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Chapter Text

The graveyard remained the same after the boy's sudden departure, though the Dark Lord felt like something significant had changed, invisible to the eye as it may be.

As he strode through the ominous fog towards the grave of the father he himself had murdered, he stretched out his senses with the unfamiliarity and tentativeness of a newborn, testing out the magic that he had long forgotten the true feeling of.

He barely noticed the lines his followers had formed, their backs perfectly straight and their heads bowed down to him, some touching their foreheads to the floor without a hint of shame. 

He briefly wondered if it was out of respect or fear before coming to the conclusion that it did not matter.

Nagini had arrived. She slithered on the ground beside him, as silent as her master's footsteps. The Dark Lord felt the familiar stirring in his mind as the connection between them sparked to life, amplified by the recent regaining of his body. He halted in front of his father's grave, his eyes caressing the wretched muggle name he so despised. Nagini curled up at his feet.

It was quite gratifying, he had to admit, that the bone of his muggle father had been the one used in the ritual that brought Lord Voldemort back to life. One last insult to the man who had abandoned him and his mother, though Voldemort didn't particularly care for either of them.

He glanced up at the sky, wondering if such a place did exist where the dead could observe the living, and thought of what his father would think of him now.

Amusement flared in his chest at the thought of the horror likely to be dawning in his father's eyes if he was watching now.

Horror, perhaps, at the power that had been exhibited in this very place, in the place where his gravestone had stood erect nearly ten minutes ago. How the Dark Lord had cheated death, how his forces still remained loyal and obedient in the many years he had been without physical form, at how he had overcome the supposed power of love that Dumbledore insisted on preaching about.

How he had managed to lay his hands on the boy he had been after for so long. 

A flicker of a smile crossed his face and, as if to assure himself of his capabilities, his eyes slid shut as he reached out with his mind, following the connection - a thread of silver branching in between him and his beloved Horcrux. Nagini's mind was open to him as it always had been and he opened his eyes again, this time seeing not through his vision but hers. 

He sighed in content, savoring the feeling of her mind so close to him, closer than any mind had been to him for over a decade.

There was that pathetic excuse for a man, Quirrel, he supposed, but his mind had been weak, vile, easy to conquer with just the slightest bit of pressure applied. With Quirrel, there had been no acceptance, no true willingness to serve the Dark Lord aside from perhaps a few buried feelings of greed for what could be given to him as a reward. Repulsive. 

He withdrew from Nagini, pleased with the fact that his powers had not diminished over the course of his recent existence - that horrible state of being half-conscious, half alive. No matter now. He had what he wanted. 

He had returned from the dead just like he had intended and there were things that needed to be taken care of. He was on the brink of turning around to issue the first orders he had in mind before he felt another stirring. Out of habit, he glanced towards Nagini, even though he knew it could not be her. 

Then what--who--was it?

On an impulse, he stretched his mind out the way he had with Nagini, following another thread, this one of glistening red and gold, to its end. It took longer than it had with Nagini. A small force poked against the surface of his mind, a pitiful resistance that he easily broke past. He threw himself into the light that was waiting for him on the other side, opening his eyes, heart racing with the anticipation of what he was about to see.

More light, at first, though not the divine, unearthly one he had seen at the end of the thread. It was pale yellow, and there was a man shuffling about in front of him with a distinctive swiveling eye.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, felt the person on the other side's eyes narrow as well, and studied the man. He realized it was his loyal servant, the Death Eater who had brought Harry Potter to the graveyard as he had instructed months ago, and not the bat-crazy Auror everyone somehow revered. His words were muffled and Voldemort felt his mouth moving of its own accord, possibly the person he was partially possessing responding to Barty Crouch Jr. His legs twitched. The body was lifting itself up, but Crouch reached out a hand and shoved him back down with unnecessary force.

Then, slowly, the words cleared, and a voice reached the Dark Lord's ears.

"Karkaroff?" There was a guffaw of laughter bordering on manic. "Karkaroff fled tonight when he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them... but I doubt he will get far. The Dark Lord has many ways of tracking down his enemies."

Indeed, he did.

The words issuing from his own mouth were jumbled, incoherent, but it sounded young. There was no gruffness to this voice's tone, no heat--it didn't feel like there was any emotion at all, actually. Perhaps this young man was in shock? He just needed to wait a few more moments, for when he could fully understand the young man, and then he would know for sure.

"No," Barty was saying, his face mocking and smug. Voldemort felt a spark of distaste. No one had looked at him like that since the orphanage. "No, he didn't. It was I who did that... I assure you I did." He drew out his wand, pointing it towards Voldemort's chest. The eye that didn't truly belong to him began moving around more rapidly, either in growing excitement or nervousness. "He forgave them, then? The Death Eaters who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?"

"What?"

Voldemort stilled.

"I asked you," Barty continued, "whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn't even brave Azkaban for him. Faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort him in masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky."

What was Crouch doing? He was giving everything away before Voldemort had given the go-ahead. Everything away to this... Voldemort fought against his warring conclusions as he considered the young man, no--boy, if his suspicions were correct, whose mind he was currently sharing. The chances of him being correct were low, practically impossible, but he knew that voice anywhere. He had heard it not an hour ago.

"You fired... what are you talking about...?"

"I told you, Harry..."

Voldemort tuned out the rest of what Crouch was saying, eyes flaring in disbelief at the given confirmation. Harry Potter. Connected to him through his own mind, a thread branching between them that was as strong, if not stronger than Nagini's. He shook his head slowly, distantly aware that Harry's head was shaking with him (but of course Harry would be in disbelief at what Crouch was now revealing to him, so there would be no suspicions raised on the boy's end). 

How was this possible? Was it a side effect of the ritual he had had Wormtail perform? Anger suddenly surged through him. Had Wormtail messed it up somehow? Oh, if he did, he would be begging for death by the time the Dark Lord was through with him.

However... this did present certain... opportunities. It hadn't been particularly easy, but it also hadn't been difficult to slip into the mind of the Boy Who Lived. He doubted Harry even knew what was happening and even if there was a chance that he would, these weren't normal circumstances--Crouch was making his deceit known and Harry was in no normal state of mind with everything that was happening.

"The Dark Lord didn't manage to kill you, Potter, and he so wanted to." Crouch was closer to Harry now, his normal eye crazed and frantic. "Imagine how he will reward me when he finds I have done it for him. I gave you to him--the thing he needed to regenerate--and then I killed you for him. I will be honoured above all other Death Eaters. I will be his dearest, his closest supporters... closer than a son..."

Perhaps Crouch needed to go, after all. Lord Voldemort had no use for idiots.'

"The Dark Lord and I," Crouch sneered, towering over the young boy, "have much in common." Voldemort raised an eyebrow faintly. "Both of us, for instance, had very disappointing fathers... very disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. And both of us had the pleasure... the very great pleasure... of killing our fathers, to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!"

"You're mad," Harry was saying, "you're mad!"

"Mad, am I?" He was shouting now. Voldemort shook his head, slowly realizing what Crouch intended to do. Why he had pulled Harry into this abandoned classroom--the room meant for the real Alastor Moody, by the looks of it. For all he claimed to be a devoted follower, he was going to steal the kill meant for his master without a second thought.

Voldemort looked down, felt Harry's head go down along with him, and realized that drawing the boy's wand would be a futile effort. Harry wasn't fast enough, not like Voldemort.

"We'll see! We'll see who's mad, now that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! He is back, Harry Potter, you did not conquer him--and now--I conquer you!"

Crouch opened his mouth, leveling his wand, and even without the use of Legilimency. Voldemort knew what spell he was about to cast.

The same one little Harry Potter had somehow survived as an infant, back when Voldemort had been at the height of his power. He was going to kill him. And he knew that Harry Potter was the Dark Lord's to kill, not his!

"Stupefy!"

Voldemort's vision was suddenly flooded with a blinding red light, flooding into the room from the force of the spell. Crouch, much to his satisfaction, had been blasted back. Harry turned around and Voldemort was able to get a good look at the three newcomers. He recognized Minerva McGonagall (though she looked much older now than when they'd been at Hogwarts together), Severus, and Dumbledore. 

His nostrils flared and hatred's familiar warmth seeped into him at the sight of the old and grey professor. Headmaster now, apparently. Voldemort should have predicted he'd get the job--he had half the wizarding world eating out of his right hand and the remaining half under control with the other.

Dumbledore's face almost matched Voldemort's level of rage.

No infuriating twinkle in his blue eyes, no friendliness, just cold, cold fury. And how Voldemort loved to see it. To know that he had pushed hard enough to make the old man’s calm demeanor finally slip… 

As if sensing Voldemort’s thoughts, Dumbledore’s head suddenly seemed to whip around to Harry while Severus and McGonagall busied themselves with tying Barty Crouch Jr. up. Blue eyes, like chips of ice, narrowed at Harry, staring straight into his eyes and Voldemort felt just the tiniest nudge at the forefront of the young boy’s absolutely defenseless mind. He stilled, but Dumbledore seemed to think better of invading his beloved golden boy’s mind, retracting slowly but never wavering in his gaze. 

Blue met green, but at that moment, it was almost like blue met red. Dumbledore didn’t seem to be looking at Harry at all--it was almost as if he knew that Voldemort was watching from behind Harry’s eyes. His eyes narrowed.

“Sir?” Voldemort was saved from further scrutiny by the question that left Harry’s lips. His brow was furrowed, no doubt wondering why Dumbledore was staring so intently, and angrily at him. He might have never seen Dumbledore look this way, and to be the subject, the focus, of that emotion must be confusing indeed. 

Dumbledore blinked, coming back to himself, and gave Harry a small smile of apology before turning to Crouch. 

It was then that Voldemort decided to take his leave. 

He withdrew from the boy’s mind, easy as moving a hand backward, and the view of Tom Riddle Sr. 's gravestone came back into focus. Nagini was still curled around him, hissing softly with what sounded almost like concern. 

“ Master… ” she spoke, slithering out from beneath him. “ The others were beginning to worry. They wondered if something was wrong .”

Voldemort knew that was also Nagini’s way of expressing her own worry for him, though she would never admit it. “ Nothing’s wrong, Nagini. I’ve just discovered something quite… extraordinary .”

“ Oh ?”

He smiled, slow and smug, as he thought to all he had just witnessed. He felt again for the connection between him and Nagini… and sure enough, he found the second thread once more--the ethereal link of gold and red that linked him to Harry Potter himself. Exactly the same as Nagini’s in structure--and then he knew. 

The realization struck him and for the first time in years, his knees felt weak. There was only one explanation for this connection, after all, one he didn’t think was possible. 

He thought back to the research he had engrossed himself in while at Hogwarts. Back to the information he had weaseled out of Horace Slughorn after a Slug Club meeting.

It was impossible, but it was also true. And now, with this new information, getting the boy out from Dumbledore’s protection would be as easy as breathing. Then the boy would finally be his. 

“ Harry Potter… is a Horcrux .” 

He didn’t bother with the link for another month, until he was absolutely sure that Dumbledore had left Harry Potter undisturbed. The boy would be taken back to his muggle side of the family apparently, the relatives of his mudblood mother. 

Voldemort could not say he was surprised at Dumbledore’s decision to leave the boy here. There, Harry would have grown up with little to no exposure to the wizarding world. He would have had no knowledge of his fame, there was no chance for it to go to his head. 

He would have been pure when he finally entered his first year at Hogwarts. A blank slate for Dumbledore to paint on, to influence, to mold into what he really wanted the boy to be--a weapon to use against Voldemort when he inevitably returned to power. And Dumbledore wasn’t stupid, he would’ve known that Voldemort had not been killed that night on Halloween. 

It was cold of the headmaster, callous even, but Voldemort wouldn’t have expected anything less. Harry, on the other hand, would have. Severus had informed Voldemort about the boy, who his close friends were, his relations with the teachers, what he was skilled in and what he was dreadful in (apparently Potions was not a strong suit of his), and even his experience with his relatives during the summer. 

From what Voldemort had gathered, or inferred rather from the little information Severus was able to scrounge up, it wasn’t very good. But perhaps that was what Dumbledore had been intending. To make himself the most prominent elder figure in Harry’s life, to give the boy someone to look up to right off the bat. 

Because a boy like Harry, a boy who had lost his parents and hadn’t known anyone who loved him up until his first year at Hogwarts... a boy like that yearned to be wanted. 

“My Lord?” 

“Ah, Lucius.” Voldemort spun around, dark eyes meeting grey. Retrieving Harry would be a delicate process, a process made harder if he appeared to Harry’s relatives assuming the form he had taken in the graveyard. 

Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle, however, would raise few concerns from them. He could probably convince them he was just dropping off the morning paper or something along those lines, for people tended to trust him easily back when he had that face. 

“Is everything ready for tonight?”

“Y-yes, My Lord,” Lucius dipped his head, too cowardly to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze head-on. Not like Severus or Bellatrix did. “Everything is ready but... but I have to ask, My Lord... why bring the boy here? It seems illogical, he and Draco are hardly friendly, we have had no past association with the boy...”

Not even when you indirectly gave him my Horcrux, Lucius?

Voldemort regarded him carefully. Just his presence had reduced the cunning, silver-tongued head of the Malfoys to nothing but a spluttering mess. Had he really seen potential in this man once upon a time? Even if he had, it was long gone by now. The man disgusted him, how he lived with himself Voldemort could not begin to fathom, but for now, he had his uses. 

His Manor, for example, had been used as a base of sorts for the Death Eaters. And whenever the Ministry decided to pay the Manor a little visit, Lucius’s spies (and therefore the Dark Lord’s spies) had already alerted them. Voldemort and the others were gone without a trace by the time the officials arrived. Then business would continue and the Ministry, satisfied with their findings, would leave them alone until they got suspicious once more. The cycle repeated itself but Voldemort was never found. 

It was amusing, really, to see just how things had unfolded in the weeks following his return. Harry had no doubt informed everyone he knew that the Dark Lord had returned... but no one seemed to believe him. It was pitiful . The Minister for Magic himself was suppressing the rumors as if his life depended on it. He was doing all of Voldemort’s work for him and he hadn’t even had to say a word . Things were working out much better than he expected. 

“What is it that you intend to do with him, My Lord?” Lucius stammered.

Voldemort tilted his head to the side in consideration. There were many ideas that had popped into his head when he had asked the same question to himself weeks ago, back in the graveyard he had been reborn in. 

Keeping Potter locked up was a given. Perhaps slowly torture him, bring him to the brink of death just as he had done to Voldemort when he was an infant. Vengeance was sweet, after all. But only to the brink of death. The Dark Lord didn’t want to kill his Horcrux. 

Here, at Malfoy Manor, Potter would be away from everyone, the public, Dumbledore , anyone that wished to end his life. Here, Voldemort could protect what was rightfully his and keep his plan for immortality intact. Here, Potter would stay and Voldemort’s worries would be put to rest. And when he had the boy, no one would be able to stop him. 

Everything was falling into place perfectly. 

Lucius took the Dark Lord's silence as a chance to elaborate. "I-If I may, My Lord... It seems like you don't want to kill him anymore, why bring him here if you did? Do you wish to... to torture the boy? I do not understand-"

"And that does not come as a surprise, Lucius," Voldemort drawled, ignoring Lucius' flinch away from him. It would be a miracle for Lucius to grow a spine, he thought. "Not to worry, I won't be requiring your services with him. You, your wife, and your son will take no part in it." His lips curled as he swung around to face the pale-blond man, his tone mocking now. "Is that what your concern is? Your son? Don't want poor Draco to get caught up in all this?"

"I believe I expressed my reservations on his involvement in these matters, My Lord..."

"Pity, I couldn't understand what you meant through all the weeping, Lucius. Would you like to say it again right now, when you have my full attention?"

Lucius immediately took a step back. It satisfied the Dark Lord to see it. Even when his master was taking the form of a teenager, he still cowered in fear. No, dear Lucius would not dare try to argue with Voldemort right now. As pathetic as Lucius was, he did have a respectable sense of survival. And bringing Draco up at that moment would surely end up with Nagini feasting on his dead carcass. "F-f-forgive me, M-My Lord." His head sunk inhumanly low, his chin bumping against his chest. "With your permission--"

"Leave," Voldemort said, waving a hand flippantly. He was not in a particular mood for company anyway. Not when he was relishing in the fruitfulness of his plans, of his sacrifices.

The sun gleamed from the horizon. A new dawn was on the way.

Chapter Text

Dear Padfoot,

I hope you're doing okay. Professor Dumbledore mentioned that you had a safe place to lay low for a while. I'm happy for you, really, if there's anyone who deserves a little peace and quiet, it's you. I'd love to visit someday, see you in person if there's ever a chance to.

I'm alright. I'm going to be honest with you, I don't really know what I'm supposed to do with myself. Yeah, I keep telling people--Ron, Hermione--that I'll get better soon but the truth is I don't know if I am. Dudley and I once watched this war film when we were younger, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never caught us, back when we got on alright. It mentioned something about survivor's guilt. I'm not Hermione so I don't know if my assumption is accurate, but I think that's what I'm going through.

I don't think I'm supposed to be here. Maybe that sounds like I'm being dramatic or something, but that's just how I feel. Maybe if I'd been faster in realizing where we were, what was going to happen, I could have gotten us out of that fu graveyard. Before Wormtail showed up. Then maybe I would be able to say 'I'm fine' and for once it wouldn't be a lie. Because I would have saved someone for once, not watched someone die in front of me like always. Mr. Diggory would still have his son.

I'm scared. Everyone expects me to do something about Him, but the Minister didn't even believe that he's back when I told him. I feel like people think I have a solution, but I don't have one. I'm not strong enough to beat Him. He's smarter and loads more powerful than I could ever hope to be. Even Dumbledore acts like he doesn't know what to do around me anymore.

I can't shake this feeling that my luck is about to run out.

The quill snapped.

Harry set it aside with a grimace, ignoring the specks of ink that had made their way to his bedsheets with the breakage. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand.

"Incendio," he murmured. Flame shot from the tip of his wand and danced across the parchment, burning it to a brown crisp. With another flick of his wand, he banished the remains, trying to ignore the frustration building in his chest.

That was the fourth letter he had written and then promptly burned. Nothing was coming out right, he found. The words weren't doing what he wanted them to. He wanted to be vague, to assure his godfather that he was doing perfectly fine--Sirius had enough on his plate as it was--but when the quill met the parchment, it all came tumbling out.

"That's bloody fantastic," he muttered to himself.

The door opened. Harry glanced over his shoulder and felt his heart drop into his stomach. 

