’t see anything; he thought glass had splintered into his eyes, and he hoped the blood pooling into his mouth was from his nose. But that didn’t matter, he could be fixed.

Where was Nagini? He called out again, frantically. And again. “Nagini?”

She couldn’t be dead. No.

But she was Voldemort’s beloved familiar; she wasn’t like him. She wasn’t just a Horcrux. His Master would bring her back, surely, just as he had revived the Basilisk.

If she was dead at all, that was. She was probably okay.

She had to be okay. She was his sister. If she’d been killed, though, she would no longer hold another piece of his Master’s soul. She might be brought back, but they would no longer be connected.

At least she would still be able to talk to him. Would she still care for him, though, without sharing a soul bond? Would she be taken away from him? He didn’t think he could bear that.

Another crash, and this time Harry screamed. Where was the tapestry? With Nagini gone, he might as well flee through it. If he could find it, that was. He scrambled backwards towards the wall but banged against the wooden frame of his bed. Wrong way.

He had to get away, had to get to safety.

He heard shouting. Men this time. A hand came to grab at his shoulder, and he thrashed wildly in his panic, hoping to inflict what damage he could before whoever had come could finish him off.

“Harry! Stop!” A slap to his cheek.

“He’s too panicked,” he heard. “An Aguamenti to the face?”

“And drive glass further into his eye? Don’t be foolish. The Dark Lord would—”

“Mother can fix him up after,” came a familiar voice. Harry knew that voice. “I think we should just stun him, then take him to her.”

Was that Draco’s voice? His head hurt; he felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t think he was supposed to feel so dizzy, and he was feeling so tired all of a sudden. He had to lie down. But first, where was Nagini? He had to find her.

A hissed, “Do not interrupt me, Draco, and for Salazar’s sake put your wand away. The Dark Lord will arrive soon, I hope. In the meantime, fetch your mother. Bring Severus, too. Tell him we need a…” the words blended together. Meaningless, but the voice—Harry knew that voice, too.

It was Lucius Malfoy, Harry realized. He tried to sit up, but the hand on his shoulder held him down. “Nagini?” he tried to ask. Another wave of dizziness and he slumped back against the bedframe, sweating.

The hurried step of bare feet. “Move!”

“Master?” he guessed. Everything was shrinking together, to a single point of awareness that seemed to be steadily get smaller.

A stroke to his hair. “Stay awake for me, Harry.”

Harry’s struggle to obey proved fruitless, and soon even darkness dissolved into nothingness.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t want to wake up, not with the commotion he could hear all around him. Nothing made sense but the soft stroking of slender fingers in his hair. Beside him he felt a cool, unmoving mass. He found enough strength to stretch his fingers out to find Nagini’s soft scales and stroked her until his hand fell back against the bed.

“—lucky. He has a concussion, but—"

“—into the retina—"

“—she woken yet?”

“—didn’t target your familiar, my Lord—"

These reports seemed to punctuate the quiet hissing from above, a soft promise to take care of him and take revenge against his attacker, and the near frantic pleading to open his eyes. But he was so tired, and the fingers raking through his hair were so soothing, and beneath all that was a roiling wave of sick that took every ounce of his strength to keep at bay.

“A potion for nausea,” demanded a harsh voice above him. And then he was propped up and the voice gentled as a glass was brought to his slack lips: “Open for me, Harry. Drink this.”

Mint and ginger. Cold and hot. Harry swallowed some but felt more than that dribble out his mouth. A soft cloth wiped at his chin.

“Can we spell it into his stomach?” Was that Parseltongue? It sounded like it, but from Snape’s murmured response he supposed it wasn’t. Or maybe Snape could secretly speak the language of serpents. Snake. Snape. Harry giggled, or tried to; he coughed up what little potion he’d been able to get down. But then something tingled through him, and Harry finally managed a full breath; he hadn’t realized it had been so shallow before.

“And a draught for shock, as well. Something to offset delirium.”

“It would be best to give the anti-nausea draught an hour to work before that, my Lord. The ginger and chamomile do not—”

“I know that!” Voldemort snapped. “Have it ready for afterwards. Narcissa, are you ready to see to his eye?”

Light assaulted Harry as his injured eye was pried open. He winced against the anticipated pain, but all his discomfort came from the sudden brightness of lamplight as he’d opened the uninjured one in conjunction. A wand was too near his face, but strong hands kept him in place even as he shook in fear as its tip drew far too close. He heard the drone of Narcissa’s spell-work and tried to calm himself.

“Good boy.” The hands on his head loosened as he relaxed, drawing once more through his hair, massaging his forehead, his scar. “You’re doing so well. Keep still for Narcissa.”

And then a piercing sting. Had she stuck her wand-tip right in his eye?

“It’s out, my Lord.” And then a wash of ice against the agony in his eye, and then something pressing around and around his face. “We will have to keep him bandaged for now, but I don’t expect any permanent damage.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Narcissa. Lucius, do not dispose of the girl. She will need to be questioned.”

How was Ginny a priority, now? How was he? He was fine; he felt sick and he couldn’t see, but he would live. Harry drew his hands against his sister’s smooth scales. Why wasn’t she moving? They should all be worrying about Nagini right now. She had to be okay—

“Nagini was not harmed,” his Master assured him, brushing the backs of his cool fingers down the side of Harry’s cheek.

But she had gone so quiet. Harry had thought—he’d thought she was dead. She had been so quiet and was now so slack beside him.

“She is fine,” his Master assured him. “Lucius had to stun her to prevent the Blood Traitor from being devoured when he arrived. He knew I would wish to question Ginevra to uncover how she escaped the dungeons and found her way to you.”

The image of Nagini’s beautiful head being struck off were happily replaced in Harry’s mind with those of Ginny Weasley stuffed half-way down his sister’s throat. He’d watched her eat two humans so far (though not a pure-blood; that was new) and he almost wished he’d been awake to see it, even if Lucius did have to put a stop to his sister’s dinner. Perhaps, once these infernal bandages were removed he could watch Nagini eat his ex-girlfriend.

“That depends on the outcome of her interrogation. I had kept Ginevra alive for a reason all these months,” his Master told him quietly. “As of now, it seems as though my mercy was misplaced.” Then the soothing hands were gone, and it took all of Harry’s strength to keep himself from reaching out to keep them near. Surprisingly, fingers caught his up and gave a last squeeze before departing for good.

Harry brought his hand up to press it against his cheek, while the other stroked down Nagini’s still body. Still living body. She had protected him, heedless of danger to herself. He wondered why Ginny hadn’t tried to kill her. She was the obvious threat in the room. If he had been in her place, he would have struck the snake hard and fast before anything else. Besides, Ginny knew that Nagini was one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes. For all he knew, she thought her the last—though Hermione might have told her otherwise. But surely Hermione had not been granted access to the prisoners.

But his former friend was resourceful. She would have found a way, if a way was possible. How often had she been the one to get him and Ron out of their seemingly endless scrapes? That said, he had a lot of trouble picturing Hermione drawing the Sword of Gryffindor from out the dark night to attack him. That was more Ginny’s style, for sure. Hell, he could picture Neville drawing the sword before Hermione ever did.

But Ginny was as fiery, as volatile, as her hair. Out of all her family, she was the most Gryffindor of the bunch. She could probably pull the sword from her morning cup to tea in order to butter her toast.

Maybe he was delirious, he realised. Was Snape still here? He could hear Narcissa talking softly with Draco, telling him to go back to his room and sleep for a while, that she would call for him if there was need. “Your father is keeping watch for the rest of the night.”

“The Dark Lord will want—”

“He will want everyone to get enough rest so we can be ready for what the morning brings,” his mother replied firmly. “And I will be here when you return. No, he’s not in danger, Draco. But he is still in shock and I won’t know how to treat him fully without more observation.”

“Your mother is right.” And there was Snape. Harry couldn’t help the small scowl that pulled his lips down as he took in the familiar drawl. “And Potter will soon be asleep; his concussion is gone and the next potion he takes will let him get the sleep he needs to recuperate. Go to bed.” And then more murmurs between Healer and Potions Master and a quiet “good night” from Draco. Before long, Harry was lifted back up and another cup brought to his lips. This time the dose stayed down.

Somehow dark turned to grey, and the voices got louder, than quieter, as if someone was playing with the volume control on the wireless. His head felt strangely light, as if his forehead was being lifted off his face and, stupidly, the last thing he thought was that he hoped they didn’t kill Hermione for helping Ginny. He needed her to mend his glasses first.

***

Nagini was gone when Harry woke. His eyes were still bound with cloth, and he couldn’t feel her next to him. He sat up and stretched out to the end of the bed. But he would have felt her if she’d been coiled up there. No, she was gone.

Was she dead? Had…had Ginny managed to kill her after all? Perhaps his memory of him being told that she was safe was a dream. At once, he was sure of this. Nagini was dead; he was alone. He licked at chapped lips, then reached up to yank off the damned bandages. He had to get to his Master.

But someone held him down. “Help me, Lucius!” called Narcissa. “Harry! Stop!”

More hands, stronger hands, pulled his own down. Narcissa’s gentler ones squeezed his shoulders. “You’re all right, Harry. Calm down. Severus, bring a calming draught.”

Then Snape: “Of course the idiot would destroy all your hard work the moment he woke.” Something about the Potions Master’s voice brought Harry back to himself, though. He had heard that voice belittle him for six years. If nothing else was a constant in Harry’s life, it was that sarcastic drawl. Everything had changed but that.

He pushed away the cup that met his lips. “I don’t need it,” he croaked out. At least he didn’t need it yet. Once he found out about Nagini, then he might. “Where is she—”

“The girl is gone. You don’t need to worry about her anymore.”

“Not her,” he rasped out.

“He’s asking about the Dark Lord’s snake,” Lucius guessed. He released Harry’s hands. “Nagini is fine, though she was apparently vexed that she was deprived of her supper last night.”

“Oh,” Harry said, smiling. He could smile now that he knew his sister was safe.

“The Dark Lord took her with him. She kept hindering Narcissa’s attempts to heal you,” explained Lucius. “Both of them will return in a few hours.”

Harry could hear the smile in Narcissa’s voice when she leaned in and whispered, “I had to kick him out, actually. He kept getting in the way.”

“You should be careful,” he said to her with concern. “He might hurt you.”

Small hands brushed the hair from his forehead. Harry had to force himself not to flinch from her touch. “He might have once. He’s been far more lenient lately, Draco’s punishments notwithstanding. Now that the war is over, his stress levels have lowered a great deal.”

“Not to mention his only threat brought himself to heel,” Snape sneered from close by.

“Well, that’s good isn’t it? That he’s less volatile, I mean?” Harry would never admit to Snape how much more complete he felt now.

“We shall see how less volatile he is when he is questioning your girlfriend,” was Snape’s sarcastic response.

“Severus! That was uncalled for!” Narcissa admonished, earning a non-committal ‘hmmmnn’ from the man. Mrs Malfoy’s hands resumed her petting. Harry tried to be still under her unwanted affection, but he must not have kept the grimace off his face like he’d hoped, for they withdrew after a moment. Harry felt a horrid mix of relief and guilt that made his stomach flip over. “Besides, I rather think the girl has it coming. Harry might have been killed!”

“A tragedy,” Snape deadpanned. Then “ow!” after a smack.

The next hour was tedious: Snape kept making small, rude comments; Narcissa came to Harry’s defence; Harry’s stomach felt more and more upset. He finally realized that he might actually be due for another dose of his anti-nausea potion, but to his dismay Snape told him his next dose wasn’t for at least an hour. “Perhaps if you hadn’t vomited up your initial dose, you would not be in such straights now.”

Another smack. Harry almost laughed—even if he couldn’t see Snape getting walloped by Narcissa Malfoy, he could still enjoy hearing it—then regretted it as his stomach lurched. He groaned and sprawled backwards on his pillow.

“You should try to go back to sleep,” Narcissa said to him. “You’ll be right as rain by the time you wake. Severus, do you have…?”

A huff, and Harry could feel something wash through him. Whether it was a spell or a potion, he didn’t care. Everything grew heavy—his hands pressed down on the blankets like lumps of lead, his face fell slack under the weight of the air above him, his shoulders felt like the world was still heavy upon them, just when he’d given all that up. But this was a nice heaviness. It wasn’t the cold anxiety that kept him up with dread for months, for years. No, he could let himself fall into this, forever.

***

“Why did I ever need to wear glasses if my eyesight could be fixed like this?” Harry asked. Everything was so bewilderingly clear. Even with his glasses freshly polished on his shirt, he’d never seen so well before. “This is brilliant.”

“If I’d known you would be so enthusiastic, I would have smashed glass into your eye back in first year,” said Snape without malice.

Harry huffed. He knew his former professor didn’t really mean any such thing, but he still didn’t want to hear it. Actually— “Do you wish that? Perhaps the Dark Lord will give you that memory, embed it in your mind like he did Umbridge’s—” So long as the memory wasn’t embedded in his own mind, what did it matter?

“Of course I don’t wish that, you foolish child,” snapped the Potions Master. His black eyes flashed with more than anger. Harry noticed that he didn’t meet his eyes. Perhaps they were too much like his mother’s now, free from the frame of his glasses.

Narcissa leaned in close for a diagnostic charm. “You mustn’t listen to half of what Severus says,” she said conspiratorially. “Like the Dark Lord, he doesn’t respond well to stress. He rushed here in his dressing robes as though the manor were on fire.”

“I am nothing like the Dark Lord,” Snape grumbled, though he didn’t deny anything else. Without leave, and before Harry could flinch, he placed fingers on either side of Harry’s eye and stretched it wide open. “The redness should fade within the day if we administer a tonic of eyebright every hour.”

“I can do it,” Narcissa offered, holding out her hand for the vial.

But Snape ignored her. “Hold still,” he ordered. Harry felt three drops falling against his eye; he had to struggle to keep it open. “If you are so determined to live, then you might as well be able to see clearly. And the other one. We might as well make them a working set.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, blinking as the world swam in and out of focus. He flushed when he remembered his hurtful words from before. Snape was just…was just Snape. It was like he couldn’t help it, and he did look completely shattered with fatigue. “I’m sorry for suggesting that you get that memory. That was cruel of me. I know you didn’t mean it."

Snape sighed as he pushed a strand of long black hair behind an ear. “I am the one who owes you an apology, Mr Potter. That first night, when the Dark Lord resurrected me, I should have responded far differently. Albus had put so many hopes on you acting a certain way. I had bought into it.” Snape paused here. Uncertainty looked rather wrong on his saturnine features. “In my memories, you must have seen how angry I was by his plan, at first. I am appalled now that I allowed myself to be pulled along by him. And with his death, in killing him, it was as if all my choices were gone.”

Harry nodded. He had felt all last year that his hopeless quest was all he would ever know, that it was somehow bequeathed to him along with the snitch. He knew what it felt like to have his choices scratched away by another’s will. “Sometimes we need to make our own choices, even if they aren’t what others want of us.”

Snape looked at him then. Something seemed to spark in those dark eyes, and Harry wondered if, perhaps, it was recognition. Perhaps Snape saw him—Harry—finally. Not James. Not the Chosen One. Not some boy fated to die.

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” Snape murmured.  

Draco arrived shortly after that. He dragged the two chairs from near the table over to Harry’s bed, then dropped into one of them. “Hell of a night,” he said, offering the other seat to Snape.

Harry snickered at the sight of Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape sitting next to what was, he supposed, his sickbed. His sickbed in Voldemort’s stronghold. If Albus-fucking-Dumbledore himself had told Harry that this was where he’d be at eighteen, he’d have told the old fool to keep out of Trelawney’s sherry.

Narcissa was at their side within a minute, offering Snape and Draco cups of tea. Apparently, caffeine was contraindicative to the potions Harry had taken, so he had to go without. He wasn’t entirely sure what ‘contraindicative’ meant, and with Snape there he wasn’t about to ask. He was sure whatever tentative truce had occurred moments ago would be shattered in the face of his ignorance.

“You don’t look rested, love,” Narcissa chided her son. “I sent you off to get some sleep. Look at the bags under your eyes. You were supposed to go to bed, not pace your quarters all night.”

“I did sleep,” Draco said sullenly. “But I kept having these awful dreams.”

“I didn’t dream at all,” Harry said. “Though I do think I woke up panicked at least once.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” Narcissa said soothingly. “And you were unconscious, rather than sleeping, so it’s no wonder you didn’t dream. Perhaps you should take a dose of Dreamless Sleep tonight, Draco. It’s imperative for you to be on your best form these next few days. I have a feeling they will prove difficult for all of us.”

Snape was pulling out another vial and handing it to Draco before anyone could even ask him for it. How many pockets did that man have? Maybe, like Hagrid, he’d pull a cake out of one in a moment. Harry shook his head. His thoughts were everywhere since he’d been attacked; he hoped they settled soon before he made a complete arse of himself.

“What time is it?” he said. He refrained  from asking what he really wanted to know: when was his Master due to return?

“Just after seven,” Draco told him. “Would you like some breakfast? Mother said porridge should be okay.” To be sure, he waited for a nod from Snape before calling for Harry’s house-elf.

“Sure,” Harry answered, even as the bowl was handed to him. He only managed a spoonful before he set it on the bed. He ignored Draco’s look of concern and asked, “What did you dream about?” hoping that would move attention off himself.

Draco shivered and said, “I dreamt I was her. I dreamt that I was waiting for you outside your window, then came through and attacked you with that damned sword. It was so awful, Harry. So bad—I just knew that you needed to die—I didn’t even know why! But I did, and I tried so hard, and if it wasn’t for…for Nagini…I would have killed you. When she struck, and I fell. It was as if the world was over, completely. I’d failed.”

Snape snapped up in his chair. “This was your dream?” he asked tersely.

Draco nodded. He was shaking, and some of his tea had spilled to his lap, but he ignored it.

It sounded suspiciously like one of Harry’s visions of Voldemort. Draco was worked up enough without Harry telling him so.

Snape had no such compunctions. When Draco heard about how Harry had had visions upon visions of being the Dark Lord since his resurrection after the Tri-Wizard tournament, he began to shake more than before. “I didn’t know that you were even connected like that,” Draco said, horrified, to Harry. “And you think the Weaslette somehow linked onto me like that?”

No, Harry did not think that. Ginny Weasley certainly did not turn Draco Malfoy into a living Horcrux. Talk about absurd.

Then Draco mumbled, “She was eating me, until my father came. The snake. And he’ll question me later. I don’t think I can take being tortured by him again.”

“When did you dream this?” Snape asked, piercingly. “Was it after the attack? Or during?” His gaze was so sharp he could have speared Draco to the back of his chair.

“After,” Draco replied, shaking more than ever under Snape’s interrogation. “Once Mother sent me back to my rooms.”

Snape exhaled, and all the tension dissolved in him at once. He ran a hand across his face. “I highly doubt you have the same sort of connection that Mr Potter and the Dark Lord share, Draco,” Snape said finally. When Draco didn’t look at all reassured, Snape explained as much as he could: “That link was forged from the foulest of Dark magics when the Dark Lord attacked Harry at the end of the First Wizarding War. Has Ms Weasley attacked you as such? Have you a new curse scar you’ve told no one about? Your dream was no doubt brought on by nerves. Mr Potter’s visions of the Dark Lord always occurred concurrently with events. Yours came hours after and were no doubt brought on by an overactive and worried mind. Clear your mind before you sleep tonight is my suggestion.”

For a split-second, Harry wished he still had the bandages wrapped round his eyes. As it was, Snape absolutely saw him rolling his eyes at the hated command. But instead of chastising him for his rudeness, Snape said, “Another of Albus’s failings. By not explaining the nature of your connection with the Dark Lord to me, your Occlumency sessions were doomed from the get-go. I wonder if he truly expected you to gain competency in the Mind Arts with such a unique link.”

Draco looked more and more curious, but Harry still remembered Voldemort warning him against telling anyone about being a Horcrux. At this point, he didn’t really see the point in secrecy. Hermione knew, as did Snape. And all the rebels might guess, though their numbers were diminishing. But surely those loyal to the Dark Lord wouldn’t wish him harm.

That was assuming that the Dark Lord had truly loyal followers, and not just those snapping at his heels and hoping for the barest crumb of power to fall from his grasp. Who besides himself could the Dark Lord trust with his life?

Other than Bellatrix, that was. But Harry didn’t trust her with his life, Horcrux or no. If she didn’t cut him apart for his scar, then she would likely try to convince his Master to hide him away somewhere safe (and out of the way).  That was, as always, his greatest fear.

 “How did she even get through the window?” Draco was asking.

Harry shook himself from his dark thoughts. “That was no ordinary sword,” he explained. “That was the Sword of Gryffindor. I used it in our second year to kill the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets.”

Snape stood abruptly. “I should have quit after your second year,” he told Harry. “Fool me once.”

Draco’s mouth had fallen open after Harry had so blithely mentioned killing Slytherin’s Basilisk when he was only twelve. He closed it again to frown up at Snape. “What?”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me. I must be tired if I’m casting out Muggle aphorisms.” He sighed, then explained to Draco: “After the disastrous events of your first year, when the headmaster not only secreted away the Philosopher’s Stone—which the Dark Lord could have used to regain a body—inside the school, but then also made the wonderful decision to employ said Dark Lord to teach you imbeciles Defence—”

“What?” Draco squeaked. Then: “But Quirrell—”

“Had our Lord growing out the back of his head,” Harry told him, grinning. Now that he was so close to Voldemort, it just seemed funny.

“Quite,” Snape said. “I thought to myself it was just a one-off. But then keeping the school open when Slytherin’s monster was active in the school?”

“Not to mention the Dementors, and then letting me participate in that stupid tournament,” Harry said, amused.

“I should have quit before I was even hired,” Snape drawled. “Teaching is bad for one’s health and sanity. Remember that, boys.”

“Really, Severus, and here we all thought you enjoyed teaching.” Voldemort stepped out of shadows that were certainly not there moments before, making all three jump. Harry was the first to recover and smiled happily up at his Master.

“My Lord, I—” Snape began, obviously worried about how much Voldemort had heard.

Voldemort hissed in laughter. “It is almost as if you are not pleased with my return to power. And neither of you answered young Draco’s question. He asked how Ginny made it through the window.”  Here, the Dark Lord turned to the terrified blond, whose curiosity looked completely doused under such scrutiny. “The Sword of Gryffindor was forged from goblin steel. In killing the Basilisk, the blade absorbed the serpent’s venom. That, along with other qualities already imbued in the steel, and in combination with Ginevra’s own determination—for will is not a power to underestimate—caused the wards surrounding the window to crack open.”

Draco nodded, though he looked too terrified to comprehend anything he’d been told.

“Will Nagini and I be safe here?” Harry asked. He knelt up on the bed then and stroked Nagini, who was slung over Voldemort’s shoulders.

“I shall be moving you both into my own chambers,” answered his Master.

Harry’s hands stilled. Part of him was delighted to be closer to his Master. Another part was aware that he would have to be present for all of what Voldemort got up to at night, no matter who was involved. But it wasn’t his choice, and he pushed any unwanted images of Dark witches from his mind and asked, “Where were you, Master?”

He hadn’t let himself linger on the question before now. But it hadn’t been the Dark Lord who had found him, huddled injured on the floor, terrified. It had been Lucius and Draco. His Master wasn’t there for him when he needed him.

“You said the room was charmed to tell you when I was in danger,” Harry hissed, distraught.

Silence. Harry knew he was being impertinent. He knew he had no right asking anything of his Master, but he couldn’t help it. He had almost been killed. And his Master hadn’t been there to save him.

“Where were you?” he asked again.

From the door came a smug giggle. Leaning against the doorframe, with one hand idly twirling a black curl, Bellatrix purred, “He was with me.”

Chapter Text

“Out!” Lord Voldemort roared. The window, newly repaired, shivered under the onslaught of his rage. Harry’s scar blared with a fierceness he hadn’t felt in months.

Harry gulped. He was in for it now. He’d questioned his Master before his Inner Circle. His newly clear eyesight blurred with tears.

Snape and Draco slid from their chairs. Draco looked warily back at Harry as he left the room. Snape, brave man that he was, had the audacity to test Harry’s temperature with the back of his hand before he left. Lucius was long gone.

Bellatrix lingered in the door frame with a sickening grin on her face. She had the gall to wink at Harry when he glanced over. “My Lord, I can’t enter,” she said, pouting. Her hand rebounded against the air of Harry’s room, like similarly charged magnets pulsing away from each other.

Voldemort pushed a hand towards her, not even looking her way, his wandless magic slamming the door in her face. At once, all anger left him. He lowered himself into the chair Draco had vacated and rubbed his fingers over his smooth forehead. “Harry,” he began. Nagini slithered off his shoulders and coiled around Harry’s pillow to rest her head on his chest. “Harry, I am so sorry.” The words sounded foreign coming from him. This was not a voice meant for apologies. If Harry couldn’t feel the man’s regret lap over him, he might have let himself believe he’d misheard.

But misheard or not, Harry had already used up all his words. Nothing was left. Voldemort had left him here when he’d been attacked, nearly killed. He’d been off with…with…Harry gagged; he couldn’t even think about her.

“I vow to you it will never happen again,” his Master said to him.

Harry nodded. He’d be under lock and key now. His Master’s quarters were doubly protected, and who in their right mind would try to harm him there? No doubt he’d be sequestered there all the time now. At least he’d get to see his Master more, he thought with a sigh.

And her. He remembered her disappointment at Midsummer. Surely Voldemort would not always turn her away.

Still, it was better than the alternative. Voldemort might have secreted him away somewhere no one would ever think to look. Asleep, perhaps, for all time. He would rather anything than that. Even—

“She will not be welcome,” his Master told him resolutely. He shifted forward in his seat and placed his hand alongside Nagini’s head on Harry’s chest. Harry could feel his heart fluttering up into Voldemort’s palm. “It will just be you, me, and Nagini. You will be safe there.”

Harry nodded. He already felt lonely. He’d still be shut up, even if he’d have company some of the time.

Voldemort traced his hand up Harry’s chest to his chin. He tugged it to make his Horcrux look up at him. “You aren’t being punished, my darling. You will still be allowed out with Draco. From now on, though, Nagini will remain with you at all times. I was negligent in allowing her to wander so far from you before, but see how she protected you last night?”

‘When I didn’t,’ was the unspoken ending to that sentence. The tears that had been threatening to flood from Harry’s eyes finally spilled. Pale fingers brushed them from his cheek.

“Do you want to be present when I interrogate the girl?” Voldemort asked him.

Harry coughed, then hoarsely said, “You haven’t already?”

“I was waiting for you, in case you wished to watch. But it must be done soon before whoever helped free her erases their tracks,” answered Voldemort. “The prisoner in the cell near hers was stunned and saw nothing. What answers lie within Ginevra Weasley’s mind may be the only ones we get.”

Harry bit his lip, debating with himself. He hated himself for it, but he finally whispered, “I think it was Hermione.” He had hoped that he had saved her from death. He couldn’t save Ron, and ultimately Ginny had damned herself. But he had hoped that Hermione would be okay. Not free, but then neither was he. But she had been safe; that was what he’d given her. Now she had gone and betrayed him, though. He hadn’t really thought she would strike out at him like this. He had thought that, despite everything, that he’d meant more to her than he had to Dumbledore. “She figured it out, remember? She knew what I was.”

Voldemort took a deep breath. “I have reservations in believing it was your Mudblood. For one thing, I am not ready to believe the limitations set in both her and Severus’s vows are so useless. Regardless, we will know soon enough. I have Miss Weasley restrained in a nearby cell. We’ll venture over when you’re ready.”

Harry prodded Nagini off himself, then sat up. “I’m ready now.”

Voldemort chuckled at his Horcrux’s eagerness. He drew his wand and Harry forced himself not to tense as the dangerous yew weapon cast a tingling cleansing charm on him. “Drink this,” Voldemort ordered as he thrust a glass towards him. “A nutritive potion, since we should hurry.”

It took Harry all of two minutes to throw on some clean clothes and down the potion. “Should we take Nagini?” Harry asked, but it was a pointless question as she darted out the door alongside them.

“I don’t think she has any plans on leaving you alone any time soon,” remarked the Dark Lord. As Nagini began to wind her way up Harry, weighing him down hopelessly, their Master cast the spell to make her weightless. Then he strode further down the corridor, deeper into his wing of Malfoy Manor.

Harry had never been this way before. Draco always led him straight out to the main part of the manor. When Harry had once asked to explore the Dark Lord’s wing, the blond had outright refused, saying, “There’s nothing down there you’d want to see.” Harry’s curiosity had not, of course, been quenched by such a remark, but he’d learned a long time ago that prying usually brought him only pain.

Doors lined up like soldiers, closer and closer together the further they went along. The lighting worsened as if the manor itself knew that what lay beyond was not meant to be brought to light.

“What’s behind these doors?” Harry asked, his voice so quiet that he thought Voldemort wouldn’t even hear. There was something dangerous lurking down here that Harry knew not to disturb.

But of course, his Master didn’t need to hear Harry’s voice to answer, “Experiments.”

Finally, they reached the last door, set facing them at the end of the hall. The nearest lamp was more than twenty feet behind them. The door to Ginny’s prison stood in shadow, unguarded.

It had no handle. No hinges. Voldemort traced a rune upon it, then pressed both hands to the wood, which melted away like spun sugar in a rainstorm.

No one was inside. A dark void and nothing more.

She had escaped. Without thinking, Harry pressed flush against his Master’s side, fearful, and darted his eyes around the darkened hallway. Where was she? He expected the flicker from the distant lamps to catch a renewed flash of steel at any moment.

Voldemort didn’t shake him off as he reached forward and drew a heavy chain from out of the darkness. He pulled, and a small figure was yanked forward on her knees. A heavy-looking collar cinched into her throat, just a little too tight. Her eyes were wide open, and she looked up at Voldemort and Harry hopefully.

Nagini writhed around Harry’s neck, hissing threats to the girl who had come so close to killing her brother. “Let me finish her. She is Nagini’s prey!”

Voldemort pressed a hand to her powerful body, holding her in place. “Not yet, my pet. The collar is made of lead, Harry. It supresses her own magic and leaves her vulnerable to all others.” He pulled the chain high, causing Ginny to strain up on her knees. She did not attempt to stand.

Harry wanted to back away, far from this terrible chamber and the darkness pressing out from it. He’d thought he’d known, having been blinded twice now, what darkness was. He’d been wrong. And he knew now just how merciful his Master had been with him, from the very beginning. And now he knew not to ever fear another prison. The cave with the Inferi would never haunt his dreams again, not now. Not when this existed. This nothingness.

He had to get away from here now. But there was no way in all the burning hells that he would let go of his Master, and he knew the Dark Lord wouldn’t leave until he had answers.

So: “Why?” Harry asked, ignoring the sting in his eyes. And more importantly, because in his heart he knew why: “Who? Who let you out of the dungeons?”

She kept looking up at him with that same misplaced hope. She kept looking up at Voldemort with trusting expectation.

“She is still confused. The void causes hallucinations within seconds of exposure. Time slows to something beyond meaning. Give her a moment.” How strange, how unexpected was this patience from his Master.

It was fascinating watching Ginny come into awareness. Her face shifted, oh so slowly, to one of happiness at seeing them before her--as if they’d rescued her!--to one of hatred and anger, but mostly fear.

“Tell me how you escaped your cell,” Voldemort asked her coldly. He let the chain go slack, but Ginny stayed up on her knees, though she looked ready to crumble with fatigue. “Tell me, and I promise to not cast you back into nothingness.”

Ginny was warring with herself, that was plain to see. She glanced over at her shoulder at the dark room behind her, and a shiver wracked through her whole body. Then she actually shuffled closer to Harry and the Dark Lord, as if they were the safer option. Nagini lunged at her, as far as she could from her perch. Ginny didn’t even flinch.

“Answer me, girl.” And then his Master was casting Legilimens. Ginny screamed even as she was locked in place and her mind pried open by the Dark Lord’s mental onslaught. Her face contorted with every conceivable agony and all Harry could think was that Snape had gone easy on him in fifth year, after all.

The void so near seemed to swallow all time, for it seemed an eternity before Voldemort pulled himself back from her mind. “Nothing,” he snarled. He drew the chain up to the ceiling with his ruthless magic. Ginny dangled from it, breathless, her face washed with useless tears. “All memory of her escape has been wiped from her worthless mind.”

That meant, Harry realized, that she had absolutely had help escaping. He’d held one last hope that she’d somehow made her own way to him, and that the attack was nothing but vengeance for Harry’s betrayal. For who else would have freed her? He could think of none but Hermione.

Voldemort yanked the chain back down, spitefully. Ginny crashed to the floor.

“Veritaserum?” Harry suggested, miserable.

Voldemort glared down at the fallen witch. “She would need a memory for us to question first,” was his bitter snarl.

Then they were at an impasse. And without knowing who had released her, Harry was still in danger. Whoever had sent Ginny his way, had given her a broom and whispered murder in her ears, was still free to strike again. And this time they would know to attack Nagini first.

“We will find out who it was,” Voldemort growled. “And Merlin help them when I do.” He swung round, dragging Ginny along by the chain. Harry lost grip on his Master’s sleeve and shuddered as he felt the maw of the abyss at his back. The Dark Lord grabbed at his hand and pulled Harry with him down the corridor.

“Is it safe to leave that door open?” Harry asked. What if the darkness spread? It was already too close to him now. What if it slowly enveloped the Dark Lord’s wing? What if it came for him, for Nagini, for Voldemort even, in the night whilst they slept?

Though Harry would never feel safe again, he knew, not until they found out who had set Ginny free. Not until they killed the one who wanted him dead.

Even if it did turn out to be Hermione.

“What door, Harry?” his Master asked. He paused long enough for Harry to point back down the corridor at—

At nothing.

Not nothing. Not a void. There wasn’t anything strange about the end of the hallway now. All Harry could see was a blank stone wall.

***

“What are we going to do now?” Harry asked as Voldemort led him into his old, familiar quarters. Nagini slithered from off his shoulders and wrapped herself around their prisoner. She opened her jaws wide, pressing her fangs threateningly against Ginny’s throat.

The Dark Lord drew his wand and swept it about the room. At first Harry thought he must have cast some obscure detection charm that would lead them to their next clue. When the door to his wardrobe threw itself open and his robes all danced out to line up, quickly joined by his shirts and pants flying out from drawers, it became obvious what was happening. Voldemort directed the chorus of clothes to file through the tapestry—apparently Harry’s socks didn’t need to be formally added to the wards—and through to his own quarters.

“As I told you before, I am moving you to my rooms,” he answered distractedly as he picked up the stack of books lying on Harry’s bedside table. A house-elf could have winked the clothes to their new home instantly, but Voldemort obviously needed a way to expend his writhing energy. He hissed to Nagini, “Do not kill the girl—yet.”

Harry sat down on his bed as he watched Voldemort gather the few things scattered on top of the mantle.

No, not his bed anymore, Harry realized. He remembered how he had fallen asleep in his Master’s bedroom on Midsummer’s night, tucked away with Nagini on the floor. It had been comfortable enough, and Harry was no stranger to sleeping before the hearth with Nagini on especially lonely nights. But to always sleep on the rug like some prized pet?

But that was exactly what he was, wasn’t it? He would just have to get used to it.

Harry hurried after Voldemort as he strode through the tapestries, through the study, and into his lavish rooms. “At least you’ll get your study back.” No more would his Master need to work in that tiny, windowless room.

“Do not dare seek some silver lining to appease me. There is a traitor in my ranks, and I will not rest until their flayed body is rotting in a gibbet.” Voldemort dropped the books he’d brought with him carelessly onto one of the tables next to his own bed.

Harry shivered, though he guiltily realized he felt more flattered than horrified by the declaration. “I think we can rule out a few people,” he said. “Draco, Narcissa—”

“I will rule out nobody.” Voldemort looked up, then, at Harry’s clothes, still dancing merrily around the room.  A shirtsleeve would occasionally try to open the cedar wardrobe, only to have it pulled tight by the black, silken robes hung up within. The Dark Lord snapped a finger and called out “Elf!”

Flippy popped into the room and swept into the lowest bow Harry had ever seen.

“Harry is moving in here with me. Fetch a wardrobe for his things. And elf?”

“Yes, Master Dark Lord, Sir?” Flippy bobbed back down, dusting the floor with his ears.

Voldemort glared at the small, servile thing. “Make certain it isn’t cursed.” Then he uncharacteristically looked uncertain. “On second thought, leave it in the corridor, and I will inspect it first.”

“We could just bring over my old wardrobe from the other room,” Harry suggested. It had served him  well so far. Both Voldemort and the house-elf ignored him.

When they were once more alone, Voldemort advanced again on his spirits cupboard. He did not offer Harry a glass this time. He sipped at the amber drink until all hesitancy left him. “We will interrogate the Malfoys first,” he said after he had rolled the lingering stress from out his shoulders.

Harry pushed down the urge to argue. He knew it wasn’t any of them, not even Lucius. They were the ones who had saved him from Ginny. They could have easily left him to his fate.

Voldemort hummed. “I am inclined to agree with you,” he stated after a moment. “However, they might have staged the attack to increase their standing in my ranks, thinking that by ‘rescuing you,’ as it were, I would be grateful.”

Harry shivered as the remembrance of his window shattering flooded his mind. The tumbler cracked in Voldemort’s hand.

Voldemort vanished the mess. “But I agree it is not likely them. Nor do I think it was Severus. Despite his treacherous past—and even forgetting his newly formed bonds which keep him in line—he has made a habit of keeping you safe. Still, we must rule each of them out with care. Once we are certain that they are innocent, we can bring them into our confidence. Severus in particular will be helpful to nose out the truth, spy that he was.”

***

They brought in Narcissa first. She knelt before the Dark Lord nervously. Voldemort gave her no warning before entering her mind to search for any hint that she may have somehow involved herself in the attack. Harry sat on his hands through the whole thing. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, but perhaps his Master was going easy on the least suspect of his followers.

It took the Dark Lord far longer to sweep through her mind, though that might have been because he wasn’t ripping her mindscape to shreds as he had Ginny. Narcissa raised a delicate hand to rub her forehead when her thoughts were her own again.

“I believed Harry when he professed you had no involvement in the attack on his life, but I had to be sure,” Voldemort told the witch at his feet. “I sense no deception in you, nor are there any blocked or missing memories.”

Harry released the breath he’d been holding. Narcissa paled, perhaps only now realizing what danger she had been in but moments before. She offered Harry a tremulous smile as she left.

Lucius was next. Voldemort’s mental attack was rougher this time, and the proud man collapsed to his hands when all was done. But he was pronounced innocent and Voldemort even offered him a glass of Firewhiskey as thanks for rushing so quickly to Harry’s aid.

“There is one other matter to attend to, my Lord,” said Lucius once he was told he was free to go. “News of the attack has spread outside the manor walls. I have already turned away three reporters this morning clamouring for an update on Mr Potter’s health. Is there a particular statement you wish me to present?”

Voldemort rubbed what was once the bridge of his nose. “Can’t you just curse them away, Lucius?” Before Lucius could protest, he amended tiredly, “Tell them he is recovering from injuries and that the assailant is in custody. And tell Severus I wish to question him next.”

Snape had been lingering close by and entered before Lucius could pull the door closed. He bowed his head in the Dark Lord’s general direction but strode straight to Harry.

“You have no headaches? No lingering eye-pain?” Without leave, he reached out and pulled Harry’s brow up to inspect his healing eye, batting away protesting hands. “There is still some redness in the sclera, and Narcissa or I will need to give your cornea a better examination soon.” He pulled out a glass vial filled with a murky green-brown sludge from his robes and handed it to Harry. He only snorted at the grimace he received instead of thanks.

Only then did Snape turn to the Dark Lord. “You wished to see me?”

A small rage burned deep in Voldemort’s eyes, but he grit his teeth and said nothing about the lack of respect shown him. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and stared hard at the dark-haired man standing before him. “I need you to lower all your mental defences. Leave not one stone of your Occlumency walls in place, or I cannot promise you will have a mind left when I am done with you.”

Severus swallowed hard and gave a nod of understanding as he knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet and readied himself for the intrusion. “I hope that is adequate,” he finally said before looking up into the red eyes bearing down at him.

“I should hope so, for your sake.” Unlike with either of Draco’s parents, Voldemort drew his wand—the Elder Wand, Harry noted—and incanted, “Legilimens.”

Ages seemed to pass with both men frozen in place, though the strain on both of them was obvious. The Dark Lord’s grip on his wand slipped twice, and Snape had rivers of anguish washing down his sallow cheeks by the end. Harry looked away, but not before he saw his former professor mouth the name of his mother, almost as if in prayer. He wished he’d looked away sooner.

“It would seem, Severus,” the Dark Lord said when he finally pulled away from his intense scrutiny of the other man’s memories, “that you are not the only traitor in my ranks. I am pleased beyond measure that you are uninvolved in this mess.”

Snape let his greasy hair fall to cover his face. He tried to say something, but his words came out too hoarse to discern, as if he’d screamed so much in his head already that his voice had given out. He rocked back onto his heels and seemed to shrink into himself even more.

“This won’t do,” Voldemort said, relaxing back into his chair as if the last hour had been nothing. “Harry, bring a glass of something bracing for Severus. Not the green bottle.”

Harry knelt beside Snape and offered the glass of Ogden’s. “Here, sir.”

Snape finally found his voice and said, “Thank you.” He downed it all in one go.

By the time Harry had fetched another glass of the same for his Master, Snape seemed to have recovered. All that betrayed his distress was a slight redness ringing his eyes and dampness at his collar where his tears had soaked in. Snape looked up to Voldemort and said, “I have nothing pressing brewing now, if you wish me to help in the investigation.”

Voldemort made a noise of agreement.  “I trust that you will be the model of discretion,” the Dark Lord told him.

Snape nodded, looking more and more sure of himself. “I will employ every ounce of cunning I possess.”

“See that you do.” He said no more until Snape had left, then turned to Harry and said, “I feel negligent in waiting until later to question Draco. I know, though, that Bella has instructed him in Occlumency, and I think it best to wait until morning before attempting to breach his mind. Why don’t we see to your clothes for now, and then get some rest?”

By the time Voldemort had gone over the new wardrobe that his house-elf had procured, scrutinizing every crevice for the tiniest hint of a curse or hex, Harry had used up the last of what energy he still possessed and was more than ready to turn in. He pulled on his sleep robes while Voldemort was readying himself for the night in the ensuite, then eyed the rug in front of the fireplace.

Nagini was still in his former room, guarding over Ginny. Without his sister beside him, Harry suspected he would find his night cold and the floor hard. But he was used to worse—far worse—so he sat down in the place where he’d fallen asleep once before.

“Why are you on the floor?” Voldemort asked Harry when he returned.

“Er…I thought you wanted me to sleep here.”

Voldemort pulled back the coverlet on the bed. “You’ve been under these sheets enough times by now, I dare say you may as well sleep here.”

Harry slipped beside him, as unobtrusively as he could manage. “Good night, Master,” he whispered after the lights had been spelled off.

“Sweet dreams, my Horcrux.”

Chapter Text

He had lost something. He knew he had. It had been in his hand but moments before. Something precious. Something he needed.

Why, then, was he wasting time picking up these seashells? Not far from him, Harry was stepping lightly on the beach, delighting in how the incoming waves lapped at his ankles.

The tide was coming in.

Voldemort gathered up his seashells and looked around. He must have dropped it somewhere nearby, but all he could see was the sand and the sea.

The waves were getting bigger. “We should go.”

“I’m having fun,” Harry told him as he jumped over one that came half-way up his shins. “Let’s wait a little longer.”

The sky was getting dark, yet Voldemort knew dusk was still hours away. The wind was picking up.

He dropped a seashell. When he rose from picking it up again, Harry was further away. “There’s a storm coming. We have to go home now.”

“In a little bit,” Harry said, laughing. He smiled at him, his eyes bright with happiness. He jumped another wave, moving even further away. “Come join me, Tom!”

Voldemort shook his head. He knew better than to step into that frigid water. Besides, he was still searching for whatever it was that he’d lost. He walked up the shoreline. Another shell! But when he went to pick it up, the other shells he’d gathered fell from his small hands. He couldn’t keep them all; he chose the prettiest, the shiniest, and pressed them close to his chest.

Thunder rolled in the distance. The wind danced around Tom’s bare legs, making him shiver. It started to rain. He turned to call to Harry, to make him come out—but found he was alone.

“Harry? Harry!” He ran towards where he’d last seen the other boy.

The water lapped up Tom’s feet, burning him, and he dropped his seashells. He watched as one by one the tide picked them up and took them away from him. Only when the last one disappeared from sight, rushing back to join its brothers in the sea, did Tom leap to save them. But it was too late. A wave washed over him, knocking him down. He crawled back up the beach as best he could, spluttering. Through the salt-sting in his eyes, he scoured the water for Harry.

Nothing…nothing...

There! A head bobbed up in the water, then disappeared, sinking back into the deep. Tom plunged back into the icy water, and no matter that he was never that strong a swimmer, he pushed forward even as the waves kept pressing him back towards the beach.

The rain was pelting down now. The sea was boiling up in distress. Something sliced into Tom’s foot, and when he bent down he found one of the shells he’d gathered; it had broken in half on a rock, and the edge was razor-sharp.

Something else was in the water. A hand, an arm, pale as death. Tom pulled up cold fingers, began to pull Harry onto the sand.

It wasn’t Harry. Tom couldn’t hope to remember every Inferi he had made, but there was no mistaking what he had just dragged out of the water. He pushed it away at once, but now the thing was waking. With horror, Tom watched as the bloated creature shambled towards him. Tom scrambled backwards, but it was too late! More and more Inferi were crawling out of the sea.

“Come and play,” one of them said to him. Tom knew that voice. His beautiful Harry was rotting now, his once-vibrant eyes now white and lifeless. Dead hands grabbed him by the shoulders, and Tom didn’t have the strength to push them away.

Like a tide of their own, the dead swept him into the sea.

***

Harry woke swathed in blankets and drenched with sweat. He pushed them off and tried to sit up, but something far heavier held him down. He tried to shove his sister from him; she knew better than to coil around him like this as he slept. As the haze of his confusing dreams fled, he remembered she was far away in his old room, guarding Ginny.

Lord Voldemort had one hand pinned to his throat, and the other pressed his chest firmly back against the mattress. Harry blinked back tears, bringing his hands up to gently pry the long fingers from off his windpipe.