He turned around, shoving his back to the newcomer. A part of him, one that Aunt Petunia had trained into him, screamed that he was being impolite and disrespectful. He quieted that voice by shouting back that he did not give a flying f--

"Harry..." Dumbledore was unsure of what to say, and Harry couldn't blame him. He knew Dumbledore meant well, that he was only trying to get Harry to talk because apparently, that made things easier to process. But Harry didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about what happened. "We need to talk."

"I'm late for the train, Professor," Harry said shortly. He grabbed his wand and shoved it into his pocket, determined not to make eye contact with the headmaster. "Maybe we can pick this up another time. I appreciate your thoughtfulness in coming here, though. Glad you had the time to."

He was being rude. He knew that. He also didn't care. 

Ever since that encounter with Barty Crouch Jr., Dumbledore had resolved to keep his distance from Harry. Harry didn't really mind, at least he thought he didn't, but it did confuse him. It felt like he had done something wrong. Like he had let the headmaster down. 

But what was he supposed to have done? Not fall into a trap? Kind of hard when it was the Dark Lord himself, the most cunning wizard in Britain, masterminding a plan to get you where he wanted you to be. Not be part of a ritual to resurrect Lord Voldemort? Oh, like he consented to have his arm split open by the man who sold out his parents.

And today of all days, the last time they would see each other before the next term started, Dumbledore had finally decided that Harry was worth his time.

"I hope you have a good summer, Harry," Dumbledore settled on. He sounded weary, exhausted--and Harry reckoned he would be. Everyone was in hysterics about the return of Lord Voldemort and Dumbledore looked like the only one who was fighting for the truth. Harry felt a bit sorry for him, but then again, he was in that same boat. "I am very sorry about what you have had to endure."

Harry scowled. A wave of anger crashed into him, so large and dangerous that it surprised him. Had Dumbledore's voice always aggravated him to this extent?

"Have a good summer, Professor," Harry said. Then he walked through the open doorway, never once meeting his headmaster's stare. He could feel it, though, burning into the back of his neck like another scar.

He didn't look back.

*

"Harry."

Green light flooded his vision, searing through his retinas. His vision was ripped away from him, leaving him stranded in a world of black hues. Shadows sifted through the darkness, hazy and grain-like. A pressure formed against his eyes. Like he was in a sea of dark water with his eyes wide open. 

Something brushed his shoulder. Then his leg. Then the middle of his back. A gasp escaped from his lips before he could help it, sharp and loud compared to the silence he was in. 

He hadn't even heard anything move. But there it was again. Something touched him, caressed him almost. Distantly, as if in a body he should be in but wasn't, there was pain, but far away as it was he didn't feel it.

He didn't understand what was happening. He tried to recall, to stretch his memory back to the last thing that happened. He had gotten off the Hogwarts Express after a long, awkward train ride with Ron and Hermione. That had definitely happened. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been there waiting for him. 

Uncle Vernon had a new car from the drilling company he worked for. He had explained it to Aunt Petunia on the way back. She had gushed about the delightful red color, the dashboard, the rearview mirror, to the extent that Harry had begun to wonder if she was being genuine or if she was just saying that for her husband's sake.

Then Uncle Vernon had caught Harry staring. The road they were taking wasn't right. There weren't any houses coming into view, not a building nor a power line in sight. Trees instead took their palace, their colours different variants of his eye color, leaning in ominously as if escorting him to his funeral.

Something was wrong, Harry realized as he thought back on it. His scar started to throb. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to remember what had happened after that.

"What are you looking at?"

There had been a 'boy' and 'freak' missing from that sentence. There had been something else, too, but Harry couldn't place it. 

"Nothing," he had mumbled in response. He had braced himself for the reprimand that was sure to follow. Don't mutter under your breath around me, boy. But it had never come. Instead, Uncle Vernon had seemed almost adamant about ignoring him from that point on. He had kept his face turned towards the traffic, his hands clenched rather tightly around the steering wheel as if it was his first time driving with other cars around him. Aunt Petunia had looked rather pale beside him, more so than usual, her cheekbones gaunter than usual and her hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap.

Harry had flicked his gaze up to the rearview mirror to get a better look at their expressions. What he saw had puzzled him. Aunt Petunia hadn't been staring at the traffic at all, or even turning to talk to her beloved husband anymore. Her eyes had been darting around from left to right, up at the sky and down at the road, almost frantically. Like they were being followed.

Something wasn't right. 

These people weren't even acting like Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia.

He had looked up at the man in the driver's seat wearing his Uncle's face, trying hard not to betray his alarm. They had made eye contact, he remembered. Something had risen up from behind him and pressed against his skull. The trees, the sky, everything Harry had in eyesight was consumed with an eerie red.

Then everything after that was a blur. A mass of black, a billowing curtain disguised his recollection, swaying too much with an invisible wind for Harry to grasp it and pull. It danced out of his grasp like a half-forgotten dream. 

And now he was here. Alone in this peculiar black room.

His foot nudged something. Harry hadn't even been aware that he was walking. He glanced down but found he still couldn't see. He kneeled down and stretched his hands out, fumbling for the object in the dark like he did with his glasses in the morning. 

The object was cold to the touch. Freezing and eerily smooth. He dragged his finger across it and was met with a soft, silky substance. He frowned, blinking even though he couldn't see. 

And then, suddenly, he could.

His vision returned with a vengeance. The room he was in, chamber more like, was made of shadows that detached in wisps crawling towards him. He shied back instinctively. That was how he remembered the thing by his hand.

He looked down at Cedric's dead body.

Harry screamed in a totally undignified manner and stumbled away, panting, at a total loss for both words and air. His lungs squeezed the breath out of him, crushing his heart in between them with a vicious tide of guilt.

Cedric's eyes were open. Harry wanted to get close again just so he could close them, give the fallen Hufflepuff the peaceful rest he deserved, but something kept him rooted to the spot. The eyes stared at him no matter where Harry angled his head, accusing him even in absence of life.

You did this. 

Harry swallowed with difficulty and tore his eyes away. They were growing wet, unsurprisingly. He must have still been in a bit of shock after what happened.

This is a dream, he thought nervously. He was exhausted during the car ride from King's Cross, he had fallen asleep, and this was just the trauma manifesting in his subconscious. The trauma from seeing his destined arch-nemesis returned from the dead. The same arch-nemesis who murdered a boy Harry ran through a cursed maze with, rewarded the man who sold out his parents, touched him in a way creepy couldn't begin to describe, and forced him into a perilous duel.

I'll be fine, Harry had told Hermione and Ron during the train ride. He didn't know how they believed him. How could anyone on the planet be fine after that?

"You're just dreaming," Harry murmured to the darkness. "This is all just happening inside your head. That means it's not real."

He hoped.

Maybe Dumbledore would want to know about this dream. Harry wondered if he should write to the headmaster when he woke up. If that would make himself too much of a bother to the old man. He cringed at the thought and resolved not to write a letter.

"Harry..."

He whipped his head around to Cedric's body. It hadn't even moved. Besides, the sound had come from the opposite direction as the dead body. Harry grimaced, heart racing again, and swung his head the other way, faltering when his eyes fell on a door.

And before he could brave a single step in that direction, the darkness fell away. Light appeared through the cracks, shining down on him and Harry almost prayed for the pitch-black to return.

There were chains around his wrists.

He yanked against them as he forced his eyes open. It was still dark, he found, but not the pitch-black of whatever room he had been in. He was almost relieved when he spied the stone walls surrounding him. Cedric's body in that horrible dark chamber was a dream, there was no need to worry.

Actually, Harry reconsidered, lifting his head so he could take in the whole room, there is every need to worry. 

"Welcome, Harry."

Harry's blood went cold.

His mind flashed back to the graveyard, the feeling of being bound against the headstone of Voldemort's father all too real. The chains on his wrists suddenly felt tighter. He pulled on them, frantically trying to... break his wrists, snap the chains, rip them out of the bloody wall, he didn't know--he needed to get out of here now! 

The tendrils of metal alloy stretched from his wrists to the opposite walls, lifting his arms up to stretch his back and display his chest. Now that he was fully conscious, he realized how sore he felt from the continuous pressure on his torso to keep himself straight. Another chain wrapped around his waist and pinned him to the ground so that he was forced into a kneeling position before the assembly of cloaked figures gathered before him.

He didn't know whose house--Manor, it looked more like--this belonged to, but whoever it was must have been richer than Harry was a hundred times over. The chandelier dangling from a high-domed ceiling must have cost more than twenty muggle cars put together, the sleek black dining table running a few meters away from a grand fireplace and stopping a small distance from where Harry was restrained probably more than that. Fifteen men or women in masks stared at him from their places at the table, their porcelain plates empty and silver cutlery untouched. 

Harry's scar lit up with pain as the room became clearer. 

He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from betraying his inner turmoil, even as foreign emotion blazed through him like a forest fire. Satisfaction. Triumph. Amusement.

He forced himself to look at the head of the table, trying desperately to convince himself that he was dreaming. This, after all, would not be the first dream he had involving the Dark Lord. Sometimes, in those dreams, he was gazing at the scene from the perspective of the victims. It was rare, but it could happen. 

This... was a rare time. It had to be. I'm still dreaming, he insisted. None of this was real. This was just a continuation of his nightmare where he had stumbled across Cedric's cold body. His subconscious had gone out on a whim and decided to throw in another scenario where Harry was chained up... at the mercy of the Dark Lord.

The agony pulsating through him from his scar told him otherwise.

He abandoned his effort to get out of the chain and instead shuffled backward as far as he could, which wasn't far. The chains wrapping around his waist kept him glued to the ground, trapped and exposed. The sharp pulling of the metal against his torso, even clothed, jolted him into a sea of nausea and crowded his vision with black spots.

This was real.

Lord Voldemort was here.

And Harry was in chains. 

He was going to die here.

At least, that's the conclusion that he immediately jumped to.

But Voldemort wasn't even raising his wand.

His Death Eaters at the table were showing small signs of restlessness. Harry wondered how long they had been waiting for him to wake up. 

He looked at all of them, trying to identify their faces, just as he had done in the graveyard, but their masks kept them too well hidden. Al except one, besides Voldemort, of course. A woman sitting by his right side. Her face was pale and gaunt, her cheekbones reminding Harry of someone he knew but couldn't identify. Her eyes were crazed, manic even, as they studied him, her lips spread in a grin so wide and red it could have been extended with slashes from a knife on either side.

Harry wet his lips, trying to keep a clear head. He quickly found that the task was impossible. From the moment he woke up, perhaps around five minutes ago, the panic had not let up. The emotion took control of his figure, possessed him even, until his mind and body were not working of his own volition. Sweat dripped down the sides of his neck, painting him in sticky salts and cool water.

He swallowed, and even that was difficult for him to achieve. He was parched, his throat dry, feeling as if on the verge of collapse. Water. He needed water. And he was hungry.

You're a prisoner, idiot. Stop thinking about water and food, they're not going to give it to you. 

How exactly had he gotten into this situation? He had just been abducted not even a couple of weeks ago and dumped in some graveyard, even he couldn't be so careless as to repeat the same mistake.

Then he remembered how strangely Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been acting. That hadn't been them at all, had it? Someone--Voldemort's followers--had disguised themselves and proceeded to abduct him from right under everyone's noses. Shit. What a fine mess he had gotten himself into.

Wait, that wasn't the worst of it. Harry had seen red eyes staring at him before he passed out. Oh god, he had been in a car with Voldemort. He had let Voldemort drive him down a highway without knowing that it was him. 

Voldemort had been driving a car. 

This really didn't bode well for him. 

And Harry was all alone. Again.

Shit.

Calm down, he thought angrily. His eyes were burning and he hated that. Whatever happened, he was not going to cry. Uncle Vernon always hated it when he cried.

He just... needed to wait. Someone would come to find him.

Dumbledore.

The thought of the man and his twinkling made Harry's heart soar with hope. 

And then it plummeted soon afterward when he remembered how distant the man had become after Harry's return from the graveyard. Would Dumbledore even be looking for him anymore? Was Harry even important enough to look for now that he had messed up and participated (unwillingly) in a ritual to resurrect the Dark Lord?

Voldemort's going to kill me. 

The thought was strangely comforting. At least there was the chance that he might make it quick. If there was one lesson that Harry remembered from Moody's... no, that wasn't actually him--Barty Crouch Jr.'s Defense Class, it was the one where he showed them the Unforgivables. 

The killing curse had stood out to Harry in particular, for obvious reasons, given his parents' untimely deaths. But what had struck him was how quick it had been. He always had this image of Voldemort torturing his parents before finally killing them, that the killing curse was the equivalent of the pain induced from a muggle weapon, like a bullet to the chest or a knife stab. It wasn't. It was just... One flash and you were gone.

"Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived..."

Harry lifted his chin, determined to face his death head-on, without fear. There was no escaping from this one, not like the other times he had encountered Lord Voldemort. This was like the graveyard all over again. his only chance of escaping this time wasn't with talent or skill, he certainly didn't possess either one except a talent for getting kidnapped apparently, but luck. 

"Voldemort," Harry acknowledged with a whisper. He was met with sharp intakes of breath from the cloaked followers.

At last, the serpentine figure with gleaming red eyes rose from his seat at the table. His chair was more ornate than the others, high-backed and dark, elegant like a throne fit for a king. It really was a throne, Harry realized with a barely-restrained snort. Of course Voldemort would design one for himself. Anything to add to that massively inflated ego of his. 

"How does it feel, Harry..." Voldemort stalked over to him, his strides elegant and graceful like an ethereal demon summoned from the darkest pit of hell. He took his time as he walked, content to keep Harry anticipating and fearful of his approaching nearness. "... to know that no one is going to come and save you? To know that you've been abandoned by those you thought your most loyal? Dumbledore and his fools don't even notice anything is out of place."

Harry said nothing. Not because he was petrified by fear, he insisted to himself.

"That is the fate you condemned me to," Voldemort hissed, his syllables drawn out and harsh like Parseltongue. "I was forgotten by the world who were all too eager to move on with their lives, by my followers who once swore to me that they would remain loyal, by those who I believed and cared for me."

Harry couldn't resist looking over Voldemort's steadily approaching figure. The followers in masks suddenly appeared more human, shuffling nervously and avoiding each other's gazes. Exactly how they had appeared in the graveyard when Voldemort had approached this same topic. He wondered how long it would be before these Death Eaters were back in their Lord's good graces.

"And now... you're going to know it, too."

"They followed you out of fear," Harry said, turning his focus back to Voldemort. "That's not true loyalty, that's just insurance that they'll cower before your feet. My friends are by my side out of--"

"Love?" Voldemort mocked. When Harry didn't respond, he made a tutting sound heavy with disapproval. "Dumbledore really has done a number on you, hasn't he? What else has he told you? That you will defeat me with the power of friendship? That you are stronger because you care about people?"

The Death Eaters took that as their cue to burst out into laughter. It reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon's chortles whenever a younger Harry had asked for new toys after seeing Dudley get some. The sneer was visible behind the joyous sounds, condescension bleeding from its tone.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that you feel stronger than me, the great Lord Voldemort."

Harry immediately opened his mouth out of spite to say exactly that. The words got caught in his throat.

Voldemort's smirk was slow and satisfied. "There we are," he murmured, soft and sympathizing as if he was trying to comfort Harry after he had been stumped. It felt so unnatural; this monster could not possibly care about anything other than himself. "Once we are finished here, I am going to lock you up in the darkest dungeon this Manor holds. Behave yourself and I might even let you out for a day. Until then... you will stay here and rot, just as I did in that half-life I suffered for nearly a decade. Should I keep you in here for a decade, Harry Potter?"

Panic closed Harry's heart in a cold grip and squeezed. He shook his head hurriedly, not bothering to acknowledge what a pathetic sight he must make for Voldemort. He couldn't stay here--he needed to get out, he needed to find Ron and Hermione, he needed to find Dumbledore and tell him where Voldemort was, he needed to do something other than just stay here shackled up like the helpless little boy Voldemort believed him to be.

His thoughts must have translated to his expression if Voldemort's bout of cold laughter was any indication. 

"You are helpless," Voldemort chuckled. "You... are in my power at the moment, Harry. Your life is in your hands. Do you know what that makes you? It makes you mine." 

"No, that's not--"

One moment, Voldemort's eyes were sparkling with amusement. The next, that glimmer was gone, darkening into irritation, and his hand shot up to clench around Harry's throat. Harry choked, trying helplessly to move his head away from the hand crushing his windpipe. Red eyes drew closer to him and he felt the slightest nudge against the inside of his head. "Stop--" he gasped, fighting for just one breath but no more were coming; Voldemort would not allow it, as if he was magically keeping every bit of oxygen away from Harry's little spot in the massive room.

The Death Eaters laughed.

"Did I allow you to speak?" Voldemort asked him, his voice quiet with an underlying threat. Choking Harry was the least of what he was capable of. "I certainly didn't allow you to talk back. The next time you do so... the consequences will be more severe. Do you understand? Keeping you alive has quite the appeal to me--I can cut off your toes and slowly grow them back, crush your fingers in a torturous muggle way instead of with magic so it will hurt. I can rip out your tongue to relieve myself of the sounds of your aggravating voice. I can rip your magic away from you. I will make all of this happen if you do not learn this lesson."

Harry stared at him with wide eyes.

"Are... we... clear?"

It was difficult, but Harry managed to nod. Voldemort narrowed his eyes but removed his grip. Harry collapsed to the ground--Voldemort must have lifted him up however far his chains would allow at some point--and drew in several lungfuls of air. He swallowed, wetting his throat again.

He looked up again. That horrible, repulsive gaze was still on him. Harry felt like throwing up. 

His vocal cords felt restless. Normally, he would be taunting the Dark Lord at this point, but he knew he had to keep his lips sealed for now. I can rip your magic away from you. There was a chance that Voldemort was lying about it, but only a chance. Harry couldn't imagine being without his magic; he had grown far too used to it ever since he was told that he was a wizard.

"Beg me for my forgiveness, Harry," Voldemort coaxed. "And maybe I'll grant you some water. Until then... you can go without. Beg me."

Harry gritted his teeth. 

No. 

He would sooner die than beg Voldemort for anything. He would not be kissing the feet of the man who had killed his parents. The man who had made his life a miserable hell ever since he could remember.

This monster in front of him was the reason he had ended up in the Dursleys' care. This monster was the reason Harry would never know what true family, what true love felt like even if Dumbledore claimed that he already knew. He didn't. 

"Fuck you," he gritted out.

The female Death Eater actually jumped up from her seat, sending the ornate wooden chair skidding back with a heavy, grating sound. She whipped her wand out and pointed it straight at his face. He knew instinctively that she would not miss, even from her place across the room. Whoever this woman was, she was dangerous. And right now, she was ready to curse him if her Lord gave the word.

"Now, Bella," Voldemort drawled, "play nice. I'm sure he just needs a few more lessons in manners. Lessons that I am all too ready to give."

Harry whipped his head towards the woman. Bella. It suddenly struck him where he knew that face from. The resemblance, when he thought of how Sirius had looked fresh out of Azkaban, was uncanny. The same sharp cheekbones, pale beauty, dark eyes. He had seen her on the front of the Prophet once or twice, too. Bellatrix Lestrange.

I, Harry thought again, am going to die.

He paused.

Voldemort had been speaking as if he intended to keep Harry here for a long, long time. He said that he planned on making sure Harry stayed alive. Why was that? Harry was supposed to be his mortal enemy--why spare his life if that was the case? Why draw it out instead of trying to kill him right off the bat like he had done every other time they came face-to-face?

"Are you going to kill him, My Lord?"

Harry didn't know who it was, but he felt a surge of gratitude for their daring to ask the question he was curious of the answer to himself. Then he remembered that the man who had spoken was a Death Eater and promptly went back to hating his guts.

"No."

The single word cut through the hushed murmurs of worry rising from the table. Bellatrix froze in her position, her wand arm snapping back to her side faster than Harry could blink. 

"Harry Potter... is mine."

Harry fought the urge to protest again.

Voldemort took a graceful step forward, the air around him clinging close and darkening as if he had called the shadows to accompany him. Whatever light there had been cast down from the chandelier dimmed. Harry's heart picked up its pace in a sense of foreboding. 

"Mine to harm," Voldemort continued, his voice a soft, sibilant hiss. Something in Harry was drawn to the softness of his tone, something buried inside his chest that he couldn't identify. "Mine to conquer. Mine to defeat. Mine to torture. Mine..."

He was right in front of Harry again. Harry's vision was consumed with red. The Death Eaters in the background dropped away, fading into the shadows that Voldemort had brought with him. Nothing more than spectators.

"... to kill."

Voldemort raised a hand so pale it practically glowed in the darkness that whirled around the two of them. Harry wanted to shy away, to take a step back, but the chains kept him glued in place. His blood ran cold, adrenaline washing over his bones in shivering waves. 

The Dark Lord's fingers touched Harry's face and moved to cup his cheek in an almost reverent gesture. Harry braced himself for the searing pain that would surely accompany the skin-to-skin contact, but there was nothing. Nothing to indicate that this was some sort of monster in his presence. Just a human hand cradling his face for no apparent reason.

Red eyes bore into his green ones, staring intently as if peering into his very soul. 

"And mine..." Voldemort leaned forward so that his mouth was not even an inch away from Harry's ear. His magic brushed against Harry, nearly suffocating with its potency, choking him and binding him all at once, marking him for a fate he never wanted. "... to decide when to kill."

"What?" Harry croaked out, his voice no louder than a whisper. It didn't make any sense. "Why not get it over with now?" He blanched significantly, realizing how that sounded. "Not that I want to die," he said hurriedly. 

Nice job, Harry.

Voldemort's lips curled into a half-smile. He chuckled, dragging his finger across Harry's cheek as if sculpting his face to his liking. 

Harry couldn't breathe. 

"You're so innocent," Voldemort crooned. "Do you really think I'm going to let you die so quickly? After what you've done to me? Always a thorn in my side, always resisting me when you should have known better. I offered you a place at my side when you were only eleven, and you rejected it like the fool you have proven yourself to be. You think I will simply grant you an easy death--a mercy--after you repeatedly defied me?"

"I thought you were a merciful Lord, Tom."

Voldemort smirked. His switch to Parseltongue was seamless, so sudden that Harry had to do a double-take to recognize he was speaking a different language. "Are you trying to get a rise out of me, Harry? By calling me the name of my filthy muggle father?" His words blended back to English. Harry wondered if his Death Eaters knew their Lord's true blood status. "I admire your effort, however pathetic it was. You have my grudging respect after all you have accomplished. You were a far more difficult opponent to defeat than I previously thought..."

"Then why aren't you ending my life?" Harry demanded. "Why not finish what you started? You want to kill me, you've made it your mission to, so why stop now?"

“Oh, I will kill you,” Voldemort agreed, and Harry would have felt a surge of relief if he didn’t know what was coming next. “... But first I’m going to take everything away from you. I’m going to make you watch as I destroy this world you fought for, raze it to the ground, burn it all down, and build it up again. 

“I’m going to make you watch as I snuff out the lives of every single person you care about. I’m not going to let you die a hero, Harry. When I’m done, all your friends will be dead and it will be your fault because you, the prophesied Chosen One, could not kill the great Lord Voldemort, no… I’m going to let you die as you see me.”

A murderer. 

A villain. 

“No,” Harry gasped, hating how much it sounded like a fucking whimper.He was not going to beg Voldemort for anything, he would not be weak in front of this monster. 

Voldemort just laughed. 

A thumb brushed against the scar on his forehead, sending a shiver racing up Harry’s spine and something else he could not quite place. Warmth surged through his body, stemming from his scar, surprising him. He gasped again, softer this time, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at this unfamiliar feeling. He was aware of Voldemort murmuring something before the shadows the Dark Lord wore like armor reached out and plunged his world into darkness.

Chapter Text

It was so... cold...

The darkness never let up. It was a sentient being, almost, too possessive over what it had enveloped to ever consider letting go. It blanketed his surroundings, covering his eyes in opaque sheets of black until he couldn't tell the difference between opening his eyes and closing them again.

Metal chains, tighter and somehow worse than the ones in the entrance room to the Manor he was being held in, circled his wrists and ankles, binding him in a position similar to the one he'd previously been in. His back was aching, his arms sore and stiff, but the restraints kept him up, merciless as the monsters who shackled him.

His thoughts kept drifting to that look on Voldemort's face just before he blacked out, a gentle finger tracing the outline of his scar. Harry had never, never been more terrified than he had been in that moment. That look in those red eyes--that greed, that possessiveness--it terrified him, even now, what must have been days after he had been brought down here. It made him feel sick to his stomach, which was already clenching in on itself as if he hadn't eaten for a week. 

He wondered how long he had been in here. Voldemort had caused him to lose consciousness, that much he knew. Harry had been at the complete mercy of the Dark Lord, more so than before with the removal of control over his faculties. Who knew what Voldemort had decided to do once Harry couldn't fight back? Harry could have been asleep for who knew how long. It would explain why he felt like he was back in his cupboard at the Dursleys', no lights allowed inside while he was being punished, his stomach growling viciously. 

The cupboard.

He darted his eyes around with a new panicked fervor, cursing himself for daring to compare the two prisons. It made him feel impossibly worse. He was breathing way too fast, he wasn't getting enough air inside his lungs, he was being punished for his failure again--

He had really lucked out this time. Really. It was like he had spun the wheel of bad fortune every year and this time he had managed to land on the worst one impossible. He honestly preferred a basilisk to this. He would take a Voldemort-possessed teacher any day (except Snape--a possessed Snape was too horrifying to think about) or a dragon, a sphinx, a werewolf--just not this. At least in the past, he had actually been fighting something he could see, something that was tangible.

This... this reminded him far too much of the first ten years he had spent with the Dursleys. But somehow worse. The hunger, the thirst for water, the need for company coupled with the knowledge that no one would be coming; it was all too reminiscent of his younger years. Harry wondered if Voldemort knew just how much isolation like this would bother him. He wouldn't be surprised if he did--the Dark Lord had proven to know much more about Harry than Harry could have imagined already.

How had Voldemort even found out where he lived in the first place? Dumbledore had assured Harry in the past that Privet Drive was protected by a plethora of powerful spells along with the residual protection from Lily Potter's sacrifice. The location of Harry's summer residence was a closely-guarded secret, especially from the likes of the Dark Lord. So how...

Had it been Snape who told him?

Harry bit his lip. Somehow, and maybe he was crazy for even thinking about it, he doubted that Snape had given Voldemort his location. It wouldn't make sense. According to Dumbledore, Snape was a double-agent, working for both sides--though Harry had his reservations on which side he showed more loyalty to. Revealing Harry's location to Voldemort was equivalent to turning his back on Dumbledore, and the old headmaster would find out. Everyone would know where Snape's allegiance lied; Voldemort would lose his most valuable spy. Voldemort wouldn't have risked that... would he have?

Voldemort had been annoyingly scarce ever since the Triwizard Tournament. If he went through all this trouble to remain hidden, he wouldn't have asked Snape to reveal himself in such an obvious way. No, Voldemort had found out by other means. Which meant that Dumbledore had another spy on his hands, one he wasn't aware of. One who was privy to Harry's residence as well. Someone he would never suspect. That thought scared Harry more than he wanted to admit.

He thought back to the Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon that had picked him up from King's Cross. If it really had been Voldemort disguised as Uncle Vernon... blimey, his acting was good, frighteningly so. He had nailed the exact shade of purple Uncle Vernon flushed when Mad-Eye threatened him on Harry's behalf. Harry hadn't even been aware that something was off until halfway through the car ride.

Considering that Harry had lived with Uncle Vernon for thirteen years, fooling him took an abundance of skill to pull off. And Voldemort would have only had a short time to perfect Uncle Vernon's mannerisms after he had readjusted to a living body. 

"Creepy bastard," Harry murmured.

Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow emerged. The mass of black emerged slowly, invading the new cutout of faint light that peeked through the iron-wrought gate barring the dungeon cell. Harry didn't notice when he stopped breathing, his heart thrumming in anticipation as the amorphous figure grew larger, swallowing the light whole. His scar wasn't burning, there wasn't even a prickle of pain, but still...

He wasn't afraid of Voldemort. He wasn't.

That didn't stop him from exhaling in pure relief as a familiar head of blond hair peeked out between the silvery bars. Harry didn't think he had ever been so glad to see Draco Malfoy in his entire life. He never thought he would've felt anything other than disgust or hatred when he set eyes on the pale git. A pale git who was currently carrying a tray of food.

Harry resisted a smile as Malfoy unlocked the gate, fumbling with the tray in his arms as he did so. It nearly tipped over when he brought the key out of his coat pocket. He was clearly unpracticed with this sort of thing. "Didn't have any house-elves to spare, Malfoy?"

Malfoy scowled, knowing perfectly well what Harry was referring to. His family hadn't had a house-elf ever since Harry tricked Lucius Malfoy into setting Dobby free. With a sock of all things. "Please shut up, Potter. It's bad enough that I have to come down here..." He cast a scathing look at the dirt lingering in the corners, the damp spots on the floor where Harry's sweat had dripped. His aristocratic nose wrinkled in disgust. 

"Is this your house?" Harry asked. It fit along the lines of the wealth Malfoy insisted on boasting about at school. "Why the hell do you have a dungeon in your house?"

Malfoy bristled. "It's a Manor, Potter."

"Do you mind letting me out of said Manor?" Harry tried putting on his most charming smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow. What do you think? He shut the gate behind him with an audible clang, pulling out the key from his pocket and locking it up again. Harry barely held back a flinch when he heard the click of the padlock. His instincts screamed at him to get out of there, but there was no way out. He was trapped.

"Why are you using a key anyway?" Harry forced himself to ask, burying his rising panic deep underground. "I was under the impression that you were a wizard."

"I am a wizard," Malfoy snapped. To prove this, he pulled out his wand and gave it a sharp flick. Two torches on either side of the room that Harry hadn't spotted before suddenly burst into brightness. The orange flame flickered at him, taunting him with the idea of warmth. It took Harry a moment to adjust to the introduction of light.

Harry craned his neck to get a better look at what Malfoy had brought. The chains wrapping around his waist strained, their weight acting as a second form of gravity to pull him back down. He landed on his knees with a shout. 

Malfoy looked like he was trying not to laugh. Harry gave him a dirty look. At least his displeasure at Malfoy's presence was helping him to ignore his fear of being imprisoned this way. Voldemort could be walking on the floor above his head. He shuddered. "Shut up, Malfoy." It didn't come out as strong as he would have liked.

The blond boy's sneer slipped away. Something else took its place. Harry didn't want to think of it as pity. The last thing he needed was Draco Malfoy to feel sorry for him; everyone else already had that covered. "I really thought he was going to kill you, you know."

Hearing it out loud eased something in Harry's chest. He wasn't the only one confused by Voldemort's rather spontaneous decision, then. "I did, too," he said quietly. He almost wished Voldemort did. A decade of torture, of being forced to starve in the dark... He really wanted to believe that Voldemort hadn't been serious about that, but the odds against that were quite high. "The Dark Lord does like his trophies, though."

Harry frowned. That... was an odd thing for him to say. It didn't even feel like his own words in his mouth. 

"Okay, then," Malfoy drawled. He walked closer, his nose scrunching up with every step at the smell of the dungeon. Harry cringed as the plates on the tray wobbled in his hands. If Malfoy spilled his precious food, Harry was going to strangle him. He yanked against his chains halfheartedly, wishing he had his wand. Great. Voldemort probably had it. The image of Voldemort even touching his wand sent ripples of anger through Harry's newfound yet shallow pool of calm. 

"Well, I have no way to get you out of those chains. So I am... going to..." Each word looked like it was physically hurting Malfoy to say. "... to have to spoon-feed you."

Harry's jaw dropped open. 

"Oh good, you know how it works."

"I--What?" Harry suddenly got the impression that he was perfectly imitating a confounded goldfish and promptly shut his mouth. "Shut up. You are not going to spoon-feed me like a child."

"I am older than you," Malfoy pointed out helpfully. 

"You had a key for the cell. Why can't you just, I don't know--get a key for these chains, too?" It was as close to escaping as Harry was going to get. Granted, there was still the chain wrapping around his torso, but he would figure out a plan for that when the time came, reckless Gryffindor that he was. "Better yet, why not waste any more time and unlock them with your wand? I think we learned the spell in our first year. A-lo-ho-mor--"

"I know what the spell is, Potter," Malfoy snarled. His grip tightened on his wand. For a moment there, Harry wondered if Malfoy was actually going to curse him, but the anger seemed to drain out of the boy soon after. "The Dark Lord made it so that only he can open your chains. And the cell can only be opened with either his magic or this key..." He slid it out of his pocket and twirled it in his fingers. Harry stared at it longingly. "On the chance that your Order friends find you, he doesn't want them to be able to get you out."

It made sense in a depressing way. Harry's shoulders drooped, the trickle of hope he had unearthed slowly dripping away. The sudden sagging of his posture unleashed a flurry of pain in his shoulder blades. "Crap," he whimpered, rolling his back a little to relieve some of the soreness, but it only made it worse.

"Look," Malfoy said uneasily, "I can't get you out of them. No matter how much it hurts. I... I'm sorry."

"Gee, thanks, Malfoy. That makes me feel loads better." Harry glared at him. He snuck a peek down at the tray and scanned over what Malfoy had carried down. A ham and cheese sandwich. He raised his eyebrows at it, a little surprised that the Malfoys would serve a meal so mundane. It felt too muggle to be in their house. Oh, wait, Manor. "There's no--He didn't tell you to bring me any water?"

Malfoy shook his head.

Harry clenched his fists. He pointedly stared down at the ground so Malfoy couldn't see how wet his eyes were growing. Helpless. That's how he felt. Not lonely, not scared anymore; he was almost numb to the fear by now--Helpless. 

Beg me for my forgiveness, Harry. And maybe I'll grant you some water. Until then... you can go without.

"You're joking," Harry mumbled, understanding dawning on him. "He actually meant that..." Voldemort was going to wait for Harry to kiss his feet before giving him water. He raised his head to the ceiling, ignoring Draco's increasingly concerned stare, and sighed deeply. It helped calm him down, but not nearly enough to make him feel any better.

He can do whatever he wants to me. I am not going to prostrate myself before the monster who murdered my parents.

"Does anyone know he's back yet?" Harry decided to ask. The change of topic was inelegant at best, which Draco caught onto with a raised eyebrow. The blond bit his lip and peered over his shoulder in the direction of the gate. His shoulders were higher than they normally were, his back rigid and tense.

After around thirty seconds of contemplation, Draco turned back to face Harry. His expression was still worried. Harry blinked when he realized how weary he looked. How had he not noticed it when Draco first walked into the dungeon? It was so at odds with the almost regal air that Draco carried with him at school, the sneers and condescending insults he flung around like flower girls throwing petals at a wedding.

Now, Draco looked... exhausted. The areas underneath his eyes were practically purple and his cheeks were pale--more pale than usual; Harry could see his veins standing out in ominous blue branches. His normally perfectly-groomed hair was tousled slightly at the back, not nearly as horrendous as Harry's own bird's nest, but daunting to see on the Malfoy heir nonetheless.

"No," Draco said. "It's... incredible how they haven't figured it out yet. Even the air outside feels different now that he's back, in my opinion. Heavier somehow. Like it's carrying something that has its eye on you all the time, waiting for you to let down your guard." Harry faltered a little at how perfectly he had described the days since Lord Voldemort's return. "But the Minister seems determined on repressing whatever claims Dumbledore tries to spring up. He's terrified, as he should be, but his state of denial isn't helping anyone. Besides the Dark Lord."

Funny how Draco seemed almost... frightened by this prospect. Harry would have thought he would be celebrating by now. His Lord was back, he would eradicate all the muggleborns from society, he would bring glory back to Slytherin's house; it was what Malfoy had undoubtedly been raised to believe and yearn for. So why did he look so lost? 

"Not everything it's cracked up to be, huh?" Harry offered with a bitter grin. 

"W-What?" Draco shook his head sharply, forcibly clearing his cloud of thoughts. "No, that's not what I meant at all. It's just quite sad to see the once-great Ministry of Magic fumbling around, chasing their own tails, to bury all these rumors. Convenient, too. Better for h... us in the long run."

Harry didn't say anything. 

Draco rolled his eyes, slipping back into his prior manner with terrifying ease. "I'm supposed to make you eat, Potter. It's the Dark Lord's orders."

"And you're only too happy to carry them out?"

"Yes," Draco insisted. Harry wondered if he noticed how his voice had taken on a frantic edge. "Come on, Potter, don't make this difficult. You want to stay alive, don't you? Better chance of escape later on and all that? You can't get out of here and back to your friends if you're dead from starvation."

That was a valid point, Harry conceded. But it didn't look like Malfoy understood. "When you eat bread, it dries your throat up." Harry nodded towards the sandwich on the plate, trying to ignore how his stomach growled at the mouth-watering sight. "That means I'm going to need water to wash it down. Vol..." Draco flinched. "He said he wanted me to beg him for water. I have no plans on doing that."

"You..." Draco barked out a laugh. He brushed his hair back with his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. "Is it so hard to let go of your dignity once in a while, Potter? Even when it means survival? No one would blame you--even I wouldn't mock you--for choosing your life over your pride."