They released at once. Voldemort shifted back to look at him, and Harry almost thought he saw tears glistening on the pale cheeks—but that had to be an illusion. Flashes of a dream that was not his own filtered through his mind to evaporate in the still morning air.

“You were dead,” his Master whispered. When he reached in again, his hand spread, Harry almost flinched. But instead of coming to press on his throat again, a single finger traced along the side of his face. Then another. And another, until Voldemort’s hands roved all over Harry’s face, his head, as if memorizing him. “You left me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry whispered back.

Voldemort traced the zigzag of his scar. For a moment, it ached almost as if it were trying to wrench out, but Harry’s Master was there to press it back in place. Harry wrapped his own arms around the Dark Lord’s shoulders.

Then they were kissing, and it was as if they had both already drowned and air was meaningless to them. Harry writhed as his Master’s tongue swept past his lips to slip against his own. When Voldemort finally pulled away, it was only to press kisses down the line of Harry’s jaw.

Harry wrapped his legs around his Master’s waist and pulled him close enough to feel the desperate urgency waiting for him there. There would be no teasing Voldemort awake this morning.

Voldemort waved an impatient hand and their nightclothes vanished. He rose up on his knees and beckoned Harry to turn over onto all fours, then coaxed his knees apart more. Experienced fingers reached under him to spread something slippery and warm onto Harry’s hard member. “Stroke yourself. Do not come yet.”

And then the slick fingers moved behind to press against Harry’s virgin hole. Harry instinctively tensed, and a calming hand came to stroke along his hip. “Shhhhh. Relax for me.”

Harry breathed through his nose and focussed on his own pleasuring strokes. Voldemort’s finger managed to breach him, and it pressed in gently, then out again. More lubricant was being spread around and around his tight pucker, and Harry began to relax into the touch. The finger entered him again and probed deeper, twisting this way and that, until Harry felt something spark through him. Something unexpected. Something incredible.

“That’s it,” Voldemort murmured above him. He pressed his finger in again, crooking it just so, and Harry moaned.

Within another minute, another finger was joining the first. At first the sting was too much, and the moan became a whine. Harry’s attention to his own member flagged, so Voldemort moved his idle hand to cover Harry’s, and they moved together over his cock, bringing it again to hardness.

“My good boy.”

Harry bit into his pillow.

Voldemort was gentle and eased his fingers in slowly. And then that spark again, and Harry was actually bucking back against the long digits, eager to feel that again. But then Voldemort began to scissor the fingers.

“Breathe for me,” Voldemort said. “You’re doing so well. Just a little more.”

Harry swallowed and tried to ignore the burn in favour of the brief explosions of brilliant wonder that his Master’s fingers were triggering. Finally, the pleasure overwhelmed the pain and he was panting with want.

Voldemort brought his finger back to his entrance again and circled and teased it, sliding a sole finger in and out.

“M-M-Master,” Harry cried. He needed to feel that delicious spark again. If it wasn’t for Voldemort’s hand encircling his own, he was sure he would have sped up the hand on his own cock until he’d come all over the bed, orders be damned. But as with every morning, he was expected to satisfy his Master’s needs before his own.

And his Master’s needs had changed.

A bluntness pressed up against him, then slowly in. It was too much. Tears sparked in Harry eyes as the intrusion began to fill him and fill him, slowly but still too much, too soon.

Voldemort stopped; he was panting too. He pulled back a bit until only the thick head of his penis was still in Harry’s hole. They stayed like that for a minute, then the Dark Lord began to press in again. Harry still felt too full, but it seemed easier now. Another pause. Then again.

It seemed to take forever, but finally Voldemort’s cock found that same place within him that made Harry groan. Pleasure washed over him,  but then his Master pulled out and he nearly sobbed at the loss.

But Voldemort pressed in again and speared that same place again and this time Harry pushed back, driving his Master deeper inside.

“Does that feel good?” his Master asked between pants. He brought both his hands up to grip Harrys’ hips.

Harry nodded—he had no words left. Even the fullness was beginning to feel good now; every time Voldemort drew back, Harry’s body was left with an emptiness he knew he could never fill by himself.

The Dark Lord went faster after that, though never so fast that it hurt, not really. After a short while, even he was too far gone to talk, to ask questions, to even praise Harry for being so good for him. Harry could feel his own orgasm building beyond hope of containment even as he felt his Master’s need for release overwhelm him through their connection. He knew he could speed up his hand when his Master began pounding into him without care.

Voldemort finally stilled inside him, pressed in as deeply he could, and Harry felt the warmth of his Master’s seed fill him. Immediately after, hot spurts of his own come spilled from his aching cock to form thick lines of white on the black sheets.

Harry was ready to fall back asleep after that, but there was still a haunted look to Voldemort’s eyes. Perhaps he was still looking for whatever it was he had lost. Or perhaps he had sighted it and found it lacking.

“We should check on your sister.”

***

Ginny was dead.

Nagini had thrashed in her sleep, disturbed by dreams she couldn’t begin to understand, and had crushed the ginger-haired girl unknowingly.

She sounded contrite, but though she begged forgiveness in one breath, she asked to eat the girl with the next.

Seeing Ginny with her neck snapped and her ribs crushed in made Harry’s heart ache with a sadness he couldn’t remember feeling in several months. It wasn’t remorse, and it wasn’t pity. But it was an echo, perhaps, sliding in through the gates of possibility, unwanted and undeserved. Flashes of futures that would never be pressed in on Harry until he began to feel caged by them. Would Ginny have looked beautiful in a white veil? Would he have felt delight at the fluttering pulse of new life in her rounded belly? He pictured the statue of his parents holding him at their memorial in Godric’s Hollow. He would never hold his own child. That future was not for him.

Harry pressed against Voldemort’s side and trailed his fingers up the silk folds of the other man’s sleeve, clinging to the future he had chosen. “Can you let Nagini eat her?” he whispered. Ginny’s vibrant spark was gone. It was a reminder of everything he’d thought he’d sacrificed, before he’d sacrificed everything. He’d ended his relationship with her to save her from this fate, only for her to choose it for herself.

“The investigation is not nearly complete,” his Master reminded him. “And Nagini will not leave enough for me to resurrect should I need go question her again..”

Harry nodded, but he turned his face into Voldemort’s robe to hide his disappointment. He felt the arm he was clinging to shift, but his Master wasn’t pushing him away, but rather brought his hand up to gently stroke the back of Harry’s head.

“I will have her buried along with her family,” the Dark Lord said. “It will be easy enough to exhume her should the need arise.”

“Thank you.”

Voldemort pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Then he pressed his thumb to the Mark on Harry’s forearm to summon Lucius to take the body away.

Lucius came in and, with a grimace, floated the corpse off the floor. Nagini moaned that she was hungry and how unfair it was that her prey had been taken from her.

With an exasperated sigh, Voldemort asked Harry, “Whatever became of your Muggle pet? Did you kill it? If not, I might enlarge it for your sister’s breakfast.”

“Draco took Dudley away from me ages ago, not long after my birthday. I have no idea what he did with him after that. Perhaps he released him.”

“He would not have dared—not without my leave. Lucius!”

Lucius was nearly out the wing with his burden. Turning back, he dipped his head and said, “My Lord?”

“Send your son to me. I might as well get his interrogation out of the way.”

Draco arrived soon afterwards. He knelt without prompting, saying, “I have already lowered my Occlumency shields, my Lord, in preparation.”

“A new mystery has presented itself, Draco, which we will see to first,” Voldemort told him. “Harry seems to have lost his worthless Muggle cousin. He tells me that you took him away.”

“That is true, my Lord. I returned him to the dungeons.” Draco licked his lips. It had always been a risk, taking away one of the Dark Lord’s gifts.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “And yet he was not listed in any of the reports I received concerning our current captives.”

Draco nodded. “I am not surprised, my Lord. I had placed him out of the way and cast a Disillusionment charm on him. My personal house-elf has been tending to him. Harry’s cousin has had no contact with any of the guards. I doubt they realize he is even there.”

Harry gasped when the realization hit. “Is his cell near Ginny’s?”

“Yes. Why?” But then Draco’s mouth fell open and he prostrated himself low. “Forgive me for not thinking of bringing him to you sooner, my Lord. His being a potential witness to the Blood Traitor’s escape hadn’t occurred to me. I will fetch him at once.”

But Voldemort had already stood and was at the door. “We will go to the dungeons together. I will not risk the Muggle’s life before I have had the chance to question it.”

***

Draco unlocked the door leading to the dungeons with a large iron key. It creaked open on its hinges, and a fetid stench poured forth at once. Harry pressed his sleeve to his mouth and breathed as shallowly as he could. Neither Voldemort of Draco seemed bothered by the reek.

“It’s this way. Lumos.”

Harry remembered this place. It seemed years ago since he’d been shut up in here with his friends, with Ollivander, with Griphook. He didn’t remember it being so foul then. But then, it hadn’t been a dungeon then, either, but a mere cellar. The influx of prisoners must have warranted an expansion.

The floor was sticky under Harry’s shoe. He glanced down at Voldemort’s bare feet treading carelessly through the filth. They would need to be bathed clean when this was all over.

A chuckle. “I keep my feet protected with Imperturbable charms. All this time, did you think I suffered from such exposure? Would I let my skin become so sullied?”

Harry shrugged, embarrassed at being caught out for having thought so silly a thing. Draco’s expression was carefully blank, as if he were using all his energy to hide a smirk.

As they walked along, torches flared to life in sconces high above them. Their flickering light cast skittering shadows along the floor. On either side of them were cells, each containing a bucket and nothing else.

“Where are all the prisoners?”

“This is all that’s left,” Draco answered. He pointed into a cell they were just passing.

A heap of tattered blankets in the cell they were passing shifted. Harry would have guessed it was a rat, but no, a matted tangle of long black hair was just discernable from the surrounding shadows. Dark eyes glinted in the torchlight, pupils blown wide as if with fever.

The next cell over, in contrast, was packed full. No one there witnessed anything, though. Harry averted  his eyes from Ron’s horrified expression, forever frozen.

Draco kept walking until they reached the last cell. “The Weasley girl was held in here. Harry’s cousin is over there, on the right.”

A blank stretch of stone wall glistened with damp. Draco drew his wand and cast the countercharm to his Disillusionment. Dudley shimmered into sight, though still shrunken. The cage that held him rested  upon a shelf just high enough to avoid being accidentally banged into by passing guards.

Draco levitated the cage down. Dudley looked healthier than when Harry had last seen him: rested and well-fed. He had a tiny doll-sized bed in there, a miniature table and chairs. He was far better off than Parvati Patil, two cells away.

Voldemort held his hand out for the cage. “Thank you, Draco. I will summon you later if I require anything more.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Draco said before bowing. He gave Harry a half-smile before exiting the dungeon.

After Draco’s footsteps had faded, Voldemort asked Harry to take Dudley from out the cage. Moments later, he’d resized Dudley back to normal. “It will be easier to Legilimize him if his eyes aren’t smaller than pin-heads,” he explained.

But Dudley didn’t need to be coerced into telling them anything. He was crying, and not only with terror.

“You’re alive!” Dudley gasped out. And that was relief spilling into his smile, Harry could tell.

“Nagini saved me,” Harry said. He pet his sister, who was coiled up around his Master’s shoulders. “But it was a near thing.”

Voldemort drew his wand and stepped between them. “The girl who tried to kill your cousin is dead. But she did not free herself.” He stopped and glared over at Ginny’s now-empty cell. “It is my hope that you might shed some light on the situation.”

Dudley was nodding, though it was almost imperceptible since he shook so. “Someone came dressed all in black. She stunned the other prisoner, but she didn’t see me.”

“You witnessed the escape, then? Who freed the girl? What did they look like?”

“She had a hood pulled up and one of those masks on. I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t see. But I heard everything. She let the red-headed girl go and cast some sort of spell on her.”

“What was it?” Harry asked, stepping forward.

Dudley shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Empire? Imperial?”

Imperio.

“The girl was Imperiused,” Voldemort mused. “And then she was ordered to find Harry?”

“And to kill him,” Dudley confirmed. “But not the snake. She said that several times, I remember. She was told to leave the snake alone.”

“So, it was just to get rid of me,” Harry said. “That was why Ginny left Nagini alone. It wasn’t about me being a…”

A Horcrux. He’d almost said it, not that Dudley would know what that meant.

“I typically refrain from entering the minds of ones such as yourself,” Voldemort said. “In this case I will need to make an exception. Legilimens.”

Dudley was screaming within seconds, and when Voldemort pulled from his mind, he collapsed to the stone floor and clutched at his head, moaning.

“Who was it,” Harry asked when Voldemort said nothing. “Did you recognize her?”

Like Dudley, Voldemort was pale. He braced one hand on Nagini’s sturdy head, the other on the stone wall beside him. “It was Bellatrix.”

***

Voldemort returned Dudley to how they’d found him, shrunken and unseen, with the promise that he would receive a rare pardon and be set free if all worked out favourably. Then he Apparated Harry straight back to their chambers and summoned Bellatrix.

“I want you to go through to my study,” his Master said, pushing Harry towards the tapestry.

Harry didn’t argue. He would never argue, not with his Master. But he didn’t want to miss this. He moved to the tapestry, though he looked pleadingly at Voldemort. Let me stay.

Voldemort paused with his hand on the small of Harry’s back. “I will not risk you,” he murmured. He closed his blood-red eyes for a moment in thought. When he opened them, he sighed. He walked over to a cabinet set against the far wall and cast a series of spells, dissembling the wards protecting what lay within.

What he pulled out took Harry’s breath away. He would recognize that shimmer anywhere. His cloak. His old cloak, the one he’d given to the Dark Lord.

“I want you under the desk, hidden with this.” He held the cloak out to Harry. “Make no noise. Actually—Silencio.”

Harry thought it was overkill, but he’d gotten his wish. He was staying. He took the cloak and, revelling in the familiar feel of it in his hand, hid beneath the desk. He had an excellent view from here, for good or ill. He would miss nothing.

Voldemort hunched down to inspect Harry’s hiding space. “Good, you’re perfectly concealed. Don’t come out for reason, do you understand? Even if you don’t understand, do nothing. I have an idea. Historically, you’ve made a habit of spoiling my plans. Not this time, though. Stay put!”

Harry nodded his understanding, but of course his Master couldn’t see.  

Bellatrix was quick to arrive. The black dress peeking through her open robe was scandalously short and just a bit too tight. “You called, my Lord?”

Voldemort smiled at her and, sitting on the bed, offered her a tumbler of Firewhiskey. “I needed to see you, Bella. I have a few questions to ask you.”

“Of course, my Lord.” She took the glass and shouldered her robe off, letting it fall to the floor. She gestured to Nagini, who was coiled in the armchair before the fireplace. “I see your familiar suffered no injury during the attack. I am pleased. I know how much she means to you.”

“Yes, she was unharmed,” Voldemort agreed, giving nothing away. “Though it was a near thing.”

Without leave, Bellatrix dared perch on the edge of the bed. “I am glad you summoned me. We had not quite finished our rendezvous.” She sidled closer and rested a hand on Voldemort’s thigh.

Watching, Harry had to swallow down the sour disgust that flooded his mouth. He should have fled to the study. How could his Master let him see this?

“Trust me,” came a hissed phrase from the bed.

“My Lord?”

“Forgive me, Bella. I forget myself. I had asked you to lie down.” There was a shifting sound as Bellatrix complied. “Spread your arms and legs. I want to try something new—Incarcerous.” Ropes flew from Voldemort’s wand and wrapped around Bellatrix’s hands and feet, binding her to the bedposts.  

Bellatrix giggled. “Will you gag me as well, Master.” She tugged at the ropes, testing them playfully.

Voldemort smiled down at her. It was not a pleasant smile. “Not at all,” he said, his voice cold. From under the desk, Harry shivered.

Bellatrix didn’t seem to notice the change in tone. She squirmed on the bed, raising her hips in a way she no doubt though was alluring. “You wish to hear me beg, Master?”

“Let’s just say you have a lot to answer for.” Slowly, Voldemort trailed his wand down her body.

Bellatrix was already breathing heavily. “What will you ask of me?” Her tongue darted out to slowly trace the contours of her lips.

“Many things.” Voldemort stepped back to consider her. He raised his wand again. “Or perhaps I simply wish to hear you scream.”

Chapter Text

Voldemort advanced on Bellatrix. With a snarl, he accused, “It was you. You sent the Blood Traitor to Harry. No, Bella, do not deny it. You freed the girl and ordered her to find Harry and to kill him.”

Bellatrix froze. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. She pleaded, “But my Lord, I was with you that night.”

Voldemort’s voice soured. “Yes, I recall. You came to me in my study and lured me away so I would be distracted during the attack. You dare use me, Lord Voldemort, as your alibi, even as you strike at my most treasured possession? You will pay for this, I assure you, and the price is steep.”

“No, that’s not true, I—” Her denial cut off when she took in Voldemort’s look of cruel rage.

“Even tonight you dare come to me dressed as a harlot. Why bother with clothes at all?” Voldemort wielded his wand like a dagger and slit the side of Bellatrix’s dress. A thin line of blood trailed in the wake of the yew wand. The Dark Lord shoved the material aside.

“I thought you wanted my company. I can leave if you wish,” came the panicked whisper. She tugged at her bonds, this time in earnest.

“I don’t think so.” The wand continued to cut shallowly, now down her torso, across her belly, lower and lower. “You won’t be leaving at all, in fact.”

“No!” Bellatrix cried when the wand neared the juncture between her legs. Her eyes were filled with desperation. “Please my Lord, I beg of you. Not that!”

“You dare? You seduce me with your womanhood, use it as a weapon to destroy what I hold most dear, and now you demand mercy? I am tempted to spread you wide and pour corrosive potions between your legs until your cunt is as tattered as your allegiance to me.”

“Not that!” she pleaded again, hysterically. “I did it for you. For us!”

A snarl and Voldemort sliced the wand viciously downwards to cut into the tender flesh of Bellatrix’s folds. She threw back her head and screamed.

“There is no ‘us’,” Voldemort told her when he finally pulled back. “I have tried to make that clear to you. Now you have committed this crime against me.”

He surveyed Bellatrix’s weeping face. “I will have to kill you for what you have done. But Lord Voldemort is not without mercy. You have served me well in the past. If you beg forgiveness, I will kill you quickly.”

“I…I…my Lord…I…”

“You are trying my patience.” Again, he pressed his wand to her damaged flesh. “Cru—”

“I’m pregnant!” she blurted, then dissolved into sobs.

Voldemort stepped back as if burned. Then after a moment, he smiled.

It’s a trick, Harry wanted to scream. She’s lying!

Smiles became laughter, a sinister sound so different from his typically amused hiss. “Bella, you foolish girl,” the Dark Lord said. “What have you done?”

It took a few moments for Bellatrix to calm down enough to answer. “I have been trying for months,” she finally whispered. Harry could barely hear her from across the room. “It finally took almost two months ago. I’m carrying your daughter.”

Voldemort glanced over at Harry, as if sharing in a joke. Harry couldn’t see anything remotely funny in all this. It couldn’t be true, he told himself. She was lying, trying to slip from punishment. That had to be it. It had to be.

But she had been learning to knit that day in the gazebo. The pink hat—it had been for this baby, not Umbridge’s, Harry realized with horror. And she had learned that charm to detect conception. She had been asking Narcissa about what having a baby was like. The fertility charms at Midsummer, too. Every realization felt like dirt cast into his own grave, burying Harry alive. He was choking on it.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, then,” the Dark Lord said. “But Bella, the child is not mine.”

“It is,” she burst out. “I swear it, my Lord. I have been with no one else. I am faithful to you. Only to you!”

“Your faithfulness is already in question.” But all anger had fled.

Harry was the one crying now. He tugged at his hair, willing the pain to drown out the fierce ache tucked beneath his ribcage. She would be allowed to live, to go free. She would be favoured above all. And he, Harry, would be sent away to watch the happy family from the shadows.

But Voldemort said, “Bellatrix, I am not the father. This new body of mine is infertile.”

Bellatrix was shaking her head fervently. “But my Lord, I have only lain with you.”

“We shall have to bring in the father, so he can share in your joy,” Voldemort said, amused. “Harry, darling, come on out.”

Harry was ready to sink into oblivion, though he obeyed unquestioningly. He pulled the invisibility cloak off himself and shuffled forward on his knees. “Master?” he tried to say.

Voldemort reached down to tug him up by the hand. “Have you not heard the news, pet? Congratulations.” He removed the Silencing charm with a quick wave of his hand.

Almost two months ago. Harry counted down…that made it, what? The beginning of August? That was when he and his Master had transferred their seed. He looked over at Bellatrix with mounting horror. “No,” he whispered. He didn’t want to share anything with her. Not Voldemort. Certainly not a baby.

“I wasn’t planning on letting her keep it,” Voldemort told him, not denying any of Harry’s conclusions. “It will die along with its mother.” He turned to the terrified Dark witch, who was struggling more than ever. He raised his wand.

Harry watched for the briefest of moments. He could feel, somehow, the threads of magic filling the empty spaces of the room, drawing towards a focal point.

“No!” Harry flung himself forward and pushed his way in front of the deadly yew wand. Bright green danced on the tip, catching there hungrily.

“You dare?” Voldemort’s eyes flashed with more than anger. A tide of anguish swept over Harry’s scar, and he was washed to his knees as despair and dread flooded through him.

“Not the baby,” Harry pleaded, pressing his hands to his master’s knees.

He didn’t even want the baby, not really. But he knew he couldn’t let it die.

Her. A daughter. He couldn’t let her die.

“Please!”

Harry had heard a voice pleading just like this all his life, in his nightmares, begging the Dark Lord to spare an innocent child. Only now it was his voice begging, not his mother’s.

The Dark Lord had never granted the request before. Harry squeezed his eyes tight to block out the inevitable flare of green as the Killing Curse sped across the room.

It didn’t come. Even with his eyes pressed tightly together, Harry knew that nothing could block out the light of that murderous curse. And as magically proficient as Voldemort was, he never cast the Killing Curse silently—whether he couldn’t or that he simply gloried in the incantation seemed wholly unimportant right then.

The soft step of feet, then a heavy shifting somewhere behind him. A pulse of warmth at his back and a the familiar sound of crackling kindling told him that the fire had been lit in the hearth.

Harry risked opening his eyes. The Dark Lord had moved to the armchair and had Nagini draped across his shoulders.

A tired voice said, “Bring me another drink, Harry.”

Wordlessly, Harry obeyed. He poured out a large measure of Voldemort’s favourite Scotch and, hesitating for only a moment, poured himself his own glass of Firewhiskey.

Voldemort took the tumbler without a word and glared into the dancing flames. Harry knelt down beside him, hoping he would soon feel the gentle press of fingers in his hair. He was disappointed and a little scared by the lack of contact. He needed that touch, to be reassured, but was granted nothing.

The Firewhiskey made him bold enough to get back up and walk to the bed. Bellatrix’s hate-filled eyes stared back at him.

“Are you really pregnant?” he asked. She didn’t look different. Perhaps she had been lying.

“Not for long. If what our Lord said is true, I will destroy it the moment I can. I will not be polluted with your filthy spawn.”

Despite having begged for the baby’s life, Harry felt much the same, but in reverse. Any issue of Bellatrix would be unquestionably foul, no matter the father. Her wicked aura would no doubt leak into whatever child grew within her, it was only natural. But then Harry remembered Sirius’s hag of a mother. Sirius had been nothing like her, thank goodness.

Sirius. He usually tried not to think of his dead godfather anymore. Days would go by—weeks even—and he would forget to even miss him. It got easier and harder as time went on.

But now, when Harry dared to let himself wonder what this child might grow to look like, he could only picture Sirius. Bellatrix was a Black by birth and Sirius’s first cousin. Though Harry tried not to think of it, their features were more than similar. This daughter might be more like his lost godfather than her deranged mother.

“That’s not your call,” Harry said to Bellatrix, icily. “You threw all your choices away the moment you tried to have me killed.”

A thin tendril of smoke drifted through the air. Harry batted it back to the fireplace where it belonged.

Bellatrix lifted her chin. “You are nothing but an unwanted half-blood. You’ve somehow bewitched my Master, made him choose you over me. But I promise you, Potter, I will kill this child of yours, then I will come for you. I will burn you from the inside out, and then I will hunt down everyone you care about and burn them too.”

“Everyone I care about is in this room,” Harry told her, gesturing to the armchair where the Dark Lord sat with his sister. But he could smell the fire in the air, even now. It was not the healthy smell of burning maple or oak. This was the same gut-wrenching stench from the Wicker Man.

She was grimacing against the pain. For a moment, Harry wondered if it was the baby. Bracing himself, he leaned in to inspect the cuts that had been made to her labia. He didn’t know what a woman looked like in the first place, and now everything looked a tangled mass, fleshy and pink and exposed. It would need to be tended to, or surely an infection would harm the fetus.

He stood back up to say something about it to Voldemort, when he noticed more thin wisps of smoke. Dumbly, he traced back the swirls to where they’d formed.

Not the fireplace, no. The ropes binding Bellatrix to the bed were smouldering. Bellatrix bit her lip as her wrists blistered until her mouth was reddened with blood, not lipstick, but there was no hiding her manic grin.

“Master.” Harry tried to cry out in alarm, but all that came out was a whisper. He stumbled over to the armchair, never taking his eyes off Bellatrix. He nearly tripped over the Dark Lord’s outstretched legs. He placed a trembling hand on his Master’s arm.

“I have heard enough from you for today,” Voldemort told him. Disappointment and fatigue laced every word.

In a small part of his mind not paying mind to Bellatrix as she worked at freeing herself, Harry decided that was unfair. He began to jostle his Master’s arm, trying to get him to pay attention, but was shaken off with an unkind snarl.

Could the Dark Lord not feel Harry’s mounting panic through their connection? Was the man really Occluding against him while this treacherous viper was about to escape and finish what she’d started?

Why couldn’t Harry find his voice?

Bellatrix had found hers. Her giggle was quiet, though no less mad. She twisted her left wrist once, twice, and the last threads holding the rope together fell away. She reached down with her newly freed hand into the pocket of her destroyed dress. She caught Harry’s eye as she drew out a slender dagger.

Harry whined with fear and stumbled backwards, falling gracelessly onto Voldemort’s lap. His Master grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, sharp nails cruelly biting into soft skin. Harry wrenched his eyes from the terrible glint of silver in Bellatrix’s fist. Red eyes met green. They seemed startled by the fear they must have seen there, for the fierce grip softened at once. “I’m not going to hurt you, Harry.”

Harry gulped and nodded—he knew that!—then turned back to where Bellatrix was clumsily trying to saw through the rope binding her left hand to the bedpost.

Voldemort followed Harry’s eyes. Judging by the blast of murderous intent that pumped through Harry’s veins then, his Master’s Occlumency shields had fallen. With them, Harry toppled to the floor as the Dark Lord rose to face this new enemy.

Bellatrix’s legs were still tightly bound, and she was twisted on the bed in an effort to gain the right leverage. She madly cocked her head and asked, incredulously, “You chose him over me?” She held the dagger in her nimble fingers. She didn’t seem sure who her target should be.

“And I will every time,” Voldemort told her. He spread his fingers wide, then drew them quickly backwards. The dagger tugged in Bellatrix’s grip, though she managed to keep hold of it.

“The boy has only ever led you to death,” Bellatrix said. It came out like a threat.

“You dare raise a weapon against your Lord? You foolish girl. I will kill you now, then bring you back again and again to reap you from your body, until your soul is so frayed that even a Dementor would turn from it.”

She smirked. “I am not aiming at you, Master.”

Harry scrambled behind the armchair, cursing himself again for choosing to be present here and not escaping to the study when he could.

But she wasn’t aiming at Harry, either.

She plunged the knife into her belly and sliced downwards.

Within a moment, though, her madness gave way to pain and horror. She stared down at the hilt buried within her. She tentatively reached down to tug at it, to pull it out—to undo what she’d done—but hissed in pain as deep red blood seeped out around the embedded blade to pool on the bed beneath her.

She’d killed it, Harry slowly realized. She’d killed her baby. His baby.

Harry rose. He even began to tug his shirt off, thinking to staunch the flow of blood, though he knew that it was too late now to save the child. Not even the Master of Death could pull back so young a soul.

As for the mother, she was far past saving.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light raced across the room. Bellatrix didn’t look at all startled. Instead, she closed her eyes and lifted her face up as if in prayer. She spread her hands to her side. When the curse hit, she was ready for it.

***

Voldemort burned her body. Harry would have watched, would have gloried in it, if his own child had not burned along with her. Instead, he called the house-elf, and ordered for an entire new bed to be brought in. The elf had looked skeptically towards the Dark Lord for confirmation before he went about his task.

“Harry,” Voldemort said softly to him once the new furnishings had arrived and Harry had curled up in the new bed. “Don’t cry. If it means so much to you, we can find you another child.”

“I don’t want another child” Harry whined, his voice muffled by the heavy duvet.

“Then why did you—“ Voldemort sighed. “Nevermind. What’s done is done. Now come out and sit by the fire. Nagini is worried about you.”

Voldemort was worried about him was what that translated to; Harry wasn’t such an idiot as to miss that. It was too bad Voldemort hadn’t been worried about him when he’d actually been in danger.

“Twice I have been guilty of this,” Voldemort agreed. “It won’t happen again.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he snorted. Sure, he thought. It wouldn’t happen until something new distracted the Dark Lord. Whether that was lust or anger didn’t matter if the outcome was the same. Harry knew that his famous luck would run out very soon. He would be caught off guard one day and be killed. The Horcrux would be destroyed, along with all his value. Sure, Bellatrix was gone now, but someone new would rise in her place. Harry had always been a target. He knew how this would end.

“I will always keep you safe,” came his Master’s fervent voice.

Harry nodded, though he didn’t believe a word.

“There is something else. I want to—for Merlin’s sake, Harry, come out from there.”

Belligerently, Harry rolled over and faced the other way.

The bed shifted as Voldemort sat beside him. “I have something to give you.”

“Don’t want it.” Harry pressed himself into an even smaller ball.

From somewhere above him came an incredulous laugh. Voldemort said, his voice half-exasperated, half-amused, “Fine, then I’ll keep using my yew wand, if you don’t want it.”

Harry started. He couldn’t have heard that right. He peeped out from his blanket-fort and took in the remarkable sight of a familiar bone-white wand being held out to him, handle first.

“Take it,” Voldemort urged. “I want you to be able to defend yourself. Relying on either me or Nagini is obviously not enough.”

Harry reached out for the wand, but before he touched it, he looked up. “Is this a test?”

“It is a gift. Just a gift. For you.” The Dark Lord’s words were hauntingly familiar. Harry couldn’t remember where he’d heard them before.

He let his fingers brush against the handle. The wood was worn to silk from years of use, but Harry barely noted that. Instead, as he closed his hand around the wand he felt a sudden warmth rush from his fingertips, down his arm, right into the his core. It hurt him to remind his Master, “But this is your wand.”

“I have another,” the Dark Lord reminded him. But that look, that hungry look.  

Harry turned away. If Voldemort was going to change his mind, steal the wand back, then he didn’t want to see it coming. He closed his eyes and thought about what spell he’d try first.

“Try for your Patronus.”

“It’s been so long, though. I don’t know if I can,” Harry answered.  “A Lumos might be a better spell to start with.”

“Your Patronus,” Voldemort insisted.

Harry incanted the words. They spilled uncomfortably from his lips, strangers now. White mist poured out the wand tip to puddle lazily against the duvet before dissipating. Harry groaned in disappointment, then tried again: “Expecto Patronum.” He looked back at Voldemort in dismay.

Voldemort told him then, “It’s more than I’ve ever been able to produce. Perhaps the wand needs more practice?”

“No, it’s me,” said Harry. He clenched his eyes shut and scoured his mind for a memory that he could use to power the spell. Everything felt tainted. Even watching Bellatrix die—and he’d yearned for that for years—was ruined, knowing what he’d lost with her. Memories of his family and friends were worse than that, knowing how they would turn from him for all that he’d done. And Hogwarts herself would forever be a reminder of destruction and betrayal.

Voldemort was watching him too closely. “What about being here with me now?” he suggested, almost nervously.

Harry gulped. It was a test, then. A test to see if he was suitably content. To see if he was happy.

“No, don’t think that,” Voldemort said, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I had wondered, that is all.”

Harry glanced down at the wand in his hand, feeling all at once undeserving. He held it out to the Dark Lord. “You try it.”

Voldemort pressed the wand back to him, though, and withdrew the Elder Wand. “If this produces a phoenix,” he said with a smirk, “I’m throwing it into the fire. I don’t care if it is the most powerful wand in the world.”

“A phoenix is the symbol for rebirth,” Harry reminded him.

Voldemort gave him an unimpressed look. The stare then turned more intent, unnerving even. Then, in a rush, he cried out “Expecto Patronum,” and traced the wand through the air perfectly, as if he’d been trying to cast it all his life. Perhaps he had.

The only surprise when the shimmering cobra burst from the wand tip was that it had emerged at all. Voldemort watched in awe as it circled the bed, speeding through the air in its quest to defend the spellcaster from danger.

Harry watched until he couldn’t anymore. He looked away, unable to bear the Dark Lord’s happiness. Instead, he cast a private Lumos, then Nox. He had magic now, and that was—

That was enough. More than enough. It was more than he’d ever thought he’d have again. The delight at having his magic back was exhilarating.

“Expecto Patronum!” His stag galloped proudly into the room. Harry had never seen so magnificent a sight. Not even his first glimpse of Hogwarts when he’d been eleven could rival its beauty.

The stag cantered up to the cobra. The Patroni stared at each other, then began to circle. For a moment, Harry wondered if they’d take up the deadly feud that he and his Master had set aside. But no, the cobra slithered up to climb in and around the stag’s proud antlers. For a moment, they were indecipherable from each other, joined together as one.

“It’s surprising that my Patronus hasn’t changed,” Harry said after the pearlescent creatures finally faded. “I’ve changed so much.”

Voldemort tugged Harry off the bed. “You were my Horcrux the first time you cast the spell. You just didn’t know it.”

“I guess,” Harry said, but he remembered how Tonks’s Patronus had changed when she’d fallen in love with Remus. Then again, she’d been a Metamorphmagus. Perhaps that affected more than her face. “That was really your first time casting the spell?”

“My first time casting it successfully,” Voldemort clarified. “I hadn’t tried in many years, though. I hadn’t seen the point. No Dementor would dare attack me.”

“Then why did you bother trying now?” Harry asked him.

“As you said, Harry. It was a test.” He didn’t elaborate.

***

They spent the remainder of the day christening their new bed. Harry still found the first few minutes of intercourse uncomfortable, even when his Master had spent a long time preparing him.

“Does it ever get easier?” Harry asked through clenched teeth.

Voldemort rubbed circles on his back. “I should look into stretching charms. I haven’t been with a male in years,” he said softly. “And I haven’t always been purposefully gentle with my partners.”

That made sense, Harry realized. Voldemort had been a wraith for more than a decade, and afterwards he’d had her practically falling all over him. He pushed back, suddenly, to make the sting in his arse overwhelm his thoughts.

“Shhhh,” Voldemort said, pulling back and pausing. “Don’t think about it.”

Harry laughed darkly. “Can you Obliviate her from my mind?”

Voldemort slowly pushed back in. “Her memory permeates too much of your mind. You would risk losing too much. Why you’re here with me, for instance.”

The sting was bearable now, almost gone. Harry sighed around the fullness spreading him open. “I suppose,” he breathed. Everything seemed more manageable all of a sudden. “Fuck me faster now.”

Voldemort dug his hands into Harry’s hips, not quite hard enough to hurt. “You are getting impertinent darling,” he said, though he obeyed just the same. The thrusts came hard and fast and Harry was nearly pounded into their new bed.

He whined when Voldemort pulled out suddenly, but stopped as soon as he was flipped onto his back and re-entered.

Harry drew his Master to his chest and began to suck at his collarbone. He rocked upwards, seating Voldemort deeply inside him. Harry’s own erection was pressed between their bodies, and every move created delightful friction. “I wanted to mark you, too,” he whispered when he pulled back. He surveyed the mark now purpling the otherwise pale body.

“Only you, my Horcrux,” Voldemort panted.

“Horcrux,” Harry repeated, mindlessly. “Yours. Your Horcrux.” He rolled his hips back up, pressing his Master deep inside of him. He never wanted this to end.

Voldemort had other ideas. He got up on his knees and raised Harry’s legs over his shoulders. If Harry thought he’d been fucked hard before, he’d been sorely mistaken. Every violent thrust pressed beautifully into his prostate, making his head reel. Missing the pressure of his Master’s body against his now-neglected cock, he brought his hand down to stroke it, but couldn’t match the devastating rhythm. He just clutched himself. Even that was too much, and all at once he was marking Voldemort yet again.

Voldemort pressed in hard, as Harry clenched around him and let his own orgasm overtake him. When he was done, he carefully lowered Harry’s legs, but didn’t draw out. Instead, he rolled them both on their sides and affectionately kissed the scar on Harry’s forehead. “My beautiful Horcrux,” he whispered, his thin lips still pressed close.

Harry hummed. “I hope you didn’t do this with your other Horcruxes,” Harry said, thinking of the Diary Horcrux in particular.

Voldemort laughed. “It’s a good thing I can read your thoughts so easily, my dear, or I should think you meant Nagini.”

Harry shuddered as a most unpleasant image threatened to assert itself. “Now I definitely need you to Obliviate me,” he said, cringing. He relaxed into Voldemort’s cradling arms. “Did you ever interact with your other Horcruxes once you’d made them?”

“I didn’t think to try.”

Harry yawned. The post-orgasm exhaustion was loosening his tongue. “You could have had a whole harem of them,” he said sleepily. “A harem of Horcruxes. Whore-cruxes.” He laughed at his joke. It no longer seemed such terrible slander.

Long fingers brushed back his fringe. “One Whore-crux is enough for even Lord Voldemort.” Harry didn’t need to be told that his Master had caught the play on words to echo it back to him.

Harry closed his eyes, delighting in how the Dark Lord kept caressing his hair. It felt so, so good. Sighing, he murmured, “Funny how those words are so similar. It’s like my uncle knew what I was all along.”

“Of course he did,” came a hushed voice that sounded almost as sleepy as his own. “I told him what you were so that he’d not question that you were worth so much more than he’d ever thought.”

“You told him I was a Whore-crux? A Horcrux, I mean?” It was all the same now, it all blended together. As it should.

A soft hum of agreement, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was for his question or his idle thought.

And that didn’t seem to matter anymore, either.

Chapter Text

Harry was alone when he woke up. Well, not alone entirely; Nagini was still fast asleep in the chair before the fire, but she was always with him.

At first, Harry would have thought it all a dream. But there was the yew wand, set on the table beside the bed. The bed itself was changed, too, and if he concentrated he could still smell the foulness from when they’d burned Bellatrix.

Bellatrix. It seemed impossible that she’d been telling the truth, now that he was fresh from sleep. She had been pregnant, and with his child. It seemed like something from one of those Muggle soap operas that his aunt used to watch every weekday. He played back the events from the day before in his mind. What seemed strangest to him, now, was how quickly he’d jumped in front of the Killing Curse for her.

Absolutely mental, he decided. That was what he’d been.

He decided to focus on what good had come of it. He had a wand. Part of him realized he should be at least a little repulsed by the wand that had killed his parents, that had tried to kill him countless times. It seemed so unimportant now, though. His own wand was broken (he shoved away the memory about how it was no longer his, that it was—what were the words?—the Dark Lord’s own ‘ruined spare wand’) and useless to him. He’s surrendered the Elder Wand so that Voldemort could ascend to be Master of Death. And hadn’t Harry been responsible for nearly as much death and destruction as the yew wand’s former master?

All right, that last might be a bit of a stretch. Still, Harry had been an unwilling partner in many deaths even before he’d taken the Dark Mark and begun this new life. And now? Well, he wasn’t even all that frightened of Voldemort anymore, not really, and had he attempted to bargain for anyone’s life? His petrified former friends were stashed away in the dungeons, but not once had he asked his Master to bring one of them back.

Harry had to admit that was his own selfishness. He didn’t want to see Ron’s eyes narrow in disgust, in hate. This time, Harry would deserve his scorn.

Having Hermione around as a reminder was bad enough. For a split-second he wished she had been in on the attack so that he wouldn’t have to see her again, then felt awful about having so terrible a thought. Perhaps he should approach her again, see what she’d been up to. Had she heard about the attempt on his life? Did she wish it had been successful or had she been worried about him at all?

He’d ask Draco when he came. He always seemed to know everything that was going on, unlike Harry.

Did he know about Bellatrix? That she was the one behind the attack?

That she was dead now? That she would never, could never, be brought back?

Draco hadn’t seemed to have much affection for his mad aunt, and surely Lucius wouldn’t give a rat’s arse that she was finally removed from his family. But what of Narcissa? Harry remembered how she had spoken on her sister’s behalf at Midsummer. If anyone loved Bellatrix, it was Narcissa.

Harry decided to worry about Mrs Malfoy’s reaction later. For now, he had a new set of rooms to explore. He went into the bathroom first and had to blink a few times in awe at the splendid space. Why would Voldemort need such a large bath? It was massive, surrounded on all sides by a curving marble bench. As he approached the tub, water began to bubble up from the bottom, steaming and fragrant.

The rest of the bathroom was just as nice. Two washbasins were set side by side, and a frosted window took up nearly one whole wall. Open shelving held any number of necessities. He found his toothbrush and realized then how disgusting his own mouth tasted. But where was the toothpaste? All sorts of unfamiliar vials were lined up on the shelves, but surely those were his Master’s. He shouldn’t touch…but one of them must have some sort of cleansing solution. The labels were all written in Snape’s scrawling hand. Harry searched for anything he could use. Hopefully something minty.

He picked up a random bottle. The label was nearly worn away. Harry squinted at it, thinking that if it was so well-used that it might be exactly what he was looking for.

“Making yourself at home? Good.”

Harry jumped in surprise, and only his quick reflexes prevented the bottle from slipping from his fingers. “M-master,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Pilfer my Scale-Soothing Potion?” the Dark Lord asked.

Harry stared down at the bottle, trying to hide his shock. “Er… I was looking for toothpaste,” he said, sheepishly.

“It’s at the sink. Don’t be shy to use anything here, Harry. My secrets ward themselves, but really I have little to hide from you.”

Harry nodded as he put the vial he was still holding back. He supposed that he wouldn’t be needing that particular brew anytime soon.

“It’s a good moisturizer, actually,” Voldemort told him. “Wash up and come out quickly. I have another potion I need to discuss with you.” He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

It didn’t take Harry long to return to the main chamber. Voldemort was standing by his drink cabinet, holding a green bottle of something that was obviously not liquor. “Come here,” he said to Harry, beckoning him over with his free hand. Once Harry was standing beside him, he lifted the bottle up and gently sloshed the contents back and forth. “I expect you remember that I suggested I’d brew something that would enhance longevity.”

“With my seed that you, er, borrowed,” Harry guessed. He was rewarded with a nod.

“I have no need of this now, as I explained to you in July. I will never die. But you, my dear, are vulnerable to something far more insidious than Bellatrix’s wild schemes.”

Harry looked up, not bothering to mask his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Time, Harry. I might guard you with a thousand Basilisks, and you would still grow old. You would still leave me one day.”

Harry flushed under Voldemort’s intense gaze. “That’s a long way away.”

“It’s still too soon. It’s not enough time.”

Harry sighed and reached for the potion. “So you want me to drink this, then?” As much as he had wanted to live beyond seventeen, he didn’t think he wanted to live forever. It sounded exhausting.

“I’m not going to force you, Harry. It has to be your decision.”

Harry translated: it has to be your decision to want to stay with me forever.

“And there’s no rush. I keep the bottle in here. Be sure not to accidentally serve it to company. I certainly don’t want Draco Malfoy underfoot for all time.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he laughed. “He’s not that bad.”

His Master cleared a space for the potion at the back of the cabinet. “You haven’t always thought so.”

That was true, Harry reflected. But then again, his opinion on lots of things had changed recently.

“Very true,” murmured Voldemort. When he’d finally closed the drink cabinet, he drew Harry back over to the bed and sat, drawing Harry down beside him. “Tell me, Harry, what do you think of me these days?”

Harry swallowed. “You know what I think.”

“I know what you thought,” Voldemort corrected him.

Harry struggled to understand. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want to know if you still feel the same way you did on Midsummer.”

“Midsummer,” Harry echoed. What had he told Voldemort then? Oh, right. It was more what he’d thought, rather than what he’d said.

“Yes, that,” the Dark Lord agreed. The slits of his eyes contracted so much that all Harry could make out was a sea of blood.  

It was too much; Harry had to look away. When he did, all his memories from that night washed over him in a rush, of how he’d suddenly realized that he loved Voldemort, and his Master’s admission that he could never return the feeling.

“Yeah, I do.” Harry closed his eyes. It made it easier for when he said, “I love you.”

Voldemort said nothing for a long time, until Harry thought he’d never speak to him again. Perhaps he had thought that Harry had got over his infatuation, or whatever it was. Finally, though, came the unexpected question, “What does it feel like?”

“What?”

“What does love feel like? I suppose I have felt it bleed through our bond, but I wouldn’t know what it felt like to recognize.”

Harry mulled on that for a moment. Then he realized that even though he still felt the same, he didn’t really think about it. Not with words, or anything else so easily translatable.

“I guess it feels like home,” he said at last, hoping he was making sense. “And being really happy to be there.” Harry had gone long enough without a real home. It was all he’d longed for as a child. It was all that had mattered. It was everything that had been denied.

Voldemort considered this for a time. Then he asked, “How do you know that’s not my soul piece in you pleased to be so near to its master?”

“I just know,” Harry said. He couldn’t explain it. He supposed he could be wrong, but somehow he didn’t think he was. “I love you. I do.” Every admission made him even more sure.

If Voldemort couldn’t understand love, he could understand certainty.

“You feel like—” Voldemort cut off. He stood up and stepped away, keeping his back to Harry. “I hope you feel at home here, too, in my chambers.”

Harry got the feeling that wasn’t what the Dark Lord was going to say at first, though he had no clue as to what it was replacing. “It might take some time for that, Master,” he admitted, looking down at his hands awkwardly. “This room is very much yours. I feel like I am—I don’t know. In the way, I guess.”

“You belong here as much as Nagini,” his Master said. “She is comfortable here.”