"And why would I want to do that?" Harry growled. "Why give Voldemort--" This time, Draco jumped several inches off the ground, tossing a horrified look at the gate "--a way to prolong my suffering? He said he wants to kill me eventually, so he can go ahead. I'm not going to let him make it slow. Either I die from starvation, which is a hell of a lot better than what I'm sure he's planned out for me, or he kills me nice and quick."

Draco stared at him, his lips parted in shock. "You... Harry Potter... are a fucking coward."

Anger reared its head like a serpent in Harry's chest. He narrowed his eyes, nearly hissing as he snarled, "What did you just say to me?"

"Do you have any idea who you are?" Draco demanded. “You’re not just a person, Potter, you’re a symbol to the whole wizarding world. Surely you aren’t so ignorant that you don’t hear the names they shower you with. People look at you and remember that there is a person capable of conquering a Dark Lord, even if it’s not you personally. They look at you for hope and you’re just going to let yourself die? You die and their hope dies, it doesn’t matter that the Dark Lord’s got you locked up. As long as you stay alive, people will think they have a chance and keep fighting. And don’t whine about how unfortunate it is, that’s just the way it works.”

“It shouldn’t have to be the way it works,” Harry started.

Draco’s voice raised to a shout. “Yeah, well it is how it works, stop complaining about it like a spoiled brat--”

“Oh, so I’m the spoiled brat now? Who’s got fucking peacocks strutting about their front yard, silver dishes and cups, a house with dungeons for some reason…”

“It’s a Manor, Potter!” Draco abruptly shut his mouth and turned his face away. The sudden change shocked Harry into shutting up as well. He bit back the next insulting words that had been on the tip of his tongue and waited for Draco to look at him again.

Why did he seem so desperate for Harry to stay alive? He hated Harry, didn’t he? They hadn’t gone through four long years of school insulting and degrading each other because they liked one another. Malfoy should be rejoicing at Harry’s current predicament. Hell, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he picked up the sandwich and threw it on the ground like Harry was a dog waiting for his next meal. 

Draco sighed heavily and turned to the tray. Without meeting Harry’s eyes, he picked it up and walked over to Harry, setting his knee down so they were both kneeling before each other.

Harry hesitated, some prideful part of his heart screaming at him not to be treated this way, but in the end, his stomach took over and he leaned forward. Draco held completely still as Harry slowly took a bite out of the sandwich, chewing it and swallowing. His throat felt dryer almost immediately. He turned his head away from Malfoy and coughed, nearly choking, spluttering as he fought to swallow. It felt like there was something lodged at the back of his mouth, preventing the food from going down all the way.

“I’ll see what I can do to get you water,” Draco said quietly. “Until then… try to think about what you’re willing to do to stay alive.”

“Why do you care?”

Draco’s eyes got a faraway look in them, the grey in his pupils glazing over. He reminded Harry of Sirius, somehow. His godfather would get lost in memories of better, happier times too; times where things used to be simpler, where the line between black and white wasn’t so blurry, when you didn’t constantly have to look over your shoulder for fear of someone eyeing it like it was their next target.

In the end, Draco just smiled, but there was no joy in it. Harry’s heart ached to see an expression full of such bitterness. “I guess… it’s not everything it’s cracked up to be.” 

He didn’t say another word as Harry finished off the sandwich, coughing unpleasantly as he did so. Harry didn’t offer up another topic either; their strangely-civil conversation had run its course. 

Four days passed before Lord Voldemort returned.

Chapter Text

Harry often wondered how he was still alive.

The days passed faster than he could blink; a whirlwind of memories and moments passing before his eyes yet remaining entirely unregistered in his mind. His only disruption to this routine was when Draco would arrive twice a day to give him dinner and whatever sufficed between the general breakfast and lunch times. Harry tried not to mention how he detested that each meal included bread. He knew it was intentional.

Even Uncle Vernon hadn't been this harsh towards him, but then again he wasn't a maniacal dark wizard hellbent on destroying him. Never thought I'd actually miss Privet Drive, Harry grimaced.

On the fourth day, Harry felt so sick and lightheaded that he couldn't bring up the energy to hurl his usual insulting greetings at Draco. He could see how the Malfoy heir was growing more and more worried with each visit, however much he tried to hide it with sneers and condescending tones. But there wasn't anything Draco could do about it; not without disobeying the Dark Lord's orders. And Harry wasn't foolish enough to believe that would happen anytime soon, if ever.

Am I being selfish? 

He thought about it often on what he assumed was the fourth day. Draco's words rang inside his head like a song he couldn't stop humming the tune to, insistent and painful like a migraine. It hurt even more to consider that Draco might actually be right for once. First time for everything.

Harry was a symbol to the wizarding world, whether he liked it or not. As long as he was alive, there was hope that he could be rescued. And if he was rescued, people would think there was a chance against Lord Voldemort. It could inspire someone to fight him and maybe even win. 

Whoever it is, Harry thought bitterly, it's not going to be me. His skill set was nothing compared to Voldemort's. Recent events, especially his near-death experience in that damn graveyard, had proved that. He didn't know how anyone in their right mind would expect him to defeat the Dark Lord all by his lonesome. 

Except... he wasn't by himself, was he?

In Harry and Draco's first conversation down here, Draco had brought up something called the Order. Harry had no idea what that was supposed to mean; if it was just that--an order--or an organization; it could be either one. And maybe he was just getting his hopes up, but... it sounded like it was some kind of resistance against the Dark Lord. If that was the case... Harry grinned delightedly. 

"What are you smiling about?"  

Harry smiled wider.

"Stop that," Draco demanded. "You're creeping me out. Four days in here and all you've done is sulk--For good reason!" he added at Harry's glower, "there just doesn't seem like much to smile about. Unless you've finally gone insane, that is."

Harry's answering laugh probably wasn't very assuring. 

Then he felt it. His smile slipped away as quickly as it had come. The sensation that he had been dreading ever since being thrown in this dungeon burst forth without warning. The slight prickling originating from his scar, like tendrils of miniature lightning coursing through his skull, flared up with a vengeance. His heart stuttered when he spotted the shadows in the corner of his cell clustering together, a faint red hue slowly emerging.

He was coming.

"Draco." It was a strenuous task to speak, his throat dry and inefficient from the bread he had never fully forced down, but he had to get Malfoy out before the Dark Lord arrived. Already he could feel foreign emotions stirring to life in the pit of his stomach. Anger. Hatred. Curiosity? "Y-you..." He paused, pushing through the searing pain. "You need to... to get out..."

Draco, who had been kneeling in front of Harry as he attempted to clean his face with a dampened rag, paused. He took in the fearful look in Harry's eyes; an expression he hadn't seen in the dungeon cell yet. Harry willed his eyes to put it all on display for Draco, needing him to leave so he wouldn't get caught in the crossfire sure to erupt between him and the Dark Lord.

Too late. Draco was too slow to react. The shadows had formed together to form a person, a familiar serpentine figure with eyes of frozen blood, a wand already in his grasp. That couldn't be good. Harry whimpered, hoping the pathetic noise would jolt Draco into action. It did. Draco scrambled to his feet, whipping his head around and, upon spotting his lord, hastily sank back down. He pressed his forehead against the filthy floors he had constantly complained about to Harry, quivering in his place.

Harry stilled, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head, his back muscles crying out in agony as he moved against his hunched-over position. Red eyes stared back at him, crimson slits of spilled blood, otherworldly against the darkness of the cell.

"Leave us," Lord Voldemort said quietly. 

Harry looked away when he heard Draco shuffling back to his feet. He didn't want to watch his only companion for the last few days leaving him. He knew that Draco didn't have a choice, but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel a little betrayed by being left alone so easily. Ron and Hermione would have stayed with him. They would have fought tooth and nail against the Dark Lord himself to make sure he wasn't alone when facing him.

He was being ridiculous. He couldn't compare Draco to the two people he had been best friends with for four years. All this solitude and exhaustion was messing with his head. The thought was far from comforting. He needed to be at his best when confronting Lord Voldemort.

Adrenaline swarmed his vision, clearing up the details of the miserable stone cell for the first time in days. He felt sharper, more attentive, yet fatigued all at once. He couldn't do anything, not even move when Voldemort made his way towards him in slow strides. He was as pale as a ghost, an ethereal being seeming to float towards him, riding on muted waves of black, those snake-slit pupils scanning his face. Harry found himself staring back, unable to look away. Fear sparked at the edge of his clouded mind, too far away to notice in the presence of a being so darkly divine.

The cell didn't feel so cold anymore. Harry hadn't been expecting him to show up so soon; he assumed the Dark Lord would be busy with other, more important matters. Voldemort was smiling, his eyes full of satisfaction as they dragged over Harry's broken form. Each step closer was reminiscent of an executioner dragging his ax along the bloodied ground. Harry tried not to think of his position in chains as the equivalent of his head on the block. He already knew that Voldemort wasn't going to kill him. Not yet anyway.

"Killing you would be infinitely easy," Voldemort murmured as he encircled him. Harry suddenly doubted his conclusion that he wouldn't be dying today. "The taste of revenge would be so sweet on my tongue as I watch your blood splatter itself across the nearest wall... But no, I prefer this. You look miserable, Harry Potter."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that without endangering his life, so he kept quiet.

Voldemort began to pace back and forth, his motions leisurely and confident. This was a man who knew he had won, even if the rest of the world wasn't aware of it yet; a man who had looked to the future and seen what he had always suspected: that victory was his birthright. A silence fell upon them, easy yet difficult at the same time. Harry waited for Voldemort to make his move with bated breath, trembling as he imagined what would come next.

The Dark Lord prowled around the cell like a predator in the night, comforted in the fact that his prey had no way of escape. His eyes held such light that Harry could almost see the gears turning in Voldemort's head, shifting and clicking into place as he carefully planned his next move. 

This is possibly the most cunning man in all of Britain, Harry reminded himself, trying to kickstart his heart into beating more furiously. It had nearly stopped in his chest at one point, as if it was preserving its remaining pulses to keep Harry alive in the face of danger. And he has wanted me dead since before I can remember. It's normal to be afraid. I should be afraid. And he was. He really was.

He gasped as the Dark Lord's finger came to gently trace the jagged shape of his scar. The pain in his head lowered to a manageable static, the steady movement of Voldemort's hand bringing Harry to focus. He shook his head slightly, determined to make the Dark Lord stop touching him in this creepy manner yet too weak to do so. His throat was too parched to speak.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed as he studied the lightning bolt seared to Harry's forehead. Anger blossomed in Harry's chest, so spontaneously that he knew that this emotion wasn't his own. Hatred. Rage. Loathing. Voldemort loathed Harry's very existence. And yet... there was something underlying that cold fire.

Fear.

But what would the Dark Lord have to fear from Harry? Harry was the one in chains and Voldemort was the one who was free.

Voldemort brought out his pale yew wand and ran it down Harry's throat. His skin began to itch, throbbing with irritation in the presence of his magic. Harry recoiled, a feeling similar to oil trickling down his skin washing over him. He had never felt magic like this before, so corrupted and dark it couldn't have belonged to anyone else than the Dark Lord. When Voldemort withdrew his wand, he could suddenly swallow again, the residue of his meals vanishing from his throat.

But he was still parched, dreadfully so. Another day without water looked impossible in this state. Everything felt too dry, too lacking to be able to function efficiently.

Voldemort hummed, studying Harry skeptically. As if he was a lower creature, an insect even, that he had been tasked to understand. Dissecting Harry wouldn't have been below him. No, the Dark Lord would probably enjoy slowly carving out his insides in order to answer the question he needed to answer. Harry winced at the thought, phantom pain licking down his spine.

"Let's play a little game before we begin, shall we?"

Begin? Begin what?

Before Harry could ask, he felt the same thrum of magic as Voldemort wordlessly and wandlessly summoned two cups out of thin air. He held one out in each hand. The cups were identical in every way. They gleamed in the faint light of the torches Harry hadn't realized Voldemort had lit, their solid gold structure ornate and delicate. Harry wouldn't have been surprised if these were the cups the Queen of England herself sipped from at her most lavish of events.

"What is this?" Harry croaked out. He waited for Voldemort to punish him for speaking out of turn, but the restricting hand around his throat never came. 

"This, Harry," Voldemort said, staring at the cups almost lovingly, "is a test. I am rarely wrong in my conclusions, but there is a first time for everything."

"What conclusions?"

"So many questions... Let's make a deal, Harry. You indulge me in this test of mine, and in return, I will answer four of your questions. One for each day you have been in here. How does that sound?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. There was a catch somewhere, there had to be. He shifted his focus to the cups in the Dark Lord's grasp, searching them over and over for some hint that they were not what they appeared to be. But they looked so ordinary, despite their quality. 

"You won't lie when you answer the questions?"

Voldemort's smile was far from kind. The question alone showed that Harry had already agreed to the deal. 

"Of course," the Dark Lord crooned. "Whatever you ask for."

Within reason. The words remained unspoken, but they were implicit in his tone nonetheless. There was more to this than Harry could understand, he knew that for a fact. But at the same time... It didn't look like anything bad could come of this. So Harry nodded.

Voldemort raised the twin cups close enough to Harry's face so that his vision was consumed by the gold and, in the background, glowing red. "I am a merciful lord, Harry, you were right about that. You've cooperated well under your current circumstances, far better than I imagined you would. So I am willing to grant you water."

Water.

Harry's brain instantly snagged onto that word, his instincts crying out to do whatever was required of him in order to get it. His chest burned with raw need.

"All you have to do... is pick a goblet."

"You're joking." It couldn't be that simple.

Voldemort glowered at him. A paint pain in his scar picked up again. Harry hastily ducked his head, not wanting to anger the Dark Lord when he was this weak. He suspected even a slap across his face might be enough to kill him at this point.

"Pick a goblet. Then you can have water. After you've had your fill, we can begin."

"Begin what?"

Voldemort raised the cups pointedly. Harry wouldn't find out until after he had chosen one. Whatever it was, he guessed he wasn't going to like it. 

Harry sighed and resumed his analysis of the cups. They were the same, identical in every way. There was no difference between them, not that he could see anyway. Why did Voldemort expect him to choose between two identical cups?

He faltered. They weren't identical, now that he thought about it.

On the outside, they appeared to be. Even Harry's severely flawed eyesight paired with his outdated glasses could tell that much. No, that's not how he knew they were different. He could feel it. 

He stared at the goblet in Voldemort's right hand. He strained his ears until he was sure that the noise emitting from it wasn't just his imagination. It was real. A faint, hypnotic hissing radiating towards him in waves of golden warmth. His lips parted as he felt something buried so deep in his chest pull towards it, yearning to get closer, get closer, get closer--

Harry shook himself dazedly. That goblet wasn't normal. At least, not to Harry. Maybe it was a regular thing for goblets to hiss at people in the wizarding world.

But it wasn't exactly hissing exactly. Harry tilted his head so he was brought a little closer. His breath caught as the sounds reached his ears. At the words reaching his ears. The goblet was whispering parseltongue. 

Come... closer... Come... closer...

... That definitely wasn't normal. Not by anyone's standards, except perhaps the Dark Lord and Salazar Slytherin's descendants. And Harry. He remembered the half of his second year following the incident at the dueling club, where he had unwittingly revealed his ability to speak with snakes. Everyone, save Ron, Hermione, and a few others, had made a point to stay as far away from him as possible for the remainder of the year. Parseltongue, he had been told, had a stigma against it, the worst one possible. It was the mark of a dark wizard.

All this went to show that there was something fundamentally wrong with that goblet. There was dark magic imbued in it. Voldemort wanted him to pick that goblet. It was so obvious. The language it projected towards him, whispers of sweet pleas and meaningless nothings, urging him to just come closer--that should have been enough to deter Harry from choosing it completely. 

Then why did it feel so... Harry fought for the word to describe it. Alluring. He couldn't help himself--he was leaning towards it, eyes hooded and lips parted as if in a trance. The parseltongue twisted and morphed until he could have sworn the goblet was calling his name. It was singing to him, so hypnotic and enthralling, begging him to get closer, to take hold of it, to come home. 

No.

"The one in your left hand," Harry rushed out. Before he could change his mind. Before the strange calling he felt towards the cup in the Dark Lord's right could overcome his common sense. Voldemort lowered the whispering goblet and Harry immediately felt lighter, freer, something in his soul letting go from where it had latched onto. He was sure that he had made the right decision.

But Voldemort was smiling. As if Harry had passed this test without realizing it, slowly losing a game that he had not even realized had begun. 

The cup that Harry had denied glinted tauntingly against the torch light.

"I was hoping you would fail."

Voldemort's voice was deceptively light. Hidden beneath was a wave of cold anger and bitterness that Harry couldn't hope to decipher. His next words were quiet, as if he wasn't aware he was speaking aloud. 

"Extraction... not possible... there was no formal ritual to remove one... no, he has to stay alive... His life... so valuable now, it cannot be lost..."

To say that Harry was beyond confused would be the understatement of the century.

Voldemort ceased his murmuring, turning now to face the boy who lived. Without a word, he raised the selected cup to Harry's lips. Harry shoved all his suspicions of the water steadily rising to the rim of the chalice being poisoned to the side. His body cried out for it, the logic in his mind silenced by the way his insides screamed for water, water that was so close, water, water, water...

The moment the cool liquid hit the back of his throat, Harry was lost. He had never realized how good something supposedly tasteless could taste. His throat was instantly soothed, his mouth no longer dry, his speech no longer restricted now that his vocal cords did not scratch against one another. 

His first thought was of relief.

His second was that he should hoard the remaining water in his mouth once he had taken his fill and spit it directly into the Dark Lord's face.

"You said that you would answer my questions," Harry said before he could do just that.

Voldemort slowly stepped away, retreating back into the shadows. He took the goblet, now fully drained of water with him. The second one, the one of golden and gilded whispers, was placed directly in the center of the cell, positioned so that Harry could keep both it and the Dark Lord in his sights without any effort. It was strange; Voldemort paid the cursed goblet much more care than the other. 

"So I did. And I will. But I never mentioned when I would answer them. For now, we have much more important matters to discuss."

"That's not fair," Harry protested. A feeble attempt to distract the Dark Lord from carrying out what Harry suspected was next. He racked his brain for a follow-up that wouldn't seem too suspicious, but would also work. It almost hurt, to plan ahead this much. Usually, he just dived headfirst into cold water and dealt with the frostbite afterward. 

"Just... one question. One question a day, that way I won't waste too much of your precious..." Sarcasm won't get you anywhere, Harry, not with him... "your time," he finished lamely.

He looked up, biting the insides of his cheeks nervously, to see that the Dark Lord was staring at him with an impassive mask. Thinking quick on his feet, Harry hastily ducked his head, hoping that the gesture of subservience, however far from genuine it was, would further tempt Voldemort into giving in to his request.