Harry glanced over at Nagini, who looked as though she absolutely felt at home here. “But she lived here before you had her spend her nights with me,” Harry said quietly. Mostly he was worried that he would make a nuisance of himself. The Dursleys had always said he was such. It was why he’d been tucked away in a cupboard in the first place. Out of sight, out of mind.

“You are always in my mind, Harry. There is never a day I do not think of you.” Voldemort turned back to look at him with desperate covetousness. “For longer than you’ve been alive, you’ve never once strayed from my thoughts. When I see you here with me, my mind finally is able to rest.”

He stepped forward to loom over the bed. A gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder pushed him onto his back. Voldemort crawled on top of him.

Harry swallowed. “So long as you want me here.”

Long fingers began to unbutton Harry’s shirt. “I’ll show you how much I want you.”

***

By the time October rolled around, news of Bellatrix’s treachery had become known to not only the Dark Lord’s ranks, but to the general public. Harry expressed concern when he saw the headlines in The Daily Prophet denouncing her, not because he wanted her ‘good name’ (hah!) to remain unsullied, but because of what the populace might conclude if they thought dissention existed within the very heart of the Dark Lord’s army.

“Bellatrix was generally disliked,” Voldemort reassured Harry. “Unlike myself, she did not attempt to reduce the terror she instilled once I gained full control over the country. She had become a liability.”

“She seemed all right with the kids at Midsummer. They hadn’t seemed frightened of her.” And of course, Bellatrix had been practicing for future motherhood that night, so she had been better behaved than usual—at least until the children had left and she’d won the dancing contest.

“Their parents had not thought to warn their children beforehand. I assure you, Narcissa received many owls shortly thereafter expressing more than dismay due to her participation. Those children would not be fool enough to engage with her again.”

Harry nodded, though he hadn’t really been listening. He’d been remembering the flicker of bonfires, his heartbeat throbbing in time with the memory drums.

A gentle hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. “I don’t want you worrying about any of this, Harry. You need not concern yourself with the fickle opinions of common folk. Focus on your place here in the manor. Your place with me.”

But it was getting harder for Harry to ignore what was happening in the wider world. When he’d been on the run with Ron and Hermione, they had been so isolated, and yet the fate of the wider world had pressed in on them like the walls of a long-outgrown cupboard. It had been nothing short of a relief to let that all fall away when he’d surrendered.

As massive as it was, though, the manor was beginning to feel too confining. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he couldn’t leave. Maybe he would petition Voldemort for an outing. It wouldn’t be so dangerous to wander Diagon Alley with an escort, to see the shops again—they were surely up and running now. Most of them, anyway.

(Not Ollivanders. Not Weazleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Not Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour.)

Harry’s throat closed up unexpectedly. He’d once heard that it was best to never go back to the magical places of one’s childhood. Right about now, it seemed a wise sentiment.

That didn’t make him feel any less trapped. He didn’t say anything about it, nor did Voldemort comment when such thoughts bubbled up.

Knowledge of Bellatrix’s pregnancy never left the Dark Lord’s rooms. All anyone else knew was that, in a fit of jealousy, she had freed one of the captive Blood Traitors and used the Imperius Curse to have her attack Harry. Harry had scoured every article he came across to see if Ginny had been even named, though he knew there was no point looking further than the headlines. His relationship with Ginny hadn’t been secret and—Imperius Curse notwithstanding—gossip that Voldemort’s lover and Harry’s girlfriend had teamed up to kill The Boy Who Lived would be front-page news.

Draco had been shocked when he first learned of his aunt’s execution but was quick to recover. He had never been comfortable in her presence, and Bellatrix’s affection had always been a thing best avoided. “I’ll bet you’re glad I took your cousin away from you now, Harry,” he had said with a smirk. “I will petition to have him freed as a reward for him helping with the investigation.” By the time Harry thought to say goodbye to his cousin, Dudley had already been Obliviated and settled in a Muggle village in Yorkshire.

Mrs Malfoy had been surprisingly accepting of Bellatrix’s death. She had lived long without Bellatrix in her life, though, and had more than enough practice in pretending that her other sister, Andromeda, didn’t exist. Given Bellatrix’s wild disposition, maybe not having to deal with her anymore was a relief.

Lucius obviously thought as much. Whenever Harry bumped into him, he now received a nod of approval from the haughty blond. It made Harry more than a little uncomfortable, as if he was personally responsible for getting rid of her. All he’d done was survive, yet again. Sometimes he wondered if that was all he was good for. He supposed that it was a useful skill for a Horcrux to have.

Snape seemed the most pleased with how things turned out. Other than when the Potions Master had helped with his recovery after the attack, Harry had seen little of the sardonic man since his surrender. Now, though, he seemed more willing to leave his potion’s lab.

“Nice to see you out of hiding,” Draco bravely called out one day as they spotted Snape walking up the main drive to the manor doors. He and Harry had been debating what to do that afternoon. Nagini wasn’t making it any easier; as autumn came on, she had become petulant about spending time outside, refusing to go anywhere lacking a sunning stone.

Snape momentarily bristled, but let the comment go with a raised eyebrow. He then turned to Harry and said, “I am not the only one getting more sun. If your path takes you close by the pond this afternoon, I expect that my presence will seem far less striking.”

The two boys had pretended not care, but as soon as their former professor had entered the manor, they raced each other to see what Snape had been talking about.

Draco arrived first, but only because Harry had to keep stopping to encourage Nagini to keep up. When Harry caught up, clutching his side, his jaw dropped so that he was gaping as stupidly as his friend beside him.

On a bench overlooking the placid water sat a blonde girl. If he hadn’t recognized her at once, Harry would have taken her for Draco’s younger sister.

“Luna?”

She looked up at him, smiling sadly. “Oh, hi Harry,” she said. “How are you?”

Harry almost had to look away. He remembered the last time he’d seen her—frozen in awe, taking in the world’s wonder in the face of destruction. Perhaps if she could discern beauty in a Basilisk, she could find some good remaining in him. He’d long given up looking for it, himself. Perhaps there wasn’t any left. “I’m doing all right,” he ended up saying.

“That’s nice.” She was never sarcastic. Not Luna.

“I’m doing well, too,” Draco interrupted, sidling into view. “What my rude friend should have asked is how are you doing, Ms Lovegood. I must say, you look far better than when I last saw you.”

Yes, Harry thought, rolling his eyes. She looked not dead. Or not petrified, anyway.

Luna beamed up at him. “Thank you. I’m fine, and you can call me Luna if you want.” She turned back to look out over the pond, drawing in a deep breath of the fresh air. “I like it here. It’s peaceful.”

Harry followed her gaze. A white swan was skimming the surface, coming towards them. A few waterlilies dotted the surface near the bank, though surely it was getting too cool for them now. He was glad he’d remembered to put on his warmer cloak. “It’s a nice spot,” he agreed.

“It’s far nicer here than in your cellar,” Luna said to Draco, carelessly. Beside her, the Slytherin boy started. Harry would have as well had he not been used to her saying randomly ridiculous things.

“Are you alone?” Harry asked her, before grimacing when he realized that he’d sounded vaguely threatening: two Death Eaters coming across a young woman, asking if she was alone.

Luna, of course, hadn’t noticed. “Mr Malfoy had first thought to give me a guard, but I told him I didn’t need one.”

Of course that would work with Luna. She made it sound as though a guard would be there to protect her, rather than make sure she stayed out of trouble. Harry shared an amused glance with Draco, who shrugged and said, “Do you mind if we join you, Ms Lov—I mean, Luna? Ah, and please call me Draco.”

She answered by shifting to one side of the bench, making room for them. Before Harry could take it, Draco claimed the spot right next to the former Ravenclaw. Harry inched onto the edge of the bench and leaned down to encourage Nagini to come close.

“She won’t hurt you,” he said to Luna. He would have asked his sister to stay a distance away, but the ground was cool, and she had been hissing that she needed warming up.

“I know she won’t,” Luna said, offering Nagini the same pleasant smile as she did the boys. Nagini flickered her tongue towards her in response, then began wrapping herself around Harry’s shoulders, piling the greater part of her body on his lap.

Draco looked more uncomfortable with having the great snake so close. If they weren’t already crowded together, he would have likely inched away. Harry shook his head and said, “Everyone up.” When they were all standing, he drew his wand and cast a simple Transfiguration to lengthen the bench.

“Is that a new wand, Harry?” Luna asked before Harry could holster it. At least she wasn’t shying away from it, like Draco still did every time he caught a glimpse of the iconic yew wand. Was it possible that she didn’t recognize it?

“Um, yeah, it is. To me, anyway.”

“I can tell it likes you,” Luna said.

Harry hunched his shoulders. He was getting more and more used to using Voldemort’s old wand, but it still occasionally unnerved him to use it. There was no doubt, though, that the brother to his original holly wand was well-suited to him.

“Are you well versed in wand-lore, or considering wand-craft as a vocation?” Draco asked Luna.

“No,” she said.

She seemed happy, after their small conversation, to sit in absolute silence. Harry had become used to sitting quietly and petting his sister for long hours, so he was comfortable with the stillness. Draco, on the other hand, seemed restless. After the tenth time he’d crossed and uncrossed his legs, Harry said, “I think we’ve taken up enough of your time, Luna. We should be on our way.”

“It was nice seeing you again, Harry. Draco.”

The boys said their regards. Draco scowled in silence at Harry until they were out of earshot. Finally, he hissed, “Who said I was ready to leave?”

“You looked like you were getting bored,” Harry told him.

“Well, I wasn’t. Now she’s unattended. Who knows what creep might come up to her now?”

Harry almost asked if he meant his father. He hadn’t forgotten how Draco had said that Lucius had been taking an interest in her, way back at Midsummer. Instead, he said, “I forgot that you’re such a gentleman. Shall we go back and offer to escort her around the grounds?”

Draco grumbled something unflattering that Harry couldn’t quite catch and shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes. “Next time, let me make the decision to leave,” he muttered.

Harry snorted. “Don’t forget who your competition is, little Malfoy,” he teased.

Draco sniffed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

But Harry had caught the sly glint in his eye and guessed the other boy had plans he wasn’t sharing. Now that the drama within the manor had taken a plunge, Harry was not sure how he felt about it escalating again.

“Luna isn’t the kind of girl who will be thrilled to be the centre of some jealous intrigue,” he warned. “And besides, what happened with that Greengrass girl you were writing to?”

“Astoria? Mother and Father have never approved of that match because of—”

“The curse passed down through her ancestor, yes I know. Just last week you were on about how romantic it was. ”

Draco huffed. “Why do you even care, anyway? Are you trying to tell me I’m not good enough for your friend?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m not the only one who has changed this past year. You’re more than worthy of her. I would say that she has to be the one to the figure that out, but if anyone can forgive and forget, it’s Luna.”

Neither of them had to say that Harry should be even more pleased about that than Draco

Chapter Text

It seemed Hermione’s knitting lessons with Umbridge had come to an end. Harry and Draco would occasionally run into the former Gryffindor girl when the weather was too inclement for them to venture outside. Always, Hermione was sat behind a huge pile of books and was scribbling foot after foot of notes on a never-ending supply of parchment, with her Death Eater escort leaning against the wall, looking bored.  

“You really want to make that move?” Draco asked one afternoon, his chin propped up on his elbow. It was bucketing down outside, the rain driving against the library windows in sheets.

Harry had just ordered his knight to take Draco’s white bishop. Too late, he realized he’d left his queen open. Draco’s rook moved right in to take advantage of his mistake. Harry sighed as he watched it drag the broken figure away to join a pile of her team-mates at the edge of the table. Draco looked smug as he waited for Harry to work out what he should do next. Harry was tempted to just upend the board. It seemed hopeless at this point.

“Rook to—I don’t know.” He ran his hand through his hair. The pieces weren’t even bothering to yell out suggestions anymore. They looked resigned to their fate. Harry ground his teeth together. Why did he always have to lose this ruddy game?

“I suggest you have that pawn attack my rook,” Draco suggested with a wicked smile. The poor pawn looked up at Harry with a terrified expression.

“Bloody hell I will,” Harry mumbled. “Now shut up, I need to concentrate.”

Draco leaned back in his chair. “After you’ve lost, let’s head over to the solarium.”

Harry directed his remaining bishop across the board. “Luna isn’t likely to be there, any more than she was here, or the conservatory, or the French parlour, or the…” he trailed off when he realized the fatal mistake he made. The bishop joined its defeated friends.

“Who said I was looking for her?”

“Why else would you suggest the solarium in this downpour?” Harry grumbled.

Every day since they’d first encountered Luna by the pond, Draco had seemed restless. Only once they’d finally found her did he manage to settle down and relax. It wasn’t so bad; Luna was unfailingly polite to both of them, and Draco never made fun of a single thing she said, which was more than could be said for any of Harry’s former friends.

It turned out that Lucius had never been interested in her—not like that, anyway. Draco hadn’t said anything about it, but Voldemort had told Harry one evening that the Malfoy patriarch had been considering her as a possible match for Draco. Harry thought they would make an odd pair, but it was far better than Lucius having an affair with such a young girl.

Not that Harry was one to talk about dating older men…and besides, he and Voldemort weren’t dating. No, their relationship was more proprietary. That said, Voldemort was treating him a little differently lately. He’d not replaced the alarm charm from when it was removed during his recovery, for example. Harry never managed to wake before his Master. That wasn’t to say their mornings were chaste—far from it. Still, he missed the still quietness of the mornings, his mouth stuffed with his Master’s slowly awakening cock.

“Are you even listening to me?” Draco asked, interrupting his lascivious thought tangent. “And also, check-mate.”

Harry stared down at the board in dismay. He hadn’t thought he’d been that close to losing. If he hadn’t already known how shitty he was at chess, he would have accused Draco of cheating. Perhaps he had, though, just to end the game sooner. “Remind me not to play with you again,” he said, which was met with a barked laugh.

Draco put the chess set away, and then they set off towards the solarium.

“Luna is just as likely to be out in the storm,” Harry said after they’d reached the solarium and found it empty.

“You think?” Draco asked. He watched the rain pouring down, frowning. Under his breath, he began muttering something about water-repelling charms.

“No,” Harry told Draco when the blond turned to him with gleaming eyes. “I’m not going out in that.” He crossed his arms.

Draco huffed, but didn’t argue. “Might as well go back to the library.”

And, of course, that was where they found her.

Luna was sitting at the table with Hermione, talking animatedly about mooncalves.

“That’s really great, Luna,” Hermione said. Her hair was even more frazzled than usual, probably because she kept drawing her fingers through it in irritation. “But I have all this to get through. So if you don’t mind, I’ll get back to work.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Luna assured her. She started humming, swinging her legs in time with the strange melody. Hermione huffed and tried her best to ignore the distraction.

Draco hissed to Harry, “Get her to come sit with us.”

Harry didn’t want to approach Hermione’s table any more than Draco did. He shook his head.

“Oh for—” Draco squared his shoulders as if going into battle. He marched over to the girls and gave a quick bow to Luna. “I was hoping you would join me for a game of Wizard’s Chess. I’m afraid Harry can only offer so much challenge.”

“Hey!” Harry called out from the seat he and Nagini had claimed near the window.

“He’s not wrong,” was heard from behind the pile of books. Hermione closed the book she was reading and selected a new one from the stack in front of her.

Luna agreed to play, and Draco levitated another chair over so that there was space near the window for all three of them. “I’ll bet you played a lot of Wizard’s Chess in Ravenclaw,” Draco said after the board was set up for the new match.

“I’ve never played. Daddy had a curious tridimensional set he bought in America, though, and I’ve played that.”

Harry would have wondered how Luna had managed to have never played a game of Wizarding Chess before if he hadn’t known that she’d been shunned within her own house. Chess needed more than one player, after all.

Draco furrowed his brow. “Tridimensional?” He looked at Harry, who shrugged his shoulders. Chess was confusing enough to him as it was.

Luna already knew each of the chessman’s moves, and only seemed confused when they wouldn’t obey some convoluted set of rules that didn’t resemble anything from regular chess. True to form, she never lost patience, not even when Draco stopped her nearly every move to explain tactics. She would nod, then do something that seemed utterly random.

She won every match, too. Harry had been watching Draco, thinking he might have thrown the game, but no. Luna won fairly.

Draco was delighted.

More than delighted. Enchanted.

“She’s perfect,” he enthused once they’d escorted her back to her rooms. “She doesn’t even seem to care about her last stay here. Or hold my being part of Umbridge’s stupid taskforce against me.”

“That was ages ago. Everyone’s stupid when they’re fifteen,” Harry said, remembering what Sirius had once told him.

“Perfect Potter included?” Draco scoffed, his voice clipping each hard syllable. Only his smile belied the memory of their years-long, now almost forgotten, antagonism.

Harry smiled sadly. No matter how much he’d changed, the memory of Sirius falling through the veil still panged as fresh as the day it happened if he didn’t willfully shove it to the back of his thoughts. “I did something far more stupid than you.”

And there were a million things he might have meant, but right now he was only thinking of going after Sirius, falling for Voldemort’s false vision. And all that time, Sirius had been safely ensconced at Grimmauld Place. Safe until Harry fucked up, that was.

Draco would have once pounced on Harry’s admission. These days, he was still going on about healing past trauma, so Harry wasn’t concerned that he’d opened himself up to ridicule. But Draco wasn’t really listening. He’d stopped, in fact, and was looking back down the guest wing. “I don’t remember her from school much, but something tells me that she was never stupid or foolish.”

Harry wondered if Draco was unaware of just how many absurd things Luna might have said, or if he’d just ignored it all in favour of this new…What? Crush?

Still, it was better for Harry to tell him something before Draco invited her to a ball and she showed up sporting a Butterbeer-cork necklace and radish earrings. “She was ridiculed a lot,” he told Draco, trying his best to project that he wasn’t one of those participating in such bullying.

“Because of The Quibbler?” Draco hazarded.

“That’s only part of it. She believes everything they published. But she’s really a wonderful person. I—I won’t let you hurt her.”

Draco’s face fell when he heard this accusation, his hurt bleeding through his expression. “I wouldn’t.”

“Not on purpose. Not anymore, anyway. But the things she says sometimes…” The worst part, really, was Luna’s thick skin. She could take a lot of abuse without complaint, or even knowing she was being ill-treated. “It would be easy to make light of the things she believes.”

And so Harry found himself back in the library. Hermione was trying to argue with her guard to be patient for just a little longer: “This report is due tomorrow. Do you want to explain to your Lord just why it is incomplete?”

Draco ignored them and went to a shelf filled with bound periodicals. “Let’s see. Potion’s Monthly. The Prophet. Transmutation Today. Ah, here we go. The Quibbler.”

At the name, Hermione looked up, her curiosity getting the better of her. The Death Eater she had been trying to convince to stay longer snarled at her to get a move on with her research or he would be the one complaining to the Dark Lord.

“I see what you mean, Harry,” Draco said. He flipped the pages of the top issue. “Oh, look at this. Apparently my father is a long-lost member of The Weird Sisters. Hmmm, if they’d thought to interview me, they’d have learned the truth about his singing skills, or lack thereof.”

“Perhaps he was their drummer,” Harry murmured. He picked up another copy. “I’m surprised this one wasn’t burned.”

“Father catalogues every issue, even if they’re filled with Light propaganda. Know your enemy and all that,” Draco said as he took in the strongly worded anti-Voldemort headline that Harry was looking at. “You say she believes everything her father publishes? That could be an issue. Surely father knew about this.”

Harry nodded. “Perhaps that’s why they took so long to restore her.”

“I wonder if my father isn’t wondering if she might be persuaded to take up writing again, this time with something more in line with our Lord’s agenda. ”

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t expected to get involved in current affairs. “Perhaps she’d be better suited to something entirely non-political. Unusual creature sightings. Forgotten spells. That sort of thing.

“I’ll ask Father about it. The Quibbler’s press was destroyed during the war, wasn’t it?”

Before Harry could answer, a scream burst out from across the room. Turning, Harry saw that Hermione was thrashing about on the floor. Her Death Eater guard stood above her with his wand drawn and a snarl curling his lips. He held the Torture Curse for another few seconds before stepping back and lowering his wand. “I have better things to do than watch you procrastinate, Mudblood.”

Harry opened his mouth to say—

To say what? To defend her? Knowing Hermione, she likely was getting more involved in her research than strictly necessary, but her thoroughness was hardly grounds to be punished. Still, after their falling out, he didn’t think she’d welcome him saying anything on her behalf anyway.

It turned out that he didn’t need to. “Are you stupid or just ill bred? Those are my father’s books. Look at them!” Draco stalked over to the guard and gestured emphatically to the pile of books that had toppled to the floor when Hermione had been cursed.

“I wasn’t the one who knocked them over,” the guard said, ill-temperedly.

Hermione had gotten to her knees and was already gathering up the books. “I don’t think they’re damaged,” she said quietly. She turned her face away when Harry looked at her.

Draco held his hand out for her to pass them up to him. “I will have words with our Lord about your conduct.” The guard began to protest, but Draco ignored him and, turning to Hermione, asked, “Did you get your research done.”

“Most of it,” she said, sniffling. “I was just finishing up a comparison on European and Asian taxation rates in Magical imports and their effects on their respective economies. I had a few more tables to correlate and attach as appendices.”

Harry’s eyes glazed over, but Draco seemed interested enough to ask if she’d thought to reference any of the library’s periodicals. “My great-grandfather was fascinated with Asian magics. I believe my Father never got around to cancelling any of the subscriptions to those countries’ Magical papers. Let me show you.”

With nothing better to do, Harry wandered back to the periodicals with them. He picked up the newest issue of Seeker Weekly, flipping through idly. It was too bad he was forbidden to fly again. It had always been the most glorious feeling: the wind in his hair, the glint of gold urging him to fly faster and faster.

Harry sighed and shelved the magazine. There was no use wishing for things he couldn’t get.

“Thank you,” Hermione was saying. “I’ll know to use this next time. This report is due by tomorrow morning, though, and you heard my guard. I’ll have to make do with what I’ve already researched. Hopefully it’ll be enough.”

She sounded worried enough that Harry felt compelled to say, “Of course it’ll be enough. You always wrote about a foot more than any of the professors ever asked for.”

“Well this is important,” she said, chewing on her lip. “Mr Malfoy is taking my report before the Wizengamot tomorrow. What if I made a mistake?”

Suddenly it came to Harry just what was on line for Hermione. Given the current administration’s sentiments regarding Mudbloods, this was likely the closest Hermione would get to working in the Ministry. Unlike many of her peers, she had a chance to show that she was capable of more than servitude. Knowing her, she likely thought that if she could prove that she was worthy of such a task, it would help buoy the status of other Muggleborns. And she was terrified that she would blow it.

“Can I look it over?” Draco asked. Hermione looked towards her guard. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll make sure he is replaced with someone who understands the importance of his position. This lout is always shirking his responsibilities.”

The guard muttered something rude under his breath. Draco looked up at him and said, “Since you were so eager to leave, I suggest you do so now before I lose my temper. I will escort Ms Granger to her rooms when her report is satisfactory.”

The Death Eater looked half-way between relieved and horrified. He stalked forward and placed both hands on the table. “Look, little boy. Your daddy might think he’s important, but I haven’t forgotten that it took the Dark Lord more than a year to bust him out of Azkaban. You’re family is not so favoured that you can afford to make enemies.”

Draco raised a perfect brow. “Is that a threat?”

The guard scowled and raised his chin in challenge.

There was nothing interesting on the shelves, Harry decided. Other than the Quidditch magazines—and he couldn’t look at those—everything was so fucking dull. “This is getting boring. Nagini, this man is threatening Draco and me. Will you scare him away?”

The man started at the sound of Parseltongue. He looked fearfully at Harry for a moment, then came to his senses and turned to seek out just who he’d been speaking to. There were only two possibilities, and both were deadly.

Nagini had been sniffing out mice behind the bookshelves, but she slithered quickly into view. The moment the guard saw her, he stumbled backwards and lost all colour in his face. His face contorted and he raised his wand.

Well, that just wasn’t on. “Expelliarmus!” The Death Eater’s wand flew from his hand to clatter against the far windows. The guard stared after it, then looked down at his empty hand. Finally, he looked up—and that was when Nagini lunged. She didn’t strike to kill, though after the idiot had dared threaten her…

“Are you sure this fool is expendable?” Harry asked Draco. Nagini had her fangs ready to break skin, waiting on Harry’s approval.

Draco was nearly as pale as the guard. “Er. I’m not sure. I don’t think he—”

It was too late for him to dither, though. Harry gasped and pressed his hand to his forehead when a blazing fire burned through his scar.

Voldemort had Apparated into the room.

“Nagini, remove yourself,” he hissed dangerously.

She hissed out a grumble but obeyed, slinking over to Harry and slithering up to his shoulders.

The Dark Lord didn’t bother to explain himself as he dispatched the errant guard in a quick flash of green. Harry rubbed his scar, which still blazed with fearful rage.

“What happened here?” Voldemort asked, glaring at the four of them. Draco was pale; he stood ramrod straight, as if a show of dignity might save him from being cursed as well. Hermione looked as though she were trying to shrink away to nothing, or better yet, Disapparate. Preferably to another continent.

Harry stroked Nagini while Draco explained what had occurred. He felt exhausted from all their wandering today, and now this excitement.

Voldemort turned to Harry. “You are unharmed?”

“Yes, Master. Just tired.” Finally the pain in his scar ebbed away.

Draco dared to ask, “My Lord, without the guard to escort Ms Granger to her room, that task will fall to me this evening. As Harry is fatigued, would it be possible for you to Apparate him to your chamber when you leave?”

Voldemort didn’t hesitate. He beckoned Harry to take hold of him; Nagini was still wrapped around his shoulders.

***

“Draco is getting rather popular with the ladies,” Harry joked when he’d gotten his bearings. He lowered himself in front of the fireplace, which burst to life at once when it registered his magical presence. He urged Nagini down from his shoulders. She coiled herself into a tidy heap, and he stroked the soft coils of her back. “First Luna Lovegood, and now he’s making nice with Hermione. Not that I expect he likes a Mudblood girl like that, though,” he said all at once, hoping he hadn’t spoken out of line. The last thing Draco needed was for Lord Voldemort to believe he was veering away from the official pro-Pureblood stance of the Ministry.

“Draco isn’t so foolish as to cast his heart into such deplorable waters,” the Dark Lord said. “I was lenient with Severus’s infatuation with your mother, and look where it got me?” He stared into the fire for a long moment. Harry imagined his Master was remembering every betrayal.

Harry tried to never think about the Potions Masters memories in the pensieve, those painful moments that had changed the world for him. But he remembered Snape and Dumbledore on the hilltop now, a storm of anger in Dumbledore’s eyes, in his voice, settling into the wind. Snape begging for Lily’s life. For Harry’s mother’s life.

But Voldemort wasn’t finished. “If it wasn’t for Severus, Harry, you wouldn’t be here with me now. Perhaps I should thank him.” Voldemort’s voice sounded hollow, as if the admission emptied out some final part of him. “If he hadn’t begged for your mother’s life, then I would not have given her the choice to stand aside. Without her willing sacrifice, the Killing Curse would not have backfired. You would have died that night.”

“I wouldn’t be your Horcrux.” It was a strange thought. How could so much have hinged on one man? On Snape, of all people.

“Indeed, my darling. I wonder if he asks himself the same thing?”

“But you would have survived, Master. You wouldn’t need me.”

Voldemort turned away. “I suppose not,” he said, his voice catching. Then he strode to the door. “I must return to the Ministry. My intervention in the library interrupted a meeting with the French foreign minister. I will likely return late. Do not wait up for me.”

For a moment, Harry wondered why Voldemort didn’t simply Apparate back to the Ministry. But then his stomach growled and he called for Flippy to fetch him his supper.

Chapter Text

A feeling of vertigo woke Harry. He cracked open his eyes to find himself being levitated towards the bed. Groggily he wondered why he wasn’t there already, if he had been asleep.

Ah, of course. He’d fallen asleep on the rug with Nagini. His Master had worked late, away from their rooms, and Harry had preferred the company of his sister to the cold loneliness of the empty bed.

Not empty anymore. Lord Voldemort was sitting against the high headboard, still dressed in his voluminous black robes. 

“You’re finally home,” Harry said, barely supressing a yawn. When he was lowered on the bed, he automatically curled into his pillow. What had he been dreaming about? A snitch glinting above the lake, no—above a house. A perfect snitch, and it was his. He just had to reach out and—

“It is morning, Harry. Time to wake up.”

“Then why did you bring me to the bed?” As much as he tried, he couldn’t stifle a second yawn

Voldemort traced his index finger along Harry’s cheek. “I need to ask you a few questions, pet. After that, you’ll find that we make good use of the bed.”

Harry smiled sleepily. He was already stiff with anticipation, as he often was in the mornings. He hoped the questions wouldn’t take too long. “Okay. Ask away.”

A dark chuckle. “I wanted to ask about the incident in the library yesterday. Harry, why did you ask Nagini to engage with the Mudblood’s escort?”

It was too early in the morning for Harry to remember clearly. He tried to recall the incident; with a bit of effort, the fuzzy memories cleared. “He was making it hard for Hermione to work and Draco was trying to help. The guard got irritated—he wanted to leave—and began insulting the Malfoys.”

“Draco told me as much yesterday.” The Dark Lord’s finger trailed lower, down Harry’s jaw, to his throat. “That does not answer my question about Nagini.”

Didn’t it? Harry couldn’t quite recall. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I asked her to chase him away. I can’t remember why.”

“Had he threatened you? Or her?”

Harry shook his head. “But I was getting so tired of listening to him.”

“Nagini is there to defend you. I don’t care what some low-ranked Death Eater insinuates, accurately or not, about the Malfoys. She is there to defend your life, not Lucius’s honour. Do you understand me?”

Harry disliked the hard, disappointed edge lacing his Master’s words. “All right,” he said. His cheeks flushed with shame.

“That goes for you, too. Draco is there to defend against threats to you, not the other way around.”

Harry nodded. He hoped the questions were over. He turned on his side and began stroking up his Master’s leg beseechingly. “Is that all?”

“Hardly. But you’ve answered my questions, if that is what you mean.” A murmured word and Harry was cold, his robes gone.

Harry reached out to loosen his Master’s robes, but his hand was smacked away. “I spent much of the night wondering how exactly to impress upon you the importance of following my directives, Harry. I don’t wish to cause you pain, darling. Not anymore. So how to punish you?”

Harry wished he could hide beneath the sheets. He remembered clearly how Voldemort had tortured Bellatrix, naked and lashed to the bedframe.

“Tied up, yes. We’ll start with that.” Voldemort flicked his fingers and silky coils sprang from the bedposts to wrap around Harry’s wrists, pulling them above his head. “But I don’t think only your wrists should be tied up, do you?” He held something that Harry recognized at once.

Oh sweet Merlin, no.

“Please Master,” Harry whined. “Not that.” He would take a Crucio over this.

Voldemort slid the cock-ring down to the base of Harry’s penis. “Don’t worry so much, my dear. You only need to wear it until the message gets across.”

And how long would that be? Harry whined as his Master played with his foreskin, sliding it up and down the head of his cock. Harry willed himself to stay soft.

Voldemort had other ideas. He lowered his hand to the base of Harry’s semi-hard member and conjured some lubricant. His other hand massaged Harry’s perineum expertly.

Harry licked his lip and tried to ignore the build up of pleasure. “How do I prove I…ah…will listen to your orders?” He tried not to buck as a finger teased into his opening.

But his Master was too busy to answer. For the first time, he lowered his mouth towards Harry’s cock.

Harry’s hope to not respond was dashed as all the blood in his body flooded between his legs. With wide eyes, he watched as Voldemort closed his lips around his hard shaft, encircling it with delicious heat. Meanwhile, his long finger was pressing deeper into him. No, two fingers.

Voldemort licked up to the tip of Harry’s cock, then swirled his tongue around the glans before looking up. His red eyes were blown but full and eager. The fingers in Harry’s arse never stopped their probing thrusts. He pressed against Harry’s prostate and, in response to Harry’s gasp, said, “I expect you will have completely learned your lesson by the time I am done with you.”

As Harry watched Voldemort’s tongue slip in and out of his slit, he decided that he would never survive the lesson.

“It is possible to stimulate your prostate this way as well,” Voldemort said as he looked up once more. Harry was trying not to feel any more stimulated than he already was, so didn’t even try to understand. His Master pressed a fingertip into his slit to get his attention. “I think a glass stirring rod would be about the right length to fuck your pretty cock, don’t you think?”

“What?”

But Voldemort’s mouth was busy again, this time sucking down Harry’s cock. When the head reached his throat, he swallowed with ease. Soon Harry was completely engulfed in warm, wet perfectness.

And it was awful.

The fingers finally pulled out; Voldemort came up for air. He shifted down the bed and with a rustle pulled his own hard member from his robes. He wasted now time pressing the blunt head to Harry’s hole and sliding in. “Hmmm, so tight still. Look at me, Harry.”

As their eyes met, all at once more than a cock was thrusting inside as Harry’s mind was swiftly invaded. He was pressing into himself, relishing in the embracing heat of his own arse. He lost himself to the building rhythm of thrusts, his long white fingers tightening around his own slender hips.

Deeper. He needed to get deeper, to feel his Horcrux’s flesh cinch around him. As it was always meant to.

“Faster,” Harry said, relishing in tightness, in fullness.

Voldemort slung Harry’s legs over his shoulders and pressed in even deeper. Harry groaned out in bliss, though some distant part of him could still feel the tight ring of silver pressing painfully around the base of his cock. He ignored the reminder that this wouldn’t end well and focused on the brilliant green of his own eyes gazing up at himself.

Voldemort paused balls-deep inside of him. “Are you ready to be punished?”

Harry had thought this was the punishment, as glorious as it was turning out to be. He nodded stupidly and braced himself for whatever pain of pleasure was his due.

As soon as he’d received confirmation, Voldemort smirked wickedly and resumed thrusting. He kept their full mind-link open and Harry’s mouth fell open as their shared orgasm approached. His Master pulled out right before he came, and also—devastatingly—dropped their connection. Harry was coldly shoved back into his own mind. Red-eyes, black robes, and a hard, spurting cock filled his vision. His own arse was all at once empty, his own cock hard and straining. Not ignored, though. His Master was directing his own thick stream of come onto it.

Voldemort pulled off and tucked himself back into his robes. A wave of his wand and Harry’s feet were similarly bound to the footboard of the bed. He trailed one long finger through his own emission, smearing it up Harry’s painfully hard cock.

Harry couldn’t help arching his back and gasping when his Master swirled his creamy ejaculate around his swollen cockhead. “Please, Master…I’ve learned my lesson. Please let me come, too.”

Voldemort raised his wand. Harry held his breath, wondering if he’d be cursed or freed.

But Voldemort incanted another string of Latin and Harry felt his Master’s will seep into all the bonds holding him in place, including the cock-ring. “The magic will know when you truly recant your deeds, Harry, and you will be released only then. Hopefully it will be before the Malfoy heir comes to escort you onto the grounds this afternoon.” Then the bastard actually waved goodbye to him and retreated through the tapestry.

Harry laid back on his pillow and groaned. He had how long until Draco came? The mantle clock was out of sight from here but, judging from the light streaming through the window, it was still fairly early. Nine o’ clock, perhaps. He had at least three hours before he’d be found in so compromising a position.

He hoped it wouldn’t take that long, and not only because of the humiliation factor. Not only was he still hard and aching, but his stomach was growling. Not to mention his Master’s semen was starting to grow clammy. He strained his neck up to see how it clung to the dark hairs surrounding his own genitals. As uncomfortable as it was starting to feel, looking at it made his prick pulse again with desire.

That was good, though. He had more motivation to free himself this way.

“I won’t put myself or Nagini in danger to defend a friend,” he stated.

Nothing.

He said it twice more. Magic worked in threes, didn’t it?

Still nothing. Sevens?

“Oh, for fuck sake,” he growled when that didn’t work either.

Perhaps he wasn’t meant to free himself. Maybe being found by Draco was part of his punishment. But no, Voldemort had been quite adamant from the get-go that Harry was for him and him alone. Which meant that there was a way to free himself, and Harry was meant to find it.

What if he couldn’t?

The sun was moving higher up the sky. The house-elf invisibly popped breakfast for Harry onto the bedside table—fat good that would do him—and a large rat for Nagini to chase. When she had swallowed down her meal, she climbed onto the bed and scented Harry. To his embarrassment, she flicked her tongue right against his groin. He tried to squirm away, but he could only move so far.

“Why did Master miss?” she asked him.

It wasn’t all that hard to figure out what she meant. “His aim was spot on,” he told her. He tried not to hiss too sharply at her. This mess (quite literal in one sense) was not her fault. Hell, he was the one who had put her at risk. “Did you enjoy your rat?” he asked, needing to change the topic.

She said she had but that she was hungry for more. “Brother has not eaten his meal,” she observed.

He pulled at the bonds of silk rope securing him to the bed. “I can’t reach. Master is angry I involved you in Draco’s argument yesterday. He tied me up to punish me.”

“Why?”

Harry slumped back on the pillow and closed his eyes tight. “The guard had a wand. He could have hurt you.”

“Nagini was not in danger,” she hissed emphatically. She slithered over to stare into Harry’s eyes. He took in her constant gaze and melted a bit with affection for her. “And this way, others will not think to hunt brother. Not when Nagini is close by.”

Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat. He remembered his fear for her when Ginny had attacked, his certainty that she had been killed defending him. What had he been thinking yesterday? He had purposely put her in danger. “Master was right to be angry. I was wrong to ask you to attack for so small a thing. I won’t do it again.”

Harry leaned forward and was stroking Nagini, petting down her neck, wiping at his eyes with his other hand, before he realized he’d managed to get free.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

His sister hissed with delight at his attention, until his stomach growled. Then she scolded him for ignoring his breakfast.

Laughing, he gave her one last pet. Then he turned to his poached eggs and toast, which were still piping hot.

***

Draco was not alone when he fetched Harry that afternoon. Luna stood a few feet away, staring with rapt attention down the long hallway.

“Oh, hi Luna,” he said, but he was mostly looking at Draco, giving him a ‘are you quite sane’ look.

Draco shifted uncomfortably, then said, “Luna and I were taking lunch on the terrace, taking advantage of the sun. When I made to leave to keep our appointment, she said she should come along.”

Harry blinked. These days, he usually forgot that Draco was raised a poncy rich-boy. “I think I’m cancelling that appointment, thank you.” He didn’t really want to be third wheel. What was he supposed to be, anyway. Their chaperone? Did Luna even realize that Draco was trying to court her?

Frowning, Draco opened his mouth to reply to Harry’s bitter words. Before he could say anything, Luna turned to Harry and said, “You should be careful with bottomless pits, Harry. Didn’t you ever hear the story of Ambrose the Abstruse?” At Harry’s head shake, she went on. “No of course you haven’t, because he dug a bottomless pit and fell in. No one has heard of him.”

Harry looked to Draco. Judging from the equally confused look on his friend’s face, his ignorance wasn’t due to his Muggle upbringing. Then again, maybe Draco was more bothered by the architectural repercussions of having such a pit in his home. “A bottomless pit,” he echoed, his face pale.

“There isn’t anything there,” Harry said, instead of asking her how she had heard the story if it had been so lost. Still, he mostly wondered how it was that she had sensed such a thing at all. He remembered, of course, the horrid void that Ginny had been imprisoned in. It had been there, a soul-sucking nothingness—he had seen it, had felt it. But then it was gone. His Master had reassured him of that. Well, not exactly, but close enough. He hadn’t felt anything strange or unworldly coming from further down the corridor since that day. It was as if some ghastly portal had closed.

If that were the case, hopefully it was gone for good.

Luna was still looking at him closely. Softly, she said, “Of course there isn’t anything there. Promise me you’ll be careful, Harry. I would hate to lose you.”

“Um, sure,” he agreed, mostly to get her to stop talking about it. To Draco, he said, “I’ll grab my coat and wake up Nagini, then we’ll head out. Unless you’ve already taken enough sun on the terrace.”

Draco shook his head. He was in his full aristocratic mode and didn’t even notice the barb. “I was hoping to show Luna the autumn wildflower display on the south side of the grounds this afternoon, and after that I thought we might take tea in the gazebo.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He went back into his and Voldemort’s chambers and grabbed his cloak from off the stand near the door. “Wake up, sister,” he hissed to Nagini. When she groggily raised her head to look at him, he was again flooded with relief that his idiocy yesterday had not brought harm to her. “We’re going outside now. Come along.”

The day was warm. To Draco’s chagrin, Luna led them along the grounds in what appeared, at first, to be a haphazard direction. Amazingly, when she finally called a halt to their wanderings, they found themselves at the menhir Harry had discovered at Midsummer. She leaned against the standing stones and closed her eyes, holding her hands out to rest on the weather-worn rock.

Nagini was happy. She scaled onto her favourite stone and promptly fell asleep. Harry meandered in and out of the all-too familiar stones until he came to the one he’d long hoped never to see again. It didn’t look like much, this old prison of his. He looked up, trying to recall the dizzying days of his confinement. He rubbed his fingers along the hard rock, lost in thought.

“That’s an interesting standing stone,” he heard from behind him. He looked over his shoulders at Luna, who stepped up and followed the trail of his fingers, almost exactly. “It feels more alive than the others.”

Harry pressed palm to rock. He only felt the thump of his own pulse. “How can you tell?”

Luna tilted her head and sucked in her lower lip. “I don’t know,” she admitted. Draco came to stand beside her. He pressed finger to stone, too, looking as though he was trying his hardest to perceive whatever she did.

Harry thought about it. “The Dark Lord warded it in June,” he said finally. “Could you be sensing residue of his spellwork?”

She considered it, then shook her head. “The magic feels more earthy than his. It is far older.”

More than anything, Harry wanted to know what Luna thought his Master’s magic felt like, but he didn’t dare ask. Besides, he pretty well knew the answer. It was the warm bliss of waking with long arms wrapped around you. It was sybillant moans of delight when Harry managed to please his Master. It was long fingers brushing through his hair. It was a soft kiss to his scar and promises that everything would be okay from now on.

That was all that Voldemort’s magic meant.

It certainly wasn’t a cold, hard stone, no matter how alive it might feel to Luna Lovegood.

“What about the snake’s stone?” Draco said, breaking Harry from his reverie. “She seems to like it well enough. Do you think she’s drawn to it for any particular reason?”

Luna walked to the stone where Nagini slept and considered it. After a long while, she said, “It feels…sunny.”

Harry smiled; good on Luna for catching all that was important to his sister. “It gets the best light, all the way until evening,” he agreed. He didn’t bother telling them how he knew that with such certainty. He reached out to stroke along his sister’s coiled back. There. There was the soft hum of his Master’s magic, emanating from her very scales. Beautiful sister Horcrux.

Then Luna asked something that Harry was completely unprepared for: “Can I pet her?”

At least she’d had the courtesy of asking.

Meanwhile, Draco had grabbed hold of Luna’s arm and pulled her back a few steps. “I don’t think…” he began, before glancing over at Harry with wide eyes. “Harry, tell her that’s a bad idea.”

Harry was hesitant to rouse his sister to ask what she thought. He suspected that Nagini might relish the attention. But did he want to share her? And more importantly, what would Voldemort think? Then again, Luna was a Pureblood witch and for some reason that still perplexed Harry had been granted a great deal of freedom in a very short space of time. In time, she might be the next lady of the manor.

In the end, Harry did ask his sister what she wanted. To his relief, she curled up more tightly and said to ask her later when she wasn’t so very sleepy.

Luna skipped away when Harry told her, as if she hadn’t just been disappointed. Draco shared a wary glance with him. With a half-smile, he whispered to Harry, “I think you’d best ask our Lord what his position on that is before she tries again.”

“Or about her coming to fetch me,” Harry said, pointedly. “Has she been granted leave to enter the Dark Lord’s wing of the manor? I thought that was rather reckless of you, Draco.”

Draco gave a pained sort of grimace. “She insisted on coming. I figured it wouldn’t be so bad. You’re probably right, though.” Then his eyes widened with remembered fear. With a shiver, he asked, “What did she mean about a bottomless pit?”

“One of the Dark Lord’s experiments, I think.” With a hushed voice, he described what he’d seen when he had gone with Voldemort to fetch Ginny from the void.

By the time Harry had finished, Draco looked even more horrified. “I knew he was doing something strange down that corridor. My parents told me years ago to keep away, and I knew better than to disobey, but I would never have thought he was breeding something down there.”

“He was breeding darkness,” Harry said. Forgetting the void at the end of the hall, it was true for his own soul.

“Rather apropos,” said Draco. “I just wish he wasn’t breeding it in my house. Not that I’m complaining or anything, of course. We Malfoys are—”

“Please stop,” Harry groaned. “I don’t want to hear it. Besides, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If whatever is down there wasn’t contained, surely he wouldn’t have his chambers so nearby.”

“I suppose,” Draco mumbled. He didn’t seem at all mollified.

“So, tell me more about these stones,” Harry said, trying to get Draco’s mind off so dire a subject. Judging by the look on the Slytherin’s face, he hadn’t been successful.

Fortunately, Luna was more easily distracted. She asked Draco, “Does your family observe Samhain in the old ways, with a ritual around the stones?”

Draco’s anxious look evaporated. “Yes, we do. What about your family? I know not all of the more…um… liberal families stopped the practice earlier this century.”

Harry was lost at ‘Samhain.’ He almost asked Nagini; surely if it was such a big event, she would know. He could ask her in Parseltongue, and the other two wouldn’t know of his ignorance.

Of course, Nagini was asleep again. Harry hopped up next to her, carefully so as not to disturb her. There was just enough room for the both of them.

Draco was saying something about a party that would precede the Samhain ritual.

“Will it be a masquerade?” Luna asked.

Draco raised a brow. “Not unless Death Eater attire is considered fancy dress.”

“Why would anyone dress up for—?” Harry nearly hit himself. He knew exactly what Wizarding holiday was but weeks away.

Halloween.

Luna just nodded, neither disappointed nor alarmed. With her calm, dulcet voice she asked, “Are you going, Harry?”

“Am I?” Harry asked Draco.

Draco shrugged. “Shouldn’t you know that?”

“He hasn’t mentioned anything, but then he rarely gives me advance notice of these things,” Harry admitted. He worried the inside of his cheek, then dared, “Will it be much like the party after…?” He trailed off. After his mission to the Chamber, he had meant to say, but Luna was right there.