Between them, the goblet's hissing grew louder. Harry winced, wishing more than anything that his hands weren't chained up so that he could clap them over his ears. The sound was deafening. It was dark water that threatened to drown him should he plunge in, a trap that would ensnare him forever should he spring it. And how he wanted to spring it. 

What the hell was that goblet made out of? Nothing, nothing had affected him like this before.

Well, that wasn't exactly true, was it? Harry conjured up the memories of his second year again, quickly shuffling through the images that came into focus. Tom Riddle's diary. Harry remembered what it had been like carrying it around, that incessant curiosity to find out what it was that had never struck him as odd at the time. The feeling of lightness, buoyancy, as he opened the pages and touched his quill to paper. The rush of exhilaration as the memory of Tom Riddle answered back.

The feeling of utter panic and fear he had felt when he discovered that someone had stolen it. The need to get it back, to reunite with it, as if every inch of his being had set itself a goal to find it.

"Very well," Voldemort conceded, rather unexpectedly. His voice was so flat that Harry couldn't guess at his emotional state. If the Dark Lord felt emotions at all besides hatred and rage, that is. "One question, Harry Potter. And that is all. Then you will... What is it that you feel when you look at the cup?"

What an abrupt change of pace. Here Harry had thought he would be asking the questions, but Voldemort appeared to have some of his own. As long as he keeps his attention on me. However, something told him that he should keep whatever he was hearing to himself. 

"I don't feel anything."

"Then what did you feel when you held my old journal in your hands?"

"Do you mean your diary?" Harry didn't know which realm of foolishness and stupidity he conjured those words from, but as usual, they came tumbling from his mouth without an end in sight. "Who puts a sixteen-year-old version of themselves in a notebook, anyway? Were you lonely and in desperate need of company? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you wanted that company to be yourself, you narcissistic basta--"

Voldemort didn't need to move his hand to choke Harry this time. The air itself compacted around his windpipe, crushing it at the Dark Lord's command. Harry gave a strangled shout at his sudden shortness of breath, his heart crying out as it pounded next to lungs that weren't functioning properly. The grip around his throat tightened fractionally, but it felt like the pressure had increased significantly more than that, a feather compared to a boulder.

"P-Please..." Harry cried out hoarsely, his hands scrabbling against his chains, seeking to pry at the ghostly pressure against his throat, but the cuffs held fast. Voldemort didn't smile this time. His red eyes were merciless, cold shards.

"Did I not tell you that the consequences would be far more severe if you dared to speak against me again?"

Harry choked, warm liquid suddenly swelling up in his raw throat. He drew in whatever pressure was in his chest and forced it up. With a wretched cough, blood came flying out of his mouth, splattering onto the ground, inches away from the golden goblet. Voldemort didn't even move, his eyes fixed on his prey.

Harry was going to die like this.

As if hearing Harry's unspoken thought, the hold on his throat suddenly loosened. Harry bent over, sagging as he hurled up mouthfuls of blood onto the floor. The wet sounds of liquid hitting the floor made his insides curl up, a shuddering gasp breaking loose.

Voldemort was silent as he studied Harry's suffering. It was almost identical to a younger version of himself: a teenage Tom Riddle as he looked down upon Ginny's stone-cold body as he slowly fed on her life force like a parasite. Detached as he murdered an innocent girl, almost separate from the world of the living, another type of monster entirely. 

Harry wondered if the worst of it was now over. The Dark Lord didn't seem to be looking for anything else. Would he leave Harry to his fate now? To do as Voldemort intended? To stay there and rot? 

Without warning, white-hot agony burst to life, stemming from his scar. Harry screamed through his already ripped-up throat, blood bubbling to the surface. Pain seared its way through the innards of his neck coupled with the lacing fire that wove its way through his body.

Harry screamed for all he was worth, openly sobbing before Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord didn't let up for a single moment, not as Harry voiced his excruciating pain, crimson eyes the shade of the blood Harry was choking on, cutting off his air, burning through his lungs and filling them until he felt like he wouldn't be able to take another breath--

It abruptly cut off. Harry collapsed on himself, tears rolling down his cheeks as he cried out. He tried to swallow, tried to quiet himself, but the choking and the screams had done their damage. Each convulsion of his throat rubbed the raw insides of his throat together, tearing up open wounds, obliterating any chance Harry had of speaking.

"That," Voldemort said quietly, "is what you deserve for destroying a piece of my soul."

Harry didn't have the energy to question what the hell he meant by that. A piece of his soul? How could Harry have done such a thing and when? What did that even mean?

Then the answer came to him, glaring at him and impossible to ignore like the rising sun in a sea of stars. The diary. Harry had plunged a basilisk fang into Tom Riddle's diary. His actions had resulted in the destruction of both it and the spectral memory of Tom.

"Still want to ask your question?" Voldemort asked dryly.

Harry glared daggers at him as he racked up some more blood. Perhaps the Dark Lord would get his former wish after all. To see Harry's blood splattered against the walls, pooling near the goblet in the center of the room. Its gold consumed Harry's vision once more; an oasis among dunes of scorching fields of sand. He wondered how its water would taste in comparison to the other one's.

"I..." Harry retched out more of his insides. Voldemort's eyes widened slightly. "Why d-do..." He couldn't get the words out. So he forced himself to stare directly into the red eyes meeting his green, projecting the question to the forefront of his mind, praying that Voldemort could hear. Why do I feel lighter when I'm near it?

It answered the question Voldemort posed earlier as well. What is it you feel when you look at the cup? Crimson slits gleamed approvingly at Harry. Consideringly. "Is that your question for the day, Harry Potter?"

Yes. 

The Dark Lord hummed and started to pace again, his hands folded behind his back. Harry was relieved to see that his yew wand was out of sight. "What did Dumbledore tell you when you asked what my diary really was?"

Harry wanted to ask how he knew that he and Dumbledore had spoken. He came to the conclusion that Voldemort must have been perusing his thoughts from the moment he appeared in the cell. The idea gave him a feeling akin to his bones freezing over, becoming fragile as cracked ice over a winter lake. 

That it was a memory preserved in a diary, a fragment of yourself. That's what you--Tom Riddle--told me in the Chamber, too.

Voldemort huffed out something like a laugh, though it held no joy or humor. "So he knew what it was... Of course he did." Harry felt rage that wasn't his own stir into being in his chest. "That, Harry, along with you... are pieces of my soul. They are known as Horcruxes."

Horcruxes. The word didn't mean anything to him.

"Of course it doesn't," Voldemort acknowledged. "Dumbledore would have fought to keep this knowledge away from any and all students. He did back in my day. I had to find information regarding them in a... different way. The details aren't any of your concern, just that I found out what they were and what I could use them for."

A pause.

"Horcruxes... are the key to immortality."

Harry scoffed disbelievingly. Then why did I manage to kill you the night you murdered my parents?

Voldemort's eyes flashed at the reminder. "Did you? Manage to kill me? I seem to recall possessing one of your professors back in your first year." Professor Quirrel, Harry grimaced. "I wouldn't have been able to manage that if my Horcruxes did not keep my consciousness alive. Yes, Harry. Horcruxes. Plural. I couldn't have myself mortal again because of one being lost now, could I? I don't make mistakes. Except, of course, with you."

Me? 

"Why do you think I keep saying that you belong to me?"

I don't.

Voldemort raised whatever he had that passed for eyebrows disbelievingly. "No?" he echoed. "You still deny it... Is it a demonstration that you wish for? Proof that you belong to me now? I can supply that. And in doing so, I can answer your question."

What are you talking about?

It was as good a challenge for the Dark Lord as any, so it appeared. Voldemort gave him that all-knowing smirk once again and held out his hand. He twirled it in a delicate flourish. The cup on the floor flew into his grasp. The whispers grew unbearably louder.

You're going to answer my question... with a cup. 

"Very good, Harry," Voldemort praised. "What an astute observation." Harry wanted to punch him for the condescension in his tone and he almost did. But he wanted to stay alive more than he wanted an act of small revenge. Besides, it wasn't like he could move his hands, shackled up as they were. 

The Dark Lord murmured a few words, a chant by the sound of it. It was a language that Harry didn't know. He couldn't understand the intent behind it. Not until he followed where the crimson gaze was staring and noticed that the empty golden cup was now filled with water.

He looked up at Voldemort, feeling confused and somehow cheated. The goblet, for all it looked like an ordinary cup, felt off. It felt wrong, its whispers so wrong, and yet... Harry found that he was drawn closer, something unfurling inside him and singing as he closed the distance between himself and the object. Come closer... come closer... His throat suddenly felt parched, each time he swallowed it felt like sandpaper rubbing against itself. He needed that water.

"I changed my mind," he forced out, hating how his throat ached, blood building up again. "I don't want--"

A thumb brushed his chin and tilted his head up, effectively shutting Harry up. Harry looked up and saw the hungry stare of the Dark Lord gazing back at him. He shook his head, both to continue his denial and to clear his head. Voldemort's lips curled in cold amusement. He pushed the rim of the cup past Harry's parting lips.

Harry's thoughts flew away as his mouth was slowly filled with a smooth, velvety coolness. "There you go," Voldemort coaxed. "Open up." And Harry did, almost gladly, lost to that wonderful singing as he was. The cup touched his lips and it felt so right to open his mouth all the way and left himself drink from it, liquid pleasure rolling over his tongue. His eyelids fluttered shut as the water soothed his burning throat. It was like he could suddenly breathe again, his mind felt so much clearer. 

Voldemort cupped his cheek in the same gentle way he had in the dining room upstairs. Harry once again braced himself for the horrible pain that would surely follow but instead felt... warmth? He sighed softly and leaned forward, feeling the rumbles of the Dark Lord's chuckling as he did so. Something in that water made him feel relaxed, so much that if Harry's mind was not wrapped up in a sea of haze and clouds, he would be terrified beyond imagining. But that was not the case, and so he let the Dark Lord cradle what was his.

Home, the singing in his chest hummed to him, soft and melodic like the voice of a siren. Home, home...

"Is this enough proof for you?"

Harry couldn't find the energy to do anything other than just lay there, relishing in the touch of his mortal enemy--the man who had killed his parents. His eyelids flew open at that, a hint of awareness just brushing against the edges of his conscious mind. With that conscious thought, the dark hold over him was chased away, fleeing from the light his awareness brought.

Shit. Harry's knees buckled in horror. He shuffled backward, away from that cursed cup, trying to ignore the Dark Lord's curious stare. What the hell was that? 

"Only one question a day," Voldemort reminded him. "Now we can begin." 

The Dark Lord snapped his fingers. Cries instantly filled the cell. A woman. Harry snapped out of the remainder of his daze. Panic rushed in his chest. A different scream reached his ears. A flash of green light. Not a dungeon, but a room with a nursery. A woman with beautiful red hair and eyes the twin of his own. 

"Say hello, Harry," Voldemort said, "to Arabella Figg."

Chapter Text

Potter's eyes were bright with rage as he stared at him, blazing as if they were the gateways to Voldemort's own inferno. 

Voldemort's wand hovered in the air, the Cruciatus Curse curling around his tongue but not yet let off the leash. Flickers of emotion passed through him, too faint and abstract to decipher. He lowered his wand, watching Potter's face slacken with surprise as he did so before returning to anger. 

His Horcrux. Voldemort resisted the urge to step forward and touch the boy's scar once again. To demand tangible proof that he had somehow achieved the impossible. A human Horcrux.

He had stormed into this cell with every intention of finding a way to extract the missing piece of his soul and put it into something more reliable, something that wouldn't defy him with every breath it took. Harry Potter was a wild card, a mistake that should never have happened, a product of Voldemort's own recklessness.

And yet...

Voldemort tilted his head to the side as he studied Potter. That look on Potter's face, that delightful hatred, that righteous anger directed towards him... Voldemort had never seen anything quite like it. This boy wrapped in chains, kneeling before the Dark Lord not of his own will, seemed entirely different from the one Voldemort had initially kidnapped. It made excitement stir in his veins, the likes of which he hadn't felt in a long, long time. 

He wanted to see more of it, and this was the best opportunity he would get for the foreseeable future. Voldemort pushed a sleeping spell almost lazily in the squib’s direction, not sparing a glance as her body crumpled down. Potter winced, his attention switching from Voldemort to the woman. That wouldn’t do. His focus needed to be on Voldemort and Voldemort alone.

Voldemort searched within his mind and found that beautiful, divine thread of red and gold. It twisted between them, thrumming with magic even he did not fully understand. The same magic that had made Potter crave Voldemort’s touch as soon as the goblet’s water passed his lips -- and what a sight that had been. It didn’t take much effort at all to coax that magic into being once more, to push at the link, his frustration taking root in the form of pain in the boy’s scar. Right on cue, Potter cried out. His eyes snapped to Voldemort’s. There. Now his fun could begin. 

“Let her go.” Potter’s first words were utterly predictable. Ever the trained saviour Dumbledore had forged. “She has no reason to be here.”

It was terribly amusing how Potter thought he could order him around like that. Voldemort felt a smile ghosting his face. Did he truly not know what she really was? “Doesn’t she?” he returned. “Do you know why I graced a muggle home with my presence? Because she has wronged me and I cannot allow that to stand unpunished. She must be taught her lesson. Consequences, Harry, are unavoidable.”

“I suppose you would know.”

Voldemort only raised his eyebrows in answer. 

Potter glared at him as if he was dense. “You talk of these… of these Horcruxes like they saved you. Like they’re this lifeline you’ve given yourself. It’s not. They’re not. And you’re so fucked up that you can’t even see it.”

“Is that so?” Voldemort shifted so Potter could see how his fingers tightened around his wand. A trace of weariness slipped through the boy’s body. Voldemort was almost tempted to take back what he said, hoping the threat he posed wouldn’t be enough to deter Potter from this state of delicious rage. Thankfully, as he should have expected, it didn’t. Potter was nothing if not stubborn. 

“All you’ve made for yourself is a prison,” Potter growled, “and you’re slowly going insane inside of it. You started to rot long before my mother’s protection destroyed you. Look at yourself. I’ve met Tom Riddle before. I know what he accomplished. He was head boy, he was talented, he was smart, he could have done anything he wanted in the world.”

Today was certainly a day for surprises. Voldemort took a step forward, filled with pleasure at the praises Potter was unwittingly singing. This was fascinating to hear. 

“He could have done what you plan to do, but people wouldn’t have been so afraid.” Potter’s expression was one of scorn and revulsion. “They wouldn’t have looked at him and seen someone needlessly killing people and stepping down on the throats of men and women he’s fooled himself into thinking are beneath him, all to gain this deluded version of power. They wouldn’t have looked at him and seen what a monster he is.”

Potter was trembling now, waves of temper rolling through him, cracks in his golden facade splitting further, the riptide on the cusp of dragging him under. The sight was enough to convince Voldemort, barely, to let what Potter had said pass. He was wading through those same dangerous waves, he had been aware of that from the moment he let the goblet near the boy. Voldemort despised Potter’s very existence, but that hatred suddenly seemed very far away. Curiosity took its place almost seamlessly. The want to push the boy under that dark water, to see just how far Potter could go with a little convincing, was irresistible. 

“You think I should become like you?” Voldemort asked. He wasn’t sure why he was treading so carefully, but the rapt attention the boy was fixing him with was so worth it. “Complacent to what has been set ages before us, unwilling to use methods deemed unnatural by people with limited understanding, even to fight for what I believe in? You could have someone to truly rival me, Harry, if only you tried. You could have become a force to be reckoned with. But instead, you’ve let yourself melt into the molds that Dumbledore and a corrupt ministry have set for you.”

Potter opened his mouth, defiance coming so incredibly easy to him, but Voldemort didn’t give him a chance to speak. Not yet. Not when every word he spoke was being listened to so closely. “Do you know what the Prophet is saying about you at this very moment? That you’ve lost your mind. That their precious savior isn’t all he’s chalked up to be.”

Voldemort had come close to laughing when he’d read the headlines Lucius had presented to him earlier. The lengths people would go to in an effort to control their own fear was nothing short of remarkable.

“And it’s all because you tried to spread the truth.” Voldemort let his voice drop into smoothness, soft and potent like poisoned honey. “The champion of the wizarding world brought down by the people he saved when they could not save themselves. Pretending to be someone he’s not. Is that what you want? To keep up this charade until you're fortunate enough to join your parents? If it is, I thought higher of you than I should have.”

Of course, it wasn’t what Potter wanted. Voldemort could see that clearly now that they were alone. There was no Dumbledore, no foolhardy Gryffindor friends here to keep Potter in line. This was as close to honesty as Voldemort was going to get with the boy.

He found that thread again, that powerful link branching between their minds. He tugged at it, lips parting, pupils dilating at the pure emotion that rushed at him. Oh, what he had begun to see on the surface had been nothing compared to what Potter felt on the inside. Voldemort stared at him in wonder. Had he made a mistake in his methods when dealing with this boy?

Potter was clearly aware that he was a pawn in a game between Dumbledore and Voldemort. If he hadn’t known it before, he definitely knew it now. He was aware that the ministry saw him as a tool to keep the goodwill of the people and barely more than that. And he hated every minute of it. Voldemort opened his eyes and saw the mirror opposite of everything Severus had ever told him. 

Just like his father. Potter was far, far from being like his father. Arrogant. At times, admittedly, yes, but never out of childish spite. Relishes in his fame and glory. On the contrary, Potter appeared to hate it as much as Severus did. So many biased views he had received from the potions master lately.

Or blatant lies. 

For the first time in years, Voldemort pondered the possibility that Severus’s loyalties had changed. All the information he had been told about Potter, save for details that could not be falsified, had been untrue. This boy didn’t match up with anything Severus had told him. The information he’d been fed had made him despise this boy; it had revolted him, bored him. 

So much so that he had never considered anything but killing Potter. He had seen the boy as an obstacle and nothing more. Just like Dumbledore planned , Voldemort realized with startling clarity. The old man had to have guessed Potter was one of his Horcruxes and had taken every measure to make sure Voldemort killed him in the end. Even getting Severus to let his hatred for James Potter cloud his opinions on Harry while reporting to Voldemort. All so the Dark Lord would never see the other route that held potential to him, the other doorway open for him to walk through.

Albus Dumbledore was good, Voldemort had to admit, though it infuriated him to no end. What he wouldn’t give to be rid of him at long last. 

He forced his thoughts back to Potter, who was staring up at him with wide eyes. Not with respect or fear or reverence like his followers did, but consideringly. As if Potter was realizing some truths of his own. Voldemort could work with that. 

“I don’t pretend to be something I’m not,” he told the boy. “Look at what I have accomplished when I revealed myself. It takes strength, it takes power, to stare death in the face and tell it no. Death is a grim reaper, a rabid dog, and if there’s one thing a rabid dog loves it’s the chase. And that's all you’ve done so far. Run away. That is the reason you were always meant to fall at my hand; why death will come for you and not me. Perhaps it’s just that the wizarding world is beginning to see you for what you truly are. A fraud.”