Draco raised his eyebrow in question. Harry gave him what he hoped was a weighty look, hoping to get his point across. For one miraculously rare moment, Harry wished Draco was a Legilimens.

Luna looked back and forth between them. “Can I come?”

“No!” Draco blurted. He reddened and apologized immediately for coming off so harsh. “It’s only for the Dark Lord’s followers.”

But Draco’s outburst was confirmation enough.

There would be orgies. Or torture.

Likely a blend of the two.

Harry had but one more question, and only one person could answer that.

Who would be servicing Lord Voldemort?

Chapter Text

Warning: A character is pressured to engage in sexual activities beyond their comfort/tolerance level. Not main pairing and said activities are 'off-screen', so to speak. 

Harry couldn’t stop fretting after he’d been dropped off in his shared chambers late that afternoon. Luna had given him a cheerful farewell, but Draco was unusually quiet. Harry wasn’t sure if it was because he was afraid of whatever void festered further down the wing or if he was simply thinking about the upcoming Halloween festivities.

Another rat was waiting for Nagini in their quarters. Once she’d caught it and gulped it down, she was ready for another nap. Harry loved her to bits, but she spent so much time sleeping now that autumn was here. He tried to curl up next to her. His newest novel laid untouched beside him, though, as his mind wandered. He kept speculating about the upcoming holiday. Would he be asked to attend? Did he want to go?

Did he dare not to? What if…what if his Master chose another to entertain him if Harry proved too timid? Harry didn’t think he could go back to sharing the Dark Lord with someone else. His heart still ached when he thought of Voldemort and Bellatrix together. He tried not to, but he’d been granted too many painful visions and his imagination treacherously filled in the details.

He remembered quite horribly how he’d forced down his first jealously, right after his victory over the rebels on his first (and only) mission. He’d looked away from the foul witch’s ministrations that night, but he’d still gotten the gist of what she’d been doing, how she’d been serving.

As far as he knew, Harry was now the Dark Lord’s sole sexual partner. He’d be willing to do a lot to keep it that way.

Even if…

Even if he had to…

Harry shuddered. He really didn’t want all those eyes on him. Last time, most of the revellers had been busy tending to their own desires, not paying Bellatrix or the Dark Lord any particular attention. But Harry wasn’t Bellatrix. He already received more scrutiny than he wanted, and this would be no exception. Such was his lot in life.

But it would be worth it, he told himself. No one would take his place.

Harry pushed himself up and, taking a deep breath to brace himself, pressed through the tapestry to his Master’s study.

Voldemort was at the desk, and he was not alone. He looked up when Harry burst through and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He didn’t seem surprised to see him; he must have been listening to his thoughts, at least a little bit.

Lucius, who’d been in the middle of a sentence, broke off talking. From the pile of parchments weighing down his arms, he’d most likely been delivering a Ministry report. With a raised brow, he said, “I can return at a later time, my Lord, if you have pressing business.”

The Dark Lord gestured for Lucius to place the parchments on his desk. “Stay for a moment. Harry has a quick question that you might be best prepared to answer.”

Harry dithered by the wall. It wasn’t a quick question at all. Or rather, it was but he didn’t think he’d be prompt in the asking. “Er…” he began. He could feel his face flush hot. He rubbed at his cheek.

“Harry is wondering about your annual Samhain festivities.”

Lucius nodded. “Ah, yes. All the Inner Circle shall be invited, Mr Potter. Plus one.”

Harry pretended to know what that meant. “I see. Thank you, Mr Malfoy.” He wasn’t even sure if he counted as ‘Inner Circle,’ but he was ready to find out later—not now. He gave a short bow to his Master and turned to exit.

But— “He would also like to know what activities will be on offer.”

Harry wanted to sink through the floor as easily as he could slide through the Dark Mark tapestry. He fixed a smile on his face and swivelled back to Draco’s father. He stopped himself from telling the man that he wouldn’t mind a surprise. It wouldn’t do to contradict his Master.

Lucius Malfoy twiddled his thumbs. From behind his desk Voldemort seemed more than pleased by the discomfort he was creating for both his Death Eaters. Harry wondered at Mr Malfoy’s reserve, but then recalled that he hadn’t engaged in the more sordid events at the last party. 

“Well, I think,” Lucius began, before pausing to examine his cuticles. “That is, I believe Narcissa had hoped for an appetizer table.”

“That sounds nice,” Harry told him, falsely cheerful. He gave another bow and tried his best to slip away.

“And he’d like to know what he is expected to do,” came his Master’s damning voice.

Lucius opened his mouth, only to close it again quickly after. Harry’s stomach had decided his throat was a better place to be than deeper down in his belly where it belonged.

After clearing his throat, Lucius said, “Well, that is entirely up to…” He glanced over to Voldemort. It was obvious that Harry’s activities weren’t up to Harry himself, especially now that he warmed the Dark Lord’s bed nightly. “Er, that is to say…I’m not the one to answer that question. My Lord?”

Voldemort smirked. “Thank you, Lucius. You may go.”

With visible relief, Lucius swept into a low bow and hurried from the room.

It was hardly easier facing Voldemort alone. Harry let his blush speak for him and hoped that his Master was finished torturing him.

That dark chuckle. “You are so easily embarrassed, darling. Do you think I would put you so on display? Even if you were a shameless exhibitionist like that vile traitoress.” Voldemort lapsed into an angry hiss at the end, his red eyes slitting to a tight line. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Even if you were so inclined, I am not willing to share you, not even with the eyes of my most faithful.”

Harry nodded. He’d guessed that much. “But what about you, Master? You will surely want—" His words cut off abruptly, caught somewhere in his chest. His ribs were cinched tightly around his heart.

Voldemort waved a careless hand, as if such things were irrelevant. “I will have enough to do without such merrymaking.”

Harry looked down, nodding to some spot at his feet. It hadn’t been a promise that his Lord wouldn’t participate, but it was almost one. Then he had an idea. He looked back up and suggested, nervously, “What if I were hidden under the Invisibility Cloak?”

The Dark Lord crooked his head, considering. His pupils dilated a near oval, thick and lustful. “It is not without risk. Someone might suspect you are there.”

That was true. It made Harry shiver, and not with anticipation. “It’s a possibility.”

“They will know what you are doing.”

Harry set his shoulders back. “I should hope so. Otherwise, I’m not doing a good enough job.”

Voldemort pressed a finger to his lips. “Perhaps I should interview you for the position.”

There was only one ‘position’ Harry thought would be appropriate. With as much grace as he could, he dropped to hands and knees and waited. From behind the desk, Voldemort shifted his legs to make room for him. Harry crawled forward, carefully edging round his Master’s knees, until he was nestled in the shadowed recess beneath the Dark Lord’s desk. “How may I serve you?”

Fingers came to caress his head, to stroke through the fine strands of his hair. “You’re supposed to be indiscernible. How quiet can you be? How discrete?”

Do you wish to test me? Harry thought as loudly as he knew how—not that such things mattered—as he reached out to undo his Master’s robes. Before he could, though, long fingers seized his left arm, pulled back the tight sleeve, and pressed a decisive finger to his Mark.

“A wonderful idea,” Voldemort stated. He released the Mark only to press Harry’s hand to his crotch. “Continue.”

Harry froze. His Master had called another Death Eater. He looked about, wondering how hidden he was. With relief, he observed that the desk was fully enclosed. No one should see him, not unless they were unduly observant. At most, the dark shape of his foot might be discernable.

And so he went back to his task, not that he was willing to stop, not now that he’d been so challenged. He leaned in and inhaled his Master’s heady scent. He pressed an open kiss to the black silk, then rubbed the hardening length with the bridge of his nose. The hand in his hair tightened briefly. Warmth pulsed through their connection.

Harry brought his fingers up to tease through Voldemort’s robes. Just a slight pressure, rubbing up and down. A few times he paused to dip lower, to carefully tuck under the soft swell beneath. A hiss from above told him to continue, but faster. Harry shifted the silken folds of robes aside to reveal his Master’s hard shaft.

He hadn’t done more than lave his tongue around the velvety head and suck the tip into his mouth when there came a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

A firm hand on his head stopped Harry from pulling back. Still, for a moment he was utterly useless. A light flick to his ear reminded him to continue his ministrations.

Really, what had he been expecting? He was trying to prove he could do this during the party. Here he had a desk keeping him from sight—there he would only have the cloak, which could so easily shift and reveal him.

Whatever Harry had been expecting, though, was not this: “You wish to know the status of your latest brewing order?” came Snape’s silky voice.

Voldemort ignored the lack of honorifics, as he always seemed to these days. “What else? I expect a lengthy report.” He spread his legs even more, inviting Harry closer.

Harry released his Master’s cock, but only to start nibbling at the bit of foreskin. He teased around it with his tongue, then slowly licked down to his Master’s balls, which he gently suckled one at a time. It was hard to hear over Snape’s drawling description of his potions work, but he thought he heard Voldemort’s breath begin to grow heavy.

Harry wondered if he dared... But why not? He released his Master’s balls, giving each one a last light kiss, then lifted the heavy sack carefully. Tilting his head, he pressed his tongue further down, firmly licking the sensitive perineum. He’d not done this before and hoped his brazenness was not unwanted. His Master’s musky scent was deeper now, almost overwhelming. Harry knew better than to stray further south without permission, though he was sorely tempted to test how far he would be allowed.

“Keep going,” his Master ordered. He shifted in his seat, leaning back in his chair. He released Harry’s hair to brace himself on either side of his chair, giving himself leverage to raise his hips up just enough for Harry to work his way in.

“I believe that was it, unless you wish for an account of my plans for November’s brewing,” Snape answered.

“Yessss, that,” Voldemort hissed, so close to Parseltongue, as Harry took his Master up on his offer and circled his Master’s tight hole with his tongue.

Snape didn’t say anything for a long moment after that. Harry almost thought the game was up, but then his former professor began spouting off a long list of the potions he was hoping to start working on. “Also, I was hoping that I might be permitted to abstain from the Halloween celebrations this year in favour of—”

“Absolutely not, Severus. You will not slip out of Samhain. Not again. Last year I permitted it, as you were busy with your duties as Headmaster. Not this year. I expect you to attend and fully participate. Do you understand.”

A displeased grunt was his answer.

Meanwhile, Harry hadn’t realized that his Master was still so coherent. He abandoned Voldemort’s arse, bringing his lips up to suction around the man’s cock. His fingers moved to caress everywhere else within reach.

“My Lord,” Snape said, the title just this side of respectful. “Surely there is no need for my presence.”

“Not true. Your participation would please me.”

Harry swallowed around Voldemort’s cock. He pretended to not need air, and slowly let gravity draw his mouth down. Then just as slowly, he drew back up, finally giving a kiss to the very tip.

“My participation.” It was more a tired need for confirmation than anything else.

“Bring along a few vials of a Calming draught if it will help, though make sure it can be mixed with alcohol. Lucius was in not long before you, waxing poetic about the buffet table. Wasn’t he, Harry?”

And there it was. Harry had only just sucked the Dark Lord’s cock back into his mouth. He released it with a distressingly loud ‘pop’. He stayed nicely ensconced between the Dark Lord’s legs and said, “He said it was an appetizer table, Master.”

“So you see, Severus,” Voldemort continued. “You simply must come.” Then he firmly pressed Harry’s head downwards and said, “Back to work, pet.”

Harry had trouble rebuilding suction as he was grinning like a loon. He wondered how much of the amusement was his own.

A loud sigh from above made it clear that Snape, on the other hand, did not find the situation funny. “I take it Mr Potter will be participating?” he ground out.

“Discretely. He is practicing keeping a low profile,” Voldemort agreed, bringing his hand back down to cup the back of Harry’s head. He sighed softly with pleasure. “He has that luxury.” The ‘you do not,’ was left unsaid. Still, the implication was loud.

“My Lord—” This time, the title was used cunningly, almost sweetly. Snape was wheedling, trying to get out of it. “I have maintained my…that is to say…there are potions…”

Oh, for the love of—Harry all at once knew why Snape was so reticent, and it wasn’t solely due to the man’s modesty. But surely Snape was not still so innocent…he was nearly forty, for Merlin’s sake! Yes, Harry had learned recently that a virgin’s sperm was useful in a variety of ways, including potions, but that sort of dedication to one’s craft was bordering on ridiculous.

“You have another week to brew all the precious potions you need with your unsullied seed. After that, focus on something else,” Voldemort decreed.

Voldemort managed to wrangle a confirmation of Snape’s attendance at Samhain before the Potions Master was dismissed.

Harry was still working the Dark Lord’s cock languidly from his knees, but Voldemort had other ideas. “Now we are alone, you might as well come back up here.”

A moment’s work and Harry was sufficiently bared to straddle his Master. Voldemort pulled him close, rocking them together. “Yes, I prefer you like this.”

Harry pressed his forehead to Voldemort’s collarbone, delighting in every moment of fullness. “Was my mouth not to your liking?” he asked breathlessly.

Voldemort groaned. “Your mouth is sinful, as you well know. But this is better.” Hands came to grip Harry’s hips, urging him up, then down. “Look at me.”

Harry did. He only had a second to take in Voldemort’s lustful gaze before he was drawn forward into a kiss. Voldemort wasted no time in dominating Harry’s tongue, slipping them against each other in a way that sent shivers all the way down to Harry’s toes. Then, a particularly well-aimed thrust made Harry gasp in pleasure. He pulled back from his Master’s kiss, moaning.

“No you don’t. Mine,” Voldemort stated before claiming Harry’s lips again. To punctuate his words, he thrust even harder against Harry’s prostate.

It couldn’t last. Harry was so close. He writhed, pressing their bodies as close together as he could. His orgasm came upon him at once. Voldemort bit down on Harry’s lower lip as he came, too, deep inside him.

Harry sat back, gasping for breath. It was then that he noticed the lines of his pleasure that roped up his Master’s dark robes. “Sorry,” he panted. He squirmed, as if to shimmy off his Master’s lap, but was pulled back. He could feel Voldemort softening inside him. “Your robes will get even more mussed if I don’t move,” he pointed out.

“Let them.” Voldemort’s eyes were beautifully crimson, staring down only at him.

Harry nodded, shyly. He circled his arms around his Master’s shoulders for balance. After a while, he thought to ask, “Why do you want Snape to join in the fun at Halloween? Why would you even want to see that?”

Voldemort smirked. “Amusement? Besides, that man has to loosen up at some point. It will do him good.”

Idly, Harry wondered if Snape would be a bottom or a top.

“There’s no reason he cannot be both at the same time,” Voldemort said, grinning. “Remember, though, your own view will be hampered. But I can let you know the outcome.”

“I’ll have the best view,” said Harry with a sly smile.

Voldemort half-closed his eyes. “But I won’t. I like watching you pleasure me.”

At this point, Harry was starting to feel the Dark Lord’s come start to leak out. It was hardly a pleasant feeling. Voldemort, limp now, was barely pressed into him, and he also must have felt the cooling discharge of spent ejaculate. With a grimace, he said, “I think it’s time to clean up.” Magic was wonderful for clearing up such indiscretions. Soon they were both clean, their robes redone.

“I must say,” Voldemort said, “that you look none the worse for wear after your punishment this morning. I am guessing that Draco did not need to come to your rescue.”

Harry shook his head. “I freed myself pretty quick. Once Nagini came over to speak with me, I realized what a foolish mistake I’d made yesterday. I hadn’t realized how—” His throat closed up as he remembered how much he’d miss his sister should anything happen to her. He wiped his eyes. “It was when she told me she’d have been fine that it hit me just how vulnerable she is. I can’t lose her. I can’t.”

“And you won’t, not if I can help it. I’m glad you understand now. I hate punishing you. I want you to be happy with me, Harry. I don’t want to risk that. But keeping you safe, keeping Nagini safe, is more important.”

“I understand. I do,” Harry told him.

Voldemort brushed Harry’s fringe off his forehead. “Have you given any more thought to the longevity potion I brewed in August?”

Harry licked at his lower lip; he tasted the faint tang of his blood, remnants of their kiss. “Not really,” he admitted. Then he thought to ask, “How long will it extend my life?”

“Centuries.” It was clear from Voldemort’s tone that this was not enough. Not nearly long enough.

“But will I grow old? Surely you wouldn’t want me around if I actually look centuries old,” he chuckled nervously.

“I don’t see why not.”

Harry reddened. “Well, I won’t be so good on my knees by then.”

Voldemort’s gaze was intense as a Basilisk’s. “Who said you’d be on your knees?”

“Well, I know this guy who enjoys bows and blowjobs,” Harry joked. He quickly shut up when he realized he’d called Lord Voldemort ‘this guy’. 

“You called me far worse earlier,” his Master murmured. At Harry’s befuddled expression, he clarified. “In your head. You called me—” he leaned in to whisper in Harry’s ear—“a bastard.”

Harry’s knees buckled. He’d thought—that? He couldn’t remember thinking that. Then again, he’d been pretty miffed when he’d been left alone, all tied up. Not that he hadn’t deserved it, but he hadn’t believed that at the time.

Voldemort held him upright. “None of that. Do I ever punish you for your thoughts?”

Harry shook his head, half wary, half grateful. “You’re a merciful lord,” he murmured.

“I am, aren’t I?” Voldemort made sure that Harry was able to stand, then stepped back. He tidied up his desk, then ushered Harry through the tapestry to their rooms.

“Where did the other tapestries go?” Harry asked. Now that Voldemort’s makeshift study had been amalgamated with Harry’s old bedroom, there were only two remaining: one in the study, one in their quarters.

“I condensed them into themselves. It was more an extension spell drawing two into four to begin with. This is their original state.”

Harry marvelled at how much magic he still had to learn.

“If you are so interested in dimensional magics, darling, you will need to grasp the foundations of runes and sigils, not to mention interphasic shifts. Let me know if you are interested, and I will provide you with introductory texts.”

Harry shrugged, sitting down at their shared table. He was still bewildered at simply having a wand again. Interphasic shifts and the like could wait.

Especially if he would live for centuries.

Voldemort caught his stray thought. “You are willing to take the potion, then?”

Harry pressed his lips together as he thought. Voldemort sat at the table too, waiting. He looked much like a Kneazle readying to pounce on a mouse. Supper popped in front of them both; they both ignored it.

Living so long felt somehow greedy. Why should he get to live so long when so many were cut down too young?

But then, why not? He’d been destined to die; why not be destined to live? And all his jokes about his knees giving out and getting old and undesirable—what did that matter in the face of this gift.

Still, he couldn’t help but say in a rare fit of rebellion, “You just want me alive so long because I’m your Horcrux. It’s not me you want. It’s this.” Harry pointed accusingly at his scar.

Voldemort opened his mouth to say something.

Then he stopped. Mouth open, indecisive. It looked so strange on a man whose general demeanor was one of absolute authority and conviction. He shook his head. “I won’t say it hadn’t crossed my mind. But Harry, if that had been my motive I would have ordered you to drink it the moment it was brewed.”

Harry considered this. It was a valid point. “Why didn’t you?”

“You need to find that answer yourself,” he said cryptically.

“What does that even mean?”

But Voldemort seemed to have noticed his supper plate and was suddenly focussed on that. “The chicken is good.”

Harry barely tasted it. He ate slowly, forcing his meal down. All the while, he tried to work out just why his Master would bother giving him a choice.

Chapter Text

Harry had new robes for Halloween. They were still black, but were now tailored from a sturdy, yet lustrous, silk. He stood in front of the mirror and tried to make his unruly hair do something remotely attractive. It was longer now, but even so, a finger’s worth of hair looped untidily up at the back no matter how he tried to tame it.

“You look just fine, darling,” Voldemort said, coming up behind him. He smirked at Harry’s reflection. “Besides, by the time you emerge from the cloak, I imagine your hair will be in far greater disarray.”

Harry reddened and, leaning back, could feel Voldemort’s soft laughter rumble through his back. An arm circled his waist, making him sigh.

“I have something for you.”

Harry looked up, twisting his neck. From here, he could see the white, sinuous length of his Master’s throat rising up to a sharp jaw. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes.” A rustling, and then something foreign was placed on Harry’s face. “You can look now.”

Harry’s vision was narrowed through slits in a silver mask. He stepped forward, out of his Master’s arms, to inspect it in the mirror. He reached up to finger the snake engravings which trailed around the eyes.

“Do you like it?” his Master asked him.

Harry tilted his head, considering. In truth, he wasn’t sure. “Are you going to send me out on raids now, Mas—” With the mask on, the familiar title didn’t traipse so easily off his tongue. “My Lord?”

He watched a crease form on Voldemort’s forehead. “Of course not, and not only because there have been no raids as of late.” He brushed away the few strands of Harry’s hair that were stuck to the front of the mask. “And you must not think you are but a common Death Eater, Harry. This is but to help you blend in better tonight.”

Harry didn’t think there was much chance of that, mask or no.

Responding to these thoughts, Voldemort said, “Even so, a mask changes one’s perspective in ways you haven’t thought to imagine. The facelessness it provides allows for a greater freedom of mind and of action. The party will be easier with it on.”

Harry frowned as he considered this. “Then why wasn’t I given a mask at the party after my Chamber of Secrets mission?”

His Master spun him around and looked down at him, intensely. “Because anonymity wasn’t something I was ready to give you then. I needed Harry Potter at that celebration.”

This close, the mask prevented Harry from seeing much of Voldemort. All he could make out clearly was his pearly white face, his blood-red eyes. “Do I have to wear it?” he asked as he removed it. “I feel as if I’m wearing blinders.”

“For tonight, yes. You will know when to put it on, and you will be glad for it then.”

“I can’t just walk around under the cloak?” It was a joke, but Harry at once knew it was a poor one. The Invisibility Cloak wasn’t his anymore. He was lucky to be allowed under it at all.

The Dark Lord wasn’t angry. On the contrary, he lowered his mouth to Harry’s and kissed him softly. “You don’t have to attend at all, if you don’t wish to. Or if you would prefer, we could forget our arrangement. You could simply enjoy the appetisers Narcissa has arranged.”

“But what about you?”

“I will be fine. Do you think me so insatiable that I must be so served every moment?”

“It’s just…just…” How could Harry voice his worry that someone would offer themselves up in his place? He’d hated knowing that Bellatrix had pleasured him so the last time, and that was before he’d been intimate with his Master. He couldn’t bear it now. He just couldn’t.

“Ssshhhhh,” Voldemort soothed. “If it will ease your mind, we can get that ring back.” There was no need to explain which ring he meant. Harry tried to pull away but was caught tightly. “Not for you, Harry. For me.”

Harry’s breath caught somewhere. “You’re joking,” he finally managed.

A low laugh. “Not really.”

“But why would you—?”

“I would do anything to put your mind at ease. I realize now how foolish I have been.”

Harry nearly gaped at his Master’s self-accusation.

“Yes, Harry. I was foolish for goading you and Bellatrix. I should have known how she would respond. I won’t risk you again. Not for something so petty as a few moments pleasure. Not for anything.” When Harry couldn’t find the words to respond to Voldemort’s self-recrimination, his Master went on, asking, “So should I get it? The ring?”

Briefly, Harry thought to say yes, only so he could watch the silver ring slide down his Master’s cock to nestle just above his smooth balls. “No ring,” Harry finally decided. He walked over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out the Scotch. He poured two tumblers, downed one, and—

And he saw the small bottle of longevity potion beckoning to him from out the darkness.

He closed the cabinet. Later, he thought. He’d think on it later.

***

An unfamiliar Death Eater stood at the open doors leading into the Malfoy ballroom. His gaze was fixed upon the parchment in his hand, and he didn’t look up as Voldemort and Harry strode up beside him. “Name?” he asked them imperiously, the quill in his hand poised to strike another name off the guest list.

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed in wicked anticipation. “Lord Voldemort,” he said, his voice a menacing hiss.

The poor man started violently and his face paled. His eyes shifted to stare down at the Dark Lord’s bare, white feet, and he rasped out, “My Lord. And who may I say is in attendance with you?” He dared look up then. “Oh, I see. Of course. Ah, please enjoy the party,” he finished, weakly.

Harry held onto Voldemort’s arm as they entered the ballroom. Nagini was slung over both their shoulders, her tail wrapped around Harry’s upper arm and her great head resting on the Dark Lord’s left shoulder. Harry felt like they were one entity as they emerged into the music and light. Everyone paused their own activity to look towards them. Harry desperately wanted to tug the fringe over his scar—or better yet, shove his new mask on to completely hide his face. He was startled from his internal battle when a deep baritone rang out, clear and true, “Please welcome the Dark Lord and his consort.”

Harry nearly collapsed from shock at hearing himself announced as such. All the blood in his body had rushed to his feet, or so it seemed. They felt like lead. Or perhaps the Featherweight charm applied to Nagini had failed. At the same time, he was sure all the oxygen in his lungs had bled out like a balloon with a puncture. He was sure the remainder of his breath would squeal out of him if he so much as moved.

But it didn’t, and he did. His Master pressed a directing hand to the small of his back. Harry nearly stumbled forward as he was towed into the room. He no longer noticed the onlookers. He didn’t notice his steps. All he was capable of taking in was his own headiness and lingering astonishment. When his feet bumped into the small stair leading up to the dais on which Voldemort’s throne stood, he stepped up automatically. He was shuffled along to sit on the armrest. He was still so bewildered that he hadn’t even thought to go into a kneel.

He sat on the armrest, with one of his Master’s hands resting just above his knee, as though Harry were but an extension of his throne. No, that wasn’t fair. He was smoothing circles on Harry’s trousers. When Harry finally noticed, Voldemort hissed, “Are you all right?” Harry nodded dully. Then he noticed where he was perched. When he moved to slide off and take a more respectful position, the hand on his thigh tightened. “Stay.”

Harry swallowed. Then he felt foolish. He wasn’t Voldemort’s consort. How stupid of him to assume that. The Death Eater must have meant Nagini. Yes, that made sense.

(No, it didn’t, a voice screamed in his head. Why the fuck would he mean a snake?)

Voldemort’s grip lessened. “I know you don’t enjoy being singled out. At least your name wasn’t called out.”

“Everyone was watching anyway,” Harry grumbled.

“Let them,” Voldemort said. Harry was surprised by the latent ferocity in the man’s tone. “Let them watch. They all know you share my bed. Make them realize you are more than a passing fancy.”

“A nameless fancy is better?” Harry didn’t know why he was arguing that point. His Master was right; he hadn’t wanted to be announced by name.

“There is no pleasing you,” Voldemort said, tiredly. “I thought this was an elegant solution to prove to my men that you are above them. To show them how I value you and what you mean to me.”

“They will never know what I mean to you, my Lord,” Harry reminded him.

At that, Voldemort went silent, brooding beside both his Horcruxes.

Guests were continuously introduced, mostly in pairs. One partner invariable wore robes much like Harry’s, but often the person—usually a woman—on the arm of the Death Eater wore more colourful clothes. Harry recognized no one. His eyes wandered over the guests already mingling about. There had to be a Malfoy in this crowd. It wasn’t called Malfoy Manor for nothing.

By the time the Death Eater herald called out, “Severus Snape, Potions Master to the Dark Lord,” Harry was growing restless. There had been a steady stream of people venturing over to stand before the dais to offer Lord Voldemort the respect he was due. It was exhausting, especially as every single person—Death Eater or no—spent at least half their allotted time staring brazenly at Harry. He was used to it, sure, but it was still uncomfortable. Especially now, when he didn’t need to be a Legilimens to know what went through each of their minds.

Wasn’t ‘consort’ just a fancy name for the official whore?

Harry had never heard such a strangled sound emerge from Voldemort’s throat. The man gestured to a passing waiter to pass over a glass of wine. He took a sip, then handed it to Harry. “That is not what ‘consort’ means,” he forced out.

Harry almost spilled the wine. He righted it, then took a sip. “But isn’t that what I am?”

Voldemort didn’t answer. He couldn’t deny that, not two months ago, Harry’s primary task had been creeping through to his bedroom in the early morning to pleasure him awake. Not even a whore. An alarm clock.

But ever since Ginny had smashed her way through his window, things had changed. His Master had been less demanding, for one thing. He never forced Harry to do anything. Not that he’d forced him to… that had been Harry’s choice. But the hell he would have said no. Not when Bellatrix was next in line for the assignment.

“That was a lie,” Voldemort admitted, so low that the current Death Eater bowing low before them couldn’t hear.

“Master?”

“I never intended to allow Bellatrix free access to my chambers. That was a privilege intended for only you. I manipulated you into taking on the task.”

Harry took another sip of the wine. It took him a moment, but then he said, “I would have done it regardless.”

Voldemort inclined his head to whichever minion was dropping to his knees. “I know. I knew that then, in fact. These manoeuvres are so ingrained in my mind, it is difficult to stop.”

Harry wondered what new plots the Dark Lord had up his silken black sleeves tonight.

“None outside pulling you up to your correct standing.”

“As your consort,” Harry stated. He still wasn’t convinced it didn’t mean that other thing.

A tired sigh. “You’re thinking of ‘courtesan.’”

Harry thought about it. Maybe his Master was right. “So, what does consort mean?”

But Voldemort didn’t answer. Instead, he murmured, “Perhaps it was too soon.”

“My life moves along in fits. Long stretches of boredom, quick strings of life-changing mayhem.” Harry was going to say more, but at that moment the herald cried out, “Draco Malfoy and Luna Lovegood.”

Luna, thank Merlin, had forgone fancy dress. Or rather, she was wearing a very fancy dress, but it was in line with what every other woman wore. Draco wore the expected black robes. He led Luna into the ballroom, a white mask clutched in the hand not clasped in hers. They made their way straight towards the dais. The queue shifted to let them through, no one daring to make the host’s heir wait his turn.

Draco bowed to the Dark Lord. “My Lord.” Then he looked up at Harry, his eyes widening when he took in where his friend was sitting.

“My name’s Harry,” Harry offered when Draco failed to address him. He shifted back in his provisional seat. His arse was getting sore from the narrow armrest. Perhaps now that Draco was here, he could—

Voldemort wrapped his arm around Harry and drew him closer. “Good evening, Draco. Are you going to introduce your lovely friend?”

Draco still seemed too flustered to answer. Luna gave a quick curtsey and a smile. “Luna Lovegood, my Lord,” she said in his stead.

Harry watched as his Master nodded to the blonde girl. “You two look rather well-matched. I trust your stay in the manor is less arduous this time.”

Luna ignored the Dark Lord’s dry tone and, proving a Ravenclaw could be every bit as brave as a Gryffindor, said, “Now that my father has been released from Azkaban, I was hoping to start up The Quibbler again. Would you approve this project?”

From the look on Draco’s face, Luna hadn’t informed him that she’d be bringing this question up. He looked torn between backing away from her, as if denying any involvement, and flinging himself in front of his date to shield her from being cursed.

It wasn’t necessary. Harry felt a blossom of amusement wash through their connection, a genuine humour untouched by malice. “I had been told that it was that very publication that accounted for your former stay here.”

Luna smiled. “With the war over, I was hoping to direct articles towards less controversial topics.”

Voldemort leaned forward in his throne. “I was unaware that your father’s magazine ever published something that was not controversial. And if I remember correctly, Xenophilius Lovegood has always rejected censorship.”

“A trial. That is all I ask. You will see that censorship will be unnecessary, not with the direction I plan on taking the magazine.”

Harry looked to his Master. He wanted this for his friend. He bit his lip and waited for the verdict.

“Very well, Miss Lovegood. A trial. Do not disappoint me.”

She beamed, then curtsied again and left with Draco, who looked greatly relieved.

“Is something wrong, darling?”

“Not really,” Harry said. “Thanks for that.” He leaned against the back of the throne. Seated here, his head rose above Voldemort’s. He had to force himself to keep from brushing his fingers across the smoothness of his Master’s head. He’d done it several times before, always after they’d been coming down from the high of coupling and he’d been filled with an unnamed tenderness. It was hardly appropriate now.

But then again, he was Voldemort’s consort. Surely there were allowances for such things.

Voldemort caught his hand in a firm grip as it inched through the air. “I believe it will be me holding your head soon.” His meaning was quite clear.

Harry wove their fingers together. “I was unaware that there’d be so many people.” In particular, he was not ready for Luna to watch him engaged in such a thing. Surely her uncanny eyes would see right through the Invisibility Cloak.

“If I have been correctly informed, Miss Lovegood will need to be acquainted soon with what it means to be a Death Eater’s wife. She might as well get a taste for it tonight.”

Harry thought about that for a moment. “Does she have any idea what she’s in for?” he asked.

“I would hope that someone informed her. And if she finds it too much, she hasn’t far to travel home.”

Harry closed his eyes and tried to relax as much as he could on the throne’s armrest. The line of wizards and witches making their way forward to pay their respects to Voldemort seemed endless. After a while, Harry felt a tingling sensation against his arse and upper thighs. For one anxiety-filled moment, he’d thought Voldemort had cast some sort of preparatory spell, and that the celebrations were about to be ramped up considerably. Then he realized it was a mere cushioning charm. He tightened the hold on Voldemort’s hand in silent thanks.

After what seemed hours, the lighting dimmed. The music got louder, and the tone of the gathering changed. Masks were donned and robes cast aside. A heat passed through Harry, thrumming through his hand and scar and groin. He bit his lip to keep himself still. It wasn’t time. Not yet. His Master would pass him the cloak when he wanted him. But soon—very soon.

In the meantime, Harry watched. He’d averted his eyes last time, not wanting to see anything. The idea of such blatant sexuality had frightened and disgusted him. Now he saw it with new eyes. He watched as two witches pressed themselves together, their hands twined in desperation. He tilted his head, taking in not just their desire, but also their affection for each other.

For every loving couple, there was an impassioned, nearly violent demonstration of pure lust. Woman and men were thrown hard against walls and taken with little preparation; skirts were lifted, bodices pulled down, naked figures pushed to their knees to service enflamed flesh.

It took everything in Harry to not look away when he recognized one particular hesitant participant. Snape lingered on the outskirts of the orgy, his stained fingers hovering over the top button of his robe. He was looking over the activities with obvious trepidation, his gaze lingering on the besotted lesbian couple for a moment. He looked miserable, and not only mourning the loss of a score of powerful potions that relied on his virgin ejaculate. Harry wondered if Snape simply didn’t care for such things. He’d never given his teachers’ sexuality much thought. And Snape, with his greasy hair and large nose and foul temper was…okay, maybe not the least desirable of all his former professors. That voice of his was made for the bedroom. If you closed your eyes...

But that wasn’t it, was it? It was more. Snape wasn’t sexless.

He was in mourning.

Suddenly, forcing the dour man to perform for what was essentially their amusement felt very wrong. A weight pressed on Harry’s heart. He leaned against Voldemort’s shoulder and bent down to whisper in his ear, “Stop him.”

Voldemort didn’t question him. He pulled Harry’s wrist up and prodded his finger into his Mark. As Harry felt tingles of his Master’s magic flood through him, he kept watch. Snape looked confusedly down at his own left arm. He scratched it, as though it itched. Then he went back to sullenly watching the proceedings.

Voldemort huffed. He prodded Harry’s Mark again. This time, a burn pulsed through his arm. He tried to pull away, but within moments the Dark Lord was hushing him and smoothing ice-cold fingers across the tormented skin, willing the hurt away.

This time, Snape took the summons for what they were. He clutched his forearm and looked apprehensively towards the throne. With a last glare at the writhing bodies, he twirled towards the dais and stormed towards them.

When he made it there, Harry could see that the man’s usually sallow complexion was flushed, his cheeks pink as embarrassment and anger warred for dominance. “My Lord,” Snape ground out. He kept his eyes on Harry as he offered a small incline of his head.

“I have changed my mind, Severus.” Voldemort wasted no time. “You are not required to join in. I can tell how it displeases you.”

Harry had expected Snape’s angry expression to vanish, for his glare to soften with relief. Indeed, his lips did untwist, but only into a confusing resignation.

“Is there something wrong?” Harry asked from high on his perch.

For the past few weeks, Snape had been at least tolerable whenever he and Harry had crossed paths. Now he gave Harry the same scathing looks he once had in class. Harry shrank down but forced himself to maintain eye contact.

“Harry thought you’d be pleased to be released from your task,” Voldemort explained. He snaked a hand behind Harry’s back to coax him to sit straight once more. “You may return to your laboratory if it so pleases you. You are under no obligation to remain.”

Snape’s withering glare was gone completely now, but his flush was more pronounced than before. Harry had to strain to hear the man mutter, “I might as well stay.”

“But your potions that require—” Harry blurted out, though he didn’t finish as Snape’s black eyes practically pinned his lips shut.

Snape ran his hand through the curtain of his hair. “Those potions are lost to me already. I hadn’t wanted my first to be with so many watching. So, I…” He trailed off, looking away.

Voldemort laughed. “So, you paid for a fuck instead?” he guessed. “Don’t look so ashamed, Severus. You aren’t the first wizard to lose his virginity that way. In my day, it was fairly standard.”

Snape didn’t deny it.

“Though you needn’t have wasted your Galleons. I believe we still have a Blood Traitor in the dungeon who would have been up to the task.”

Snape gritted his teeth. “I had to wander for an hour through Knockturn Alley before I could find a prostitute who I hadn’t taught or wasn’t young enough to be my daughter. And five Sickles. That was all it cost. That’s what she’d been reduced to.”

Voldemort grinned in delight at Snape’s anger. “And this Mudblood whore of yours, did you get her name?”

“No.” Snape crossed his arm. “I didn’t care to learn it.”

Voldemort reached into a pocket and drew out a velvet pouch. Long fingers dipped inside and drew out a gold coin. “For next time,” he said, tossing it to his Potions Master. “Tell her your Master offers the tip as thanks at loosening up his favourite follower.”

Snape clenched the coin in a death grip. “Am I dismissed?” At Voldemort’s amused nod, the Potions Master turned on his heel and walked straight through the orgy and out the main doors. He slammed into one screwing couple, sending the bottom giggling to the floor. The top, wrenched from his pleasure, sent an evil looking curse at Snape’s back. Without looking, Snape flicked his wand and sent the spell back at the idiot.

Harry watched him go. Then he turned to Voldemort and pouted. “I thought I was your favourite follower.”

“Followers don’t sit next to me on my throne, darling,” Voldemort said to him.

Harry rubbed at his Mark. “I’m your consort,” he tried. As he had a thousand times, he examined the coiling serpent inked on his skin. It reminded him of how he wrapped his legs around his Master’s narrow waist as he was thrust into, nearly nightly now. “I should Mark you too,” he ventured.

Voldemort looked startled. Not angry, Harry noted. He took his Master’s wrist in his hand. He trailed his fingers against the delicate white flesh of Voldemort’s forearm. “Right here. I should Mark you here.”

By his breathing, Voldemort seemed more aroused by the idea than anything else, though still uncertain. “With what?”

Harry thought about all the symbols that represented him. A lightning bolt came immediately to mind, but then that had never been his own, had it? That was proof of how he belonged to Voldemort, not the other way round. A lion?

Voldemort made a sound at the back of the throat that approximated a gag. “Merlin forbid.”

Harry laughed. “I don’t know. I guess it was a silly idea. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“I haven’t said no,” Voldemort said. He sat thoughtful for a moment. It looked as though he were watching the proceedings, but Harry knew he was thinking. After about five minutes, Voldemort murmured, “A snitch.”

Harry smiled. “Because you caught me?”

“I think you caught me just as much. Perhaps more.”

Harry didn’t know what to make of that. He settled back and watched the party instead of coming up with a response. Draco was pouring more punch for Luna. Seeing her brought the image of lion and snitch together as Harry recalled the wonderful lion’s head costume that she’d worn to cheer on the Gryffindor team one match. Without thinking, Harry murmured, “I miss Quidditch.”

Voldemort’s fingers, which had been tracing the lines of Harry’s palm, froze.

Harry looked up into startled red eyes. “I…I didn’t mean…I know I can’t.” It wasn’t safe. Harry knew that. Voldemort had made sure that Harry knew that.

“If it’s flying you miss, Harry, I can take you out. I have enough Flight Potion stocked at the moment.”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” Harry said, resignedly.

“You’ve never tried it.”

That was true, Harry supposed. “I guess…”

The Dark Lord nodded. “Tonight, then,” he decided.

“Isn’t there supposed to be some ritual tonight for Samhain?” Harry asked.

“I don’t celebrate it. Even as Master of Death, the veil between the living and the dead is not something I wish to approach.”

“What do you mean?” They were nowhere near the Department of Mysteries and that godawful veil that had robbed Harry of his godfather.

Voldemort looked over at Harry. There was nothing but confusion to read in Harry’s surface thoughts. Harry felt a pressing as his deeper memories were gently plundered. Harry closed his eyes as exhaustion washed over him. When he opened them, a strong arm was curled about his waist, stopping him from toppling to the ground.

“No one told you,” Voldemort said, incredulously. “Have you never communed with your parents at Samhain? It’s Wizarding tradition to do so with our fallen ancestors this night.”

Harry shook his head and felt a bit guilty that he’d never bothered to learn this was possible. And he was pretty sure, after all he’d done, that his mother and father would steer clear of him from now on. The opportunity was gone before he’d known it existed. “Let’s go flying,” he said with more certainty.

Voldemort brushed a curl from Harry’s forehead. Harry grabbed his fingers and brought them to his lips. Never taking his eyes from his Master’s, he kissed the fingers again, then again.

“Enough,” Voldemort said, leaning in and capturing Harry’s mouth with his own.

When they parted, Harry was left panting and wondering where that bloody Invisibility Cloak was. Surely it was time to sneak under it. Before he could suggest it, a figure had approached the bottom of the dais and was bowing. No, two figures. Harry could see them kneeling, waiting for the Dark Lord to acknowledge them. Harry wished they’d bugger off. He glared over at—

Luna stood up once she saw that the two men sitting upon the throne had noticed her. Draco scurried to his feet beside her.

Voldemort removed his hand from the nape of Harry’s neck. “May I help you, Ms Lovegood?”

Luna smiled disarmingly. “I thought Harry might be thirsty. Might we borrow him?”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes dangerously. Harry wondered just what his Master had made of Luna’s innocent question. A quick look at his Horcrux consort and Voldemort sighed. “Bring him back undamaged.” He pressed a hand to Harry’s lower back, pushing him to his feet.

“Of course,” Luna agreed.

Harry gaped back at the Dark Lord. But the Cloak, he thought as loud as he could.

In answer, Voldemort brought something out from his pocket that had Harry blanching, then blushing, in quick succession. The Dark Lord held the silver ring up to the light, twisted it suggestively, then discretely hid it somewhere within his robes.

“I trust neither of us will get up to anything,” was Voldemort’s cryptic comment. “Besides, I believe Narcissa would be offended if you didn’t even try her hors d’oeuvres, my dear.”

“The punch is very good, too,” Luna supplied. Then she linked her arm in Harry’s and carted him away.

Harry let himself be pulled along but kept glancing backwards to the Dark Lord. His Master had leaned back in his throne. Nagini had shifted so she was slung half on his lap, and now Voldemort was petting her unceasingly. Harry knew not to be jealous of his sister. She was never jealous of him, always encouraging his affection with their Master. Still, it was hard seeing himself so easily replaced. To console himself, he caressed the snake pendent he’d been given for his birthday. It definitely wasn’t the same.

Draco had been slow to catch up with them. He took Luna by her other arm and managed to untangle her from Harry. “You can’t do that,” he told her, pleadingly.

“Do what?”

“Talk to him that way.”

“I don’t see why not,” Luna said, lightly.

Harry put a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I think she’s safe. She amuses him.”

At that, Draco scowled. “So long as she amuses him from a distance.”

Luna leaned into him. “Now you’re being silly.”

They’d reached the punch table. Draco poured a glass for Harry, then another one for both him and Luna. Harry remembered then that the last time he and Draco had been in a similar situation, they had still been at each other’s throats. “Not going to taste-test my drink for me this time?” he joked. Draco looked confused for a moment, then smirked at the memory.

“It’s quite good,” Luna told him. “I’ve tested it already.”

Harry laughed, then explained the reference to Luna. Then Draco leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re a much prettier date than this louse,” he told her.

“Hey!” Harry exclaimed, laughing.

They’d been joking and nibbling at the appetizers for a while when a familiar boy wandered over. Harry recognized Theodore Nott from his year at Hogwarts. He nodded politely and was surprised by the small bow the other boy gave him before turning to Draco.

“Aren’t you going to get over to the action, Draco?” Nott asked. “I think it’ll be over soon, and you’ve just been hanging out here.”

Draco pulled a face. “A Malfoy does not carouse in such an ill manner.”

A snort. “That’s not what my old man told me.” A glare from Draco shut him up.

“Besides, I’m escorting our Lord’s consort at the moment.”

“So, I see.” At that, Theo gave Harry a more careful look. His expression seemed to suggest that he didn’t understand what made Harry worthy of such a title, though he also looked as though he couldn’t care less. “Did you happen to see Professor Snape about? I saw him watching from the edge of the orgy, but the next time I looked for him, he was gone.”

“I saw him storm out right after he spoke with the Dark Lord,” Draco said to his Slytherin friend. Then everyone looked to Harry. “Do you know what upset him?”

“It’s not my place to say,” Harry said, evasively. He knew Severus Snape was a private man, and he would respect the Potions Master’s privacy. He still felt bad about looking in that damn pensieve in fifth year. All that had given him a poor opinion of his father and a jar of cockroaches thrown at his head.

“I don’t think he wanted to have sexual intercourse with the other party goers,” Luna said.

The boys looked again to Harry, who only shrugged.

“But Snape never—” Draco spluttered, while Theo murmured, “Damn it, we missed out on that?”

“Missed out on what?” Lucius asked as walked over to them. Narcissa was only just behind. She smiled at the youths gathered around the table.

“Hello Mrs Malfoy. Mr Malfoy,” Luna said with a smile.

The smile Narcissa returned was bright and friendly. “Luna, my dear. I’ve told you before to call me Narcissa. How have you young people been making out? You aren’t bored?”

“Not at all, Mother,” Draco answered in the poncy voice he saved up for just these sorts of occasions. Harry was pleased to see Theo roll his eyes right along with him.

“We were just discussing what made Professor Snape leave in such a huff,” Theo put in. “Harry won’t say.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed at the younger Nott. “It isn’t the role of the Dark Lord’s consort to be your ears, Theodore.”

At that, Harry banged his punch cup down with a bang. “Enough with this consort business. What does that even mean?” he burst out, angrily. “The first thing I knew about it was when I was announced tonight and none of you were even here then. What gives?”

His question was met by silence. He turned to Luna. She would tell him—if she knew, that was. She had no problem revealing the truth about things, even if her version of the truth wasn’t quite on par with societal norms.

“It was frontpage of the Daily Prophet,” she said. “Didn’t you see?”

The Prophet? “No, I did not see. No one thought to tell me?”

“We thought you already knew,” Narcissa told him. She turned to her husband. Harry heard her murmur to him, “That must have been quite the shock.

She had no idea. “But what does it mean?”

Again, Luna was his only source of information. “Usually it’s a matrimonial title. Was that ring that You Know Who held earlier a wedding ring?”

“We’re not…” Harry’s vision was swimming, and not from the alcohol he’d been drinking. “We didn’t have a ceremony. I’m not…”

Lucius was all action. “Sweet Circe, Draco. Keep him upright. Don’t let the Dark Lord see him like this.”

“I’m all right,” Harry mumbled. He backed away from Draco and leaned against the buffet table, accidently putting one of his hands in a cream tart. He absently wiped his palm on the front of his robes, trying to clear his mind. Fuck, if he’d needed to Occlude right now, he was sure he’d manage it. His mind was a complete blank. He reached for his glass the moment he thought he could grasp it without dropping it.

It was whisked away. “Maybe later,” Narcissa told him as she cast a quick cleaning charm on his clothes.

Harry let the conversation move on around him as he got his bearings. Narcissa fussed over him for a while. When he got annoyed with her, she turned her maternal attention to Luna. “This entire gathering this evening must be rather unsettling to you, Luna. I know I found my first meeting disquieting, and both my parents were zealots. I knew what to expect.”

“Draco gave me a run through of what might happen this evening, Mrs…I mean, Narcissa, though I can’t say I’m ready to involve myself in some of the activities yet.”

A commiserating hum. “And no one expects you to, my dear. I have never participated. You must know, though, that tonight’s celebrations are far from over. There will likely be a sacrifice. In past years…”

Harry had calmed down enough now to realize that everyone but Luna was shifting about awkwardly after Narcissa had broken off her description of the Halloween sacrifices from years prior. No one made eye contact with him when he asked, “What sacrifices?”

Lucius cleared his throat, which was never a good sign, but then even he declined to explain. Harry rolled his eyes and reached for his abandoned punch. He was feeling better now that he’d had a moment to breathe. “Severus certainly was quick to leave, and just when I thought he’d finally decided to loosen up,” Lucius ended up saying.

“We had just been talking about Professor Snape when you walked over, Mr Malfoy,” Theo said, picking up on Lucius’s hint to change the subject. “He seemed upset about something, and we were trying to work out why.”

Narcissa looked knowingly at her husband. “From what I understood, the Dark Lord had ordered him to break his mourning.”

At these words, all the young people perked up.

“About time,” commented Lucius. “It’s absurd, how he’s carried on all these years. He’s still young enough to find a respectable partner and settle down. Being head of Slytherin was no substitute for a family.”

“No offence, Mr Malfoy, but I can’t imagine Snape finding anyone suitable to marry there.” Theo gestured towards the orgy.

“How long has he been lonely?” asked Luna, her face full of sympathy. Harry remembered the mural she had painted of him and his friends.

“For years. Since the end of the first Wizarding War,” Narcissa told her.

“To the day,” Lucius added.

Narcissa then said something very brave. It made Harry’s heart nearly wrench from his chest. “Poor Lily. She may not have been from a good family—" she levelled a stern glare at the Slytherin boys who were hanging off her every word—“but I admired her, just the same. I can see what Severus saw in her. And she was a true mother to the very end. To shield her son from so terrible a danger…I can only imagine what she went through. As soon as I learned of our Lord’s attack, I crept into Draco’s room and kept vigil the whole night. I am pleased that our Lord has seen fit to keep their statue in Godric’s Hollow.”

“So that’s why the professor is single?” Draco asked, incredulously. “He’s been mooning over some Mudblood all these years?” His mouth curled disdainfully.

“Draco!” Narcissa admonished.

“Is that why he always wears black?” Luna asked. At Narcissa’s nod, she said, “That’s so sweet.”

“More like creepy,” Harry mumbled. No matter that he was on better terms with Snape lately, he still hated the idea of the man pining away for his mum, even if that obsession had saved Harry’s life on more than one occasion.

But if Harry was being honest with himself, he was jealous. He was jealous of Snape’s friendship with her. And he was jealous that if Lily Potter Evans had to choose between the two of them in the hereafter, that she would likely choose her former friend who had spent his entire life trying to repent a youth’s folly over her son, who had fallen harder and further than Snape ever had.

Harry thought about the longevity potion waiting for him in his rooms. He should take it tonight. He couldn’t afford to die, not from something so pathetic as old age—no matter that such a fate was still a century away. Time would sneak up more stealthily than a Basilisk through Hogwarts’s plumbing and cast her deadly gaze on him. And then he would have nothing but loneliness waiting for him. His Master would live on. And everyone would turn from him in death—his parents, Sirius, Remus. His professors. His friends. No one would welcome him. He knew it.

He deserved it.

“Don’t you think so, Harry?” Luna was saying to him.

He stared at her. He had no idea what she’d just said. When he didn’t respond, she smiled softly at him and said, “Of course, I understand why she couldn’t come, but I think she would have enjoyed the experience.”

“Who?”

Luna giggled. “Hermione, of course. Watching old Magical rights resurfacing isn’t something that happens everyday. I would think Hermione, of all people, would find it fascinating.”

Harry smiled and nodded. He still had no idea what Luna was talking about, but at this point it seemed easier to simply agree with her. “You’re right, Luna. She would have liked that.”

Theo scoffed. “Your Mudblood friend?”

“Ex-friend,” Harry told him, coldly.

“Yeah. Granger. Fuck, Draco, can you imagine her taking part in the orgy?”

“Don’t talk like that in front of a lady, Nott,” Draco sneered. He rubbed a protective hand over Luna’s shoulder. “Excuse my uncouth friend. He can’t help his lack of refinement, you understand.”

Theo caught Harry’s eye. They smirked at each other. Did Draco not realize just how foul his own mouth became on occasion? They both knew better than to tear down their friend when he was playing up in front of his girl, though.

“Yes, please forgive me,” Theo said, sweeping into a half-bow. “I wasn’t thinking, my Lady.”

As Luna swatted Theo’s arm lightheartedly, Harry fingered the smooth surface of his mask. It would be time to put it on soon. Already the orgy was toning down. There was more cuddling than rutting at this point. There was a strange scent in the air. Incense? He hadn’t smelled it earlier.

The lights were dimming. Torches were being lit around the room’s periphery. The music was—well, it could hardly be called music, not anymore. There was no rhythm to it. It was more a noise like wind rushing through deep caves, like thin metal bending in waves in the wind. There was an underlying sound of something breaking. Not a crash, not a snap. But a sound of loss, if loss could have a sound.

“It’s starting,” Lucius murmured. With that, he turned to Luna. “Miss Lovegood, you will remember that Narcissa and I warned you of this. You need not stay. It would be best, perhaps, if you left. Draco or I can escort you to your rooms.”

“If it’s all the same, Mr Malfoy, I’d like to stay.” She had a peculiar look in her eye, intense and knowing.

Lucius nodded his head, eyeing her with a respect that Harry had not often seen on the haughty man. “If you change your mind, find me at once. I will remain nearby.”

What was coming that warranted such an offer?

Chapter Text

More and more people were slipping on their masks. Even the non-Death Eater guests donned some sort of face covering, though nothing so elaborate as Harry’s ornate one. Harry pushed down his uneasiness and fixed it in place, then looked back over to Draco and Luna, to Mr and Mrs Malfoy, to Theo. They were gone; faceless strangers stood in their place. It looked as though the tall one—Lucius—was saying something, but Harry missed it. Regardless, Harry let himself be drawn along with them towards the centre of the ballroom. A circle had been cleared there, and now everyone was waiting for the next event of the night to begin.

The sacrifice.

Harry looked over to where the Dark Lord surveyed over them all from his throne. Did he know which of these Death Eaters was Harry? Even as Harry wondered this, his Master looked right at him. From far away, he hissed something. Harry couldn’t make out the words, but he knew it was a hiss, not English. The feel of it threaded through to him, a brush of warm air along the nape of his neck, a quiet buzz tingling through the soles of his feet. Harry had no idea what Voldemort had said, but it didn’t matter. He had been seen. Had been known. Had been watched.

And they continued to watch only each other even as the ballroom doors were flung wide open and a stretcher was levitated in. Harry heard a hard scream. It was suffused with pain. He thought he might have heard laughs, too. A tearing noise and a bellow of agony. Varied shrieks of horror and delight. A weak wail that didn’t sound like it could have come from a person at all, but a dying dog, perhaps.

No, a baby. It was a baby’s cry.

A hand jostled Harry’s shoulder and someone yelled in his ear, but it meant nothing. Did a shudder make a noise? It must have, for Harry heard one close by, or he would have if he could pay attention to so pointless a thing.

And this was all pointless, every bit of it. Only one thing—one person, rather—warranted Harry’s attention. Harry slipped away, retreating backwards through the curtain of people. He was nameless. He was a dark robe with a silver mask. The only one who knew who he was sat waiting for him upon his throne.

Harry climbed the dais. He stepped lightly and took his place again beside the Dark Lord, loosening Nagini’s thick coils and draping them over his own shoulder.

He took his mask off, and the scene stretched out before him flooded with meaning. Umbridge was dead on the ground, her belly torn open. A baby whimpered on the stone floor beside her. Excepting its size, it didn’t look monstrous. Its eyes were shut tight, and it was already suckling a large fist in its mouth.

Pity hit Harry hard. As big as it was, the poor baby was but newborn. Its mother lay dead beside it, and surely it would follow her soon enough. The only surprise was that it hadn’t been stillborn.

Someone broke the line of Death Eaters and moved into the circle. Harry didn’t know who it was, but they were holding something pink in their hands. Harry recognized the hat that Umbridge had knitted her ill-conceived offspring. An Engorgio made it the right size, and then it was fitted on the baby’s head. A severing charm separated mother from infant, and then more magic dispelled the mess of the violent Cesarean.

Harry had been unprepared to face the reality of a living baby. The thing must have been premature, regardless of its unnatural size, but still it wailed lustily and kicked its strong legs. No one seemed to know what to do. Questioning eyes were beginning to turn to the throne. Voldemort was oddly silent. He offered no direction, no orders. Harry had expected a green curse to end the squalling creature, at the very least.

Finally, Harry stood up. Everyone watched as he stepped forward, dislodging Nagini’s coils. He seemed to come to the decision as he spoke, for he’d certainly not had a plan when he’d moved off the throne’s armrest. He didn’t even know why he felt the infant’s fate was his responsibility. He just knew it was.

“Its sex?” he called out.

The robed figure who’d placed the hat on the baby’s head called back, “A boy. What shall become of it, my…my Lord Consort?”

Harry looked to his Master. A nearly indiscernible shrug was all the direction from that quarter. It was Harry’s call. “He shall be raised by one of you,” was his verdict. “Does anyone request the charge?”

A muttering started up through the crowd. Amongst these blood supremacists, no one would likely volunteer for the task. Harry was starting to wonder if they would have to fall back on a quick Avada, after all.

He was proved wrong when another black-clad figure entered the circle. “I will raise the child, my Lord Consort.” Fenrir Greyback pulled off his mask.

A thrill ran through Harry’s blood at this second use of his new title. “I trust you will not let your pack kill him,” he warned, letting iron steal into his voice. Secretly, he was pleased. This had worked out far better than he’d expected.

The werewolf grinned and held a clawed hand to his chest. “With the word of the moon, my pack, and my own honour, I declare I will guard him against your enemies and mine.”

“Good,” Harry told him, nodding his approval. “Name him well.” He wondered if a half-giant could be infected with lycanthropy. Such a child would become a force of nature.

Fenrir removed his outer cloak and wrapped the baby in it. He hoisted the infant in his arms and gave one last bow to the throne. “With your leave, my Lord. My Lord Consort.” At Harry’s nod, he swept from the room.

Another Death Eater carefully levitated a large pensieve into the circle, setting it up beside Umbridge’s rent body. Apparently, more than one copy of Umbridge’s ‘impregnation’ had been made. Few had seen her defilement yet, and soon there was a long line waiting for the chance to watch the sordid show. Harry had no desire to view that again, so he backed up again beside the Dark Lord to observe the line of voyeurs. Most of them exited the false memory only to jack off onto the fallen witch’s face.

A hand on Harry’s thigh had him looking back over to Voldemort. “Master?”

“You never got to wear the cloak, Harry. Do you wish to, now?”

Harry knelt in answer, then looked up expectantly. A fierce gaze caught his own, which faded as the haze of shifting material separated them. Harry lifted the edge of the cloak up enough to move his Master’s robes apart and fish out the man’s hard member--which was currently adorned by the cock-ring Voldemort had held up earlier. Harry eyed it with interest and felt his own cock begin to harden in response. But enough was enough. He slid his mouth up and down Voldemort’s cock, wetting it so the ring could comfortably slide off.

But when had a cock-ring ever obeyed him? It was as stuck on Voldemort as it had been on Harry that terrible day after he’d enjoyed the very pensieve memory which was proving so popular tonight. Nestled against his Master’s groin, Harry murmured, “You might want to take this thing off.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Not yet anyway.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose at that comment. Really? Voldemort wanted to torture himself like that? Well, who was Harry to argue with the Dark Lord?

Hidden under the cloak, Harry lapped all around the ring. He focused all his attention at the base of his Master’s erect penis at first, occasionally licking up the length only to stop an inch shy of the sensitive glans. He moved back down and worked the same teasing torture on the man’s swollen scrotum. Long minutes passed with Harry licking and sucking, purposely skipping over the most delicate of his Master’s flesh. Harry paused whenever his mouth became tired, enjoying every minute of Voldemort’s building (yet consensual) frustration.

When Harry lifted the cloak enough to make proper eye-contact, and then proceeded to merely suck hard on his own fingers, Voldemort growled. Harry smiled up at him. He knew he was far from angering the Dark Lord. All that passed through their bond was want mixed with a strange sensation of holding back.

Harry had not slicked his fingers in vain. He brought the cloak over his head again, and then took the beautiful cockhead straining in front of him into his mouth. Lightly. It wouldn’t be enough. With a finger and thumb—the ones he’d not just sucked on so salaciously—he formed the loosest of circles around Voldemort’s shaft and oh-so-slowly stroked up and down. With his free hand he budged the Dark Lord’s thighs apart. Voldemort was compliant, moving at Harry’s will. Harry had to wonder what this looked like from the floor. What exactly was visible? Shaking the thought aside, Harry pushed Voldemort’s robes even further apart and then wormed his fingers deep into the dark crevice of his thighs and slid tentatively along until they rested on the outer rim of Voldemort’s furled hole.

With not even a twinge of pain in his scar to warn him away, Harry decided to follow his Gryffindor instincts and press forward—literally this time. He hoped his fingers were wet enough to make this pleasurable, but regardless he eased one of them inside. Voldemort’s muscles clenched down at once, and the tightness and the heat was glorious. No wonder his Master loved stuffing his cock up Harry’s arse.

Fuck, Harry was hard as hell now. He was still working his tongue languidly around the Dark Lord’s glans, occasionally tonguing the slit, but he moved the hand stroking Voldemort’s cock down to his own erection and began pleasuring himself instead.

After all, just because his Master couldn’t come didn’t mean Harry had to go without.

Harry withdrew his index finger from Voldemort’s tight hole and nearly laughed at the hiss of displeasure he heard from above. He replaced it at once, of course, this time letting his middle finger join it. It took a while, but soon they were both fully sheathed.

Harry crooked his fingers.

He nearly came then and there as the explosion of Voldemort’s pleasure wracked right through their link and into his own body. Holy hell, did Voldemort get backlashes of this when he was fucking into him? If so, it began to make more sense why the man always aimed so relentlessly at Harry’s own prostate. This was fucking incredible. Harry twisted his fingers, searching for that spot again. His mouth began to suck harder now. His hand on his own cock moved relentlessly.

There! His fingers brushed against his Master’s prostate again. Above him, the Dark Lord made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. Harry withdrew only to press in again, hitting the same spot and eliciting a moan this time. And again. And again.

Harry wondered exactly what privileges he now had, now that he was the Lord’s consort? Perhaps his Master would let him…

Oh Merlin, he really wished that it was his cock thrusting into the Dark Lord right now, instead of his fingers. He tightened the hand working his cock to an almost excruciating degree and imagined it was so. Oh, yes. Oh fuck. So tight. So fucking tight.

Harry had to move his mouth off Voldemort’s cock when he came. His orgasm hit him so violently, almost painfully, that he was certain he would have bitten down otherwise. He tried to catch his spurting come in his fist.

Harry knew just what he’d do. He brought his come filled fingers up against his Master’s hole and shovelled his seed inside. If he couldn’t come inside that tight arse, he’d still manage to mark it. Oh, this was better than smearing his come onto Voldemort’s balls during that blasted transference ritual. That was almost clinical, though decidedly hot. Now he worked to stuff his ejaculate deep inside the Dark Lord. The added lubricant made it easier to press inside. Harry added a third finger. Unlike Voldemort’s long and elegant digits, Harry’s fingers were short, stubby things. They made a perfect plug.

Ah, well, he couldn’t stay like this all night, with his hand shoved half-up the Dark Lord’s arse. With a sigh of disappointment, he withdrew and watched as his hard work all slipped away to pool on the cushioned seat of his Master’s throne. Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the yew wand and cast a cleansing charm on his hand. They weren’t obviously dirty or anything—Voldemort was nothing if not fastidious in his bathing habits—but still, he didn’t think Narcissa would appreciate him selecting cheeses or whatnot from the buffet table as is. Harry began to incant the charm on the cushions, too, then decided against it. They could stay soiled for now.

Beneath the cloak, Harry admired his Master’s still raging hard-on, giving it a little pat before hiding it away within folds of dark silk, then tucked his own softened member inside his own clothing. He gave his hair a quick once-over with his hand, then pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and stood up.

When he turned around, what he saw nearly made his jaw drop. Everyone—all the Death Eaters, all the guests—were looking straight at him. Harry suppressed a yelp before flicking his eyes discretely down to make sure he’d adequately concealed himself. Only after he was satisfied that he was, indeed, decent did he look towards Voldemort. “What did they see?” he hissed. He didn’t like all those eyes on him. Why were they all just staring at him like that?

“Nothing I did not wish them to.”

That didn’t put Harry’s mind at ease whatsoever. He scanned the crowd. Everyone’s faces were mask-free once more. No one seemed disgusted with him. Not Draco or his parents. Not Theo. Not even Luna. Her large eyes mirrored the calmness of the rest of her face. They’d not seen anything. Or rather, they’d not seen anything unexpected.

Harry backed up and took his place upon the armrest once more, trying to look as composed as the Dark Lord beside him. He hoped the evening would be over soon. Their tryst had taken a lot from him, and he wanted nothing more than to go back to their rooms and take a long, hot bath.

“I thought we were going flying?” Long fingers trailed soothingly over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry leaned against his sister’s thick body, careful to not put too much weight on her. “I’m exhausted,” he admitted.

“Another time, then. But we shouldn’t wait too long. Even with warming charms, I would prefer to go before winter sets in.”

Harry eyed the crowd. They still looked expectantly up to the throne.

Voldemort followed his gaze. “I’ll dismiss this lot, then we’ll get you back home and into that bath.”

***

The overlarge tub was already filled when they returned. Harry discarded his clothing haphazardly en route to the bathroom. He chuckled at his Master’s grumblings at the disorder, and at the way his pants were Accioed as soon as he dropped them to the floor.

Sighing contentedly, Harry sank into the water, enjoying how the bubbles tickled around his shoulders. “Come on in,” he teased, poking his toes up through the suds. “I won’t bite.”

“You do, actually.” Voldemort was leaning against the doorframe, still fully dressed.

Harry laughed. “Do I? Well, I promise I won’t bite right now. Come on, Master, I’ll clean you right up,” he wheedled. He held up a bar of soap and proceeded to lather his fingers until they were coated in thick, white foam.

The Dark Lord glared at him, though from the pleasing thrum in his scar, Harry knew the expression was for show. “I think your fingers have been busy enough already,” Voldemort said. Despite his words, he began to disrobe, making a point to carefully fold everything. When he finally lowered himself into the warm bathwater, he closed his eyes and hummed with pleasure.

“Why are you still wearing that thing?” Harry asked, moving closer. He slipped a hand under the water to take hold of Voldemort’s still imprisoned member.

Voldemort eyed him through half-lidded eyes. He clicked his tongue in admonition, though he made no attempt to move away from Harry’s increasingly stimulating touch . “Insatiable. Haven’t you had your fill yet?”

“That’s just it,” Harry responded, grinning. “You haven’t filled me at all.”

“I thought you were exhausted. That’s why we’re here instead of flying over the Atlantic. Or was that just an excuse to get me alone?”

“Take it off.”

Voldemort smirked at him. “You are getting bossy. Practically insubordinate.”

Harry returned the smirk, unconcerned. He was lucky, he realized, to have advance warning to Voldemort’s moods. He wasn’t close to angering the other man. Not at all. In fact, his Master seemed pleased by their banter. So he said, “Didn’t you hear? I’m now the Dark Lord’s consort.” He enunciated each word, enjoying the way the syllables fell off his tongue.

“Are you now? And I suppose you think the title comes with certain privileges?”

In answer, Harry crawled onto his Master’s lap.

“Vixen,” Voldemort hissed before nibbling on Harry’s earlobe.

Harry winced back at the sharp teeth. “Ow! Now who bites?” But he was laughing.

Voldemort kissed the tender flesh, then sat back and looked at Harry, more soberly this time. “About your new status as my consort, Harry. I take it you have come to understand what that means.”

Harry held back from rolling his eyes—barely. How hard was it for his Master to just come out and say what he’d done? He had really left it for party guests to fill Harry in on the specifics? “Not really. Luna said something about—er, well, she must have got it wrong. Something about matrimony…” Harry trailed off, flushing. He waited for Voldemort to correct him. Hopefully he wouldn’t fly into a rage at Luna’s supposition, that he’d realize it was normal for her to say all sorts of absurd things.

Voldemort said nothing.

“And then everything just seemed too much,” Harry continued, rubbing his neck with the flat of his palm. He was starting to feel a little too hot. “I think I might have had a panic attack. I got so dizzy.”

For a long moment, Voldemort kept quiet. After what seemed an eternity, he said, “I had hoped to surprise you. I thought you’d be happy. Clearly, I should have warned you first.”

“It was in The Prophet even. You said I wasn’t to be placed in the public eye again. You were adamant about that.”

“That’s true—” Voldemort began.

“So, what happened?” Harry demanded. He slid off Voldemort’s lap.  “And if you were to make me your consort, shouldn’t you have asked me first? That’s not typically a one-party decision. The bath was absolutely too hot. He stepped out of the tub, wrapped a towel around himself, then sat down on the marble bench and looked down at the Dark Lord.

“I can send in a retraction if you so desire,” Voldemort told Harry, tightly.

Tears pricked Harry’s eyes. He was tempted to tell the man to go ahead and do that if it was what Voldemort wanted. It took a lot for Harry to swallow the rancid pride that had forced its way into his chest for the first time in half a year. “You know that’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

Harry stared down at the floor. His toe skimmed over a puddle of spilled bathwater. Hunching into himself, he muttered, “I want you to tell me what I am to you. I don’t even know anymore. The whole bloody country knows more than I do.”

“Come back into the bath.”

“No.”

It took Harry a moment to take in that that was the first outright order he’d disobeyed. But when he looked up, it was to resigned eyes, rather than angry.

Perhaps he was dreaming all this. That had to be it. He’d wake up in the morning and things would be right back to how they were supposed to be. Not that Harry knew what that was anymore. But back to some semblance of normalcy, at any rate.

“Normal is over-rated. You and I have always been destined to be exceptional.” Voldemort must have decided that it was pointless to wait for Harry to come to him. He rose from the bath and stepped over to sit beside Harry on the bench.

Harry sighed. “I guess.” He reached over to grab another towel, then draped it over his Master’s shoulders. He took a deep breath, then tried again, “What is it you want? Master, please just tell me. I need to know.”

Voldemort caught up Harry’s hand. “I want you to stop calling me that.”

Harry froze. Even his heart stopped beating, he was pretty sure.

“Of course,” Voldemort continued, “it is fitting for you to call me ‘my Lord’ in public. Otherwise…well, Harry, words have power. As a strong Magical, you know this better than most. But not all powerful words are spells. I have learned that the most important words aren’t.”

A squeeze to his hand restarted Harry’s heart. Now he could barely hear his own question as his heart raced to make up for lost time. “What should I call you, then?”

Because they weren’t in public now, were they?

Voldemort was full of silences tonight. Perhaps he, too, wasn’t sure what Harry should call him.

After what seemed an eternity, so long that Harry was shivering and his Master—no, the Dark Lord, no….fuck! And Voldemort was shivering beside him, but neither dared break the moment and actually cast a warming charm.

The candles were sputtering at the end of their tapers. Voldemort said, softly, “I had a dream.” His voice was low. It was almost lost to the shadows forming all around them, but not quite.

“A dream,” Harry echoed.

“A long while ago. You were in it.”

That made sense. Voldemort was in nearly all of Harry’s dreams.

“We were at the beach.”

“Were we swimming?”

“I was collecting shells. You were playing in the surf.”

A candle went out. Half of the Dark Lord’s face was dark; his eyes glowed all the brighter to make up for the lack of light, but they were unfocused, as if seeing something far away.

Harry remembered the dream. It had been soon after Ginny had attacked him, filtered through to him when Voldemort was exhausted after interrogating Snape. He had taken Harry, fully, for the first time right afterwards, clinging onto him as though he were a treasure that would wash away in a storm.

“And I drowned. Is this about the longevity potion? I’ll take it, okay? If that’s what you want.”

Voldemort rubbed at Harry’s fingers. His long nails were a stark contrast against Harry’s ragged, short ones. Harry watched as the Dark Lord traced over his cuticles, smoothing them down. “I do want that, but it’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I’m right here. I didn’t die. You didn’t die—hell, you can’t die, not anymore. Besides, it was right after Ginny, and—”

“You called me Tom.”

Harry’s mouth slammed shut. He thought over the last few minutes of their conversation. Finally, he blurted, “You can’t mean you want me to call you that.”

Voldemort hated that name.

“It is very ordinary,” the Dark Lord agreed. “It reminds me of what I was before.”

“Harry is a very ordinary name,” Harry had to point out. He wasn’t sure, though, what that point was. That a common name was good enough for him? “Does it make me any less…?” He had been about to say ‘extraordinary,’ but realized how arrogant that sounded, no matter what Voldemort had said earlier.

Beside him, Voldemort hissed in amusement. “No, it doesn’t. Not one bit.” And it seemed the tension that had been pooling drained away all at once. The Dark Lord bent down to kiss the top of Harry’s head. Harry moved into the touch, and Voldemort wrapped his arms around him.

Harry still couldn’t believe it, though. “You really want me to call you…?” He couldn’t keep the smirk from his face. “Is that even short for ‘Thomas’ or something?”

“You know it’s not,” Voldemort—no, Tom!—growled in his ear, affectionately.

Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Oh, dear Lord.” He laughed harder at the accidental title, sinking into the embrace. “You know what that makes us, don’t you?”

A long-suffering sigh. “Go ahead. Make the joke.”

It was a bit of a drag when the punch line was sifted right from Harry’s mind. Still, Harry had to say it: “It means that, between us, we’re Tom, two dicks, and Harry.”

Voldemort rubbed at his forehead. “I take it back,” he said. “Master is just fine.”

“Tom. Tom. Tom.” It sounded like the beating of a drum. No, his heart. It sounded like their hearts beating as one.

“Now you’re becoming maudlin.”

Harry chuckled. “Hey, I have an idea, Tom. Let’s go flying after all. We’re cold enough, the night air might just warm us up!”

Chapter Text

Harry refused to take the flight potion when Voldemort (Tom!) offered it. Instead, he sauntered cheekily to the broom shed and took great delight in selecting the best of the Malfoy brooms. “Like riding a bicycle,” he called down from twenty feet in the air as he soared circles above the Dark Lord’s head. “Are you coming up here, or what?”

Voldemort downed a dose of Flight potion and, as agile as Harry, soared up to meet him. “I would prefer it if you drank the potion, even if you feel the need to ride that suicide-stick. That way if you fall—”

“I won’t fall,” Harry proclaimed, laughing at the irritation lining Tom’s face at being so blatantly interrupted. He grabbed his hand. “I can keep hold of you if it makes you feel better.”

Voldemort dropped Harry’s hand the moment he tried to do a barrel roll.

The thrill of the wind buffeting against him was everything it ever was. Harry whooped with sheer joy as he sped round and around the Quidditch pitch, fast as the lightning bolt that defined him. When he returned, breathless, to Tom, he took in the man’s nearly rounded pupils. “Is that from fear, or does my prowess turn you on so much?”

“I beg your pardon?” Voldemort’s wand was out, perhaps ready to cast a charm to break Harry’s fall should it be necessary.

“Your eyes,” Harry explained, panting. “They’re dilated.”

“It’s dark. Your eyes are much the same.”

“If you say so,” Harry said. He was pretty sure that Tom was dissembling. And if his own eyes were dilated, it was from the sheer pleasure of flying on a broom once more.

“Brat. Now follow me.” Voldemort began soaring through the air, Harry quick to come up beside him. As they flew near the edge of the estate, Harry could see the telltale Lumos light from a small party moving towards the manor’s standing stones. Harry broke off from following Tom to take a look. He saw four golden headed figures leading the way: two pairs, arm-in-arm; others trailed behind. Harry recognized a bushy-haired young woman in the small group. She was holding onto the arm of another figure.

“What’s Hermione doing with them?” Harry asked, surprised at seeing his formal friend with the others. “They’re on their way to celebrate Samhain, aren’t they?”

Voldemort flew over. “She is considered part of the Malfoy household, as are all human residents of the manor. The courtesy to observe this day is extended to all. Even the last remaining dissident in the dungeon will be permitted to commune with their loved ones tonight.”

Sure enough, Harry saw that the person next to Hermione was Parvati, who was more shambling along than walking. Hermione stopped every few paces to help the other witch along. Harry had to say, “Parvati looks more like she’s going to join her ancestors than speak with them. Why hasn’t she been freed yet, anyway?”

“You would have to ask Lucius that, my dear.”

Harry watched the group as they started to circle the standing stones. To his amazement, the stones began to react to the magic of the participants and the night. They didn’t so much light up, but the pulse of power thrumming through them was making itself known.

“The ley-lines are responding to their shared magics,” concurred Voldemort. “The stones act as a conduit, much as wizards and witches use their wands to direct magic from their bodies. We should be off before the veil thins too much. I already begin to feel the draw of the dead. I can hear their whispers.”

Harry heard them, too. “It’s like the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. The one Sirius fell through.”

“The dead are always speaking. It is only that it is easier to hear them on nights such as this.”

Harry tilted his head. “How is this different from using the Resurrection Stone? If it is so easy to talk to and see the dead, why would there be a kids’ story about it, making it out to be some incredible thing?”

“One certainly doesn’t ‘see’ the deceased through the veil, and to most mortals their speech is but the whisper of wind. Nothing substantial. I have been told, though, that the peace it brings is worth the endeavor. I’ve never much felt the need to reach out to any of my own ancestors.”

Seeing as Voldemort was largely responsible for his own immediate family’s death, Harry wasn’t too surprised. Still, he bullied up his courage to ask, “What about your mother?”

The Dark Lord took up Harry’s hand and urged him away. “I don’t think she had enough magic to manage such a thing. I only tried the once. Now that my power has grown, I have little desire to make contact with one so weak.” Harry didn’t know if he meant weak magically, or that Voldemort saw her attraction to his Muggle father as a weakness.

The two flew silently over the woods that surrounded the manor, then over fields to the west. It was cold, flying so quickly at night. Harry’s robes had warming charms spelled into them, and he knew Tom wouldn’t be caught without the most potent of protections against the elements, but still his hands were like ice once the thrill of being back on a broom waned. They spoke little, but together took in the blips of light that made up Muggle towns and villages.

After about an hour, Harry spied the sparkle of the sea under the moon. For a split-second of horror, he remembered the dream that they’d spoken of but hours before. He faltered, and Tom sped on for a moment, alone. When he turned back, he took in Harry’s expression. “What is it?”

Harry swallowed. “This wasn’t a good idea.”

They were tempting fate.

“Don’t be foolish. We won’t go into the water.” Voldemort knew what frightened him. He always knew.

“I want to go home.”

Voldemort looked away, towards the sea. Harry couldn’t understand how it compelled him so. It had been Tom’s dream. Why wasn’t he scared, too?

Tom flew back over to him. “Let’s land here, then. There’s no need to go home yet.”

Harry couldn’t very well say no, even though he now longed for the safety of their rooms. They landed far from the sea in a nondescript pasture. At once, Voldemort’s wand was back out, and he was casting a protective circle about them. A fire was soon burning; Harry approached it appreciatively. He held up his frozen hands, warming them.

Strong arms encircled him, then pulled him flush against a tall body. “You haven’t been out of the manor in almost half a year.”

“And now you bring me here,” Harry murmured. “To this field. The sheep over there are so romantic.”

“It was meant to be a moonlit walk on the beach.” Tom nuzzled into Harry’s hair.

“To celebrate our anniversary?”

It was their anniversary, in a manner of speaking. Seventeen years they had been soul bonded. To the day.

Voldemort began to fiddle with Harry’s robes. “That is a more impressive time frame than Skeeter suggested. She reported that we’ve been married for less than a month. A magical union, you understand. Believe it or not, a soul bond is not an unprecedented idea. Certainly, our bond is unique. But a union of two distinct souls is enough to be considered matrimony, according to Wizarding tradition. Not that I explained any of the specifics to the press. All they need know is that we’ve joined our futures together.”

Harry considered this. “I’m surprised you didn’t do something more than send in a story to the paper. I know how you love your rituals.”

“I do,” agreed Voldemort. “But you are wary of them.”

“With good reason!” exclaimed Harry, remembering the graveyard and Wormtail and the threat of imminent death.

 “And it was unnecessary,” Voldemort continued, ignoring the interruption.

“According to Wizarding tradition,” Harry said, “we’ve been married a long time, then. If a soul bond was all that is needed to get hitched, then we’ve been married since I was a baby. I love you and all, but gross.”

“Consummation is also required.”

“Oh.” So, it was just a month. Unless that other weird ritual Voldemort had him do on his birthday got in the way of his count. Did that count as ‘consummation’? It was certainly sexual. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? We could have gone on a honeymoon.”

“Because I was busy trying to solve the mystery behind the attempt on your life, if you will recall. And to be honest, I didn’t think of it at the time,” Voldemort admitted. “I had a lot on my mind. I still do.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

But Voldemort wouldn’t say. And Harry didn’t push.

What he did do was twist around and go up on tiptoe. He kissed Tom on the lips, then pulled back and smirked. “I can do that now,” he gloated. Before, he’d always waited for Voldemort to make the first move. Harry was docile. He was willing, but always waiting. He’d forced his boldness to his toes, his body to his knees. “It’s my right as you’re husband.”

Then he thought of something else. “Shouldn’t we have rings if we’re married?”

Voldemort nodded. “Silver, I should think, with a snake motif. I’ll send Narcissa to Diagon Alley for samples tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, let her sleep in. We’ll go ourselves. And speaking of rings…” Harry slid his hand into Voldemort’s robes. “Take. It. Off.”

***

“It’s a good thing your Mudblood wasn’t at the party,” Tom said from where he lay on the prickly grass. “She would never have forgiven you.”

“Hmmm?” Harry was still coming down from the high of orgasm. He thought back over all that he’d done that night. “I don’t think I was any more terrible than usual.”

“Oh, no, you were quite wonderful. But untidy. You left quite the mess for the house-elves, and I know how much Granger cares for the wretched creatures. She’s made a fair number of appeals on their behalf. All her spare time is spent drafting up legislation to make their lives better.”

“A mess?”

“On my throne.”

Harry remembered, then, and groaned.

Voldemort stroked down his thigh. “They’ve seen worse.”

“I’m more worried about who noticed before the house-elves got to it.”

“Think of what everyone else was doing, Harry. Do you suppose they would begrudge you a moment’s pleasure right after they’d taken their own?”

But they’d all been staring right up at him. Cloak or no, it was obvious what he’d been doing. He didn’t care if they had just been jacking off all over Umbridge’s face.

“I don’t think I like being watched,” Harry decided. “It was sort of funny the first time, when I was under the desk and you had Snape give his report, and I won’t deny it’s exciting. But I’m not going to do it again.”

Tom nodded his acceptance.

So long as Harry was making demands…

“And I don’t want you torturing Draco anymore.”

“You, darling, will leave my minions for me to deal with.”

“Draco is kinda my minion, though. He’s relegated to me. And so far as I know, the only time you Crucio him is in conjunction with my care.”

Voldemort gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he said through them.

Harry leaned over and kissed him. “And—”

“And nothing, brat. You’re already far bossier than you’re worth.”

“You take that back,” Harry said, grinning. “And all I was going to say was that I think I am up to that walk on the beach, after all.”

“At this point, I might just push you in.”

***

Flying back to Wiltshire, the two watched the dawn kiss the eastern sky. First the stars hid themselves, then the sky blushed, warming from black to rose. Finally, a sliver of sunlight topped the horizon, nearly blinding them, while below the land was still blanketed in shadow.

The Samhain ritual was just wrapping up. The rising sun was beginning to shine through the circle of stones, lighting them so they glowed a fierce gold. Even from here, Harry could tell the veil was closed. A solemn peace was all that he could feel now, and he was fairly sure he was sensing that from those still living, who were just beginning to leave the circle together.

Lucius had his arm around Narcissa, who was leaning into her husband. Harry was too far away to make her out well, but it looked as though she’d been crying. Something about the ritual had affected her, it would seem. Had someone from the beyond managed to make contact with her?

“You’re sure the dead can’t tell their secrets?” Harry murmured. He’d just landed and tucked the broom under his arm as he leaned in close to Tom. “Bellatrix can’t have said anything to her?”

Voldemort rubbed a soothing circle on Harry’s shoulder. He leaned in and said, “Unless Narcissa is secretly a Necromancer, it is unlikely.” Harry bit his lip. He’d have to accept that wisdom. He reached up to his shoulder and gave Tom’s fingers a gentle squeeze.

To Harry’s relief, Narcissa’s eyes were friendly, though rimmed with red. She gave him a slight nod, Tom a more perfect bow, then moved surely towards the manor entrance. Lucius followed, offering respects of his own.

Draco was escorting Luna, who looked exhausted. It had been a long night. “My mother sends her love,” she said to Harry as she went by. He gave her a quick smile, not knowing how to respond.

“Seers have such a gift as well,” Tom conceded. “It is a pity that Miss Lovegood is so intent on journalism. Once she has completed her education—privately tutored, now—she would have easily fast-tracked into the Department of Mysteries as an Unspeakable.”

“You think she’s a seer?” Harry asked. He failed to keep the grimace from his face. He’d always known Luna was a little, well, different. But he didn’t know what to make of this.

“Not all seers create such destruction as your Professor Trelawney, Harry. Most but notice things that are not so easily seen.”

Harry thought that over as he watched his friends skirt round the path towards the front of the manor. It was true that Luna had always come out with the strangest things. Like Hermione (though not as vocally), he’d brushed most of it off as harmless nonsense. Recently, though, she seemed to be channelling knowledge she couldn’t possible have gained by ordinary means. Perhaps it was true, and she was a seer.

Speaking of Hermione—she wandered by next, alone. If Parvati was here, Harry couldn’t see her; perhaps she’d decided it was easier to slip through the veil than to keep up the exhaustion of living. If Harry had suspected that Narcissa had been crying, he was certain that Hermione had been. She kept turning back to stare at the stone circle, then wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. Harry wondered why she was so upset. She was no seer—Harry could easily remember her disdain for divination. Unlike Luna, she’d certainly not spoken with a loved one who’d passed over. Even if she could, did she even have someone to talk to? Her parents weren’t even dead. Sure, Hermione must mourn them; she was no daughter of theirs anymore, her own wand cutting her off from them forever. But they wouldn’t be waiting for her from the beyond. Not yet. Perhaps they never would.

Besides, they were Muggles. Muggles! If Merope Gaunt had been too much a squib to make contact with Tom from beyond the grave…

Still, plenty of witches and wizards had been killed only this past year, many of whom Hermione had come to love and admire. Perhaps the twins had whispered jokes into her ear, only just too quiet to make out. Perhaps Mrs Weasley had wrapped her almost daughter-in-law in an embrace as ethereal as the breeze.

Something must have caused her distress.

Hermione paused as she came before them. She’d been so complete in her grief, Harry was shocked she’d noticed them at all. “My Lord. My Lord Consort.”

Well, Hermione had always been one to read the paper. “Hey,” he said back. He tried to smile, but knew it fell flat.

She took a deep breath, then turned to Voldemort. “My Lord,” she said, quietly. “I…I was…” she ran a hand through her hair, catching her fingers on an unruly snarl. “That is…I…”

“I do not have all night, Miss Granger.” Tom’s tone was ice. His red stare burned with disdain.

She bit her lip, then looked to Harry, as if maybe he could help force her words out. He tried to make himself look understanding. It was a weak attempt, he knew, but hopefully she would recognize it for the peace offering it was.

“My Lord, I’ve spent the night thinking of those lost to me,” she tried again.

Harry could feel the irritation wash through him. It was Tom’s mental equivalent to an eye-roll, though of course the Dark Lord would never lower himself to so plebeian a gesture—not in front of a Mudblood, anyway.

“That is the point of Samhain,” Voldemort responded, his voice clipped. Maybe he hoped that by speaking tersely to her, she’d get to her point faster.

Hermione seemed to understand that she was using borrowed time. She rushed her next words. They slurred together: “I-know-he-is-not-exactly-dead-but-would-you-bring-Ron-back?”

For a fond moment, Harry didn’t see Hermione as she was now, a woman with few choices and fewer opportunities. He saw a hopeful witch of eleven rushing into a train compartment, breathless and excited and unaware of the prejudices she would soon face. It made Harry want to give her the world, just to see her brightness shine again.

But bring Ron back? “Why would our Lord do such a thing?”

“Because he can?” Then, bracing herself, she added. “And because he is a merciful Lord.”

Tom grinned, his mouth slit wide. “When you employ cunning, it shouldn’t be so blatant,” he advised, though he seemed more pleased by her words than anything. “The Sorting Hat didn’t even suggest Slytherin, did it?”

Hermione stared down at her feet for a long moment. When she looked back up, her look of humiliation was replaced with determination. “It didn’t, no,” she agreed. “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve for months, but after the ritual tonight—and I couldn’t help but think of all those lost to me, and you being here right after—it just felt the right time to ask. I don’t know why he’s still petrified. It’s not punishment for the…” She faltered here, her determination replaced with uncertainty.

“For helping Harry with the quest Dumbledore forced upon him,” Voldemort suggested.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, exactly. I know why Harry has been spared. But why spare me—the…the Mudblood,”—her voice nearly broke with the strain of the slur—“yet punish the Pureblood?”

“As a Pureblood, perhaps his crime is worse,” Tom suggested. “He turned his back on his own people.”

Hermione’s face fell. She obviously hadn’t considered that position and had no ready response.

“Besides, I spared you as reward to Harry.” Tom was watching Hermione carefully for her reaction.

“And you were angry at Ron,” Harry reminded him. “Because he’d opened the Chamber.”

“I had not forgotten.”

Harry knew, though, that that reason wasn’t so important anymore. If Voldemort was still angry about the Chamber’s ‘defilement’, Harry would have known. His scar would have flared with remembered rage.

“I was a reward?” Hermione asked, her mouth twisting. Her suspicious eyes turned on Harry. “What had you hoped to do with me?”

Of course she’d think the worst of him. He sighed and said, “Keep you safe. That’s all. ” Harry felt rather blasé about the whole thing now and was unsure if she’d realized that he’d once been sincere in wanting her kept safe for her own sake.

Hermione looked as though she had more to say about that but decided to drop it. “With Luna being restored, I had hoped that the others would soon follow. Is there any way you might pardon him, my Lord?”

Harry wasn’t helpless anymore. He knew he had power now. He could put a hand on Tom’s arm, say something to make Voldemort nod, to agree to her request. Ron might be brought back as quick as Snape could brew the Mandrake Restorative Draught. It would be so easy.

But did Harry want to see Ron again? Who knew what he’d say to Harry. Nothing good, that was for certain. “You’re asking a lot, Granger,” he told her.

“He was your best friend,” Hermione pleaded, her voice high, desperate.

Was. Past tense. “Not anymore.” Not after everything.

Hermione was always shrewd, though. “You don’t want to face him.” The worst part was how understanding she sounded. Harry felt as though she’d torn open his chest to take a look at his blackening heart and could see that there was still room to twist a knife. “He’d understand,” she said, wringing her hands. “Better than I did at first.”

That might be so. After all, Ron had betrayed Harry at least twice—there’d been his unfaithfulness during the Triwizard Tournament, and then of course he’d abandoned him just this past year, the locket and his jealousy and his fear turning him into someone else entirely. Surely that gave Harry some kind of karmic leeway. Ron might even see it as Harry rightfully getting even, not that that had remotely been what had driven him at the time.

“You’re wasting your time, Mudblood.” Harry wasn’t willing to risk it. He would rather Ron remain a statue than wake him and watch him turn away in disgust. It was easier for their friendship to fail on his own terms.

Hermione had been about to say something else, perhaps to give another insubstantial reason for bringing Ron back. Maybe her arguments were all used up and she’d been about to start begging. Harry never found out, for she snapped her mouth shut and stormed off as safely as she could, given the company. Harry watched her go. He ignored the pang in the tiny part of his heart reserved for anyone other than the Dark Lord.

A hand sought his out. A quiet hiss told him, “Tell me if you change your mind. Bringing Ron Weasley back is not a horrid idea, tactically speaking. And you might be pleased for it in the end.”

Harry couldn’t see how either of those could be true. He was sure he’d be rejected, first off. And tactics had never been his strong suit, so he couldn’t figure out what good his best friend might do in that regard. Tactics had been, ironically, Ron’s forte. He nodded his understanding, regardless. He’d think about it later, when he’d forgotten the look of hurt that Hermione had thrown his way.