Potter glared daggers at him. “If that’s what it takes, I’ll keep running. If anything you told me was true and I do house a piece of your soul, I hope death comes to find me. Because unlike you, I’m not afraid--”

Voldemort couldn’t see anything beyond the red that consumed his vision at the implication of his Horcrux being ripped away from him. He flicked his wand in a spiral, forcing the air around Potter to compact against his throat. Potter choked, ragged shouts echoing off the walls, blood swelling to the surface once more. Voldemort sent waves of pain at the boy’s scar, watching in satisfaction as bloodcurdling shouts turned to screams. 

With half a thought, the pain stopped.

Potter heaved, bending over at the stomach. His breathing was harsh, his eyes wide and unseeing as the last echoes of exquisite agony ebbed away. 

“You know I can’t live forever.” Potter coughed as he forced the words out with sheer determination. “I’m human. Unlike you. There is nothing you can do to preserve whatever is inside of me. There is nothing I will allow you to do. Even if it takes me stabbing a knife to my gut, I’ll do it. I can die happy.”

“I command armies,” Voldemort laughed. “I live and breathe magic of light and dark. I made myself judge, jury, and executioner while conquering a force man thinks to be unconquerable. You know I’ll find a way. I just hope it torments you when I do.”

“You’re sick,” Potter spat.

“I’m a survivor.”

Potter looked away. There wasn’t anything further to be accomplished today, it seemed. Not when the boy was so set on his views and beliefs. No, that would take time to deal with. 

For now, he could watch the boy scream. 

“She, on the other hand,” Voldemort said, turning to the woman lying by his feet, “is not.”

--

Voldemort’s smile as he turned to Mrs. Figg sent quicksilver shivers down Harry’s spine. 

“Why is she here?” Harry demanded before he could lose his nerve. 

“When I took you,” Voldemort said, beginning to prowl about the cell once again, “I explicitly told your guardians not to inform Albus Dumbledore or any of his associates that you are unable to be found. I was very convincing. However… it appears you’ve been kept a closer eye on than I was anticipating. Dumbledore takes no chances with his star pupil, it seems.” Voldemort’s eyes flashed with disgust. “But no matter. Today, Arabella Figg, a registered squib, stopped by your guardians’ house and demanded to see you so that she could report back to Dumbledore.”

“No,” Harry said immediately. Mrs. Figg was a muggle woman, nothing more than that. He would've known if she wasn't. “No, you’ve got this wrong. Mrs. Figg doesn’t even know who Dumbledore is, she’s a muggle! It wasn’t her, you’ve got the wrong person--”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. A fresh burst of pain shot through Harry’s scar, eliciting yet another cutting cry from his lips. The inside of his neck thrummed with familiar pain, shallow wounds grating against each other like dry sandpaper. The message was clear, as if Voldemort had written it in the air as Tom Riddle had done in the Chamber. Harry wasn’t allowed to talk until Voldemort had finished saying his piece; the same lesson that had been imparted before Mrs. Figg’s horrific arrival. Gritting his teeth, Harry reluctantly nodded his assent. 

“Good. It looks like you can be taught some things after all.”

Harry considered spitting at Voldemort in the face just for that comment. A more sensible part of him promptly screamed that it was in fact not a good idea, no matter what his anger was telling him. The less he antagonized Voldemort, the less pain he would be convinced he needed to dole out onto helpless Mrs. Figg.

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He stepped away from Harry. With the renewed distance between them, the dungeon grew cold once more. 

Harry barely took notice, his thoughts whisking his presence of mind away from the cell and to the house down the street from him. The house Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia used to drop him off at whenever they decided to have family-time. As if Harry wasn’t even remotely related to them. 

He remembered knocking on Mrs. Figg’s door countless times, each visit as unexciting as the last. He remembered making tea for her on the rusty stove in her run-down kitchen, batting away her nosy cats as they tried to lap up the milk he poured into the cups. Her light smile when he handed her a plate full of biscuits, when he pet her cats just to see her smile. 

He had rarely enjoyed his time with her, forced as it had been, but now, in the face of Voldemort’s wrath, he could not help but wonder…

Why didn’t I at least try to be nicer?

He felt bitter at the same time. If what Voldemort was saying was true, it was just another thing that had been kept from him for his safety. He didn’t want to believe the truth about Mrs. Figg, but Voldemort had no feasible reason to lie.

“Every night, she makes her rounds down the street, always stopping by your guardians’ house. She asks after you at least once a week. Every Sunday, she meets Minerva McGonagall at a coffee shop by the nearest train station to detail how often she saw you, what she saw you doing, and how she believes you’re faring. McGonagall then directly reports to Dumbledore. Neat, don't you think?”

To think that there had always been someone close by in contact with Dumbledore… Harry studied his folded knees, hating the flickers of anger he felt slowly coming to life within him; bubbles in boiling water. This time, the emotion was all his. 

Dumbledore had kept an eye on him all these years. Harry had suspected it, of course, but the brutal confirmation of it hit him smack in the face. That meant Dumbledore knew what the Dursleys had done to Harry, how they had treated him ever since he was dumped on their doorstep. 

And he didn’t lift a finger to help. 

“How fortunate it was that there was always someone there to look after poor little Harry Potter.” Voldemort’s voice dropped into a croon. “Always someone who wanted to protect you from me, who wanted to keep you alive. It makes me wonder how you would have fared if you were alone. No ancient blood magic from your mother to protect you, no phoenixes to swoop in with wretched old hats and dazzling swords, no wands that inexplicably refuse to fight one another. How many people have died for you already?”

He leaned closer. “How many of them do you think will be left standing when I’m through with them, now that I have you?”

Harry blindly lunged forward, yanking desperately at his chains, aiming to punch, kick, headbutt - do anything to hurt Voldemort for saying that. Voldemort’s smile widened. “Who knew that Dumbledore’s star pupil could feel so much anger?” Voldemort chuckled. “Or is that just an echo of my own emotion…”

A burst of light suddenly came forth from deep in Harry’s chest. He gasped with the intensity of it, of the joy, the pleasure, the euphoria that flooded through him. It wrapped around his mind, his heart, his soul, his body, everything and anything that made him him, curling around and coiling like a shimmering serpent. His lips parted, a moan just on the edge of tasting freedom at this beautiful sense of being whole. 

It lasted a split-second later and then it was gone, cruelly ripped away from him, leaving him staggering for breath at his place in the iron chains. 

What the hell had that been?

Harry trembled once he had collected himself to the best of his ability, praying that hadn’t been what Voldemort was feeling. Harry had caught flickers of happiness whenever Voldemort was in a good mood, but this… it had been far more than he had ever experienced. He glanced up and was taken aback to see that Voldemort’s eyes had widened, crimson eyes staring back at him with none of their usual manic light. New emotions burned into his mind, sharp and bright like camera flashes. Shock. Anger. Panic. Wonder. Fear. 

Voldemort tilted his head to the side as he studied Harry. His chest was heaving. It was the first sign of exhaustion Harry had yet to see from him. 

“Did Dumbledore ever explain to you why that happens?” Voldemort asked finally. “Why you sometimes feel what I feel, why you sometimes see flashes of my surroundings?”

Harry remained silent.

“No? Even though he had no right to keep it from you? Right now you're thinking that he doesn’t know either, but I can assure you with full confidence that he does. He’s seen fit to keep it from you. Do you know why? Because that’s how he shows how much he cares for you. He is selfish, Harry, he will sacrifice anything and anyone for the greater good.”

Voldemort turned to face Mrs. Figg. The switch back to their present course was unpleasant and unwanted, but there was no opposing track Harry could think of to lead them down. He tasted something like defeat on his tongue, and as much as he wanted to refuse that thought, to keep fighting back and denying Voldemort his satisfaction… he couldn’t. 

“Take her for example.” Voldemort spared a nod in Mrs. Figg’s direction as if just remembering that she was there. “She's was an easy target for him to force under his thumb. He would have guilt-tripped her into taking this recent assignment. He would have claimed that her fondness for you should be directing her considerations and not her brain, like any human being who valued logic would have done instead. He turned her into a tool. It goes to show the caliber of the manipulative tactics he possesses. Tactics, Harry, that he often implemented when working with you.”

Harry shook his head, the old fire flickering back from the ashes. No, Dumbledore had always been the one person who had been honest with him. He had been the one person that Harry always knew he could talk to, the one who would always understand the challenges he had to face. The one who was reliable enough to coach him through it, making sure he came out alive in the end.

And yet, some traitorous part of his mind whispered, Is he? 

“She didn’t mean any harm,” Harry said. “She was just following her orders. If you’re saying the truth, that’s what’s expected of her, isn’t it? She was just way out of her depth, she didn’t mean anything by it.” His voice broke. “ Please.”

“Oh, Harry…”

Voldemort’s lips curled at the sides, splitting his face into a gleeful yet sinister expression. The shadows clinging to him danced around his shoulders, holding him and following his lead simultaneously; a dance of danger and deception. 

“I do love to hear you beg, but I’m afraid her fate is already sealed. Albus Dumbledore is now aware of your disappearance, all thanks to her actions.”

Harry looked around the dungeon, praying for some miracle to appear and save Mrs. Figg, but his hope was unfounded. It was just like what Voldemort had told him. Up until now, the only reason he had survived was that he had people looking out for him, watching his back, taking him under their wing. And now? There was no one coming. He was all alone. Just as he always had been when it came down to it. 

The stone bricks of the dungeon blended into the midnight air Voldemort wore like armor, the room fading into the black chamber that haunted Harry’s dreams. He looked down and wasn’t surprised to see the body lying limp at his feet. The cold, dead eyes of Cedric Diggory came back to haunt him not for the first time, but not the last either. 

You did this. 

Harry couldn’t let someone else die on his behalf. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t live with himself, he had to do something--

“Please don’t do this.”

He whispered the godforsaken words anyway, even while knowing that his pleas, however much the Dark Lord took pleasure and gratification in them, were futile.

“If you had failed that test, I might have considered it,” Voldemort admitted with an incline of his head. “I was unsure if you would be worth all the trouble Dumbledore will surely stir up once he personally verifies your absence. But you passed. You have proven to me that your life is too valuable. I will not let you go.”

“You’re delusional,” Harry snarled.

Pain cracked across his cheek. Harry’s head jerked to the side as the full force of the Dark Lord’s strength came crashing down on the side of his face. His cheek burned, crimson already rushing to meet the surface, staining his pale skin a disturbing shade of red. 

Blood welled up in his mouth. Harry smirked triumphantly, taking vindictive pleasure in the way Voldemort eyed him in confusion, before spitting right in the Dark Lord’s face. Red, deep enough to match the monster’s eyes, splattered onto his bare skin. 

Voldemort said nothing for a long time.

But when he looked up, when he finally granted Harry a response, Harry couldn’t help but shrink back. He pulled frantically at his chains as he struggled to get far away. 

What in Merlin’s name had he been thinking?

“That,” Voldemort hissed, his voice full of raw, unchecked hatred, “... might have been the biggest mistake of your life.” His eyes blazed with the blood that was sure to be spilled. Splattered on the walls. His face was contorted with rage, his features twisting with the blood on his skin into something far more monstrous than nature’s precious laws should have allowed.

The relief that the gift of water had given Harry vanished in a heartbeat, leaving his throat dry and constricted as it had been this morning. “I…” What was he going to do? Apologize? There was no way; Voldemort deserved every ounce of disrespect and hatred that Harry could muster.

Voldemort’s furious expression abruptly melted away. The yew wand slashed through the air, forming a semi-arc that branched away from the Dark Lord’s shoulder. Harry felt the slightest itch of magic and the cell was swiftly filled with heart-wrenching sobs once again. 

“No,” Harry said instantly. Horror the likes of which he had never felt before, could not have even conceived of before, cut through him. “No--I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry, you’re right, you’re right--”

Voldemort’s red gaze, like the targeting dot from a sniper, was trained on the whimpering, frail form of Mrs. Figg. Harry’s vision flashed and suddenly her eyes were lifeless, cold, and dead, her body lying right next to Cedric’s in that dark chamber of his dreams. 

You did this. 

“Arabella Figg,” Voldemort said in that horribly smooth voice. As if he was pronouncing her death sentence in front of a jury. The freezing temperature of the cell dropped further. “Albus Dumbledore’s precious little squib. Do you know who I am?”

Mrs. Figg blinked, the hysterical edge in her eyes dulling as she registered the question. She must have realized Voldemort was waiting for an answer, and none too patiently, for her nods were hurried and frantic. “You’re him,” she whispered, crackles of fear and fright darting through her. 

Her gaze then shot to Harry, her eyes widening perceptibly. “Harry!” she gasped out. Harry forced a nod, swelling tears blurring his vision. You did this. “You’re… you’re alive, you’re alright!”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed shakily. 

“Harry, Dumbledore’s looking for you. He’ll find you, he’ll get you out of here, don’t worry… You’re going to be back home soon, I promise. He’s already working on it.”

Voldemort’s expression darkened. The shadows grazing his form flexed warningly, sharpening into spears sharp enough to cut through steel.

Mrs. Figg was smiling at Harry, her eyes brimming with hope. Such was the faith she held in the man who ordered her into this mess. Don’t think like that, that’s what he wants you to think. But Harry couldn’t bring himself to smile back at her, not when he knew that this was all his fault. 

If only he had been more aware when he had been picked up from King’s Cross Station. If only he was smarter so that he didn’t keep getting into these situations. If only he didn’t keep blundering into every hellhole with his hands tied behind his back, not giving a damn when he got burned. After three years of experiencing the same life-threatening predicaments one after the other, he should have learned by now.

But he hadn’t. He had kept stumbling through, relying on the luck that insisted on staying with him, ever-present and by his side, reliable like a shadow, until this very moment. What a rude awakening this was. That luck, however much you thought you had, always ran out. Everything, like time, was limited.

And Mrs. Figg’s was up.

“Why wait for Dumbledore to free him?” Voldemort asked. Mrs. Figg jolted, shuffling away fearfully. That wouldn’t save her. Nothing could now. “A man like Albus Dumbledore, however heroic you think he is, shouldn’t get all the glory. No… I’m going to give you a chance to reap it all for yourself.”

Mrs. Figg’s eyes widened.

Harry’s heart stopped.

“Just imagine it with me if you will,” Voldemort continued, his voice smooth like velvety curtains concealing daggers; each one a hairline-move away from sinking into their mark, “how that will revolutionize the wizarding world. If you succeed, of course. A squib, a person with limited magic, saving the Chosen One from the fearsome Dark Lord - one thought to be unstoppable except by Albus Dumbledore himself. You’ll be hailed as a hero by Britain’s entire magical community. Think of all the good you could do for people like yourself, of all the changes you could demand in your honor.”

Voldemort leaned closer, and though he was obviously speaking to Mrs. Figg, his eyes never left Harry. “You can be the one to save the boy you’ve watched grow up. You can save his life.” The final push. Manipulation of emotions - the tactic he had told Harry that Dumbledore kept in his arsenal. Harry’s throat closed up as he saw the light brighten in Mrs. Figg’s eyes with those last words. 

Hope.

Glory didn’t mean much to her, but Harry did. And she was being presented with a chance to be a hero to him. 

He wondered if this was what it felt like to have your heart broken. 

And then Voldemort handed Arabella Figg a wand.

Her fingers curled the foreign dark wood without any prompting. She thrust it in Voldemort’s direction, her eyes unseeing, her fingers riddled with tremors. “Stay back!”

“Of course,” Voldemort smiled. “I mean it when I said you can walk out of here alive, Mrs. Figg. But only if you do one little thing for me. Then you can escape, and you can bring Harry here with you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Why, open his chains, of course. It’s a simple unlocking charm. It should be easy for a magical being like yourself. I’ve even removed the charm on the chains that prevents anyone apart from myself from opening them. A-lo-ho-mor-a.” Harry stiffened at the mirror of his own words to Draco. “I’ll even give you ten whole minutes to do so.”

It was cruel. 

It was beyond that.

Mrs. Figg had whitened to the shade of snow on a bleak, cloudy day. She inched towards Harry, brandishing the wand clumsily, unpracticed. Harry wanted to look away; he couldn’t bear to watch, but not giving her his attention felt like a betrayal on his part. Could he not be strong enough just to offer her this support in her final moments? 

And so, for ten full minutes, he watched Mrs. Figg, a squib, cry and thrash about as she put everything she had into forming one unlocking spell. Her shrieks of frustration and defeat were agonizing, tugging at chords in his heart that Harry hadn’t been aware of before. 

He didn’t notice when he started screaming along with her. Each moment that passed brought them closer to her inevitable end. And he knew the Dark Lord would not allow her to die peacefully nor painlessly, not after the information she had recently divulged. 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry sobbed, his voice breaking in every possible place as Mrs. Figg started punching herself as self-inflicted punishment for her incompetence with magic. It wasn’t her fault, it was his. He wanted to tell her that. He wanted to grasp her by the shoulders and shake her until he had made that point, but he was just... there. 

Frozen. 

Helpless. 

You did this. 

“Time’s up.”

Mrs. Figg froze, her lips parting in the beginnings of a scream. Voldemort’s crucio seized the sound, bottled it, and nurtured it until Harry swore his ears were bleeding along with his throbbing scar. Her body shuddered and twitched like the last echoes of a dying insect, unnatural in her movements, haunting screams escaping from lips that would never smile again. 

It didn’t end. Voldemort kept at it, red lightning spearing through her frail body with a viciousness undreamt of. It didn’t stop. Foam dripped from her mouth, drizzling onto the floor, pooling alongside the blood still coating the stone. The cup’s whispering grew louder, in perfect synchrony with the roaring in Harry’s ears. 

Harry looked up at the Dark Lord and felt nothing but rage. No longer fear, no longer terror, no longer horror. Something surged to life, burning hotter than the flames of this hell Voldemort had forged. Harry immediately latched onto that heat, that warmth, letting it curl around him, embrace him. Voldemort was staring at him, his eyes widening. 

Harry didn’t know what he looked like to the Dark Lord, but if he had to guess, he looked murderous. At that moment, he felt like he could do anything, even shackled up and restricted as he was. He needed to put an end to this suffering on both his part and hers. 

It all abruptly slipped away when a flash of green light shot through the dark. 

A body crumpled to the ground.

No. No no no--

The chains holding Harry’s wrists up slipped away. His arms fell slack at his sides. It occurred to him that he could rush at the Dark Lord now, could try and escape, but his body had gone horribly numb. He clamped a trembling hand over his mouth as if that was enough to stop him from choking on his sobs. He couldn’t look away no matter how much he wanted to. His chest was hurting; he could hardly breathe without shaking. 

“That,” Voldemort said softly, “is what love gets you.”

Any remaining shackles on his waist and ankles vanished into silvery smoke, chased away with a breeze that wasn’t natural. Harry sank to his knees. Voldemort was studying him carefully, his red eyes critical and calculating. A mad scientist, a demon given human form to drag others into hell along with him. This was beyond anything Harry could have imagined--the pain he felt, the useless anger burning inside of him, the heat. Forget a demon, Voldemort was the devil.

And Harry hadn’t been good enough to stop him. He was so helpless. Useless. What else was he good for other than watching people keep getting hurt at his expense?

Some saviour of the wizarding world he was supposed to be. How ironic that he caused more death than he saved lives. It was pathetic. And to think that Dumbledore had actually thought Harry could help people.

He couldn’t help it. 

He started laughing. 

It sounded broken, even to his ears. There was no joy in it, no melodic rings of youth or light. Shards of glass dug into his throat, a marionette dangling his strings to force it out of him against his will. Strangled up sounds of emptiness, of pieces of himself he was choking on yet couldn’t help try holding onto. 

Foreign confusion sparked into life. Harry glanced up at Voldemort. There wasn’t any trace of animosity leftover that was visible and didn’t that just make Harry laugh even harder. Like the Dark Lord even cared. It was at that monster’s hand that Mrs. Figg had fallen. Harry’s chest panged in rhythm with his aching heart. You did this. You did this you did this you did this--

He felt broken. 

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he swallowed down bubbles of hysteria. He was crying. He was on the verge of breaking down completely. In front of the Dark Lord. He looked once more over at the dead woman’s body lying in his cell. 

I should’ve been nicer to her back when I was a kid. What is wrong with me? And now it’s too late. 

He wiped his tears away with his freed hands and slowly picked himself up, his body still shuddering with the aftermath of his grief; little waves receding after the tsunami’s onslaught. Voldemort remained eerily silent as Harry calmed himself down, not speaking nor making any move to. There was something unreadable in his expression and Harry could not for the life of him guess what it was. 

But then he felt it stirring in his chest. A myriad of shock, confusion, wonder, disgust, concern, surprise--it all clustered together like a galaxy of darkening stars, too difficult to look at and too vague to understand. 

“Until the next time, Harry Potter,” Voldemort said. 

And then he was gone, leaving nothing but illusions of dark fire, the whispers of a golden-lipped cup, and the green essence of death to keep the boy-who-lived company.

Chapter Text

Draco didn't return. 

Harry sighed and slammed his head against the stone wall to his back. The hard surface thudded against his skull, the dull ache an odd comfort after these days full of nothingness. He couldn't even bring himself to be surprised at his recent lack of companionship. It made a twisted sense to leave him in isolation after the incident; he would be left to contemplate the events in his head over and over again at Voldemort's whim. 

The pain had been the worst the day it happened. After Voldemort vanished, Harry had sat there and stared at the fallen body for hours on end, memorizing every detail in a detached manner. It had been removed the next time he woke up, but he could still picture it perfectly in his mind's eye. He needed to remember what had happened. He couldn't forgive himself or make that same mistake ever again. 

He eyed his bloodied knuckles with a calm that honestly scared him. He felt terribly hollow, as If that hysterical laughter he'd fallen into at the end had carved out something vital in him. Not even punching the prison walls had brought back any anger, the emotion had long since drained out of him into the abyss. 

Ron and Hermione wouldn't face the same fate as Mrs. Figg. Nor would Sirius. No one would. Harry couldn't let that happen. He had no idea how he was going to achieve that, how he was going to continue defying Voldemort, but he would. If he died in the process, then the world was all the better for it, right? Just one more piece of the Dark Lord's soul forever eradicated from this world. 

It wasn't like that wouldn't have happened anyway. Dumbledore had known what the diary was, possibly from the very moment he had laid eyes on it. If he could determine that, then he could have easily figured out what Harry was. That meant Dumbledore had always meant for him to die in order to kill Voldemort. 

To think that Harry had ever been naive enough to believe that the headmaster ever cared for him. 

He snorted with laughter, bitter and sharp. The whole thing wasn't as funny as he was finding it, but who was here to judge him? No one was here to watch him spiral into madness. Perhaps that's what was making the slope down that much steeper. There was no one to hold him back, no one to guide him. He was well and truly alone. 

How long would it be before the Dark Lord got what he wanted from him? Harry prided himself on being resilient, he wouldn't have made it this far if he wasn't, but he was dealing with someone who had manipulated people for decades. He was against a man who had brought thousands into his thrall, who posed a great enough threat that only the likes of Albus Dumbledore could ever hope to stop him. Harry didn't stand a chance against someone like that. 

Which begged the question, what was Voldemort's plan for him? 

He now understood why he was still alive, he was a Horcrux after all, but that didn't explain everything Voldemort had done thus far. Why not put Harry into a sleep that would last forever to preserve the Dark Lord's soul and lower Harry's resistance? Why keep Harry in Malfoy Manor and not a place far more secure? Why go through all this effort to make him suffer if it would be more sufficient to leave him to rot?

Voldemort wanted something from him. That was the only explanation Harry could think of. Voldemort wanted Harry to suffer, yes, that had already been established, but there had to be something else. 

Harry replayed the conversation leading up to Mrs. Figg's death, ruthlessly shoving aside the well of emotion that rose up along with it. He had never been one for memorization, that had been Hermione's forte, but he supposed the traumatic nature of the event had jumpstarted some of his hidden talents. 

There was one thing that bothered him about the encounter. Something the Dark Lord had said. A repeat of Harry's exact words a few days prior to Draco with the exact same condescending tone, the exact same taunt. 

A-lo-ho-mor-a. 

Harry grimaced. Voldemort knew what Harry had said to Draco and had reiterated it to him. That could only mean that he had watched Draco's memories of that encounter after Draco left the cell. And if he'd watched one conversation, why not all of them? Draco was Voldemort's way of getting a read on Harry without having to visit him himself. 

Revealing that little fact to Harry had been no accident. Harry would have to be careful with what he said to Draco now, conscious of revealing too much. It tampered the newfound ease of conversation he'd established with the Malfoy heir, cutting him off from the only source of comfort he'd found in his imprisonment. Voldemort was trying to isolate him from others. But why? Why attempt to make Harry rely on Voldemort for honest conversation, much less rely on him for anything?

It didn't make any sense. 

God, he missed his friends. What he wouldn't give to just hear their voices... Even the nerve-grating shrieks of Aunt Petunia telling him to tend to the garden or Uncle Vernon's purpling face when he scolded Harry for not getting the mail without being asked would be welcome right now. Being chased by Dudley and his gang sounded like fun. It was strange how the world could change so much when you were forced to shift your perspective. 

Harry had never truly known what pain felt like. He realized that now. The frightening thing was that Voldemort could easily do so much worse. Harry was reaching his limit; all it would take was a little nudge before he broke down completely. He was just lucky that Voldemort was taking his sweet time in delivering that push. 

Dumbledore had been wrong. Harry's ability to love didn't make him strong - at least, it didn't feel like that right now. He had cared for Mrs. Figg, but that had made his suffering at her death worse by tenfold. What if it was Ron or Hermione? What if it was Sirius? Harry's sanity would be long gone by that point if this situation was any indication. How had he ever bought into the headmaster's utter bullshit? 

It was exactly what Voldemort wanted him to think. Harry knew that, he kept reminding himself of that every time his thoughts strayed this way (and they had quite often during the past couple of days), but at this point, he didn't care. So what if that's what Voldemort had been intending for him to realize? It didn't change anything, it didn't change the fact that Dumbledore had kept so many things from him, things that were of vital importance to Harry's limited life. 

He felt hurt. 

He felt used.

And he hated that. 

What had he done, what mistake had he made, to allow everyone to treat him like a damn pawn? Had he done something wrong, had he made the wrong decision, or was this just what he was born for? Was this his life's purpose - to be used as a sort or a shield depending on who the wielder was? It couldn't be... could it?

For the love of Merlin, pull yourself together. 

Harry's head shot up to look at the cup so fast he could have sworn it cracked. He slowly reached up and hit his head lightly with his palm to make sure he wasn't dreaming. He knew that the cup contained part of Voldemort's soul but he hadn't known the object was sentient. 

The cup seemed to gleam at the attention it was receiving. The hissing it emitted, always in the background of Harry's thoughts, grew louder, until it became all Harry could focus on. His mind went blissfully blank, subject only to the words of Voldemort's other Horcrux. 

"Excuse me?" Harry demanded. 

There was no answer, though the eerie yellow glow of the Horcrux didn't recede any. The light pulsed, slowly, as if with bated breath, waiting for Harry to do something. With a start, Harry realized what it was. 

He sighed deeply, trying to relax, and pictured a snake in his mind. It didn't help that the only snake he could picture at the moment was a drawing he'd made in second grade (which hadn't made it onto the Dursleys' refrigerator in favor of Dudley's rather grotesque drawing of a dog), but the language still formed itself on his tongue. 

"What did you just say?" he tried again. 

I can feel your grief from all the way over here. It's sickening. 

"Then stop paying attention."

You are all I have to keep me occupied in this new hell. Gringotts was revolting, but this is just cruel. I'm stuck with a little child who keeps whining over his own misfortune. 

"My own misfortune?" Harry exclaimed. "I just saw someone get murdered! But I guess I wouldn't expect you to understand, you're a sociopathic, psychotic, backstabbing bastard who-"

You saw someone die. So what? The cup's voice was unsympathetic and disinterested, almost as if it regretted starting this argument in the first place. Unfortunate, but if you must grieve, do it now, not after you finally finish blaming yourself for what happened. Who knows how long you'll take otherwise. 

Harry gaped at it, feeling at long last the familiar rush of anger forming in a dangerous wave on the peak of crashing down. What could a Horcrux of Voldemort ever know about regret or grief? Why was he even listening to any of this nonsense in the first place?

"Just shut up. Go back to being quiet or whatever."

You were detained with chains cursed by the Dark Lord to put a stopper in your magic and you were weakened from the lack of food and water - what could you have done, hmm? And stop blaming yourself for Diggory as well. I grow tired of hearing you mumble his name in your sleep. You're not a hero. You would be wise to stop thinking that you have to carry the whole world on your shoulders just because everyone else tells you you're special.

"That is not why I-"

The cup cut him off, unsurprisingly. What I see in front of me is someone who has fallen for their own lies repeatedly. You think you're some chosen one because everyone else acts like it? How childish. What have you ever done to convince anyone other than yourself that you are? I have seen your heart, Harry Potter, and I know it as well as anyone now. I know that you're at the top of none of your classes, you possess the naivety of a child, you barely know anything about the world you think you're supposed to save-

"You're wrong. It's not because of that."

No? If the cup could smile, it would be doing so at this point. Tell me why, then. I'm curious. 

Harry stared at it for a moment. Then he clenched his jaw and turned away. 

That's what I thought.

"No." Of all the things that happened today, Harry had not expected to be explaining himself to a cup. But what else was he supposed to do? At least it was a form of conversation, of banishing his solitude if only for a moment, no matter how welcome or unwelcome the company was. Talking was helping to distract him, and as long as the cup didn't try anything, like make him drink from it again, Harry could indulge it. 

"It's because it's always me who ends up in these situations, no matter how hard I try not to. I was the one who ended up with Quirrel in front of the mirror. I was the one who got stuck in that chamber with Riddle. I'm the one who ended up in that graveyard. It's always me. And I'm glad to do it. My friends take bigger risks than me with this sort of thing. They have families. Who do I have? It has to be me. I'm the one who has nothing to lose. I'm the one who can afford to die. So it's not falling for my own lies, or whatever you think it is, it's just reality."

So if you were given the opportunity to die by my older counterpart to destroy the Horcrux within you, you would take it?

"In a heartbeat."

The disembodied voice began to laugh. 

It was a chilling, cold laugh, not quite as sinister as Voldemort's but nearly there. It rang with insanity, with hysterics, full of sick amusement at its latest form of entertainment's expense. Harry looked away, hating himself for not being bothered by it. Had he truly grown so detached as a result of Voldemort's torture or was he slowly growing used to the Dark Lord's cruelty? 

You disgust me. You have allowed your elders to turn you into a suicidal child soldier, one who was never even prepared to face the real world. You're pathetic. That's why you're losing against my counterpart, Harry Potter. You're willing to lay down and accept your fate. If you insist on having this death wish, then at least die free instead of in chains. 

"And how do you suggest I break free?"

By making the lies you've grown up with true. 

Harry made a face at the awfully cryptic response. It almost sounded like the cup was trying to help him. He was instantly suspicious. This had to be a part of one of Voldemort's fucked-up plans. Why else would he have left the cup here with Harry in the first place? Nothing the Dark Lord did was by accident; Harry was starting to realize that now. 

"Fat load of help you are."

The cup glared at him if that was possible. Are you a wizard or are you not, Harry Potter? The magic-dampening chains that the Dark Lord put on you are now off. Use your magic to get out of here before the sound of your voice drives me to the closest substitute for suicide. 

"I don't see why I shouldn't keep talking, then. And besides, I don't even have my wand. How can I do magic without my wand?"

How can you not? We approach yet another one of your problems on the endless list of them. You have no work ethic, no desire to push yourself, no ambitions, no wishes to improve yourself - I cannot fathom how anyone like you can still be alive. Harry winced, hating how he couldn't disagree with any of its assessments. Who told you that you can't use wandless magic? Dumbledore?

"Why do you even want me to get out of here? Shouldn't you be focused on keeping me detained if that's what Voldemort wants?"

I have my own reasons. 

Whatever reasons they were, they couldn't be good. The cup was still Voldemort, no matter how little of his soul was actually inside of it. Harry couldn't afford to allow it one bit of his trust. It would only lead to worse suffering on his part. He was sure of that. 

However... the cup did make a good point. Harry's gaze drifted from the golden chalice to look at the gate Draco had used to enter. It was locked with a key that Draco always kept in his pocket, out of Harry's line of sight. Whether that was to spare Harry the feeling of hopelessness because of his predicament or to make sure Harry wouldn't attempt anything was unclear. But what if Harry could make it out without even needing a physical key? 

He had never been the best of magic. The cup was right about that, too - he had never been at the top of his year, he had never even tried to be. He had been more in favor of slacking off with Ron and copying off Hermione, getting on his teachers' bad sides, and spending more time in detention than actually doing homework. 

Look where that had gotten him. 

If he wanted things to be different, if he wanted to be strong enough not to be used anymore, he had to change. He had to be better. He couldn't - wouldn't - let people fight for him any longer when he could be perfectly capable of doing that himself. The only thing holding him back was himself. 

How adorable. Harry Potter is finally gaining some ambition. 

"Shut up," Harry seethed. He'd forgotten that this was all mostly entertainment for the cup's Horcrux. 

He pushed himself to his feet before the bloody thing could utter another word. It would only make him lose his temper if he had to put up with it even more than he already had. He made his way over to the gate and felt around for the padlock, jolting slightly when his fingers brushed against the cool metal. 

Here goes nothing...

"Alohamora."

Nothing. 

The cup started to laugh again. 

"Shut up," Harry snapped, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the lock. "Alohomora." Nothing. "Alohomora?" Nothing. "A-looooo-homora."

Pathetic, the cup chuckled.

Harry whirled around, eyes blazing with fury. "Shut the fuck up. I bet you can't even use any magic, stuck in that goblet. That's sad, the fact that Voldemort abandoned you in Lestrange's vault without a second thought, without even a visit or an apology or-"

... how did you know it was Bella's vault?

"-or even considering the loneli... What?" Harry paused, his heart leaping up to his throat when he thought about it. There was no way he should know about that, he hadn't even known who Bellatrix Lestrange was up until a couple of weeks ago. He hadn't even known what a Horcrux was before Voldemort told him. 

Whatever. It wasn't important right now. He turned back to the lock, gritting his teeth as he tried and failed several more times in succession. The cup was unusually quiet, but he didn't let that get to him. He had a way out and he wasn't going to stop, he wasn't going to rest until he succeeded. How was that for ambition?

You're not getting any closer to opening it. 

"I can see that. And give it a rest, won't you, I've only been at this for ten minutes at most."

I was casting spells without a wand and without words before I got my Hogwarts letter. Forgive me for not having any sympathy for you. 

"That's not even supposed to be possible." A person's magical core wasn't fully developed until they were nearing their teenage years. It was part of the reason why accidental magic was taken so seriously, added on to the risk of discovery by the muggle population; if a child used magic too much, they could exhaust themselves too early on or twist their magic in a way that couldn't be fixed. It was a subject that McGonagall had made sure to heavily lecture on one class period. 

Says who? The ministry? Yes, an organization full of lazy men and women who take after their fathers or mothers in order to carry out the family tradition. All you need to get a ministry position is popularity and money, so why would they need to try at any point in their lives if it's given to them on a silver platter. These are the people who are making our laws, who are deciding what to teach future generations, who are setting the standards for all wizards, no matter how talented they are. They limit us. 

"Is that what you sold your followers on?"

What are you thinking about when you cast?

Harry hit his hand against the gate, frustration building, and recoiled at the sudden pain against his bloody hands. Perhaps punching the walls hadn't been such a good idea after all. "What are you on about now? I'm thinking about getting out, obviously. Some intelligent being you are."

But what specifically? Are you thinking of your own escape or are you thinking about your friends?

"I don't see why that matters."

The cup hissed in annoyance. Harry was beginning to see the similarities between this version of Voldemort and the one upstairs. 

Magic is about intent. You can't do magic and only think of others, that's not how it works. And even if that does work, and it rarely does, the spell casting will be weak and rendered practically useless. So I will ask again, what are you thinking of?

"Getting back to my friends."

And?

"... and making sure that they're okay."

Stop thinking about them. 

Harry scoffed, the gate momentarily forgotten. "Why would I do that? I want to make sure they're okay, that's what friends do for each other."

Forget about your friends. For now, at least. You want to make sure that they're safe but you're not sure that you can protect them or save them if they're not. Your intent is not strong enough so your magic is not rallying to support your will. 

"Then what should I be thinking about?"

Yourself. 

Harry stared at it. 

You've spent weeks inside this cell, maybe even months if time works in here differently as you suspect. You've been put through a living hell, you've been forgotten, and you've been used. You want to make the pain stop. You want to make sure Voldemort never hurts you again. You want to confront Albus Dumbledore on why he kept so much from you. You want to get stronger. And you cannot do that without first getting out of this cell. 

With each smooth hiss from the cup, Harry felt his resolve steeling further, even though he hated that it was right, that it knew this much about him. He took step after step until he reached the padlock again, pressing his hand firmly over the keyhole. He thought about the pain he'd felt during Mrs. Figg's murder, the hatred he felt for Voldemort for torturing him like this, the need to see the sun again, to feel the wind on his back, to eat a proper meal... to be free. 