There was Parvati, shuffling along only now, with Snape half holding her up. Harry hadn’t known Snape had attended the ritual in the first place. Harry hadn’t seen him earlier, when he and the Dark Lord had observed the group from the sky. He wondered who he’d communed with. Perhaps it had been Harry’s mother. That made him think—what if Harry hadn’t been ignorant about all these Wizarding traditions? Would he have been able to get in contact with his mother, in as limited a way as the ritual allowed? Or would Severus Snape have kept her from him, year after year?

It was a moot point. Harry had no desire to find out what his mother or father thought of him, now he’d switched sides. Perhaps Snape had talked to her about it. Perhaps he’d even pressed Harry’s point-of-view. Could the living talk to the dead, even if the dead couldn’t properly talk to the living? Harry wasn’t about to ask and find out.

But if Harry had no intention of talking to Snape, the Potions Master seemed to have other ideas. “My Lord.” He even managed a small bow.

“Severus,” Voldemort said in return. Harry shuddered with the thrill of the drawn out sibilants and was briefly envious of the other man for how pleasing his name sounded when spoken by Voldemort. “You had a peaceful Samhain?”

“More so than usual,” Snape answered. Again, Harry was forced into an unwanted curiosity.

But then Snape turned to Harry. “Mr Potter.” There was no pretension of calling Harry anything other than that, no strange new titles. He was glad for it. It almost made up for what his old professor said next: “I happened to hear what you just said to Miss Granger.”

Harry was tired. He didn’t want a lecture. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Snape. I heard what you said in that pensieve to my mum.”

If Snape was still angry about that, he didn’t let on. “You have more context now. That afternoon was, indeed, one of my worst memories. Not because I was humiliated by your father, though what he did was indefensible. No, that day was so terrible because of what I said to Lily. My calling your mother that name was one of the worst things I ever did. Some words you can’t take back, no matter how much you might wish to later. I lost my best friend that day. I don’t want the same for you.”

“Death Eaters are not friends with Mudbloods.” It had taken a while for Harry to accept that, but it was true.

“Ah, but you are not one of the Dark Lord’s followers anymore.” This last was directed at the Dark Lord, Snape’s voice lilting up as though looking for agreement.

Harry was about to blurt out how wrong Snape was, but hadn’t the Dark Lord said much the same earlier?

“No,” Voldemort agreed, taking the matter in hand. “He isn’t. As was prophesied, I marked Harry as my equal. But that does not mean he should fraternize with those so far below him.”

“Is that what the rest of it said,” Snape murmured. Obviously, Dumbledore had not trusted Snape enough to tell him the remainder.

Harry turned to Tom. “I thought you didn’t take any stock in that anymore.”

Voldemort, looking uncomfortable, asked Snape where he was headed.

“I am taking Ms Patil to new quarters, where she can recuperate. I’ve cleared it with Lucius already, and he will ready the paperwork this morning.”

“Then I won’t keep you.”

They watched Snape lead Parvati away. When Harry was sure they were alone, that no one would overhear him, he turned to Tom and said, “You still believe in that tripe Trelawney spouted off? It’s absolute drivel. I mean, look at us. Us being here together negates it. We’re both living, both surviving. Hell, these days I’m ready to believe Dumbledore made the whole thing up just so he’d have a reason to make me fight for him.”

Voldemort was looking into the distance. “It’s getting late. Nagini must be wondering where we’re off to.” He held out a hand, blindly, for Harry to grasp hold of. “I’ll Apparate us back to our chambers.”

But Harry wasn’t going to let it go. Once they returned to their familiar, comfortable rooms, the urgency would be gone. Nagini would be there, as Voldemort had reminded him; she would distract them, and then the topic would be dropped. “Not until you agree with me that the prophecy was complete tosh.”

Tom’s ruby eyes bore into Harry’s emerald ones. “I don’t understand that part any more than you, Harry. But for all that you deny it, you did vanquish me once, albeit unwittingly. And I did mark you as my equal, though I did not know it at the time.” He stepped forward, his fingers reaching out to sweep Harry’s forehead.

Harry stepped back before Tom could make contact. “And the power you know not? You don’t think it’s love, like Dumbledore said, do you?” He couldn’t stop his contempt for Dumbledore or the manipulative fool’s theory from spilling into this last question.

As soon as he’d said this, though, Voldemort’s eyes widened with shock. He took a ragged breath. He must have had his Occlumency barriers up fully, for Harry didn’t get a hint of what was affecting the man.

Then, all at once Tom’s face changed, morphing to a familiar one filled with intelligence, with cunning. “You are quite right, Harry. Even if the prophecy was true once,”—he wagged a finger at Harry, who’d been about to interrupt—“I do not believe it is valid anymore. The conditions are no longer right.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Tom, infuriating as always, refused to answer. “You must be nearly asleep on your feet. Let’s go home now. No—I agreed with you; the prophecy is now, as you say, ‘complete tosh’. No more arguments.”

For having won the debate, Harry felt pretty dispirited. “I don’t like not knowing what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on. Take my hand.”

Harry grumbled, but obeyed. After all, it was past dawn now. Tom was right, he was exhausted, and not even Nagini’s pestering questions about where they’d been all night was enough to keep him from crawling into bed and falling asleep at once.

Chapter Text

Harry had no idea how long he’d slept. He felt rested, but the clock read eleven. The daylight promised he’d either slept for four or five hours, or more than twenty-four. He was alone, excepting Nagini, and she was not the best of timekeepers.

He stretched idly. The bed was sinfully large, especially when it was only him in it. He laid out, arms stretched wide, as though he were making snow-angels in the sheets. He could laze about all day if he wanted to. He was under no obligation to do anything or go anywhere. He recalled his first lazy morning in his old chambers, when Voldemort had threatened him with isolation and eternal sleep should he linger too long in bed. He smirked at what he now knew was really a rather weak manipulation. Voldemort must have been ecstatic at having Harry so close, even before they’d come to such an accord.

He ate, he bathed, he read. A note from Narcissa popped into existence around noon, telling him that Draco was still sleeping but she would be happy to escort him should he desire to leave the confines of his rooms. Harry remembered her drawn out look from the night before and decided she needed as much rest as her son, if not more.

Nagini was less restless than usual. Harry wondered if it was the cold creeping in as autumn wore on. The days were chillier, her body sluggish. Still, when she complained of boredom that afternoon, Harry called for Flippy to send over a rabbit for her to eat. The brief hunt exhausted her, and she spent the rest of the afternoon hissing contentedly by the hearth.

Harry laid his head on her coils. “Has Master ever taken you flying?” he asked her. Tom wasn’t there to correct the title, and it still felt right to Harry, especially when talking to his sister.

“Nagini is not a bird,” she told him, but by her annoyed grumble Harry gathered that, yes, she had flown on occasion and not enjoyed it one whit.

“He took me flying last night.” The memory forced more of the previous day’s newness onto him. “I’m his mate now.”

Nagini hissed that of course he was, that snakeling was very foolish to think otherwise.

Harry hadn’t heard her call him that in a while. He hissed his laughter, then relaxed more against her large, cool body. He was tired and found his exhaustion and loneliness loosened his tongue. He tried to explain his new title to her and his surprise at finding himself in his new position. His discomfort, if he was being honest, with the power it gave him. He’d been fine with the status quo. He wasn’t quite sure what Voldemort was about in changing things up. Sure, Harry was pleased that he no longer had to watch so closely what he said around the man, as Tom was more lenient with what Harry said now. Not only that, but it hadn’t been long since Harry was so subservient that he wouldn’t have dared to even touch the Dark Lord without permission.

And now he—Harry—was giving demands. It was a heady thought. “He’s giving me a choice about bringing Ron back,” he told Nagini, who then demanded that he explain what that meant. It was hard to push all his memories of Ron into something she’d understand.

Her opinion was that Harry only needed her and Voldemort.

“I rather agree with you, and I don’t see what good can come of bringing him back. I think it’s a pretty big risk.” He didn’t add that it was his heart he was risking rather than his safety. His unfairness, that he’d put his own emotional wellbeing over Ron’s right to simply exist, was a bitterness he wished he could hide as easily away as his petrified friend could be stashed away in the Malfoy dungeons.

Nagini was close to sleep now. Harry had decided that he must have woken up after only a few hours rest, after all, for her exhaustion permeated through their bond and he was having trouble keeping his own eyes open.

And that was where Voldemort found them when he returned from the Ministry, or wherever he’d been all morning.

Harry blinked up into Tom’s face. He began to say something—it was broken with what he guessed was a terrifically ugly yawn, though when he managed to open his eyes again it was to find fond eyes gazing down at him. Harry scrubbed the sleep from his face, then mumbled, “Time’s it?”

“Almost six o’clock.”

Harry looked at the darkened window. “In the evening?” He hoped he hadn’t slept all night on the hearth rug.

“Of course, darling. And supper is in the dining hall tonight. I’m glad to see you’ve put on fresh clothes.”

“And I’ve bathed.” As if proper hygiene was something to be proud of.

The thought seemed to amuse Voldemort as well. “Good for you. Your hair could still use a brush.”

“Not you too,” Harry grumbled as he stalked through to the bathroom. He didn’t know what the fuss was all about. Now that his hair was longer, it fell far more gracefully than it ever had before. Admittedly it was a little knotted, though not enough to get worked up over. He ripped a comb through it anyway, grimacing when it caught in a snag. For good measure, he gargled a bit of the potion Voldemort used in lieu of toothpaste, then spat it out in the sink.

When Harry returned to the bedroom, Voldemort had the drinks cabinet open and was pouring out a measure of Scotch. On the cabinet shelf, at the very front, sat a familiar green bottle. Tom sipped his drink and carefully watched Harry’s reaction.

The longevity potion certainly didn’t look like much, but Harry knew just how deceptive appearances could be. To think of how much bother it had caused. How much loss.

“I think much has been gained,” Voldemort said quietly in response to Harry’s unspoken thoughts. He stepped away as Harry approached the cabinet, seemingly willing to let his young consort make the decision alone.

Harry picked the vial up. It was so small. Not more than a mouthful. “I saw you making it in my dreams. There was a lot more than this.” He looked up, grinning crookedly. “You haven’t been supplying some Knockturn Alley apothecary with this stuff, have you?” A potion made of Harry Potter’s own virginal semen, all but guaranteeing long-life, would be a rather big hit on the black market.

“This was all it made. The potion condensed to but a single dose.”

“And you want me to drink it?”

“More than anything.”

Harry wondered at that as he swirled the draught about in the confines of its bottle. “More than world domination?” he joked. He looked up to Tom’s open mouth, and all of a sudden, Harry didn’t want to know the answer. He pulled off the crystal cap and asked,  “I just swallow it? I don’t need to dance nude under the full moon or something first?”

Tom leered at him. “I would not be opposed to such a thing, but no. You can just drink it.”

And so, Harry brought the vial to his lips. He had almost tipped it back, when he paused and turned to Tom, who was looking on with dismay at Harry’s hesitation. Harry asked, “How long will this make me live for, anyway?” He chuckled humourlessly. “And you never did tell me if I’d still age after I drink this. What’s the good of me being around for centuries just to be a withered old man? I mean, I guess I’d still be your Horcrux, right?”

“You’d be more than that.”

Harry shrugged. Of course Tom would think that now. But when Harry was three-hundred years old and looked it?

“Just to be clear, this potion won’t make me immortal or anything, right? Like, I could still die from a Killing Curse or if I was stabbed or something?”

“You won’t be dying,” Voldemort vowed. Harry could feel the man’s distress at the very thought. It made him queasy.

Still, he had to know. Because while he didn’t want to die now, he also didn’t want to be so old that his joints ground against bare bone or his white hair was falling out in clumps, his skin too thin to hold on to the roots. “But if someone were to try, I’d still die, right?”

Voldemort finished the rest of the Scotch before answering. “Yes. You would still die. My protections on you, however, will prevent most fatalities.”

At Harry’s confusion, Voldemort said, “The runes I carved into your skin.”

That had Harry unconsciously tracing his torso. “They’re still active? They’d faded. I’d thought their power had as well.”

Voldemort shook his head. “The protections will last as long as I live. And I am immortal.”

Harry glanced down at the bottle. “I don’t want to grow old,” he admitted. “I don’t want to die, either. But most of all, I don’t want you to turn away from me one hundred years from now.”

“I would take an Unbreakable Vow to promise I won’t if it would ease your concern.”

Harry tapped his nose. “Immortal,” he reminded him. But the sentiment remained the same. Harry lifted the potion back up to his lips. With a look at Voldemort—who looked beyond relieved—he tipped it back and swallowed it down. The promise of long years slid down his throat.

It tasted exactly like leftover cereal milk. Harry made a face at the strange grittiness that seemed to stick to the top of his tongue. He peered into the bottle, checking to make sure he’d gotten it all. Not even a film clung to the inside, the vial impossibly emptied.

When he raised his head, Tom stepped in and kissed him, softly, upon his closed lips. When Harry went to deepen the kiss, Voldemort pulled away. “I don’t want to steal one day from you. Drink some water first.”

A glass appeared on the sideboard, proof of Flippy’s diligence. Harry gulped it down, his eyes on Voldemort’s mouth. As soon as the last drop was gone, he stepped forward and claimed Tom’s mouth with his own. His hands came up to encircle the other man’s neck. He felt fingers tangle in his hair, tugging his head back. Harry pulled Tom towards the bed. He tumbled backwards onto it, pulling the Dark Lord along with him. “Do we have time before we’re due to eat?”

Voldemort knelt over Harry. “We have just over an hour. That’s enough time to make your hard work getting ready for naught. Of course, we could always arrive dishevelled. My Death Eaters have seen far worse, and I can always curse them if they complain.”

Harry pulled Tom close, mouthing at his sharp jaw. He loved the angle it made. Voldemort had kept all of Tom Riddle’s beautiful facial structure, overlying it with the incredible snake-like otherness that had come to define him as he’d matured. The combination made Harry weak in the knees.

It was a good thing he was already on his back.

He wrapped his legs around Tom’s waist, then fruitlessly began struggling with buttons. “A little out of order,” Tom observed with a smirk. “But magic is useful for more than cursing critical followers.” And it was true, for one wordless spell ensured both his and Harry’s clothes were gone.

“Much better,” Harry told him, his voice quickly becoming more moan than speech. He began to work on forging a love-bite on Tom’s lower jaw. “Forget a snitch on your arm. I’ll just keep you marked here, where the whole world can see.”

Tom pulled him away, but only to plunder his mouth yet again. Harry melted into the sheets as Tom’s tongue wrestled against his own. When the motions became an erotic thrusting, Harry raked his nails over Voldemort’s pale shoulders, leaving a series of wicked red lines. He tightened the hold of his legs, drawing Tom closer. He pulled his mouth away just long enough to groan, “I need you now.” Lately, Voldemort always took care in making certain Harry was prepped enough that he’d not suffer the slightest discomfort in their coupling. Harry wasn’t in the mood, really, for Tom’s slow fingering, his gentle stretching. “I’m good already. Just hurry up and fuck me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it,” Harry said, breathlessly. “I need it.”

But Tom wouldn’t rush. He worked Harry open, using far more lubricating potion than Harry thought necessary. He writhed against the invading fingers, not sure if he wanted them to brush against his prostrate or not, for he was well aware how much better the Dark Lord’s member would feel pounding into him. Tom always got the angle just right, knew just how to send Harry over the edge.

And then the blunt head was pushing inside, and Harry moaned, his entire core lit up with the bliss of being complete. Now that Tom was inside him, it didn’t seem to matter how hard they fucked. It was glorious, just being filled like this. Slow, fast. It was all perfect. Harry rolled his hips up in time with Voldemort’s thrusts. Whether it was their connection or their newfound knowledge of each other’s bodies, they always came together just right. Their paces quickened until Harry was grateful for whatever charm had been placed on the bed; they’d have ruined the springs, otherwise.

Harry was fully hard, his cock brushing beautifully up against Tom’s stomach, finding friction. Above him, Tom was hissing praise at him, calling him his beautiful boy, his sweetest Horcrux, his darling. Harry drank it all down. He was too far gone to call back similarly. He arched his back, his eyes screwed tight, and luxuriated in how close he was to climaxing.

But then, Tom was slowing. He stilled, and not with the urgency of orgasm. When Harry opened his eyes, he was struck by reverent crimson eyes gazing down at him. “How did you come to me?” Tom asked, wonderingly. “In what world was I so lucky as this?”

Harry smiled up at him. “Does fate not favour Lord Voldemort?” He licked his lips, tasting the words as they left his mouth.

“She truly does,” Voldemort agreed, then added slyly, “Is it so wrong for me to want Harry Potter on his knees before me?”

Harry didn’t need to have taken his NEWTs to understand his lover’s meaning. “Not wrong at all,” he replied. He did feel—ironically—a momentary wrongness in the form of loss as Tom pulled out of him. Harry turned around, pressing his cheek to the bed, his arse lifted up in offering.

Voldemort seemed at a loss for words, but that was okay, for his heavy breathing told Harry all he needed to know.

“Fuck me, my Lord.”

Strong hands gripped his hips, and Voldemort pressed once more inside, groaning as he fully seated himself in Harry’s heat.

Harry wished he had a mirror. How unfair that Voldemort had such an incredible view when all he saw was his feather pillow? But then all thoughts were driven from him as Tom pulled almost out then slammed back in, driving hard against his prostate. Harry cried out, words lost to him once more as he was pushed deeper and deeper into the mattress. He brought a hand to his own cock and tried to stroke in time with how Voldemort was driving into him but lost the rhythm almost at once and clawed at the sheets instead.

One particular brutal thrust, and Harry was coming in thick lines onto the bed below him. Still, Tom wasn’t done, not even close. Harry whined as his scar buzzed with the Dark Lord’s desire, and his prostate was still being battered. He tried to shift, to get relief from the constant stimulation, but Tom had other ideas, moving one hand off Harry’s hip to press down on his lower back, pinning him in place.

If Harry had been able, he would have called Tom for what he was: a sadistic fucker, the words exactly true. But before long he rose past the worst of the overstimulation and found himself growing hard again. And, of course, that was when Tom’s punishing pace slowed to a painful crawl.

Harry was drenched in sweat and trembling with need. When he finally found his voice, it came out as a needy moan. He managed, “A man could go mad with what you’re doing to me.”

Tom hummed noncommittedly. “I know curses, my sweet, that would keep you hard for days, your balls constantly filling, your mind blank but for desire.”

Harry’s laugh changed to a whimper as Tom slowly pushed all the way in again. When he could get another word out, he chided, “You’re supposed to be whispering sweet nothings into my ear, not threats.”

Tom inched back. “Mmmm, but I thought I was a sadistic fu—”

“Yes, so get on with it.” One problem with this position, Harry decided, was how he helpless he felt. He couldn’t thrust back as he needed, and Voldemort seemed content to tease him by resting for seemingly minutes at a time at his entrance.

Voldemort made the mistake of taking his hand off his back, and Harry took advantage and slipped away. He spun round, briefly enjoying the look of surprise on Tom’s face, before pulling his bedmate down under him. Before Tom could react, he was flat on his back and Harry had straddled him. It was with a sigh of contentment that Harry sank deep onto Tom’s hard cock. He pressed all the way down, sighing, then had to pause for a moment to get his bearings.

Voldemort stared up up at him, his slitted pupils blown so black they were nearly rounded. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

Only then did Harry begin to move. Never breaking eye-contact, he began to lift up and down in waves, slow and sinuous. Pleasure was a wild thing he was chasing, and he watched in satisfaction as Voldemort’s mouth fell open to hiss something incomprehensible, the only intelligible word a drawn out “Yesssssssss.”

Harry moved faster, shifting his hips in deeper and wider undulations. He, too, fell into the familiarity of Parseltongue, hissing out how good Tom felt beneath him, how he was so big, filling him so much, that he was close—so close.

And he was. He writhed just so, pushing himself against Tom perfectly. So close. So close.

With a sputtering hiss, he cried out, “T-Tom!” as he finally came once more, harder, further than ever to paint his lover’s chest a beautiful, pearly white. He clenched down in unadulterated satisfaction, breathing through the pleasure rushing through him. Voldemort finally broke eye contact, his head falling back, eyes closing. He, too, cried out as his own fierce orgasm hit.

Harry collapsed onto Tom, completely drained. That was twice he’d come in so short a time. He hadn’t thought he’d have so much left after the first go, but the evidence against that lay sticky on the heaving chest below.

When he could finally speak coherently again, Harry propped himself up—wincing as Tom’s softening cock slipped out, followed by an uncomfortable stream of spent—and gave them both a once-over. Then he glanced at the clock. “We have fifteen minutes to get cleaned up and down to the dining room,” he announced. He glanced wistfully towards the bathroom, knowing they hadn’t time for more than a cleansing charm.

Before Harry could protest, Voldemort lazily waved a hand and cast the requisite spell. Harry shuddered. “That feels like you’re stripping off at least one layer of skin,” he complained. “Must you overpower every spell?”

 With a chuckle, Voldemort asked, “You would prefer to be consort to a weak leader?”

Harry glared as he got up to pull a clean robe from his wardrobe. He knew the effect was muted, since through their link Voldemort would realize his expression was for show. “Of course not,” he finally admitted as he fastened the last of his shirt buttons. “The whole of Wizarding Britain must be fucking envious of me. Eighteen years old and married to the most powerful man in the world.”

Voldemort grinned. He still hadn’t made any move to get dressed and was still lounging naked as the day he’d emerged from the cauldron. “You think they’re envious of you?” he asked, his voice lilting curiously.

“Well, why not?” Harry bent down to tie his shoes. There was a charm for this, he knew, but something about Tom’s sudden, amused, scrutiny made him uncomfortable. Strange, that. He was the one fully dressed. But then, it had been the same when Voldemort had been reborn, hadn’t it? The Dark Lord had languidly examined his newly formed body while Harry could only shiver—terrified—bound to the gravestone.

“I know I am not as I once was,” Tom began thoughtfully. All humour seemed to have bled out of him. “Not all look on me as you do, as though I were something worth wanting.” He said nothing of one particular witch who’d also gazed near starvingly at the Dark Lord’s serpentine features, yet for a moment her memory was heavy in the room.

Harry wanted to deny the Dark Lord’s claims. It was no good saying something like, ‘The fools don’t know how goddamned gorgeous you used to be,’ or even to remind the man of how perfect he looked to Harry now.

“Don’t waste your time trying to praise my current appearance. When I was first reborn, any useful body was a marvel. I’ve long grown accustomed to my…malformation.”

Harry strode over to Voldemort. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on Tom’s thigh. “No. You aren’t. You’re incredible! That teenaged memory of yourself that you sealed in the diary might have been handsome as fuck, but you’re magnificent. I knew, of course, that he was good looking. But I never wanted to kiss him as I do you.”

“I think you not being twelve now might be contributing to that.” Voldemort finally moved off the bed, pulling Harry with him. A few words and he’d conjured robes to cover himself.

Harry didn’t bother trying to figure out if the magical display was some sort of newly misplaced modesty or a harmless rejoinder to his own Mugglish manner of dressing. Instead, he urged, “You. I want you. As you are now. You were handsome. You are beautiful.” He reached his arms up to circle Tom’s neck.

Voldemort brushed Harry’s hands away, though not angrily. “I rather think you are more than a little influenced by being my Horcrux.”

Harry shook his head. “That’s not it. If it were to vanish, I swear I’d feel the same.”

Tom glared at him. “Don’t even joke of such a thing.” He raised his baleful eyes to Harry’s scar, as if daring it to even try abandoning them. It was the most dangerous look Harry had seen directed at him in quite a while. Whether it was Harry’s quick step back, the way he nervously bit his lip and looked to Tom’s wand hand, or simply the flow of information between them, something made Tom look abashed.

There was something aching left unsaid between them. Regret, maybe. Or shame. Even with perfect Legilimency, Harry knew he’d never convince Voldemort of how much he loved drinking in the sight of him. There would always be an excuse waiting to explain it away.

“Let’s go down to dinner. They’ll be waiting on us,” Harry urged. It was the Slytherin way out, and Tom seemed eager to take the suggestion.

He did, though, coax Harry back in front of a mirror. Harry groaned and mumbled, “This is all your fault.” This time, nothing would make his hair behave.

Chapter Text

The Malfoys were, as expected, waiting for the Dark Lord to arrive before beginning their meal. Harry took note of Luna, who was sitting genteelly at Draco’s right, though despite her addition the table was mostly empty. Harry sat beside Voldemort, naturally, at one end of the table; everyone else was clustered at the far end, where Lucius sat at the foot.

The conversation was free of politics this time. Actually, Harry and Tom didn’t talk at all. Harry stared down at his pasta and almost wished Runcorn was there opposite him for at least then it wouldn’t be so quiet. And then, too, Harry would know that any irritation the Dark Lord was exhibiting was directed at the tall Death Eater and wasn’t because of their earlier discussion.

He tried to pay attention to what Draco was saying to Luna. It seemed interesting, if her laughs were anything to go by. He felt a wild surge of envy at their easy normality. He knew it was his own emotion he felt, for never would Voldemort covet anything so mediocre as such banal courtship. Still, Harry wondered how long it would be before Draco was holding a blond baby on his lap. Sure, Luna was only just of age, or so he assumed. Even Harry’s mother, as young as she’d been when she’d gotten married and had him, had a good few years on her. Luna still hadn’t written her NEWTs.

But then, neither had he. Harry paused over his dinner, his fork twirling absently round and round a strand of spaghetti. Why was she being tutored, he wondered, and he wasn’t?

Was it because until recently he’d not been much more than a pet? But even now that he was more than that, Tom hadn’t brought the topic up. Harry had books to read in his free time, but they were all fiction. And Harry had the world’s most brilliant wizard as a spouse, but Tom never tutored him in anything beyond recommending reading material. Mostly, he listened to Harry prattle on about this and that, all with an indulgent smile. Or he just shagged Harry into the mattress. After a long day of running the country he’d fought so hard for, he wasn’t likely to want to play professor, too.

If Harry was honest with himself, though, he didn’t care greatly about his missing education. He’d not really thought much beyond Hogwarts. There’d been his idea about being an Auror, but he saw that now as his being streamed into a battle he’d never really thought he’d win but had felt pressured to fight. Harry wasn’t Dumbledore’s boy soldier anymore. No more did he wish to be Voldemort’s.

Besides, Voldemort wouldn’t have stood for it. Harry was sidelined.

A family, though. That was something he’d never stop wanting. He had it now, he supposed (as surprising as that was). But was it complete? He’d never seen family as just him and one other person. To him, it had always meant children.

First, his mother and father and him. But he didn’t much remember that.

Then the Dursleys, who were perfectly dysfunctional and his model for what not to be.

The Weasleys had shown him what love of family could mean. Of course, Harry wouldn’t have needed so many kids. Two or three was more than enough. It was strange to think that if Molly and Arthur stuck with that number, that the twins and Ron and Ginny would never have been born.

They were all dead now anyway, so perhaps it didn’t matter.

Harry took a pause in these macabre thoughts to look around the table and noticed that everyone else was done their main course and were waiting for him to finish before they started on dessert.

Well, not Voldemort. He was watching Harry think, apparently. He’d set his knife and fork together neatly on the plate, indicating he was done, though it looked as if he’d not made a dent in his supper. Harry knew by now that Voldemort ate far less than most people, but he normally ate more than this.

Harry set his own fork down and wiped his mouth on a serviette. His own appetite was a little off, too. He doubted he’d manage more than a bite of dessert.

Unless it was treacle tart.

Of course it was treacle tart. Harry couldn’t leave that alone, on principle.

When he’d finished, Harry leaned back in his chair. He gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Narcissa and listened in as the Malfoys (and a Malfoy-to-be) talked amongst themselves. In a lull in their conversation, Draco cleared his voice. “My Lord,” he began once he had everyone’s attention. “I will be writing my pre-entry exams in two weeks time. They run four days straight, Monday through Thursday.”

Voldemort inclined his head in acknowledgement. “You will find a suitable escort for Harry the duration.” It was not a request.

“Yes, my Lord,” Draco agreed, quickly. “And after that, assuming my results are adequate—”

“Of course they will be,” Narcissa interrupted, reaching across the table to press her hand to his. “After all your hard work.”

Harry’s scowl at being left out of decisions affecting him quirked into a smile. As much as he liked Narcissa, what she’d just said—her tone, her intonation—reminded him so much of Aunt Petunia coddling Dudley. He half-expected Lucius to replicate Vernon’s cajoling half-insult to anyone who’d think so little of his boy to even think of passing him over.

But Draco wasn’t finished, and he wasn’t paying any attention to his parents. “The Mind Healer programme runs for eighteen months, starting January fourth.”

Harry looked over at Tom just as the man narrowed his eyes. “Is this your way of asking me something, Draco?” he questioned dangerously.

Draco paled but didn’t back down. “If you will recall, my Lord, I brought this up with you more than three months ago, shortly after my NEWT scores arrived.”

“I recall giving you well-earned praise. I do not remember giving you leave to abandon your post to pursue an unnecessary Mastery.”

Harry had blanked at first. All he had heard was that Draco wouldn’t be available anymore. Now, though, what Tom said flooded his ears. All his insecurity and his conclusions from after his birthday came rearing back. “I am not an assignment,” he said, glaring at Voldemort.

“That’s not what I meant,” came Tom’s tight response.

Harry rather thought it sounded like that was exactly what Tom had meant, but he decided it wasn’t worth the argument. He knew Voldemort was already on edge after their uncomfortable discussion in their rooms, and he didn’t really want to make the Dark Lord more upset. “So long as you remember what you agreed to last night.”

For a moment, it looked as thought Voldemort was going to begrudgingly agree. But then his mouth twisted slyly. “That was in conjunction with your care,” Voldemort said, slipping into Parseltongue. At the other end of the table, the Malfoys all looked nervous at the switch. They had good reason to be, for the Dark Lord was looking for a loophole to be able to painfully reprimand the Malfoy heir. “And Draco is voluntarily choosing to cease being your ‘minion,’”

“He’s not really my minion. He’s my friend, and he won’t stop being that even if he does get accepted into this programme,” Harry argued. His heart wasn’t in it, though. He didn’t want Draco to head off to do this thing. This Mastery. Between his training and his courting Luna, he wouldn’t have much time for Harry anymore.

Voldemort tilted his head. “I suppose this could be thought of as part of your care. Considering your past, you no doubt could use the services of a well-trained Mind Healer.”

Harry grimaced. “Ugh…that would be…” Awful. It would be awful. He’d hated it when Draco had played therapist in early August. Still, it had been beneficial in the end: Draco had taken Dudley away; Dudley had been the needed witness to Bellatrix’s duplicity. “I suppose he can ‘help me’, if he does well in his course,” he hedged.

“He’d better, if he wishes to keep both of his hands.” In English. Of course.

Harry turned to his friend, who seemed on the verge of taking a fit. “You mentioned Mind Healing before,” he began, “but you never said anything about taking a Mastery in the subject.” He tried not to let it come out as an accusation.

It took Draco a moment, but at last he found his voice. Sitting up a little straighter in his chair, he said, “I’ve talked about it quite a few times. Just last week I showed you the course syllabus. You told me it sounded interesting.”

“Actually, he said it sounded all right, so long as you didn’t use him as a Puffskein,” Luna put in brightly.

Harry remembered the conversation now, but only insofar as how he’d been pleased with himself for remembering the Wizarding idiom. Regardless, he now said, “And that still stands. At any rate, I will keep my fingers crossed for you.”

Draco only blinked at him in confusion, and all Harry’s pride at not using Muggle sayings was tossed out all at once. But again Luna saved the day by crossing all her fingers, even her pinkies, and saying, “I will too.”

Draco smiled bemusedly at Luna, then turned to Harry. “Thanks,” he said, seemingly having got the message. “I’ll make sure we can still spend time together. Masteries are, by their nature, intense, but I’ll make the time to see you plenty.”

Harry smiled. He knew Draco would try. But no one ever got an ‘A’ for ‘Effort’, not even in the Wizarding World where an ‘A’ was a fairly unremarkable grade.

They were lingering now, and the conversation was becoming more and more strained. Lucius finally took his leave, taking his wife with him. Luna was beginning to flag. The previous night had been long for all of them. Harry was amazed they were all still awake.

Draco stood and gave Voldemort a bow. “You mentioned a replacement escort for during my examination week. If all goes well, someone more long-term will be required. Might I suggest Theodore Nott? He is one your newer recruits. He and Harry got along quite well at the party yesterday.”

Harry made a face. Sure, Theo was okay, but he hated being left out of any discussion relating to himself. He was tempted to veto the other Slytherin boy on principle.

Voldemort beat him to it. “I am well acquainted with his family, seeing as the Notts have been in my service for three generations now. I appreciate the suggestion, Draco, but I already have someone in mind.”

Already? That was quick, given that Draco had only told Voldemort about this a few minutes ago. Judging from Draco’s face, he must have thought so, too. He practically squeaked out, “Excellent. Ah, good night, my Lord. Er, my Lord Consort.”

Luna gave a small bow as well. She smiled tiredly, though fondly, at him. “Goodnight Harry.”

Harry waited all of three seconds for them to get out of hearing range, then turned on Tom. “You already have a new ‘minion’ picked out for me? Who is it?”

Voldemort sipped his tea. It must have been stone cold by then; even posturing as he was, Tom couldn’t help but grimace at it. It must have been passed the point of a warming charm, for he vanished it, cup and saucer and all. “I was thinking about your Mudblood’s request, if you must know. Ronald Weasley would make a fine companion for you. After he’s been rehabilitated and has taken the appropriate vows, that is.”

“Ron? That’s your bright idea?” Harry pushed his chair back and stretched his legs out defiantly. “We’ve been over this. I don’t want him restored.”

But Voldemort wasn’t done arguing his point. “He’s the perfect choice. He’s a Pureblood and he’s loyal to you—”

“Not anymore,” Harry seethed.

“You haven’t given him a chance to prove otherwise. Also, you’ve spent so much energy into making sure your Mudblood is safe. But what of her happiness?”

Harry scoffed. “Lord Voldemort cares about a Mudblood’s happiness now?”

“Lord Voldemort cares deeply for all his subjects,” Tom said smoothly. “As does his consort.” He stood and stepped forward to loom over Harry.

Harry tilted his head back to look up at him. Voldemort looked quite intimidating, staring down at him like that. The connection was cold between them, and Tom’s red-slit eyes didn’t give away his thoughts. Harry began to worry that he’d pushed too far over dinner, been too combative. Not so long ago, he’d been the definition of obedience. Harry’s deference had been the staple in their interactions.

Tom held out a hand for Harry to take. Harry just stared at it, as though it were a trap. Tom sighed. “I’m tired, Harry. Not all of us slept all day. I wish to retire for the evening.”

Reluctantly, Harry took hold of Voldemort’s hand. The man didn’t even wait for Harry to stand; he Apparated them away just like that. Harry, who’d still been seated, crashed to the rug when they materialized in their bedroom.

Harry, sprawled gracelessly at Tom’s feet, glared upwards. “I know you’re cross with me, but a few feet to the right so I’d have been sitting on the bed was too hard?”

Voldemort broke into a serpentine grin. “Forgive me, darling. As I said, I’m tired.” He extended his hand one more time, this time to help Harry up. “I swear that wasn’t deliberate. I’m not punishing you for your terrible disrespect.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Harry deadpanned. But all at once, it was all he could think about. So far, Voldemort had been agreeable with the change in their relationship. Harry worried his lip, wondering if he should bring it up. He didn’t want to push the line too far, only for Tom to feel compelled to put him back in his place, Harry’s body trembling on the floor after a sustained encounter with the Cruciatus Curse.

There was also the remnants of their last conversation in this room making itself known—‘Not all look on me as you do, as though I were something worth wanting.’ Harry wasn’t Gryffindor enough to bring that back up.

Harry decided to wait for the right opportunity to talk about just how far Tom would allow him to go. The man had made him his consort, so surely he wouldn’t want some snivelling weakling taking the place at his side. Harry wished he had a book to guide him. Feeling his way along blind like this was a fool’s errand, and he was done with those.

Exhaustion hit him as he prepared for bed. Funny how such small rituals as brushing one’s teeth could signal the mind to start shutting down. He yawned deeply as he shucked his robes—he couldn’t be bothered to slip his night ones on in their stead. The cool sheets felt heavenly against his tired limbs. He snuggled down the bed, pulling the coverlet round his head.

Tom pushed him to his own side of the sheets. “You’re as bad as Nagini. There’s a reason she sleeps on the floor. I will put up with a lot from you, darling, but hogging the bed isn’t an option.”

“Is that a threat?” Harry said. He turned and spooned against the Dark Lord. He hoped Tom didn’t see it as an invitation, as he was far too tired for another round. Still, it was so comfortable pressed up against him. He smiled, sleepily, as an arm draped lazily over his waist, drawing him closer. Tom, apparently, had found the energy to get into his own sleep robes, or more likely he’d just magicked them on. Whatever, Harry thought with a yawn.

Gentle fingers brushed through Harry’s hair, followed by the slightest press of lips to the back of his head. “A threat?” Voldemort mused softly. “Of course not. Sweet dreams, my Harry.”

***

Harry was a bed hog. He woke, blinking blearily up at the ceiling, his whole body stretched out. The bed was huge, but even so he had managed to take up the majority of it. Tom was curled on his side, right at the edge. It was good thing he had decided to slip on robes, as Harry had wrapped the blankets all round himself, leaving none for his sleep-mate. At least the room was warm. Again with diligent house-elves tending the fire throughout the night.

Harry managed to free himself from the tangle of sheets and carefully spread the blankets over Voldemort. This way, at least he could pretend he wasn’t a complete blanket bandit, and hopefully Tom would think he’d slept on the very edge of the bed on his own accord. Harry decided that he would experiment with sticking charms or ask Flippy to magic the hem of the sheet to the bottom of the bed. Otherwise he imagined Tom wouldn’t sleep so peacefully, especially in the dead of winter. Harry rather suspected that the snake-like elements he had absorbed into himself would make him particularly vulnerable to a chill.

He tiptoed into the bathroom. The candles around the room responded to his presence, flickering to life, and the bath began filling at once, warm and steaming. His slipped in as soon as the tub was full, then stretched out, humming lowly as he relaxed. He must have pulled quite a few muscles flying; his shoulders and thighs were an aching mess. He hadn’t felt so strained since first year, when Oliver Wood had kept him training for unreasonably long hours. It had been a very long flight to the coast, Harry reflected, and he hadn’t flown in ages. As he massaged the knots from his lower back, he wondered if the flight potion Tom had used caused such discomforts. Tom hadn’t complained, but then the man was remarkably stoic. He decided he’d surprise his husband with a morning massage, just in case.

And if the massage turned into something more intimate? That would be fine, too.

But dawn was a long way off. Harry had slept through half the day, and despite the sleepless Halloween night, Harry knew his mental exhaustion had long since fled.  Harry slumped in the water. As his aches began to lessen, Harry reflected on the last few days. A consort. He was Lord Voldemort’s consort. Of all the things…

He shook his head, grinning. And what a way to tell him. Harry had noticed that Voldemort, as much as he loved a good speech, was remarkably taciturn with certain things. Harry supposed Tom was uncomfortable with sentimentality—not that his new status had anything to do with that, Harry admonished himself. This was purely political. It had to be.

Still, it was funny to think of all the times when Voldemort had been at a loss for words. The man was excellent at explaining the most complex of magics when he was in the mood, yet he was unable to sit down and tell Harry just what being his consort meant. It made no sense to him. Why had he had to work it out himself, with Luna being the one to finally let him know he was married to Britain’s Magical ruler?

Harry knew from the bits of Muggle English history he’d managed to pick up in primary school—when he hadn’t been dodging Dudley’s kicking legs beneath his desk—that marriages were often made to forge alliances. A union between the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived?

In this new world, it was clearly meant to be.

But still, if that was all it was, why didn’t Tom just come out and say that. A simple: “Hey, Harry. I got us hitched the other day so that everyone would realize that you support my policies.”

Was that so hard?

And now, judging from what they’d discussed before supper, Tom didn’t even think Harry was truly attracted to him, that it was his Horcrux nature that made him want Voldemort so. Thinking back, Voldemort had said much the same thing a month before when Harry had said he loved him. Harry clenched his fists under the water. He’d been too surprised by the accusation—for that was what it was, he saw now—to feel angry.

He was angry now. The Dark Lord had placed so much faith in his magical prowess and had seemingly neglected the other important parts of his self-esteem. Alone now, though, Harry had to admit that he understood where Tom was coming from. Harry had never thought much of himself, and he was pretty average-looking (lightning-bolt scars notwithstanding). Tom had started off life looking like some kind of classical god. It was actually unfair how fuckingly good-looking Tom Marvolo Riddle had been in his youth. And then to lose it all, to replace that human perfection with—

With something else.

Harry could, intellectually, remember how he’d found Voldemort repulsive. He could not match up his feelings with those memories. It wasn’t the Horcrux. How could it be? He’d carried a piece of Tom’s soul from infancy, and it was only this past half-year that the man had dredged up feelings of anything but horror and hatred in him.

It was difficult for Harry to pinpoint exactly when his feelings had first shifted. Obviously sometime before Midsummer. Harry closed his eyes and went through his memories, starting from when he’d told Voldemort that he was an unknown Horcrux. He’d seen the Dark Lord as little more than a monster waiting for him in the night, a demon he had to appease with gifts. When had that monster become his beloved?

He remembered the terror of waking in that cell, his eyes useless, his words bound. He’d kissed Tom’s bare feet, and the action had set off shivers of disgust through his very being. Fear and disgust. That was what he felt for Tom then, with the barest memory of how lovely the man had been as a boy.

There had been his Initiation, when—

When he’d made more oaths than he could hope to remember. Harry rubbed at his forehead, wincing as suds dripped into his eyes. What had he vowed?

He couldn’t fucking remember. Only one vow stood out in his mind, the one where he granted access to his magic to the Dark Lord, and he could only remember that because of when he’d been stuck on the standing stone after his first disastrous try at Quidditch with Draco. His ankle wouldn’t heal, not without Voldemort’s leave. The oath had seen to that.

What else had it done?

The Initiation was hazy in his mind. He’d entered in with Nagini, had walked—terrified—to the dais and knelt before the Dark Lord’s throne. There’d been candles, and then a lot of promises in Parseltongue. Then there’d been a sacrifice—Petunia.

Oh, it had been so good watching her die. The fear in her eyes before Nagini struck was perhaps the most perfect thing he’d known up until—

Harry frowned. He’d always disliked his aunt. No, that wasn’t quite right. He could remember adoring her once, long long ago, back when he’d still thought she might love him back. But abuse took its toll, and his affection for her had died in the face of her neglect

But he’d never wanted her dead. Not until…

Those oaths.

It was definitely those Parseltongue oaths. Something inside him had shifted that night. Harry stared as his left arm. Voldemort had Marked him before he’d taken all those vows, taking sadistic pleasure at dominating the Chosen One so thoroughly. But though the brand had burned like Hades’ hellhounds had ripped into his flesh, there hadn’t been the same natural devotion as there was after the ritual Initiation. Harry had been frightened into submission, terrified at being locked away somewhere and forgotten. After the Initiation, though, Tom’s darkness and his will had sifted through to him. He’d become an extension of the Dark Lord almost.  

Harry leaned his head back on the edge of the bath and watched the candle flames flicker. He remembered the long nights in the cell, holding fast to Nagini, his new sister. Her presence had been so comforting, and he’d quickly learnt to enjoy her company.

More than enjoy. He’d quickly learned to love her. They both shared a small part of the Dark Lord’s soul, of course, and each found warmth in the familiarity that brought to the other. But there was more to their connection than that alone, though that was itself substantial. Had her affection for her Master bled into Harry?

And then there was his jealousy of Bellatrix. Harry still had to bite back a curse when he remembered the terrible witch and how he’d had to share Tom with her for so long. Tom had called him a jealous creature, and he’d been right. Even up until a few days ago, he’d been worried he’d have to share Voldemort with someone new.

And then Tom with his stupid ring. Harry smiled, sleepily, at the memory of Luna misunderstanding what it was. Strange how she could see so many otherworldly things but make such a hilarious mistake. She was still so innocent.

Harry slumped lower so that the  warm water could soak into his neck and help get those last kinks out. How had he managed to play seeker without a bath such as this? It was completely unfair, Harry decided as he relaxed more and more, that the prefects had their swimming-pool sized bath when the Quidditch players had to make do with showers. Well, and potions if anyone was so inclined to actually seek out Pomfrey when they weren’t in dire need, but no one sensible would risk an overnight stay in the Hospital Wing unless bone was jutting through skin. Or they’d lost their bones altogether, Harry remembered with a muted snort.

“I regret missing your matches that year. I understand they were rather exciting.” Harry started up, wincing as his not-quite relaxed muscles protested. “I do hope you weren’t about to fall asleep in the bath, Harry.”

Harry shook his head. “I couldn’t sleep,” he told Tom. “What are you doing out of bed?” He hoped Voldemort hadn’t rolled over in his sleep and tumbled onto the floor, though in picturing it he couldn’t help snicker.

Voldemort rolled his eyes, clearly having caught Harry’s thoughts. “You were too loud.” At Harry’s befuddled expression, he explained, “Your thoughts, my dear.”

Harry groaned. “You heard all that?”

Voldemort hummed his assent. “It woke me up.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, sheepishly. He wondered if Voldemort would actually want to talk about it all. Harry wasn’t sure if he was really ready speak these realizations aloud.

“I’ll join you.” Tom slipped his robes off and slipped into the tub. He sighed as he submerged himself in the hot water. “That’s better.”

Neither spoke for a  long time. Voldemort let his eyes close. Harry had almost thought he had fallen, hypocritically, asleep, when all at once the blood-red eyes flashed open to stare at him. “I’m going to take them off. Right away, as soon as we’re dressed.”

Harry straightened. “Take what off?”

Voldemort answered with narrowed eyes, his very gaze demanding that Harry try to work it out for himself. When Harry just shrugged back at him, Voldemort sighed loudly. “Those oaths, Harry. The ones you spoke at your Initiation.”

“No.”

“Excuse me.” Tom leaned forward. “I do think I can do as I please.”

Harry groaned. “I don’t want you to take them off. If you do…”

“I need to know.”

Harry looked to the window, where the frosted glass was reflecting the dancing candlelight. Anything to avoid looking at Tom. He didn’t want his new husband to know his own doubts, though Tom hardly needed eye-contact to discern his thoughts through Legilimency.

“Harry,” Tom said, pleadingly. “I need to know that what you’re feeling for me isn’t just a projection of my own will. You can understand that, can’t you? Besides, those oaths were for my followers, and I don’t want that for you anymore. Look at me.”

Harry didn’t, but only so he would know he had the power to disobey. “The theory is flawed, anyway,” Harry told Tom flatly, only realizing for himself now that it was true as memories of Midsummer flooded him. Voldemort had been quite clear that night that he could never return Harry’s love. “My feelings for you can’t be something you forced on me. Think about it, Tom. You can’t love. You wouldn’t know what to even project.”

Voldemort flinched at Harry’s tone, just a bit. Watching from out the corner of his eye, Harry had almost missed it. But even so, the tall wizard wouldn’t back down. “I still need to know. And then, if you wish it, we can replace those oaths with new ones. Wedding vows, proper ones this time.”

That made Harry look at Voldemort at last. “But we’re already married. It was a surprise elopement, remember? Even took one of the grooms by surprise.”

“You deserve something more formal. I know your feel cheated.” He pressed on before Harry had time to deny it: “And there’s no need to worry. Our formal bonding will have no rituals, or at least nothing outside the norm.”

Harry raised a brow. “No blood offerings or virgin sacrifices? You won’t be summoning demons to officiate?”

Voldemort only smirked. “We’ll go ring shopping as soon as the shops in Diagon Alley open. But first…”

“But first…?” Harry prompted after Voldemort’s words trailed off.

“First we remove the Parseltongue oaths I forced you to take.”

***

It was quicker than pulling off a plaster. There was no need for witnesses, though Voldemort did light a ring of white candles around himself. “It is a reversal and will bring back a purity of your mind.” He ignored Harry’s reflexive snort at these words. “You don’t need to say anything this time.”

Harry still didn’t know if this was  good idea. Actually, he was fairly certain it would prove disastrous. He didn’t want to risk every good thing he had now for something so feeble as clarity. He didn’t want to know if his happiness—and he was happy, goddammit!—was a lie. He asked Tom one last time if he was sure he wanted to do this, but the man wouldn’t change his mind and only gestured for Harry to join him in the ritual circle

Harry stepped into the candle-lit circle, still damp from the bath, then knelt before the Dark Lord. This he hadn’t done in a while, not in servility, but Tom had said they had to begin how the last oaths had ended. The candles flared, then each settled to a calm, barely wavering flicker of light.

A familiar, warm hand rested on Harry’s head. Unlike when he had first come to Tom, there was no vindictive possessiveness radiating through. “It’ll be okay, Harry,” Voldemort said before shifting into Parseltongue: “This willing servant, Harry James Potter, has served me well. It is time to release him from his bonds. I release my hold on his magic—”

A spasm pulsed through Harry, hot and cold at once. He was grateful for Tom’s steadying hand on his head, for without it he was sure he would have toppled sideways, knocking over the candles and destroying the circle.

“And on his person and on his life. No longer must he obey, no longer may I demand anything beyond what he is willing to give. He shall no longer call me Master, for he—alone—stands my equal.” And here the hand on Harry’s head shifted to his chin, gently prodding him up.

Not a demand, Harry knew. A request.

Harry rose to his feet, and something in his action made the candles gutter out, as if all their magic had been spent. Harry was still reeling in the waves of his will returning to him.

It was a lot…. Waves upon waves of…was this his magic?

His whole body felt alive, and he had to wonder…this couldn’t be what he’d missed. Tom couldn’t have taken all this from him, this vibrancy. That was…

Inexcusable.

But no, the waves of frenetic energy levelled to something he was familiar with, something he’d never lost. Harry looked up into worried red eyes.

Tom withdrew, backing out of the circle of lifeless candles, and watched Harry warily, silently.

“For a moment there…” Harry began, looking down at his hands, examining them, as if they were something foreign.

“Yes?” Tom’s voice was hoarse.

But Harry was the silent one now. He was looking at Tom, watching his every move, his every mannerism. He watched as the other man’s Adam apple sank and lifted again as he swallowed. He watched the man’s always-so-steady wand hand waver, empty and anxious. He watched as slitted pupils constricted, though with the candles out they should have dilated to counter the dimmed light.

“For a moment,” Harry finally repeated, “I thought I could feel my magic return to me, though—except for when my ankle wouldn’t heal—I hadn’t noticed it missing. It was overwhelming, and at first I thought maybe you’d taken it from me.” He ignored the horrified look Tom gave him and ploughed on, “But now I feel the same. I was just feeling the oath releasing, that was all.”

“You feel the same…” Tom echoed. He wasn’t talking about Harry’s magic.

Harry smiled brightly. “I do.” And that was a wonder, really, given all that he’d done while bathed in Tom’s will. But it was true.

“I still feel like home…” Tom trailed off.

“Yup.” Harry popped the ‘p’. “I still love you.”

Tom still wasn’t completely convinced. “And it’s not the Horcrux?” he pressed.

“Trust me, that I’m sure of. Those oaths had me worried, but not this.” He brushed the hair from his scar. “But you forgot to release some of the oaths.”

“I didn’t. You’re free. I—”

Harry waved him quiet. “Your own oaths, I meant. Not all those Initiation oaths were directed to me. You vowed to protect me.”

Tom sighed, relieved, then stepped in to again cup his hand under Harry’s chin. He tugged gently upwards, meeting Harry’s eyes. “I did not forget. I am not willing to remove my own oaths of protection from you. In fact, unless circumstances have changed your mind, we have new vows to make. Mutual vows.”

“Marriage vows,” Harry said, grinning.

Chapter Text

“I still look like a Death Eater,” Harry said with a frown as he drew his travelling cloak about himself. He grimaced at his refection. Although for the most part he’d gotten used to the monotony of the same black outfit he was expected to wear day after day, all of a sudden the conformity grated. “I look ordinary,” he wheedled, knowing that to Tom, being ‘ordinary’ was the ultimate crime.

 “We can make a stop at Twilfitt and Tatting’s. I think something in—”

“Don’t say green to match my eyes, for Merlin’s sake. Everyone always says that. Besides, I like the colour red.”

Voldemort’s mouth quirked to a lopsided, lipless grin. “To match my eyes?”

Harry rolled his eyes, then spun around and patted Tom’s cheek. “No. Red for Gryffindor. But perhaps we should get our wedding robes while we’re there. How, er, big is this thing going to be? We won’t need invites, will we? I want something small.”

“Then something small it shall be. Just you, me, all my followers, and of course we will need to invite the Magical heads of the various states I’ve been --”

Harry kissed him to make him shut up. “Thirty. That’s it. We can each choose…well, you can choose them all, I suppose. I don’t have anyone to invite but Draco and Luna, and they’d be coming anyway.”

Voldemort murmured, “We’ll talk about that later.” He tugged Harry from the mirror and, with a quick warning, Apparated them to the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron. The lone elderly witch who was waiting there with an armful of parcels dropped them all and darted into the pub.

Harry stooped to pick up one of her fallen packages, calling out, “Here, let me help—” but jumped back when the package in question started barking at him. He pulled out his wand instead and levitated everything through the doors after her. “You’re welcome!” he yelled out in answer to the frightened cry that came from within.

Tom steered him over to the brick wall. Harry watched the Dark Lord tap out the proper sequence of bricks. “To think even the most powerful of Dark Lords still has to do that.”

Voldemort raised a hairless brow. “I could have Apparated us to the shops directly, but I thought you might prefer this. I wasn’t willing to stoop to taking us first to Muggle London and walk through from there. I do have some standards.”

Harry wasn’t paying attention, though. He was watching as the bricks barring their way into Diagon Alley shifted and danced, rearranging themselves to grant them passage. The sights, the smells, the sounds of the Magical street hit Harry with a host of memories. He was eleven again with Hagrid towering over him and gesturing with his pink umbrella. And it was as amazing as it had been then.

“The war is really over,” Harry said, watching over the hurried crowds coming and going. Not hurried from fear, though, not like when he’d been here last and the taste of despair was thick and pungent. Now the stores were full of jostling, cheerful shoppers, and Diagon Alley was once again a joyous and prosperous place.

Or it was joyous and cheerful until the first person caught sight of Lord Voldemort.

In the sudden stillness, the banging chorus of Apparation was louder than cannon-shot. A wail of a small child and the subsequent hush from an older woman who seemed unable to magic themselves away was easily heard in the aftermath of the crowd’s dispersal.

“That’s better,” Tom said, glancing around with a thin smile. “I hate crowds.”

But Harry knew the lie for what it was. Tom had been revelling in Harry’s happiness at being here again, which had been ruined in the wake of everyone’s fear. He reached for Tom’s hand. The longer fingers stilled in his, and Harry felt the slight tremor of Tom almost pulling away. He realized at once that he’d been too presumptuous, that the ruler of Wizarding Britain might not want to be so publicly affectionate.

But as Harry began to pull away, Voldemort’s grip tightened before loosening to a casual hold. “Do you wish to shop for wedding rings first, Harry? Or a winter wardrobe?” Voldemort’s voice was too loud to be for him alone. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see the few remaining shoppers relax their bracing postures and look curiously towards them.

“The wedding rings,” Harry said, playing along—but that was why they were here, and he was also anxious that shops might close up in the face of the potential shoppers if they waited too long.

“This way, then, my dear. I know a place just down this side-alley. If one has a discerning eye”—and whose eye was as discerning as Tom’s?—“and is willing to look past the tawdry and often cursed items, then there is no better place.”

Was Tom referring to…?

He was. Knockturn Alley looked far better suited to the pair of them, anyway. The hag that had terrified Harry when he was twelve and desperately lost seemed to be still rooted to the same spot, though it was hard to tell as she was but a tumble of dirty clothes and a cackle of madness. She held out a hand to them as they passed, perhaps hoping for a handout.

Borgin and Burkes seemed to have done well through the war, if the stuffed window display was any indication. Before they entered, Voldemort turned Harry aside and said, “Remember not to touch anything. From your memories, I know you’ve been here before. Lucius’s warning to his son was not only to keep his spoiled spawn from badgering him for a new toy. A good many items on display will prove detrimental to the curious touch.”

“Why are we shopping here then?”

“I seem to be becoming sentimental in my old age,” Voldemort said with a small smile. “Besides, we are not interested in the worthless items on display. I know where Burke stowed away his most treasured acquisitions, and he was thief enough to pay for them out of the shop’s treasury yet keep them from his partner.”

Harry couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at his lips. “And you didn’t take off with them when you stopped working here?” He wasn’t expecting the firm hand that covered his mouth halfway through his question.

“I hadn’t the opportunity. Besides, I was trying to not draw more attention to myself. Even now, the Ministry’s records on Tom Riddle are spotless. And no—I see that look, Harry—not because I wiped them clean myself. I always kept open that avenue for re-establishing myself, should the need arise. Of course, I hadn’t expected Dumbledore to live so long and ruin any use my birthname might have held.” Tom had to take a deep breath to expunge his sudden anger.

“It’s supposed to be a happy day. Don’t think of that old fool,” Harry said before pushing his way into the shop. The tinkle of the bell above the door was the same. The skulls in jars were the same. The foul-looking man stooped behind the counter was the same. Borgin’s beady eyes were staring at Harry with displeasure as he watched him step insides.

“Come in and close the door if you have business here,” he said, his voice more snarled than the oily one Harry recalled him using with Lucius Malfoy.

“Oh, I’m not alone.” Harry watched the man carefully as Voldemort stepped in behind him. Borgin looked like he was tempted to Disapparate like nearly everyone else they’d come across.

Voldemort turned immediately to tap the filmy shop window, and all the blinds shuttered at once and the door locked itself. “Now we won’t be disturbed,” he explained quietly.

Harry watched as Tom spun slowly on his heel, taking in his surroundings. He wished he was talented in Legilimency, too. Was Voldemort seeing things as they were now? How they’d been back in the 1940s and early 50s, when he’d last worked here? Harry rather thought the dust was a new touch. He couldn’t imagine the immaculate Tom Riddle working anywhere so…well…filthy.

Finally, Borgin regained his voice. “My good sirs,” he began, his voice disgustingly obsequious. He faltered as Voldemort swung around to survey the pale shopkeeper. “My Lord. My most benevolent Lord. He turned to Harry. “And Mr Potter, if my eyes don’t deceive me. How might I serve my most gracious…my most generous Masters?

Voldemort ignored the bootlicking and strode behind the counter. Silently, he gestured for Harry to follow. Borgin, who looked like he was almost brave enough to object this invasion, watched the two of them disappear into the shadows of the shop’s storeroom. A creaky staircase led upstairs. They’d nearly reached the attic when Voldemort stopped. He motioned for Harry to take a look at the second to last step. “Do you notice anything peculiar?”

Harry didn’t, not at first. It seemed much like the other steps with its peeling paint. Harry examined it still closer, trying to see anything that set it apart from its brothers. “It has an extra nail?” he finally said. “Other than that…”

“You have a better eye than Borgin, then.” With his wand, Tom traced the five nails in an almost feathery pattern. “This forms the rune Fehu.” What that meant in this context was clear, as with a click the step released upwards, revealing a hidden cavity. Harry couldn’t help but remember his own secret stash tucked beneath the loose floorboards in his bedroom at Privet Drive.

Voldemort then performed a complex series of disenchantments. “Burke was a bit mad in the end. Paranoid of everything, and especially of his partner. All that exposure to cursed artifacts,” he said as he withdrew a honey-coloured chest, “is not beneficial to one’s health.”

There were more curses woven into the box that Voldemort had to remove, but finally he lifted the lid and peered inside. “Do you see anything you like?”

The chest was straight out of a fairy-tale, filled to the brim with jewelled necklaces, bracelets, and broaches. “You’re sure they’re safe to touch?” Harry asked, remembering the lovely opal necklace that Borgin had sold Malfoy in sixth year, the one that had nearly killed Katie Bell on the walk back from Hogsmeade.

“Better safe than sorry.” Tom brought them back to the landing and dumped the whole box of treasures onto the floor. More detection charms were cast. This time, at least five items began to glow a sickly pink colour. Voldemort levitated those few up and carefully inspected them. “It seems as if these ones had been hexed at some point, though those enchantments have faded enough from time alone that with a few counter-curses they should prove benign.”

Harry leaned in, taking care not to touch any of it. Only one of the objects floating in front of him was even reasonably wearable. Everything else was hopelessly gaudy, a mishmash of oversized jewels in horrific settings. “The golden bracelet with the blue stones is nice. It’s not exactly a ring though, is it?” He supposed there was still the pile of uncursed items to check.

Tom set the bracelet aside, then he flicked his wand to send the rejected items to the front desk. “I do hope Borgin junior isn’t so fool as to touch anything without a careful inspection. In this business, you would think it would be prudent, but it only takes one moment of carelessness. And, of course, certain curses incorporate compulsions to touch.”

Like Tom’s family ring. “The best curses,” Harry agreed with a wicked smile.

“Nothing present in that collection was so affected, so Borgin should be fine.” Tom wrapped the gold bracelet in a handkerchief and pocketed it. “I can have this forged into two rings, should nothing else prove worthy.”

Harry rummaged through the pile. “How old are all these?” he wondered. The few silver pieces were tarnished, and it was hard for Harry to imagine them in their full glory in such a state. Another quick spell from Tom and everything was gleaming.

“Most were here while I was working, so well over fifty years…and remember they were considered antique then. This is where Burke would have stashed my mother’s locket before he sold it to that bag Smith. There are likely other prizes waiting here.”

Too many to count, really. Harry sifted the jewellery back and forth, searching for the perfect choice. It would be ideal to find two identical rings, already forged and waiting, but that seemed unlikely. And just as he’d almost given up, he caught a nearly burning white glimmer of something half-buried in the pile. Harry picked up the small ring—for ring it was—and could almost feel it throb with power in his palm. Harry bit his lip and showed it to Tom. “This one,” he said softly. But he was scared, suddenly, that Tom would say no. That it wasn’t suitable, that it wasn’t safe. That he wanted it for himself.

Tom did pluck it from his hand, and Harry had to stop himself from yanking it back with jealous fingers. But Tom only picked up Harry’s left hand and slid it onto his ring finger. “Platinum ringed with sapphires and diamonds. It looks lovely on you, my darling.”

Harry leaned up and kissed Tom on the lips, then pulled back with what he knew was a goofy grin. “But what about you? I want our rings to match.”

Tom nudged the pile carefully, and Harry’s jaw dropped. There, nearly hidden behind a hideous tiara, was an identical ring. There was no way…Tom must have…

Harry picked it up, weighing it and judging it. It seemed the same as the other ring, exactly. “You didn’t come here earlier just to plant these, did you?”

Voldemort’s eyes widened, and he gave Harry a look as if to say, ‘Who? Me?’ He didn’t say anything at all though, but held his left hand out, watching intently as Harry took it up and slipped the matching ring onto his finger. Before he released Voldemort’s hand, Harry said, “Aren’t we supposed to wait until the ceremony to give the rings? That whole, ‘With this ring, I thee wed?’”

Voldemort sniffed. “That’s the Muggle way. Wizarding folk wear their rings from engagement to the wedding ceremony, imbuing them with magic from their core. Then they exchange them at the matrimonial ritual, thus symbolizing the sharing of magic and life.”

“You should give me a book so I can read up on it,” Harry decided. He was beginning to feel nervous in the face of his ignorance. “I don’t want to embarrass you by saying or doing something I shouldn’t. The Prophet will have a field day if I bollocks this up. I don’t want to be the reason Skeeter starts running her, er, pen off.”

Voldemort’s face morphed into something sinister, and Harry was amazed that where once that evil grin had riddled his nightmares, now it just went straight to his groin. He licked his lips as Tom’s eyes gleamed with malice and at the promised, “Then I will enjoy squashing her like the irritating bug she is.”

Harry was about to fall to his knees to show exactly how Tom’s words were affecting him when Borgin interrupted their fun by poking his greasy head round the corner of the landing. “Are my Lords quite finished?” he dared ask. A raspy gasp told Harry exactly when the shopkeeper noticed the jewels and precious objects heaped upon the floor.

“Congratulations on your newfound acquisitions, Mr Borgin.” Voldemort stood towering over the terrified shopkeeper. “I have selected several items as a finder’s fee. I trust you have no issue with that?”

Borgin bowed low. “No, of course not, my most generous Lord.” His eyes kept darting towards his new wealth, his eyes becoming somehow more and more beady in his avarice. “Thank you for frequenting this most unworthy of establishments. Is there anything else I might help you with? I am always on the lookout for heirlooms, should you find the need to part with any unwanted artifacts.”

Voldemort chuckled. “Yes, I am well aware of the shadier services you offer, Mr Borgin. I doubt I will ever require your help with such matters, as I prefer to keep my treasures close.” And with that, he took Harry’s hand and led him down the stairs and then out the door and back into Knockturn Alley.

Harry breathed deeply as soon as they were outside the grimy shop, though the alley was little better. The air was arguably worse, especially considering the thick plumes of smoke issuing from a squat wizard holding a nasty looking pipe. Voldemort glared at the poor man, who dropped the pipe in terror and shuffled into the shadows.

“We’ll see to your clothes now, my darling.” Voldemort pulled him down the alley and into the tidier, brighter Diagon Alley. Harry let himself be led down the street, which was starting to fill again. The other shoppers and salespeople still gave them fearful glances and stepped unfalteringly out of their way, but they’d obviously decided not to flee.

As they passed by Madam Malkin’s robe shop, Harry noticed a shadowy figure behind the window. It was just as well that they didn’t want to do their clothes shopping there, for as soon as they’d passed the door, the curtains drew sharply closed and the ‘open’ sign flipped viciously to ‘closed.’

The clothier Voldemort brought him to was upscale, nothing Harry would ever have thought to frequent on his own. An impeccably dressed wizard welcomed them both in: “Welcome to Twilfitt and Tatting’s, My Lord and my dear Mr Potter. Please find yourselves at home in our most humble establishment.” Clap. Clap. “Sidsy, please escort our Lords into the shop, then ensure they are seen at once by our most skilled tailor.” And then a low, courteous bow, all polish and perfection.

“You can see how Narcissa has easily ravaged Lucius’s vault here,” Tom whispered into Harry’s ear. Harry had to agree. Everything was a casual elegance, and though there wasn’t a price-tag to be seen, the entire store seemed to suggest that with a willing wallet, this graciousness could be one’s own for but a few spare Galleons.

Harry let his hand glide over a bolt of heavy silk. The winter fabrics were on display now, and darker, warmer colours dominated the well-lit tables and shelves. Voldemort was eyeing a display of various greens. “I think this emerald would suit you well.”

“I said I didn’t want green,” Harry returned, but he did walk over to take a better look. There was no use in turning his nose up, especially if it was something that could so easily please Tom. “I suppose this shade isn’t so bad.”

A saleslady was standing nearby to whisk the material away. Voldemort selected another, more olive tone, murmuring, “Just let me have it made up. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t think it suits you.”

Harry nodded his agreement. That seemed fair. As fair as him picking up bolt of supple crimson silk. “And have this one made up for our Lord. Something easily removed.”

The shop lady blushed nearly as bright as the eyes the silk was meant to match. “Anything else, my Lords?”

Voldemort managed to stop grinding his teeth (and Harry knew that was all for show, for he could feel the playfulness dancing in his scar even now) long enough to tell her his ideas for their matching ceremonial robes. Harry listened idly. He’d already discussed the cut and colour with Voldemort enough to trust that he’d look dashing, regardless of his input now.

The fitting was tedious. The only highlight, so far as Harry was concerned, was that Voldemort was forced to put up with the tailor’s dancing tape measure flitting about his inseam the same as regular, mortal folk. The measuring tape did canter off when Voldemort finally got near to blasting it, but that wasn’t until the thing had begun trying to measure the distance between his flattened nostrils.

“And I thought only Ollivander bothered with these dratted things,” the Dark Lord muttered with a scowl.

“They probably measure by hand normally,” Harry said as he stood still, trying not to disrupt—and thus delay—the charmed tape that was zooming about his torso. “But I imagine the shopkeepers were a little nervous about actually measuring up your leg. Speaking of which, send this one off, too. Hey, you don’t need that measurement.” In the end, the measuring tape got far more information than Harry was happy sharing outside the bedroom. He hoped the shop wouldn’t sell the information to any Wizarding publications. He’d seen his name in print far too often as it was.

“Discretion is one of the benefits we are paying for,” Voldemort reassured him.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, first for Voldemort’s words, and then because the fitting was at last done. A dapper middle-aged man sauntered over to them, betraying no fear in the face of who his clients were. After offering them a small bow, one that Harry suspected was practiced enough that it was used for all patrons, the man haughtily told them to expect their new garments by the end of the week. When Voldemort’s eyes flashed with annoyance at the delay, the man pressed, “Ordinarily, my Lords, I could not guarantee delivery within a fortnight.”

Harry placed a hand on Tom’s wand arm. It’s good enough, he thought. I don’t want a scene.

Tom still scowled down at the poor man, who looked close to cringing back in fear and was only still standing tall due to his training. Harry didn’t want to be like all the other rich snobs who demanded everything be dropped for them just because they happened to live in a manor and had mounds of gold lining their vaults.

Still, Voldemort seemed to think that the shop would take advantage if they didn’t apply some sort of pressure. “My consort and I will be performing a hand-fasting rite this Saturday. If our ceremonial robes aren’t ready by then, you can be certain the public will know exactly who delayed the order.”

The clerk nodded professionally. “They will be delivered no later than Friday morning; that should give plenty of time for any necessary alterations. And my Lords, please allow those robes to be a gift. Twilfitt and Tatting’s is most pleased that we were your first choice when it came to finding suitable attire for such a blessed day.”

Voldemort inclined his head in acknowledgement. Harry smiled broadly at the man. He stuck his hand out. “Thanks.”

The man stared down at the proffered hand, then back up to Voldemort; he was clearly not sure what he should do. Tom’s terrible glare made the clerk pick Harry’s hand up awkwardly by his white-gloved fingers. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr Potter. I hope to see you here far more often. I don’t remember seeing you previously, and you must forgive me for noting that you are rather recognizable.”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t think the man would think much of the ratty clothes he’d typically worn under his Hogwarts robes, and he didn’t think Tom would appreciate him revealing that Muggle jeans and shirts had comprised the bulk of his wardrobe until only recently. “I’ve enjoyed my shopping experience,” he said, which was pretty much a lie, but whatever. “I’m sure I’ll be back again soon.”

With that came a far more reverent bow, the beneficiary of which seemed to be this future promised patronage. “Until then.”

And then Harry and Voldemort were ushered out of the shop. Tom muttered something under his breath about how they’d order via owl from now on. Harry risked one last look through the shop window to see the well-dressed clerk slump into one of the chaises near the dressing-rooms, already with a tumbler of hard liquor in his hand.

Chapter Text

“I still think this is a bad idea.” Harry was going through all his new and colourful robes, though he knew Voldemort’s plan was doomed no matter what he wore.

“I trust Miss Lovegood’s judgement in this matter. She was quite adamant regarding this next step,” Voldemort said from the table in their rooms. He was still finishing up his breakfast. Harry had been too nervous to really eat and had only managed to choke down a slice of toast thanks to Nagini’s mothering. “Young Mr Weasley has languished long enough in my dungeons.”

Harry scowled. “It’s not like he’s bothered by that.” He took his irritation out on his wardrobe, slamming robe after robe along their hanging rod. Everything screamed either Death Eater or exorbitant wealth. Neither would make a good impression to Ron. “I should be wearing Muggle clothes for this. It’ll put Ron more at ease.”

Voldemort finally finished his meal and stood up. “Your best friend was raised in a Pureblood family. He will hardly balk at Wizarding robes.”

“Can you make these a dark blue?” Harry asked, pulling out one of his remaining black uniforms. “It’s the most modest.”

Voldemort muttered something about lazy boys not being able to spell their own clothes a different colour but obliged with a wave of his wand.

“Don’t blame me for not finishing my education,” Harry said. He was still sore that he hadn’t been offered tutoring so that he might take his NEWTs.

“A colour-change charm is hardly a seventh-year spell.”

Harry ignored him and changed out of his nightwear. He looked himself over in the mirror. He still looked like a stuffy Pureblood, but it was the best he had to work with. He ruffled his hair up to something more messy—more ‘Harry’. “So, what exactly did Luna say that made you go against my wishes?”

“She believed that Ronald Weasley’s reintroduction to your life is critical for both our wellbeing. She had no explanation to support her assertion.”

“You’re sure Hermione didn’t put her up to this?” Harry asked. Luna was still amiable with Hermione, and even though his former friend didn’t shoot Harry unfriendly looks anymore, he hated being near her—it was too much a reminder, and now that the oaths had been removed from him, he only felt more guilty about everything he’d done. “She might not be particularly Slytherin, but she’s still cunning enough for that.”

“Your Mudblood has nothing to do with it. I believe Miss Lovegood is being directed by seer intuition, if you must know.”

Harry stifled a groan. Not that nonsense again. “I hope you realize how much I hate divination.”

“Considering our past, I’m not surprised. But while I believe your friend is directed in some way, I would hardly call it divination. Not in the way you are thinking, at any rate.” He came up behind Harry, smoothing down his ruffled hair. “You don’t need to pretend to be someone you aren’t, Harry. We need to see if Mr Weasley will accept you as you are. Not as you were.”

Harry turned around and looked sadly up at him. “And if he doesn’t?”

Tom bent down and brushed Harry’s nose with the flat of his own. “He will.”

 “I’m scared,” Harry admitted.

“I know,” Tom said. “But if Harry Potter was brave enough to face Lord Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, then he’s certainly brave enough to face Ronald Weasley in St Mungo’s.”

But that hadn’t been bravery, Harry thought as he took one last look at the nervous-looking young man in the mirror.

***

Severus Snape had been practicing the scowl he’d so often used against Gryffindors. He stood just outside Ron Weasley’s private room at St Mungo’s hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries clutching a steaming bottle of mandrake restorative draught, and whenever an orderly bumped into him, the sinister looking Potions Master looked as though he wanted to unleash the deadly scream of the primary ingredient on the offender.

When Harry and Tom came near, Snape nodded to them with subdued respect. “We are waiting on Healer Blishwick,” he told them.

“Why do we need a Healer?” Harry asked. “Why can’t you administer the dose yourself?” Harry was unsure why they were at St Mungo’s for this at all.  It would have been much tidier doing this at Malfoy Manor. For one thing, he wouldn’t have had to dodge all those people in the lobby who’d gawked at him and Tom as they came in together.

Snape grimaced. “I can, but reanimation carries the remote possibility of heart failure.” When Harry looked ready to protest, the Potions Master held up a silencing hand. “And while the Dark Lord is capable of restoring Mr Weasley even in that worst-case scenario, surely it would be easier for your friend to wake from sleep rather than be pulled from the jaws of death. That would be far more disconcerting, and we are doing everything in our power to make his reintroduction as seamless as we can.”

It was the first time Harry had heard Snape say anything about his own time beyond the grave. All at once, Harry was filled with far too many questions: What was death? Was it nothingness or was there something there to greet them, for good or ill? Had Snape met Dumbledore there? Had he met Harry’s mother?

Did they say anything about Harry?

It wasn’t the time to ask any of that, but in the wondering, Harry was quick to realize the importance of making sure Ron didn’t slip from life right now. What if he were to meet with his family before he could accept Harry? They might poison Ron against him before he could even hope to accept the reasons behind Harry’s actions.

Not that Harry held much hope of that.

And then the healer was there, and Harry’s heart was in his throat. Voldemort clasped his hand, giving it  a brief squeeze before letting go. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Harry nodded, then followed Snape into the hospital room. Inside, lying on the white, sterile bed, was Ron. His familiar eyes were still fixed in terror, taking in a Basilisk that had long since slithered off to its lair. Two chairs were setup next to the bed. Hermione sat in one, and she was leaning over Ron. She’d been crying; the handkerchief she was holding was sodden. When she heard the door close softly, she looked up. Harry was shocked by the tentative—and earnest—smile she gave him. He couldn’t return it properly but did offer a nod of what he hoped came across as friendly reassurance.

Luna sat in the second chair. She was holding Hermione’s other hand in both of her own, rubbing small circles into her palm. Behind her stood Draco. When he saw Harry come in with Snape and the Healer, he gave a gentle squeeze to Luna’s shoulder before stepping away. “I’ll be outside. I doubt my face will be conducive to the situation, all things considering.”

Before he left, Draco whispered something in Snape’s ear.

“I’m not so much a fool, Draco,” the man muttered before handing the restorative potion to Healer Blishwick. “Regardless of what Mr Weasley might think of my loyalties, he would be in his rights to be disturbed at seeing me here, considering I died in his presence.” He stepped into an out-of-the-way corner and Disillusioned himself.

“Excellent, excellent,” the healer said, rubbing her hands together. “It’s not everyday that we see the devastation wrought by a quintuple X-classified beast. How did he manage to survive?”

“The Basilisk’s gaze was hooded,” Harry told her. He moved over behind Luna, taking Draco’s former spot. He looked over the girls. Hermione was fiddling with her handkerchief and biting her lip.

“Everything will be fine,” Luna soothed. “You’ll see.” Harry didn’t know if she was telling Hermione that, or him. He was just as nervous as Hermione, though he thought he hid it far better.

“And here we go,” Blishwick said as she approached her patient. She gently lifted Ron’s head off the bed. After tipping the potion into his mouth, she rubbed her hand gently alongside his throat to coax it down. “Give him a few minutes, and then please remember that he will have a substantial gap in his memory.”

Hermione nodded. She knew that better than anyone.

Harry watched, his stomach roiling with apprehension, as Ron’s eyes slowly lost their glassy expression. Not much seemed to happen at first: Ron twitched his nose; he worked his jaw.

And then he shot bolt upright and screamed loud enough to wake his fallen family. “Godric’s hairy bollocks!” he shouted out right after. “Run!”

The Healer only smiled and cast a quick immobilizing charm on Ron’s lower body. “Good afternoon, Mr Weasley. Welcome back to the waking world.”

Ron turned to her. “Wha?” He turned to take in the rest of them, blinking in confusion. “Hermione? Harry? Where are we?” Before anyone could answer, a goofy grin spread on his freckled  face. “This is St Mungo’s.”

Hermione nodded and reached out to brush a strand of red hair off Ron’s forehead. She was crying again. Harry imagines she was blinded by the torrent of her tears.

Ron was still gazing about in wonder. “Luna, you made it, too! Merlin—this means we won!” He laughed then, a great giddy wave of relief. “We won. Otherwise, I’d be…you’d be…Harry, you did it!”

Oh, sweet Circe. Of course Ron had to assume the…best? Worst?

But Blishwick was there, taking the pressure off Harry. She finished up casting a diagnostic charm and was holding her wand in front of Ron’s face, the tip lit up with a soft Lumos. “Keep your eyes on this, Mr Weasley. Good. Good. And now follow up…and down…excellent. Now can you tell me what you last remember?”

Ron squeezed his eyes shut for a moment once the eye exercises were complete. He blinked a few times upon reopening them. “Remember? Ah, I remember a honking great snake looming over me. What do you think I remember?”

A soft laugh. “I am just trying to make sure there is nothing missing from your memory. No gaps beyond what we already expect.” She seemed unfazed by Ron’s rudeness. Harry supposed she was used to all sorts, working here. “What can you recall from before you saw the Basilisk?”

Ron looked over to Hermione, as if she might help him as she had done so many other times in preparation for a test or exam. She pulled out from Luna’s grip and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Go on,” she murmured, supportively.

Ron looked bewildered for a moment. Harry almost hoped he had forgotten something—or everything, he wasn’t picky—but Ron’s eyes shifted to him and he nodded, as if recalling the whole event. “Harry here had woken up from a bad dream. A vision, really. He knew that You-Know-Who was on his way, and we were rushing to find a way out.”

“So, the Dark Lord was there?” the healer questioned. “And the Basilisk was under his control?”

“Hold on, I wasn’t quite…” Ron said, frowning in concentration. “We were racing through the tunnels under the school, and…” His eyes slid from Harry, then, onto the Healer, who was watching her charmed quill as it jotted down everything Ron was saying. “Hold on…”

The Healer looked up as Ron paused. “And then?”

But Ron was staring at the Healer with suspicion. And then at Harry. His gaze swept round all of them, then settled back on Blishwick. “You sound like…were you a Death Eater?” He pressed himself to the back of the bed, his eyes shifting now to the healer’s dormant wand.

Blishwick’s mouth fell open in surprise. When she’d gathered herself enough to answer, she said, “No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

Harry knew why, though. Apparently no one had given the healer a heads-up that Ron wouldn’t know about the change in Wizarding Britain’s leadership, nor that Voldemort’s preferred title had become commonplace.

Ron explained, nervously. “What you said just now. What you called You-Know-Who. Only Death Eaters call him that.” He looked again at his gathered friends. “What’s going on?”

“I…” What could Harry say that wouldn’t condemn himself from start to finish. Nothing. All he could do was explain and hope it was enough. He didn’t dither; there was no more time: “I’m a Horcrux.”

Ron’s eyes glazed over, and for a second it was as if the restorative draught hadn’t been used at all. It was a terrible sight. And when they refocused—well, Ron wasn’t stupid, no matter how much he’d never cared much for his education. He would know the implications.

“And I didn’t want to die,” Harry added, looking down at his feet.

Ron stared at Harry in silence for a good long while, long enough that Harry had begun to think that his former friend would never speak to him again. And Harry couldn’t really blame him.

But then Ron blurted out, “Bloody hell.” His lips sealed again in that way they always did whenever he was trying to get his head around something. Finally, he managed to croak out, “How did you find that out?”

Harry’s eyes never left the floor, though his mind was replaying the whole thing. “Do you remember that memory Snape gave me before he died? I went up to the Headmaster’s office to watch it in the pensieve. Apparently, Dumbledore had told Snape what I was before he died, with the instructions to tell me ‘when the time was right’.”

Ron looked outraged more than anything by that explanation. “What utter fucking--! No wonder you ran off like you did.”

Harry remembered, then, how he’d misled his friend back in the Chamber. “I didn’t run, though. I went to…to Voldemort. And I told him what I was.” Harry’s mind flooded with every horrible moment of that confrontation, and even now that all was worked out between him and Tom, he could still feel his face naturally take on the expression of the fear he’d felt back then.

Ron looked confused again, and his eyes roamed the hospital room, taking in his friends’ faces. “But I don’t understand. How did you get away?”

He still thinks the Light won, Harry realized. “I didn’t,” Harry explained quietly. “I surrendered—yes, I know I’m a coward.” Harry held his hand up to ward off the oncoming accusation. “So you don’t need to tell me.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t going to say that. Blimey, Harry, you should have come to us. We could have worked something out. And now he knows what you are—shit—and…did you at least kill his snake?”

It was Hermione who answered. “What good would that even do now, Ron? Without destroying all the Horcruxes, there’s no point targeting her.” And now she looked at Harry. “And we’re done going after Horcruxes.”

“There’s no point to them now, anyway,” Harry added. “He’s immortal through the Deathly Hallows.”

Ron went from looking floored to looking thoughtful. His gaze shifted to Luna, who smiled benignly back at him. “That was what your dad was on about, wasn’t it? What does that even mean?” he asked the blonde girl.

But it was Hermione who answered. “Voldemort gathered the three Hallows: The Invisibility Cloak, the Resurrection Stone, and the Elder Wand.”

“And now he’s the Master of Death,” Harry finished. He could not keep the smile from his lips, no matter how hard he tried. Ron stared at his mouth, uncomprehending his delight.

“But what the fuck does that mean?”

A black figure stepped out of non-existent shadow. “It means, Mr Weasley,” Snape said softly, “that the Dark Lord is far more powerful than ever before.”

Ron squeaked his surprise. “P-p-professor?”

Snape sighed. He turned to Healer Blishwick. “You are no more attentive now than you were six years ago during your NEWTs. Mr Weasley is due for a second dose of the restorative draught, unless you wish to tell our Lord why his consort’s best friend died only minutes into his awakening.”

That got Blishwick moving. She unstoppered a new vial of potion and handed it to Ron. “I believe you can manage to drink this on your own this time.” Then she took Ron’s vitals again before handing him a small, red orb. “This is charmed to alert me should the need arise. Just give it a firm squeeze and I’ll check on you right away.”

Ron nodded as he watched her leave. Before the door swung shut again, Harry caught a glimpse of Tom’s voluminous black robes from the corridor. From the expression on Ron’s face, he had as well. Ron set the orb on the table next to his bed, then glared from Snape, to Harry, to Hermione and back to Harry again. He ignored Luna, but then he must have realized she’d had nothing to do with any of this. “Someone best tell me what’s going on.”

Snape must have decided to play professor again, for he stepped closer and settled himself on the foot of Ron’s bed. Ron scooted his legs up, more in a move to keep away from his most hated professor than to give the man room. Snape sneered but ignored that. Instead, he sighed. The weight of all he’d been through seemed to wash over his features in the moment before he began talking. “You know that Albus had begun seeking out the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes.” He didn’t wait for, nor even see, Ron’s bobbing head. “Unlike Mr Potter, he did not explain to me the purpose behind his ventures out of Hogwarts during your sixth year. I only knew that he was searching for a way to win the war.

“One day, shortly before your sixth year was to begin, Albus returned to Hogwarts terribly cursed. You must remember the way the headmaster’s hand looked that year. I managed to slow the curse, but it was lethal; it was only a matter of time before Albus would weaken and die.” Snape then went on, explaining how Dumbledore had asked him to do what he could to stop Draco from fulfilling the role of murderer, how he’d planted the Sword of Gryffindor in the Forest of Dean, and finally, how he’d been asked to explain to Harry that he carried a piece of Voldemort’s splintered soul. “I died thinking I’d fulfilled my purpose, that Mr Potter would sacrifice himself, and that the Dark Lord would be nearly mortal. I had not expected to be brought back from the dead and taken to task as a traitor. Yet here I am.”

Ron was back to staring at the door. He was quiet for a time, clearly considering everything he had just heard. Apparently, unlike with Potions class, he had taken in everything Snape had told him, for he turned to Harry and said, “You’re You-Know-Who’s consort? The fuck, Harry? The last thing I remember is you being squeezed to death by his snake, then two massive yellow eyes. Then I’m waking up and you’ve gotten married to your worst enemy. What the sodding fuck?”

But he didn’t look angry, or even disgusted. Perhaps that would come later. For now, he only looked bewildered.

“We’re holding a second ceremony next week. I was hoping you’d be my best man,” Harry said, his tone light, as though it were a joke…even though it was all true. He hadn’t actually expected Ron to smile back at him, so when his poor attempt was met with a look of incredulity, he ploughed on: “This is actually new for me, too. We didn’t start out like this. At the beginning, I was just a thing to him. But now…” Harry still wasn’t sure what prompted Tom to raise Harry up. “Things have changed.”

“And it’s not just that,” Hermione broke in. She began talking about her own work, explaining to Ron about the reports she’d been writing up and the legislation she was helping to draft. “I know most Muggleborns are still struggling,” she finished, “but things aren’t so bad as they were. That horrid department Umbridge was running has been dissolved. She’s even gone missing.”

“She died in childbirth.” It was Luna’s first contribution to the conversation.

Hermione’s face fell even as Ron made a disgusted face.

“That’s terrible.”

“Who would want to knock her up?”

Luna, thankfully, didn’t respond to either of them.

Hermione took a deep breath, then continued filling Ron in on what he’d missed. Finally, she said, “And in September, Harry was attacked in his bedroom. He was very nearly killed.”

“Who was it?” Ron breathed. He’d seemed to have forgotten who was waiting just outside his room, and only occasionally gave Snape a distracted glare.

Harry swallowed. This was the test. “Your sister,” he said, quietly. “She and Bellatrix were working together.” There was no need for him to know that she’d been Imperiused. No one needed to know that.

Ron took in Harry’s grave look. “Is…is she…?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure if what he said next would help Ron cope, or would cement himself forever as the villain. “She’s been buried next to the rest of your family.”

Ron nodded. From his blank look, though, he hadn’t really taken in what Harry had said. “Right. Right.”

Snape swooped in, his wand drawn. Everyone tensed, but all the Potions Master said was, “I think we have invaded Mr Weasley’s recuperation long enough. I’m certain he still has many questions, but I think we might agree that we all have much to think about and should give him some space.”

Luna stood at once and headed to the door. Harry paused, then gave Ron a nod, and followed Luna out. Snape followed and shut the door quietly behind himself. “We will give Ms Granger a moment alone.” He spoke to Tom for a few minutes in a hushed voice before he retrieved Hermione. “You’ll see him again this evening, if his recovery goes well,” he told her, even as she kept turning back to Ron to tell him how much she’d missed him.

Hermione finally let Snape pull her out of the room, but before she could follow the Potions Master down the corridor, she turned to Harry and Tom. She looked between them, taking in their entwined hands. She took a deep breath, then said, “This is an awful lot for him to take in. I beg you to be merciful, should he say something out of turn. It took me a long time to come around.”

Voldemort inclined his head. “I did not allow his restoration just so I might torture him, Ms Granger. I will grant him the time he requires to make this adjustment. I understand that his world has been suddenly flipped. Despite what you might think of me, I am not unreasonable.”

Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to deny she thought that, but in the end, she simply gave her thanks along with a ridiculous curtsey. Then she made her way to where Snape, Draco, and Luna were waiting for her near the lifts.

Chapter Text

 “I don’t see the point in these,” Ron complained as he tugged at the bonds encircling his wrists. “How am I supposed to do my job if my magic’s encumbered.”

“At least you might get your wand back soon. And the bonds aren’t so bad, really. They don’t chafe. Not skin, at least.” Hermione said, showing Ron the silver cuffs that encircled her own wrists. Harry hadn’t noticed she’d had such magical restraints at all; Hermione always wore her sleeves long, perhaps to hide not only these but the unsightly, albeit true, words that Bellatrix had mercilessly carved into her in the spring.

“Why doesn’t Luna have to wear them?” Ron grumbled.

Harry bit his lip to keep himself from saying something that would only lead to a row. Besides, Ron was only blowing off steam. All three of them knew that, of the lot of them, Luna was the least dangerous—at least to others. Harry rather suspected that the curiosity that had gotten her mother killed was hereditary. Perhaps the seer sense Voldemort believed Luna possessed would stop her from doing something irreparably stupid—or perhaps it would be the catalyst that led to her demise. Harry hoped not, for she had a sweetness to her that nothing, not even being in constant company with a shitload of Death Eaters, could destroy.

“Even Professor Snape has to wear them,” Hermione said, keeping her voice low to keep that very man from overhearing them—the rumours of the Dungeon Bat’s inhuman hearing had not faded with time. Snape was watching them carefully, acting as temporary guard along with another young Death Eater whose name Harry hadn’t bothered to learn.

“Well, considering that he—” Ron began, but his words cut off unnaturally, which only led to more grumbling. Along with Luna and Hermione, he had been sworn to secrecy regarding Snape’s treachery. Everyone else still believed that he’d but fallen in battle and that the Dark Lord had resurrected his follower as a reward for good service. Ron glared at the Death Eater turned spy, as if the magical bonds limiting his magic were somehow Snape’s fault. When that failed to elicit any kind of response from the bored Potions Master, he went back to the topic that he’d not left alone for the better part of the afternoon: “Are you sure he wouldn’t bring back my family? I mean, they could wear these, too.”

Harry sighed. They’d been over and over this and still Harry didn’t know how to answer. It was a fine balance between doing what was needed to make Ron compliant and restoring the army that wanted nothing more than to see Voldemort’s new regime fall. “I can ask him tonight,” Harry finally offered. It was an easy promise to make and got Ron off the topic for at least a little while.

Better still, at that moment Luna appeared, and not alone. She was holding onto Draco’s arm, and the two were speaking easily with each other. Draco laughed at something she’d said, then leaned in to whisper into her ear. She bowed her head forward, shyly, only to finally look up and nod with a huge smile on her face.

“Just what we need. What’s he doing here?” Ron asked, ignoring the fact that they were currently in the Malfoy library. “And why is she—?”

“I think they’re engaged,” Harry answered. He’d really hoped that Ron wouldn’t immediately take up a pissing contest with Draco, but considering that it had taken Harry well over a month to befriend the Malfoy heir, he really wasn’t one to judge.

“We’re courting, actually,” Draco corrected. But judging from the secret looks he and Luna gave each other, Harry doubted that engagement was far off. “Not all romances are so whirlwind quick as yours, Harry.”

Ron made a face even as Harry put in, “I don’t think being told I was all at once married to the Dark Lord is, by all accounts, romantic.”

“At least now you’ll get a ceremony,” Luna said. She handed over a stack of parchment. “I’m sorry we’re late. I was setting up the new printing press for its inaugural task: the invitations. But before I can go further, you need to decide on the design.”

Harry tried his best not to grimace as he flicked through the prototypes she’d given him. “Er, I’ll show these to the Dark Lord this evening.”

“Oh, he’s already said for you to make the decision.” Luna watched him expectantly as he went through them again, this time more carefully.

“They’re all fine, I guess,” he ventured. To be honest, nothing really struck him as suitable. There wasn’t a single snake or skull image in the batch, and the pretty borders that decorated each sample felt terribly out of place. Perhaps that was why Tom had stuck him with the task of choosing.

To Harry’s surprise, Snape left his post at the door to take a look. Harry handed him the stack without hesitation. Snape examined each in turn. “This one,” he decided, placing his choice on the top of the pile and pressing them back to into Harry’s hands.

Harry tilted his head as he took a closer look at the design Snape thought best. It looked exactly like all the others, the only difference was the type of flower that trailed around the top and bottom of the invite. “Why this one,” he asked before he realized. “Oh. Yeah, this one.” His throat closed up right after, and he shoved the parchments back to Luna before she could ask him something else.

Hermione went to take a look. She gave a small gasp when she took in the sample. “Lilies. For your mother.”

“Are you okay, Mate?” Ron asked, cautiously.

“Of course, I am.” Harry smiled painfully, his lips as thin as his lover’s. He tried not to notice as Draco exchanged a knowing look with Luna before leaning in to whisper something to Ron.

Ron looked disturbedly back at the Slytherin for a second, then took a breath and turned back to Harry. “I keep going on about my folks, but have you thought to ask about your own parents?”

“What?” Harry croaked out. He coughed, trying to clear his throat. “What are you talking about?”

Ron swallowed. “He wants you to be happy. Right? You should ask if he’d bring back your parents. He said he would back in first year, if you joined him then.”

Harry knew that Tom had just been trying to get Harry to hand over the stone. He would have said anything for it. Back then, Voldemort hadn’t the power to do any such thing.

Now he did.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Harry murmured. Ron looked completely baffled at this. Considering that he’d probably do just about anything to see his family again, Harry could understand why.

“Harry is ashamed of the choices he’s made and thinks they won’t accept him,” Luna said from behind him. Harry spun around, his face burning, and could feel the chill of truth settle in his stomach. How could she still be smiling, saying such things? And to make it worse, she wasn’t done: “That’s why he didn’t want to bring you back, either. He was scared that you’d reject him.”

“Is that true?” Ron asked, his voice strained. Harry’s back was to him, and without seeing the other boy’s eyes, he couldn’t quite figure out if Ron’s tone was one of cold repudiation or of disbelieving hurt. Harry glared weakly at Luna, then twisted round again to find out. He was sure his face was as red as Weasley hair.

Harry finally found his voice, managing to scrape out, “Yeah, that’s about right.”

Ron closed his eyes, and whatever had been there before—hurt or anger or disbelief—was gone by the time he’d opened them again. Now all that could be seen in those brown depths was sincerity. “You can’t think that. First off, I’m here for you. No. Matter. What.”

Harry shrank into his shoulders and shamefacedly nodded.

“Secondly, there’s no way that your mum and dad wouldn’t accept you. They loved you. Nothing would change that. Mate, they died for you.”

Harry looked down at his feet. “They only protected me so that I’d be around to defeat the Dark Lord. Now look at me.”

“You foolish, idiotic boy.” Harry had thought that Snape had left after he’d selected the lily design. He was wrong, for now he was swooping towards them, a dark blight on Harry’s darker mood. “Neither of your parents protected you for that twice-damned prophecy. They died to keep you safe. Not a saviour. Not the Chosen One. You. The only future they were hoping to save was one with you—their son—in it.”

Harry would have downed an entire cauldron of Draught of the Living Death to be away from that reproachful scowl. He couldn’t duck away from it, though, no matter how much he tried. “And what about Sirius? What would he think of it all?” Harry hated himself for asking even as the words came. But if it would get Snape to stop staring at Harry as though he were a complete dunderhead, it was worth the risk. “You know he hated anything Dark.”

“Even the mutt wouldn’t wish you dead, not if there was another way,” Snape said, his lips twisted along with Harry’s stomach. “I might have hated Black, but there’s one thing I don’t doubt: if Albus had told him what you were, you can be sure he wouldn’t have played into the Headmaster’s hands. He would have done something with the information, even if it did mean turning his back on the Order.” His voice had softened as he spoke, the dismay of his own failure to protect the son of his childhood friend evident.

Harry nodded, not sure if he believed Snape, but desperately wishing it were true. He felt the pricks of tears and turned away. “Maybe,” he agreed once he was sure his voice wouldn’t crack.

“Not ‘maybe’,” returned Snape vehemently. “Definitely.”

Harry felt a small hand press against his arm. He tried his best not to pull away from Luna, who was only trying to comfort him. “Of course the professor is right, Harry. About your godfather and about your parents, both. They wouldn’t turn from you, just as we won’t.”

Harry managed to look up through his fringe at his friends, who were all nodding their agreement. Snape looked uncomfortable standing in the group of teens, but even he gave Harry a curt nod.

Harry sighed and gave a weak smile. “I…thanks. I don’t deserve you guys.”

“You really are thick-headed if you think you can get rid of us so easily.” Ron came up beside him and thumped Harry hard on the back. Immediately he began rubbing at the bonds on his wrists, which had apparently been set off with the supposed assault. “Ow! Fuck, these things mean business.”

After that, the conversation turned lighter. Harry laughed alongside the others, even as the sombre turn of their earlier conversation still weighed him down. When the afternoon drew late, Draco and Luna brought Harry back to his and Tom’s rooms. At the suggestion of a round of Exploding Snap, Luna disentangled her arm from Draco’s. “You two play. I need to attend to a project I’m working on.”

The invitations, Harry guessed. Feeling awkward, he said, “Hey, thanks again for the work you’re doing with that. You obviously put a lot of care into each design.” He hoped his belated thanks didn’t come across as ungrateful.

Luna’s wide, curious eyes glanced down at the samples she was carrying, as if she’d forgotten about them. “You’re welcome,” she told him simply. “I’ll see you both later.” She gave Draco a quick peck, then let herself out.

Draco’s hand lingered on his cheek for a moment, but soon enough he was pulling a deck of cards from a pocket. “Right then, Potter,” he said, grinning. “Prepare to lose.”

***

“I miss Sirius,” Harry said softly as he stared up at the ceiling that night. Tom still had the lights spelled on and was reading through a pile of reports.

Voldemort grunted and rolled the scroll he was reading up and set it on the table beside the bed, only to reach for another report.

“I miss my parents, too. But I really miss Sirius.” Harry hadn’t meant to talk about this. He’d thought to bury this deep. It had worked when all he’d felt was guilt. Well, guilt with a heavy dose of self-righteousness absurdly thrown in. Everything was bleeding out now, and he couldn’t contain this anymore.

His admission had meant so much to him—everything, in fact—that it was a shock when it was met with nothing but silence. Harry glared over at Tom, who was propped against the headboard, his eyes shifting rapidly back and forth over the parchment as he read. After a moment, he rolled that report up, too.

Harry yanked the covers off the both of them. He ignored the look of indignation Voldemort gave him. “Are you even listening to me?”

Voldemort returned Harry’s glare. “I am considerably behind on my correspondence.  This has to—”

“Well, this is important.” At Voldemort’s sceptical look, Harry clarified, “It’s important to me.”

Tom rolled his eyes before setting down the scroll he’d just picked up. He gave Harry an exaggerated wave of his hand, as if to say, ‘go on.’

It was harder mustering up the words again. Harry forced them out regardless. “I was saying that I miss Sirius. I want…I want you to bring him back.”

Voldemort’s drawn-out sigh would have been answer enough, but he followed it with a pained, “I can’t do that.” To his credit, the admission looked as though it physically hurt. Tom closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Harry wasn’t even sure if he felt angry. He knew he should be, but he’d had a lot of practice with disappointment and in not getting what he wanted in life.

“He fell through the veil. I’m sorry, Harry, but without a body…”

Harry had forgotten that. That was why they’d burned Bellatrix, after all, and scattered her ashes.

Still, Harry was undeterred. “Make him a new body. You made yourself one.”

At that, Voldemort reopened his eyes. Harry had been ready for anything but the haunted look that met his gaze. “And would your godfather be happy like that? Looking like me? Besides, it wouldn’t work. My soul had not passed over, as I was tethered to this world. No power, no ritual, can bring him back.”

Harry’s scratched at his arms. “There’s got to be something. And what do you know about it anyway? You’re telling me you already tried to bring him back?” A terrible suspicion filled his mind. “Or did you try to bring her back?” He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain that his guess was true.

“Oh, Harry.” Voldemort wiped away the tears that refused to hide behind Harry’s clenched eyelids. “I’ve hurt you so many times, and not all in the distant past. Open your eyes, darling.” Harry shook his head, ducking away from Tom’s hand. “Look at me. I mean it, Harry. Eyes up!”

“Yes, Master.” The title had never come out so disrespectfully before. Harry forced himself not to cringe back, even as he felt the waves of unhappiness reel through him. He was certain at least half of that was his own misery.

“Don’t call me that,” was the soft command. “Now listen. Forget her. I certainly have.”

Harry tasted the link for any hint of a lie. Nothing, but of course Voldemort could be Occluding. Still, he couldn’t help biting back, “Good.”

“Bellatrix can rot in Hell for all eternity, so far as I am concerned. But your guess that I experimented with bringing back a lost soul was not unfounded. Or more accurately, I tried to bring back pieces of souls.”

It didn’t take Harry long to work out Tom’s meaning. “Your Horcruxes.”

Tom shook his head. “You misunderstand the nature of Horcruxes. They are the but the container.”

“Hey!”

Tom leaned down and pressed a kiss to Harry’s scar. “My beautiful Horcrux, worthy of seven of my souls. The containers are broken beyond repair. I had hoped to call my splintered soul home. You deserve someone less broken than me.”

Harry didn’t think Tom was any more broken than he was. Still, he asked, “It didn’t work?”

Tom pressed his forehead to Harry’s. “No, they’re gone forever. For a long time, I forced myself not to care about their loss. I’d lived without them for so long, after all. Beyond that they were mine!” Here he growled possessively.

For the first time, Harry pictured himself tearing his soul apart, hiding it away for safety, only to find that an old man and a couple kids had hunted them down and essentially killed them. Where did partial souls even go when they were destroyed?

“In my arrogance, I never once thought to ask that question,” Tom admitted. “And I have made a study of necromancy over the years. But the thought that such mortality might apply to me after all my study, all my work to defeat death, did not occur to me.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Shhhh.” Another kiss to his scar. “It was hardly your fault.”

They stayed like that for a while, each holding the other close. Finally, Harry yawned, and Tom pulled away. Once the lights were out, and Harry was nearing sleep, Tom tentatively offered, “I could bring your parents back. If you wanted me to.”

Harry saw again in perfect detail  the terrible sight of Sirius falling through the veil. Then he tried to picture his parents. A warm smile and a cascade of flaming auburn hair. A crooked grin and messed-up black locks so like his own. “Maybe,” he said, noncommittedly. Regardless of what Snape had said, Harry was pretty sure that neither of his parents would be smiling after they’d seen what he’d done.

But he owed it to them to at least think about it.

Chapter Text

Of all the ways Tom showed Harry that this day was special, to highlight that this was about them and not some stupid political thing, was its size. Only a handful of people were invited. More than that, half the seats were left empty, including nearly the entire front row. No one asked why the best seats were vacant. No one needed to ask who was missing.

“Are you certain you don’t wish them to attend,” Tom had asked earlier that morning as he’d walked into their bedroom, deftly buttoning his cufflinks.

Seeing Voldemort in a fitted outfit had thrown Harry for a moment, but he’d expected that he’d be asked again about bringing his parents back from the dead and so he had the answer ready. “If I’d wanted them to come, I wouldn’t have waited until now. And while they might not be so angry at me as I suspect, I rather think they’d be certain to object.” He didn’t bother listening as Tom felt the need—not for the first time—to explain that Wizarding hand-fasting ceremonies certainly didn’t allow for any Muggle ‘objection’ nonsense to come between the intended.

It was now mid-afternoon, and Harry anxiously took in the transformed manor grounds. Flowers were massed everywhere. Narcissa had gone all out, and tiny yellow roses adorned just about everything, spilling over in great heaps. Harry had asked, “Why yellow?” Surely, as with the flowers at Midsummer, they must symbolize something or other. But no, it was just such a happy colour, she had said. Harry had to agree with her and commend her choice. The grounds were chilly, the green of the lawn beginning to fade. Yellow roses were just right to remind everyone that this was a joyous day, no matter that it was almost mid-November.

“You nervous?” Ron came over to stand near him. He took in Harry’s distracted nod and tried to lighten the mood, saying, “Thanks again for making me best man.”

“Who else?” Harry asked. In turn, he ignored Ron’s shrug. He knew Ron felt that Harry had replaced him with Draco. He supposed it was true, in a way. That didn’t mean they had to talk about it, though perhaps Draco would force them to when he got more involved with his Mind Healer training. He snorted softly in amusement at the thought.

“What’s so funny?”

Harry was hardly going to bring up Draco now. “Er, nothing,” he lied, then gesturing to the flowers he said, “Just my allergies.”

Ron took his word for it. Hermione never would have, but she had already been seated next to Luna. Draco sat on Luna’s other side, next to his parents. There had been a bit of an argument in getting Hermione a seat at the wedding. Tom had at first insisted that she could attend, but as an usher. Harry had quickly told him that there wouldn’t be a wedding needing an usher if she wasn’t welcome as a guest. Harry had won, but he had at first wondered at what expense when Tom Disapparated in a huff and didn’t come to bed that night. In the morning, though, Harry had found a note pinned to his bedside table: “Ask Narcissa to take the Mudblood into town for appropriate dress robes.” Beside it was a box of chocolate frogs. Well, they had centuries to work on apologies.

Harry pulled out his pocket-watch discretely—he didn’t want Ron to see how the Malfoys had replaced his uncle’s birthday watch—and checked the time. Two more minutes until the ritual was set to start. “Remember all those keys on the way to the Stone in first year? My stomach feels like the lot of them, all jostling about.”

“Just don’t sick up on me,” Ron told him. “I spent an hour polishing these shoes. Hermione won’t let me call the ruddy house-elves to do their job. And I still haven’t gotten my wand back. I’ll make a shit guard for you without one.”

Harry patted his friend’s back. He was about to say something reassuring, but then the soft lilting of flutes began, quickly joined by harps and something else, something lovely, that Harry couldn’t place. From out of what seemed a whole forest of roses stepped the Dark Lord. No matter how different his robes were from the gossamer silk of his usual dress, he was still pale and stuck out like—well, like Harry always had, ever since he realized he was more than just a boy in a cupboard.

With Ron trailing nervously behind him, Harry took his place by Tom’s side. Not a moment later, Snape came to stand with them, beside Ron. Harry and Tom had debated who should represent the Dark Lord’s family in the ceremony, and in the end they’d decided that Severus was the best choice. A strange choice, but one that seemed fitting, nonetheless. Then the four of them, Tom and Harry in the lead, made their way to the front. There was no one to officiate, unless you counted Nagini, who was curled up on the stone alter basking as best she could in the weak autumn sunlight. There were many forms of Magical unions, but Tom had been quite adamant that the strongest were those where the participants bonded under the strength of their own magic. With such powerful wizards wedding, certainly there was no need for anyone to act as bonder. Ron and Snape were there to assist and act as witnesses, nothing more.

The music died as they reached the altar. Nagini looked like she wanted nothing more than to climb up on Voldemort’s shoulders, but knew better than to move just now. Harry spared her a quick look that he hoped promised long days and nights of affection, just for her.

Meanwhile, Tom only had eyes for Harry.

Their hands met, and Harry couldn’t remember such desire pushing through their link before. Not lust, not possessiveness. This wasn’t the same feeling he remembered Tom feeling in that wretched dream of his, with the shells and the sea. That had been a fierce covetousness. No, this feeling wasn’t the same at all, though Harry could recognize it was the exact opposite of the despair Tom had felt as he sought him out beneath the waves.

Harry’s nervousness died as Tom began chanting. Harry only had to join in, speaking short strings of Latin—his part of the vows—at certain spots, and it was easy to know when, for Tom would pause and squeeze Harry’s hand at the right moments. A warmth was blossoming between them, swelling and pulsing in time with the chanting.

At one point, Snape must have handed over the ritual dagger, for Tom pressed the hilt into Harry’s right hand. Crimson already stained the blade from where he’d cut into his own flesh. Harry bit his lip as he sliced into his own palm. Then they fastened their hands together, this time mingling blood. Harry closed his eyes, wanting to feel every bit of their union as their magic seeped into one another.

Harry was at once filled with worry. He and Tom had already shared blood during the ritual that had resurrected Voldemort in Little Hangleton. Would that interfere with their handfasting? At once, he was sure it would. But when he dared look down to their joined hands he saw the crimson of their spilled blood glow a brilliant white-gold, then twine in and around each other much like snakes seeking out warmth in their winter nest, wrapping in threads round their clasped fingers until there was no way they’d ever be separated again.

Harry didn’t know when he’d started crying, but his vision was all at once worse than when he’d needed glasses. He looked to Tom, and though his eyesight was shot just then, he could easily make out the heat of red eyes staring at nothing but his own upturned face.

The magic bindings dissolved as they kissed. “The rings,” Tom demanded when they finally broke away.

Ron unfolded a silk square. Inside rested the rings Harry had chosen in Borgin and Burkes. Tom wasted no time in plucking one of them up and taking Harry’s left hand. Before he slid the ring onto his finger, though, Tom caught Harry’s eye and asked, “You sure you want this?” His words were soft and unsure.

Harry lifted his other hand to cup Tom’s cheek. “More than anything.” It was the same answer Tom had given him when Harry had asked if Tom wanted him to drink that potion and be at his side for eternity.

Ron held the second ring out for Harry to take. With regret, Harry released Tom’s cheek. Far more decisively, he took hold of Tom’s hand and with a hissed “Mine,” slid the ring down his finger.

Voldemort raised his left hand, palm outward, to Harry. Harry copied him, then clasped their hands together yet again. Settled beside each other, the rings looked more than they did alone. Complete.

Harry didn’t even hear the applause coming from their audience, so intent he was at looking back up at his husband.

***

“Open this one next, my Lord,” Narcissa insisted. From her red-rimmed eyes, Harry guessed she’d also been crying.

Voldemort passed the beribboned box over to Harry. “You open it, darling.”

Harry grinned up at Narcissa. “Thank you,” he said, then ripped open the giftwrap. He lifted the boxlid, only to be showered with an explosion of glitter. No one was spared, not even Tom beside him. Before Harry—or the Dark Lord, for that matter—could even blink, the glitter vanished, leaving their skin and robes pristine and glitter-free. Harry peered inside the box at what looked like…

A slip of parchment?

Harry reached into the box and picked up the note. “It’s a certificate to…” Harry squinted at the fine print. “Gerard Covin’s studio in Godric’s Hollow.”

Narcissa smiled. “Lucius and I sat for our portraits a year ago,” she explained. “The artist came well recommended by both the Greengrasses and the Notts. We were certainly satisfied with Gerard’s work.”

Voldemort peered over Harry’s shoulder, into the box. “Thank you from both of us. It is high time I arranged for portraits, but with all the demands on my time, I always seemed to put it off.” He sounded pleased, but Harry could feel tendrils of unease dance through their connection. It took Harry a moment to realize why. All the moving portraits he’d seen had been of dead wizards and witches, and though the painting was created while the subject in question was alive, it was still a nod to a mortality that Tom had rejected. By the time he thought to squeeze Tom’s hand in reassurance, Narcissa had already curtsied and taken her leave.

Ron and Hermione lingered near the back of the line. Nearby, a table was overflowing with the presents sent from those who’d not been invited to the ceremony but still wanted to send a token of their goodwill. Ron kept turning to look at them all. Hermione said something to him, and whatever it was made Ron’s face morph into an expression of horror. Perhaps she’d mentioned something that had been on Harry’s mind ever since he’d set eyes on the teetering mountain of presents: how in Salazar’s name would he be able to write thank you cards to all the senders? His hand ached in dreary anticipation.

“Are you ready to open another gift, Harry?” Tom asked. Harry turned back, and all his worry of both thank you letters and of Tom’s unnecessary existential angst fell away as he took in who was now at the front of the line.

“Congratulations, my Lord. My Lord Consort.” Andromeda held Teddy comfortably on one hip. In her free hand she gracefully held out a parcel.

Harry tore his eyes from his seven-month-old godson. “Thank you for coming, Mrs Tonks,” he said to her. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by to see little Teddy. He’s really growing. Can I?—”  He made to reach out, but then he saw the fearful glint in the witch’s eye and changed tact. “Can I contact you sometime in the future to arrange a visit with Teddy?”

“Of course, my Lord Consort.” Her smile was one of breeding only, for her eyes flashed in terror, perhaps at the idea of her last link to her beloved daughter taken from her. In her arms, Teddy began to fuss.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “He’s hungry,” he observed. Harry would have thought it was due to the man’s Legilimency had he not known the years Tom had spent in a Muggle orphanage surrounded by all ages of children. “And then I suspect he’ll need a nap. Please feel free to leave the reception to see to his needs.” Harry easily translated that to, ‘I don’t like kids all that much and I certainly don’t wish to be subjected to their crying.’

Harry went back to the gift, thinking Andromeda would be happier when this was all done and she could back away and could nurse her grandson and her grief. When he tore the paper away, he uncovered a set of silver candlesticks.

“They’re heirlooms from my husband’s side of the family.”

“They’ll look great on the mantle in our rooms,” Harry told her even as Tom plastered on a fake smile and uttered a terse, “Thank you.”

“It’s Black tradition to give family such on their weddings. Despite his choices, Harry is still family and, seeing as I was dispossessed until recently, this was the best I could do. Ted’s mother sent this to Remus and Nymphadora for their wedding.” Andromeda clutched Teddy closer to her chest, bouncing him in her arms.

Voldemort went to take the box from Harry who, realizing that these had been Remus’s, albeit for a short time, was less inclined to hand them over straight away. He bit his lip and whispered, “Be careful,” before surrendering them.

“Of course.” Voldemort cast a discrete charm to reveal any curses or the like, then lifted one of the candlesticks from the bed of satin they rested upon. “The engraving of wolves—is that new?”

Andromeda shifted Teddy to her other hip. He started pulling at her hair, but at least he’d stopped crying. “No, actually. My husband’s uncle brought it back with him after the war on the continent.”

Voldemort tapped the silver with a long fingernail. “As Harry said, it will hold place of pride on our mantle.”

Andromeda gave a stiff nod before taking her leave. Harry watched as she walked away, but his heart kept reaching out for the little boy in her arms. He almost started when he felt a large hand begin to rub circles on his back, trying to offer comfort.

Perhaps Andromeda felt his eyes on her, or maybe she’d been stewing with the words anyway and couldn’t hold them in one second longer, but she turned back before she got too far. “They died for you,” she told Harry, her lips barely moving. Despite how quietly she spoke, it was still a weighted accusation. Teddy began to cry in earnest now, and Andromeda clutched him tightly to her chest, ignoring how he struggled and squirmed against her.

“I wish they hadn’t.” Harry huddled into himself, despite knowing that he shouldn’t have to justify himself to anyone. Tom’s hands stilled on his back, and Harry wondered if he was thinking of reaching for his wand. Harry needed to finish this before it got that far. “I wish no one had to die. But that includes me. I’m here because I decided that, despite the path laid out for me, I wanted to live.”

Andromeda took a step backwards. Her eyes flicked from Harry to Voldemort, behind him. “No one expected you to—”

Harry ignored her weak protest. “And also, I fell in love. I know you can understand that. Falling in love with someone you’re not supposed to.” He thought he might have seen a glimmer of something in Andromeda’s eyes. He pretended it was understanding, however unlikely that was.

When she was at last out of earshot, Tom bent down to whisper in Harry’s ear, “You are not unaware that her gift was a deliberate insult.” He didn’t wait for Harry to reply before pressing on. “Presenting a Muggle ‘heirloom’ to us,” he sneered his distaste, and Harry had to bite back his argument that Tom’s first treasures were all Muggle. Tom didn’t bother hiding the wicked glee in his voice when he added, “I would not object if you’ve changed your mind regarding a child, my dear. As the child’s godfather, you have at least as much claim to the boy.”

A stab of longing filtered through Harry as he watched Andromeda weave her way through the crowd, perhaps to find a suitable place to feed the baby, perhaps to flee. “There’s no point lying to you and saying I dislike the idea of a baby. But I also don’t…” He grimaced. “We’d make pretty shitty parents, Tom.”

Tom frowned. “Lord Voldemort excels at everything he puts his mind to.”

Harry rolled his eyes, then tilted his head back to kiss Tom’s jaw.

Next up was Draco, who bowed and said, smiling, “Many blessings on this happy day. My mother was by with our family’s gift, I assume?”

Luna trailed behind but needed no prodding to press forward and hold out a small box to Harry. “I hope you like it. It’s taken a while to get ready. It’s a good thing the pond is charmed to stay warm so late in the season or I couldn’t have gotten it ready this year.” She bounced on her toes, her eyes alight with eagerness.

Harry placed a hand on Tom’s arm. “My Lord? Luna’s giving her present.”

“From me and Daddy,” Luna said, happily. “He sends his love.”

“Erm, ah that’s nice,” Harry said. He turned to Voldemort, but he was talking with Draco about something Ministry related. He waved Harry on.

“Well, I think I’ll just…” Harry said, then he started to lift up the wrappings of bounding silver rabbits.

“Be careful. It’s breakable,” Luna told him. “I suppose this was a bit unfair, as it’s really more for you than your husband. But he already has his own, so I don’t think he’ll mind if you have one for yourself, too.”

“One of my own?” Harry wondered as he prised off the last of the wrapping paper.

It was an egg. A small, very ordinary looking egg, though heavy for its size. “Er, thank you,” Harry said, trying to hide his confusion.

“You’ll have to crack it open. Be gentle, now. It’s only small.”

Harry nodded as he tilted his head, inspecting this strange gift. The egg looked nothing other than a regular egg, identical to those he used to crack open every morning for his relatives’ breakfasts during his unfortunate tenure at 4 Privet Drive. He held back a grimace, thinking of how foolish he’d look when he cracked open this egg and the yolk spilled all over his hands. He’d be lucky if it didn’t stain his new robes. Or worse, what if Luna was right and there was something inside. ‘Something’ being an undeveloped chick. “Don’t you think we should wait until it’s trying to crack the shell itself?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Oh, it’s ready to hatch now,” she assured him. “You’ll need to help it out, though.”

Harry looked closer, turning the egg this way and that. Sure enough, thin lines were spiderwebbing out from a small puncture on one side. “All right then,” Harry said, still feeling unsure. He looked about for a good place to do this and decided that perhaps kneeling down and just prying the shell at the weak spot would be best.

No sooner had he broken the shell a little bit—and thank Merlin no messy egg yolk came running out the bottom—then he saw something wriggling inside. He lowered the egg even lower to the ground. Now that he knew something really was inside, he didn’t want to risk it slipping out and dropping to the ground. No matter what pet Luna had thought to give him, he certainly wasn’t going to let it fall to its death in front of her.

“Light. Light. Light. Slither out and eat,” came a faint hiss from inside. Harry realized, then, then it must be a snake. Harry hadn’t thought snakes came from eggs like this, though perhaps Magical snakes did—he certainly wasn’t an expert. Harry smiled in anticipation and tried to help the baby snake emerge safely.

“What do you have there, darling?” Tom asked, resting a hand on Harry’s head. He tugged a stray lock, urging Harry back up. Harry shook it away.

“Luna’s given me a snake, and I don’t want it to fall,” he answered as he pulled away the last of the shell. Finally, the tiny coils were all carefully cradled in his palm. The afternoon sun caught its emerald scales. “Isn’t it beautiful? I hope Nagini won’t be jealous.”

“Oh, it isn’t exactly a snake,” Luna corrected him, just as the small head rose to look up at the Harry. He, in turn, peered down—

—right into bright yellow eyes.

Chapter Text

Everything was still. Quiet. Hadn’t someone been speaking? Harry was sure he’d been listening to someone but moments before. He must have been mistaken, though, for here there was only silence. No one had disturbed this place—wherever it was—for a long time, and Harry felt that stillness seep into him. No, that wasn’t right. He was already filled with it. He felt so calm. He must have been alone for some time, to feel so naturally at peace. Perhaps he’d always been here.

But where was here? Harry finally opened his eyes. Everything was white, obscuring and thick, like fog. It seemed, at first, so brilliantly white that it was blinding, but no…it wasn’t, Harry realized. It simply was, and that’s all there was to it. He pushed himself up to gaze about. All around him, the same formless whiteness.

Was this all there was? And why was something niggling at his mind? He was sure there’d been more colour but moments ago. Or had that been years? An eternity?

Yellow. He’d seen yellow, he was sure of it. The sun, perhaps? But no, whatever it was hadn’t been so bright as his surroundings now. He supposed it really wasn’t all that important.

Harry realized he’d been wrong; it wasn’t all quiet. He could hear something moving about nearby, and as he strained his ears he heard the smallest of murmurs. He stood, only to realize he was naked. He glanced about this pure empty space for something to cover himself with—that seemed important, though he didn’t know why he felt so—and found at once that he was clothed in soft robes. He fingered them, wonderingly.

There was that noise again, off to the left and hidden in the mist. “Hello?” Harry asked, not too loud. It didn’t seem proper, somehow, to make much noise in such a place. “Are you okay?”

Whatever it was went silent as he called out, then in response, whimpered louder. Was it crying back to him?

“Stay there. I’m coming to find you.” Harry set out in the direction he’d heard the sound coming from. At first, he held his hands up in case he stumbled across something, but as he walked, his vision cleared. It was still white, but it was more a blankness than a fog. A nothing…and for a moment, that filled his heart with a remembered panic. But remembered from where? He didn’t know.

But this was so peaceful a nothing. There was surely no danger here, not to him. And so he kept walking to find whatever it was that had cried out to him. It seemed to need comfort, if nothing else.

He found it on a bench. It was a beautiful boy, a small child of perhaps one or two, with inquisitive eyes and neatly combed hair. It looked the spitting image of Tom Riddle as Harry had seen him so long ago in Dumbledore’s pensieve, though far younger. The child stared up at Harry and, whimpering, held his arms out to be picked up.

And Harry would, oh, he would. But someone was already holding the boy.

“You.” It came out a curse, an accusation.

So much for this being so peaceful a place. Sitting calmly on the park bench, smiling as sickeningly as he was wont to do in life: “Hello, Harry. It is good to see you, my dear boy.”

Harry wanted to step back, to disappear back into the mist and never have to see those still-twinkling eyes ever again, but he forced himself to take a step closer instead. “Give him here,” he demanded.

Dumbledore’s eyes rose high on his brow. “Your time with him is over, Harry,” he said, though his only objection when Harry reached down and took the child from him was to sigh. Then he shifted over on the bench, making room, and gestured for Harry to sit.

Harry would have declined, rudely at that, but in truth the child weighed heavily in his arms. So, he shoved down his distaste for the elderly wizard and lowered down beside him.

“There now,” Dumbledore said once Harry was sitting beside him. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Harry shoved away his revulsion at Dumbledore’s patronizing tone. “Where are we?” Harry asked. There had to be a way back to…

(Distant memories filtered up of music, of flowers, of rings).

Dumbledore looked about curiously. “This place? I had hoped that you could tell me, my dear boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry bit back. “And how would I know?” But he did look around again. Above him, Harry saw that it wasn’t just that thick white fog, as it had been before. Glistening far overhead was what seemed a glass dome. He’d seen something much like it before. “King’s Cross Station.” He was sure of it, now that the memory had flitted through his mind. And yes, there were the rows of familiar seats and the platforms. Why hadn’t he noticed them before?

“Is it?” Dumbledore nodded appreciatively. “How curious. I suppose a station is rather an appropriate choice.”

“I didn’t choose anything,” Harry seethed. “And Tom?” This, Harry wasn’t so sure. Surely if his husband had followed him here to this messed up King’s Cross, or wherever the fuck he was, he wouldn’t be so young. A horrible guess rolled through his mind. He rubbed at his forehead, tentatively and it was as he feared. His scar was gone.

“Yes, the sliver of Lord Voldemort’s soul you kept safe has slipped from you. As you well know, the soul piece is lost upon the destruction of its host.”

The destruction of…? Any hope Harry had held shattered then. He swallowed thickly. “So, I’m dead then?”

“It would seem so,” replied Dumbledore. He offered the silver tassel tied around his beard to baby Tom, who looked distrustful at first but eventually grasped the shiny cord and tugged at it.

“And this is—what? Heaven? Hell?” Harry grit out, because he had to know.

“As with all stations, it is a gateway of sorts.”

“A gateway to where?” Harry asked, annoyed.

“Now that is the question,” Dumbledore said with a nod, as if this were the most important of philosophical queries. “Suffice to say, I should think, if you wandered not too far, you would find a train carriage. Once you boarded it, it would take you to what is beyond. Tom and I will be boarding our own carriage soon, together. You may follow us, if you wish, though I do believe you might go back.”

Harry’s stomach plummeted, and he clutched the soul piece—little Tom—tightly to him. “I can’t go back.” He didn’t care that his voice was breaking. “Not without his soul. I need to take it with me.” He was nothing without it. Empty.

From very far away, Harry heard something new. He must have been mistaken though, for it sounded like someone was calling his name. Who would call for him? In his arms, he thought he felt Tom stiffen at the sound as well, though perhaps that was simply due to how tightly Harry was grasping him.

“You have no choice, Harry. Not in this,” Dumbledore told him gently.

“You’re just punishing me,” Harry cried out, and at once was angry with how pathetic he sounded. Still, he forged on. “Because of what I did. You expected me to…” But now that his former headmaster was here, he couldn’t articulate the terrible betrayal he’d felt since he’d exited Snape’s damning memories.

But he didn’t need to. Every hurt he had felt—still felt—was reflected on the aged face beside him. “I did, that is true. But I promise you, Harry, that I had every hope that you would again thwart the odds and survive. To prevail, even, no matter what I told Severus. It was a gamble, though, and one I regret having had to make.”

“The Greater Good,” Harry spat.

Dumbledore face was washed with shame. “Many of my choices—too many, perhaps—were forged to that end. But asking what I did of you? That was the worst of my crimes, and I can only beg your forgiveness. Once more you’ve moved beyond all my expectations. My dear boy, your choices this past year… I must say, I never thought you would follow the path you did. You have done the unthinkable.”

Harry nearly jumped from the bench to get away from the other man and his accusations. He would have done, too, but Tom felt like lead on his lap. “You, you…you hypocrite!” All his anger for his former headmaster came bursting out in a vicious snarl. “How dare you? I did what I had to. How dare you judge me?”

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes dimmed. “Oh, Harry. I wasn’t about to condemn your actions. Not at all.” He pushed on even as Harry had begun to tell him what he thought of that claim. “What I meant was, you’ve accomplished something I never once thought possible. You taught Lord Voldemort how to love. I had not thought he could, as I once told you. And this has changed everything, as only so vital a power can. My dear boy—”

“I told you not to call me that! You don’t have the right!” snapped Harry, though his rage was mitigated by Dumbledore’s words. Love? What nonsense was this? It must be a trick so that Dumbledore would make him give up the soul piece.

Dumbledore sighed, wearily. “You must forgive a man his long years of habit.” He held up a hand before Harry could protest yet again. “In lieu of forgiving that which is unforgivable.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. It was true, he couldn’t forgive Dumbledore for his intentions. But could it be true, that he’d been meant to live? He’d beaten the odds so many times before, he was starting to wonder if there was some truth to Dumbledore’s claim.

There was that call again from somewhere far off. “Who is that?” Harry murmured. He shifted Tom on his lap when he began to fuss again.

Dumbledore looked thoughtfully into the distance. “If I am not mistaken, it is Lord Voldemort calling for you to return to him. He has drawn back other souls before, of course. They have always returned to life at once.”

Harry followed Dumbledore’s gaze, as if he might catch sight of his husband, a swath of black in all that white. “Then why am I still here?”

Dumbledore nodded down to the baby on Harry’s lap. “I believe, Harry, that just as your Horcrux had once tethered Voldemort to life, so it is now anchoring you to death.”

Harry looked down at Tom in horror. Could it be? It must be, for the child was so very heavy. Harry felt quite pinned by it, and it was only getting worse. But without it…Without it, there was no point in returning. Without it, he was just Harry. What use would Voldemort have for him then?

Again the call, and yes, Harry could now discern his name in the cry. Tom, still seated on his lap, seemed to get even heavier.

“Harry!”

“If you wish to return, you must give the Horcrux up. Release it and let me take it to where it can join the others,” Dumbledore was telling him.

“The others,” Harry echoed, barely hearing.

“The other pieces of Tom’s soul which have already passed on. There they will wait, at peace, until Tom himself is ready to join them.”

Harry shook his head, and not just because he knew Tom would never be ready for that. “I can’t leave it,” he gasped. “It’s been part of me for so long. Who would I even be without it?”

“Learning that, Harry, will be part of living again. But it is best to do that than linger here clutching at a broken soul, especially when you have someone to help you along the way, to help you find yourself again.”

“He’ll just cast me back, without it,” Harry whispered, finally voicing his terrible thoughts.

But Dumbledore shook his head. “That is not so. He knows, Harry, what has been lost, yet is still calling you back. Listen. Can you not hear how desperate he is?”

There came the call of Harry’s name again. It was definitely Tom’s voice, and it sounded frantic. Pleading.

“Why are you here?" Harry asked. “Why didn’t my parents come and meet me? Did they not want—” To see me, he’d meant to say. He took a breath and tried again. “He offered to bring them back. But I guess I was right not saying yes, since they obviously don’t want me.” He felt like he was choking under his words, no matter that he was dead and didn’t need to breathe anymore.

“That’s not true,” Dumbledore told him. “They love you very much, Harry. Absolutely nothing you might do would change that. As for Tom bringing them back? Let them rest, Harry. They’ve been at peace for a long, long time. It would be unkind to pull them back now.”

They both looked out into the distance as another anguished cry called out Harry’s name.

“You have to go back, Harry.” Dumbledore stood now and held his arms out for the Horcrux child. “You must allow me to leave with the soul piece now.”

Harry clutched to the baby even tighter, but it didn’t help. Dumbledore pulled it easily from his grip. “Please…” he begged.

Dumbledore shook his head, looking as kindly, as grandfatherly, as ever. He hoisted the child up into his arms and smiled down at it, then back at Harry. “I know it will be hard. Living always is. But you have enough strength to do this, Harry. Of that I am certain.”

Harry watched as Dumbledore backed into the mist.

“No…” Harry jumped off the bench and ran to follow, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. Dumbledore just got further and further away. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

“My dear boy,” Dumbledore told him fondly. “You’ve never been alone. And despite everything, know that I am proud of you. Tell Tom that I’m proud of him, too.”

And then he was gone. Harry couldn’t help the tears that started to flood down his cheeks. He hadn’t done anything to be proud of, and now he was dead and it was too late. All his choices had been for nothing.

“Harry!” There was that voice again. Tom’s voice. The Master of Death, calling a soul back to him. This time, no longer weighed down by the Horcrux, Harry could feel it really pull at him. “Come home, Harry!”

At each cry of his name, Harry felt himself being dragged that much closer towards that haunted voice.

“But why?” he whispered back, as though Voldemort could hear him from here. “Why would you want me now?” Bearing only his own soul, he would never be enough.

“Please come back to me.”

Harry gave one last glance back to where Dumbledore had disappeared. Was that the sound of a train whistle?

“Harry!”

All the white turned to black.

Chapter Text

All was black, and Harry’s ribs were being pressed so tightly, surely they would be crushed. His hair was damp, his collar wet, and his ears filled with that anguished cry he’d heard at that ghostly King’s Cross.

Harry realized that this blackness wasn’t some new oblivion. Rather, it was Lord Voldemort’s dress robes.

“Come back to me.”

Harry stirred, then, as best he could. He tried to say Tom’s name but could only get out a weak “Mnnnnhh.”

Tom pulled back to release Harry from his death grip, and Harry was fascinated to see the Dark Lord’s face wet with tears. He wanted to reach up to wipe them away, but he couldn’t find the strength to move his hands.

“Harry. Harry.” Voldemort kept repeating his name, as if it were the incantation of a spell that he had to get just right. “My Harry.”

After an eternity of looking directly into those perfect crimson eyes, Harry found the strength to smile. “Hey,” he croaked out. “S’okay. I’m okay.” If he were being honest, he felt as though he’d been run over by the Hogwarts Express. Twice.

Harry watched in horror as the fleeting relief sketched upon Tom’s face shifted to rage. Harry would have flinched back had he been able, but he was too exhausted, and Voldemort was holding him with an iron will. Harry clenched his eyes shut; he couldn’t take those livid eyes drilling into his own.

And he felt none of the Dark Lord’s anger, except where his powerful fingers dug deep into each of his shoulders. The connection which had linked one soul to the other for seventeen years was cold. Voldemort must have realized that, too. Harry had lost his precious piece of soul.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, though too quiet for even the dead to hear.

But when Voldemort shook him and spoke, he didn’t mention the Horcrux at all. “Why didn’t you come when I called? Why?”

Harry was so startled by the question that his eyes flew wide. He took in the tight lines around Tom’s eyes, the grim set of his mouth. There was more than anger here.

“I couldn’t bring it back. I tried, Tom. I tried.” Was Harry even allowed to call the Dark Lord that anymore? Had he that right? He pulled back, feebly, feeling completely miserable.

In doing so, he remembered that they weren’t alone.

They were encircled by all the wedding guests. Ron was kneeling a few feet away, the expression of horror on his face only slowly morphing to that of relief. Hermione was hurriedly rummaging through her beaded bag. Snape already had a draught of some potion or other in his outstretched hand. Narcissa was a tittering worry, murmuring out diagnostic charms.

Draco had his hawthorn wand pressed rigidly to the hollow of Luna’s throat. If Ron had looked horrified, Draco looked devastated, even as Harry sat up and took in the two of them. Harry had never seen his pointed features so pale. Next to him, Luna was no better. Her already protuberant eyes boggled out with astonishment and surprise.

“Whoops,” she said. “I didn’t think it would do that.”

Hermione was ready with righteous anger. “What in the blazes did you think it would do? It’s a Basilisk, for fuck’s sake.”

“But Harry’s a Parselmouth.” Luna was nearly whimpering in her distress.

“Not anymore,” Harry said, bitterly. He’d held out hope that it wasn’t true, that King’s Cross had been some awful nightmare, that maybe he really was still a Horcrux. But Nagini was slithering about him, hissing and trying to console him.

And he couldn’t understand a word of it.

“I’m not anything.” Harry was sure everyone, Legilimens of not, must feel his heart breaking. Surely this pain couldn’t be contained in one feeble body.

Voldemort rubbed along Harry’s back. “You’re my husband,” he declared with words more weighted than any vow.

Harry hunched his shoulders. Why would Tom still want him?

“You’re my friend,” said Ron. Murmurs of agreement went round those gathered around.

Snape was beside him, now, kneeling and pressing a potion to Harry’s lips. He was as pale as any of them; maybe more so, comparatively, considering his normal sallow skin tone. “A calming draught,” he explained.

“Bloody hell, I think I need something stronger than that. I feel…” Harry didn’t know how he felt. Like half of him was missing, he guessed. He looked at Tom, who hadn’t once taken his eyes off Harry, not even to turn to Luna and curse her to oblivion.

Lord Voldemort was a broken soul. Just like him. Maybe they were even more suited now. No matter that Harry’s original soul was intact, it was no longer complete.

Hermione was berating Luna again. Her words filtered in and out of Harry’s mind; he only caught snatches of what was being said:

“…Don’t you dare tell me it was Nargles that made you do it.”

“But it was! They said…”

They were hushed by Lucius, who also pushed Draco’s wand down, away from Luna’s throat. Harry barely noticed.

Voldemort hissed something, and all the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rose in answer.

“I don’t understand you,” he confessed. Nagini had wound around Voldemort’s shoulders and flickered her tongue at him. Could she sense he wasn’t her brother anymore? Would she still care for him? Harry’s hand faltered on the way to pet her. Would she welcome his touch?

“You can learn,” Tom told him.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of tears. But he nodded obediently. He would learn, even if it took him the rest of his life.

“He said he’s proud of you,” Harry whispered.

“Who did?” Voldemort asked, wary of any message from beyond the grave.

Harry did his best to project the vision of Albus Dumbledore, clad in pearly white and bereaved by all the dreadful choices he’d made. But when he finally peeked through wet lashes, Voldemort’s eyes were set with confusion. He hadn’t seen any of Harry’s thoughts.

Great. One more thing lost.

“Dumbledore. He met me there,” he tried to explain. But he remembered something, then. Mirroring Voldemort, he narrowed his eyes. “After the Battle of Hogwarts, you said that you could read my mind, no matter if I was a Horcrux or not. That my mind was that unguarded.”

Was that a blush on Tom Riddle’s cheeks? “I might have been gloating,” he admitted. More seriously, he added, “You will surely be glad for your privacy, now.”

Harry laughed mirthlessly. “Not really.” The memory of Dumbledore urged him on to say, “He also said…”

Dumbledore had also said that Tom loved him. But what if it weren’t true?

When he realized that Harry wasn’t going to keep talking, Tom said, “Thank you for coming back to me.” He pressed his lips to Harry’s forehead, to the inert scar, with as much reverence as he’d ever bestowed it when it still held his soul. “It wasn’t home without you.” His words were a benediction and a promise. A memory and a foreshadowing of all the wonders still to come.

Home. Never had so simple a word meant so much.

Harry pulled away, only to lean into Tom’s lips and kiss him softly. In a voice so quiet it sounded almost like the forgotten Parseltongue, he whispered, “I love you, too.”