Forget about your friends, the cup said softly. Think only of yourself and what you want. 

"Alohomora," Harry whispered.

The gate clicked and swung open. 

***

When Harry was eight years old, he learned how to walk without being heard.

Aunt Petunia had sent him to the cupboard that day after attempting to cut his hair. She had attempted it before breakfast time, claiming that she didn't want to wait until he was home from school, when his hair would be more of a rat's nest than it was then. Harry had tried to be patient as she grabbed plain old stationary scissors and went at his hair. 

Within five minutes, she had grown frustrated. Whatever she did to his hair hadn't had any effect. It had retained the same messy, wild look characteristic of his father, though Harry hadn't known that at the time. Aunt Petunia had grabbed Uncle Vernon's electric shaver and done away with all of Harry's hair at the end of the session. 

Not even ten seconds later, all the hair had grown back. 

She had screamed then, howling with horror and rage at how he could have dared to display whatever freakish ability he possessed. Uncle Vernon was usually the one who locked him in the cupboard, but that day she had been the one. Dudley had walked in when Harry's hair magically reappeared after all. It had all been an unfortunate coincidence to Harry, nothing but a silly mistake, but to Aunt Petunia it was a conceited plan formed to terrorize both her and her son. 

He had stayed in the cupboard for three days after that with no meals or even water. 

Terribly reminiscent of his most recent situation, Harry grimaced as he crept along the long, dark hallways of Malfoy Manor.

The night of the third day, Uncle Vernon had finally unlocked the door but had warned Harry that he could not have any food until the next day unless he wanted to face further consequences. Two hours later, the aggravating sounds of Uncle Vernon's loud snoring had drifted to the cupboard, and Harry had made his desperate move.  

He had never felt so hungry before, so thirsty, so desperate. He'd spent nearly half an hour walking to the kitchen, even longer than that finding something to eat, taking special care not to make so much as a sound. It had been a learning experience for him, a lesson in muting his steps and slowing his breathing. A lesson that had come in handy for future nights without dinner when the rest of the Dursley family was fast asleep. 

The portraits of the Malfoy's ancestors didn't so much as stir when Harry walked past them. A clock hanging from a wall at the end of the corridor he was walking through told him it was just past midnight. A flicker of something went through his chest when he caught sight of the last portrait in the hall. 

Abraxas Malfoy. 

He shrugged, not quite sure who that was, and kept walking. 

One step after the other. Exhale. Inhale. Don't touch anything. 

He was beginning to regret not bringing the cup along with him. Not because he liked its company, but because its advice had proven helpful. But the cup had seemed to drain out of life once Harry opened the gate, appearing as nothing more than a useless household object. 

Had Voldemort known that it would help him? Had he known that Harry would eventually make it out of the cell once the magic-dampening chains were removed?

There was no way of knowing, not without getting caught and confronting the Dark Lord, and Harry didn't plan on letting that happen. This was perhaps the only chance he would ever get to escape, he couldn't let it go to waste. 

A shiver ran up his spine, stopping at his forehead and staying there. Harry shivered, wishing that he'd had something to put over the bare shirt he was wearing. He had no idea why the Malfoy family would want to live in a household this cold. Warming charms were a thing, after all. 

He spared a thought for Draco, wondering how he was. He hoped the reason why the Malfoy heir hadn't visited him wasn't that he had been in trouble. Harry recalled how it had looked when Voldemort entered his cell the last time - Draco crouching down and attempting to clean the grime off of Harry's face, talking to him in a civil, friendly manner, both of them too mentally exhausted to remember the ugly tension they'd had between them. Maybe Draco had gotten in trouble or sympathizing with him or being too kind. 

What a rotten thing to get in trouble for, if that was the case. Harry felt sorry for him. It couldn't be easy being the only heir to a well-known pureblood family. He was sorry that he'd never considered that before. 

If he ever saw Draco again after he escaped, he would make it up to him. Their days of petty fights were long over, and while Harry was still wary of the blond, he felt like they'd gained a better understanding of the other over the past few weeks. Maybe he'd come back and save him from this hellhole of the Dark Lord's. 

He would, he decided. As soon as he was capable of doing so. Stronger. Better. 

That conversation with the cup had awakened something in him. This... ambition to be more than what he was. To stop relying on anyone else. He didn't want to fall for any more lies or be a pawn in anyone else's game. 

The corridor ended. Harry nearly groaned aloud when he saw the decision he had to make. Go right or go left. Maybe he should've asked Draco more about his Manor during one of their visits. Another thing he had to work on: thinking things through. Then again, he hadn't anticipated ever getting the chance to get out of here. 

This Manor was a maze. 

A cold, creepy-looking maze. 

Harry stopped in his tracks, slowly realizing that it hadn't been a shiver going up his spine earlier. It wasn't the cold that was giving him a headache. 

His scar was burning. 

The Dark Lord was nearby. 

Shit. Shit shit shit-

It wasn't like he could move faster, either. He'd make too much noise that way and then he was sure to be caught. Left or right. He had to make a decision on which path to go now or else the Dark Lord might round the corner to see Harry just standing there as if waiting to get caught. Left or right. 

Left. 

He paused. Waited a moment. Then changed his mind and went right. 

Another corridor emerged into view. The shadows danced on the walls, made more frightening by the absence of torches. There were no portraits in this hallway, no decor or artistry of any kind. The almost black appearance of the space reminded Harry of one of his dreams. One where he glided along hallways of glossy black tiles, a locked door at the very end which he could never reach and see beyond. 

This corridor was longer than the others. The burning in his scar never left. Voldemort was still nearby. He tried to go as fast as he could without being heard, cursing whatever being had put him in this position. To think he could've had a normal summer, that he could've been sleeping out in the garden by now, buying sweets from the nearest market. 

He ended up in a large foyer. There was no fireplace in this room nor any dining table. That must've been a good sign. And standing just a few paces away, seeming to Harry like the salvation he had been hoping for his entire life...

The front door.

He nearly laughed. If he could manage to successfully escape, he would be doing so by walking out the front door. 

"You got out quicker than I expected."

Harry froze.

A fire began to roar through his forehead, searing pain blurring his vision. He gasped and fell to his knees before he could help it, muffling his screams so as not to give Voldemort the satisfaction. He barely heard the Dark Lord's footsteps over the buzzing in his ears, the blood rushing through them and to his head in the form of a splitting migraine. 

The room began to melt away, as if a gossamer sheet was slowly being lifted, the surroundings morphing into an altogether different room. Harry watched in horror as the front door changed into a fireplace, the ticking noises of the clock from the hallway becoming the intentionally loud and even footsteps of the man behind him, the chandelier reappearing out of thin air, the familiar dining table built from the legs up. 

It was the same room he had been brought to at first. The one where Voldemort conducted all of his Death Eater meetings. It was empty now save for him and the Dark Lord. Harry thanked Merlin for that. He had been so utterly stupid; he had wandered into this place, this trap, and had been none the wiser. The power it must've taken to disguise this place, to trick Harry so completely into thinking it was something other than it was... 

Shit. 

A hand found its way to Harry's head, pulling his hair back as Voldemort walked around to face him, setting himself down on one knee to level himself. The Dark Lord was smirking at his bewilderment, eyes alight with humor. Harry tried shuffling away, but Voldemort's hand tightened on his hair and dragged him back with a painful twist. 

"Relax, Harry. I'm not here to hurt or kill you. You've been put through quite a lot these past few weeks. You have nothing to fear from me at the moment."

"You expect me to believe that?" Harry demanded. "After what you did? You killed her!"

The hand tightened and yanked on his hair again. Harry muffled a shout with the back of his hand and glared up at the Dark Lord. To his surprise, Voldemort didn't look angry at all. 

"It's funny that you would expect anything different. Did you believe that I would be kind to you during your stay here? Did you think I would not take this opportunity to cause you pain when I have no reason to do the opposite? Come on, Harry. There must be some of my cunning in you. Did the Horcrux I left you with not teach you that?"

Harry stilled, staring down at the ground, hardly daring to breathe. Everything was muted in the face of his growing alarm. Of course Voldemort had planned this, of course Harry had fallen for it like the idiot he was. He had never stood a chance at escape, this had all just been a test. 

"Let me guess," Voldemort drawled. "You thought you outsmarted me? Here's your first lesson of many: if something happens, it's because I want it to. I wouldn't have let you know of my invasion of Draco's privacy if I hadn't intended for you to find out. I wouldn't have left one of my Horcruxes in the same room as you if I didn't know that it would begin to communicate with you regarding a way of escape. I knew you would think you gained the upper hand, I knew you'd try to take advantage of it, and I knew that if I left you in that cell long enough, you would resort to listening to whatever the cup had to say."

"You're a narcissistic bastard."

"I admit though, I didn't think you'd get out this soon. That was the quickest I've seen in a long time."

Harry looked up into the crimson gaze and frowned, confused. 

"Do you know how long it takes the average wizard to perform wandless magic?" Voldemort asked. "Weeks. And that's just for the simple spells. Lumos, the levitation charm, among others. Charms such as alohamora are at a higher level of difficulty. It requires a certain amount of will to shape your magic into a perfect key, and without a wand that can prove to be extremely challenging. An average wizard would take over one or two months to perform one successfully."

Voldemort got a strange look on his face. It almost looked like hunger. "... yet you took a single day. Not even that, but less than half an hour."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. 

"Everything I knew about you..." Voldemort tilted his head curiously, a dangerous glint in his eyes and a curl twisting his lips. "It has all been a lie. I've never seen another wizard take to wandless magic that fast. Tell me, what would you say the most advanced spell you've ever done is?"

A flash of pain through his scar cut through Harry's resolve to keep his mouth shut. "A Patronus," he said quickly, just so that it could end, which it did soon after. 

"A Patronus..." Voldemort's smile was almost kind. Harry couldn't understand where he was going with this. "You're quite an enigma. Consider me impressed, and that doesn't happen very often, I assure you." He drew closer, using a finger to make Harry look at him. Harry hoped he could see every ounce of anger he felt, every bit of hatred. The Dark Lord let out a low laugh. "I have quite the plan for you, Harry. It might even work out better than I expected."

"It won't work."

Voldemort smiled, unfazed, practically radiating confidence. "Yes, it will. Do you want me to tell you what it is you're going to do for me?" he leaned closer, drawing up close to Harry's ear as if he was whispering a secret. "I'm going to use you to take down both Hogwarts and Albus Dumbledore."

Harry's eyes widened. He snapped his head away from Voldemort, hands curling into fists. The grip on his hair tightened and pulled him back. "I'm not going to let you."

"Oh? You're not going to let me? I think you will. And I think that you will take pleasure In the fall of both. Think of the revenge you can exact on Dumbledore for betraying you in this manner. He played you like a fiddle and you were none the wiser."

"You just said that your plan was to use me."

"At least I'm being honest about it. Now you are aware of it, and now you have the chance to stop me. Unless of course, you decide you don't want to. Maybe you're just too used to other people making decisions for you."

"Shut up."

Voldemort ignored him. "I suppose I should apologize for the experiment down in the cell. Perhaps I pushed you too far. The spilling of magical blood, however little there may be in a person, is a waste. Let me make it up to you by giving you what you want."

"I don't want revenge."

"You know what that feels like to me?" Voldemort ran his finger down Harry's scar, smiling at the fury he was met with for doing so. "A lie. And besides, that isn't what I was referring to."

"I don't give a damn about what you think."

"Mind your tone. Notice that I haven't given you pain other than some minor inconveniences in your scar? I am trying to be patient but by now it is wearing thin and if you continue this false act of obnoxious arrogance, I might slip. We don't want that now, do we?"

Harry glared at him, doing his best not to drop his gaze as he shook his head. "What are you going to do with me?" he asked anyway. 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow as if surprised at Harry's daring to ask. "I want to make another deal with you. And-" A finger crept over to rest on Harry's lips "-please let me finish before you start ranting in a blind rage. Your anger often amuses me but I am a little weary after the meeting today."

The last time Harry had made a deal with the Dark Lord, Voldemort had put him through a test to determine if he was a Horcrux or not. Would this be something like that, or something far worse? He'd have to think carefully before accepting or denying whatever it was. There was no doubt that Voldemort would downplay the potential danger of his deal just to make Harry do what he wanted. 

He reluctantly nodded. 

"I want to teach you."

Harry looked up at Voldemort, his breath catching in shock. 

Voldemort's face was impassive, his eyes revealing nothing. But this had to be a joke of some sort, a way to watch Harry fumble around as he tried to formulate a response. There was no reason for Voldemort to propose that, no reason for Voldemort to even think of doing that. 

"What?"

"I want to teach you," Voldemort repeated calmly. "If you agree to let me, you won't have to see that cell ever again. I promise."

"What good's a promise worth from you?"

"You'll see, in time. I gave my word, so I will keep it. There is honor amongst even the darkest of wizards, Harry, you just haven't spent enough time with them to see that. But enough. It's evident from the duel we had back in the graveyard, if you can even call that mockery of a fight a duel, that you are tragically inexperienced when it comes to the fundamentals of using spells."

Harry glared at him. It was a painful echo of what the cup had told him back in the cell. 

“Fine. You have too much pride to admit that I’m right. You will once I make progress with you. I can show you how to harness this potential that you haven’t dared to tap into, and it is great potential, Harry - I haven’t seen the likes of it since Severus or Bella. I can teach you how to become someone who can truly rival me, not just in magic but in wits and cleverness as well. Is that something you’re interested in?”

“No,” Harry said immediately. “I wouldn’t ever accept anything from you. And besides, why would you even want to help me? If you’re actually being genuine, then you’re just making it harder on yourself for the future, aren’t you? Why would you want me as a stronger rival? You don’t think…” Harry paused. No, there was no way Voldemort could ever think that. “You don’t think you can actually get me on your side, do you?”

Voldemort smiled. It wasn’t kind. “We’ll see, Harry. As for my intentions… Well, I feel like it would be more fun to reveal that at the end. Recent events have sparked my interest is all I’ll tell you for now. Consider it a challenge for myself. I’ve trained many of the wizards in my ranks but never from scratch. They’ve never been like you. I’m curious to see what it is you can do when someone shows you how. I’ll ask again, does that interest you, Harry?”

It did, and that’s what Harry was so worried about. Was it himself who was agreeing with Voldemort’s proposal or the Horcrux inside of him? Did it even work like that?

He did want to get stronger, he wanted to make sure no one he cared about got hurt ever again, he didn’t want to be used anymore. It seemed like an impossible dream, but… maybe he could make it realized.

That was a very big maybe.

There were other things to consider as well. Voldemort wouldn’t suggest this without his own sinister intentions, and Harry wouldn’t be able to figure out what they were until it was too late. Then he’d be caught in Voldemort’s trap, snared like a helpless animal.

Voldemort had blatantly told him that he wanted to use Harry to take down Hogwarts and Dumbledore. Was this a part of doing that? From the way it looked, he intended for Harry to join him on the battlefield, no longer on opposing sides but on the same one. Harry already knew that was never going to happen, and Voldemort had to as well, so what was the end game here?

On the other hand, if he accepted the deal, he could be released from his cell. He could gain more freedom. If he was free to walk about the Manor, he could scout out possible escape routes, like he should have done before escaping his cell. And if he was more competent with his magic, if he had his wand, it would make it all the easier. When he got back to his friends and Dumbledore, he could finally be capable of doing something. He could show them that he had learned from his mistakes, that he was capable of taking down the Dark Lord one day. That had to be worth the potential risks.

“Well, Harry? What do you say?”

“When would we start?”

“In a week.”

“Why a week?”

Voldemort hummed, his hand beginning to brush Harry’s hair, much to Harry's disgust. “Other experiments I want to carry out. Time to make preparations. Other matters I have to attend to that don’t concern you. Does that sound fair?”

Harry scowled. Voldemort knew he wasn’t going to disagree. He was just enjoying himself now. One day, Harry swore, he would make Voldemort pay. One day that wouldn’t be just a childish dream of his, but something he was skilled enough to make realized. Mrs. Figg’s death wouldn’t be for nothing. Cedric’s death would not be for nothing. Their deaths were his new motivation to be better, and he would be.

“Fine.”

“You don’t need to sound so ungrateful.” Voldemort laughed at Harry’s incensed glare. He reached into his robes with a ghostly hand and withdrew his wand. He must have pocketed it at some point.

Harry instantly shied away from it again, but the hand in his hair tugged him back, this time so close to the Dark Lord that Harry could feel his breath against his cheek. “Relax, Harry, I told you I won’t kill you.”

“Then what do you need your bloody wand for?”

Voldemort smirked. “Why, this, of course….” He placed his wand against Harry’s cheek, staring deep into his eyes and dragging the yew instrument down a cheekbone like a lover’s caress.

“Imperio.”

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy wondered when exactly his life had gone to shit. 

There were numerous candidates he had in mind. The day his idiotic grandfather decided to throw It in with the Dark Lord - Draco's life had been cursed since before his birth in that case. The day his father took the Dark Mark. The day the Dark Lord returned from beyond the grave to terrorize every poor soul that had the misfortune to live in this world. The first time Draco had been forced to play nanny to his childhood enemy. It was difficult to pick just one reason. 

Whatever it was, he despised it. He didn't think he would ever get the stench of blood out of his shirt, much less the stains. Bellatrix was crouched a few paces from him, her eyes focused on the wounds she'd just formed on her latest victim's arms. Draco forced himself to watch, knowing that Bellatrix would delight in his discomfort if he looked away. The last thing he wanted to give her was more entertainment.

The wandmaker was screaming. Draco knew those sounds were going to haunt him in his dreams for weeks to come. He felt sick to his stomach from the whole experience. The pain that the old man was obviously going through, the sick expression of pleasure on his aunt's face... He wanted to leave before he had to endure another one of these sessions. He'd have thought that watching four of them would give him enough 'experience' as Bellatrix liked to call it, but apparently not.

"Draco, darling," Bellatrix called cheerfully over Ollivander's sobs. "I hope you're not getting distracted! We're off to Potter next, so I can't have you losing your head."

Draco blanched at the reminder. He spared a glance at the newest cuts and gashes she'd created, Imagining identical ones littering Potter's body instead. He wanted to throw up. The only thing that stopped him from doing so was the thought of how much more unbearable the smell would be. "My apologies."

Bellatrix looked over her shoulder to give him a sharp smile. "You sure you don't want to try a hand at it yourself? I think I've gotten nearly everything I wanted out of him, so there won't be any harm done even if you mess up."

"I'm quite alright, thanks for the offer."

"You're such a baby," Bellatrix groaned. She turned back to Ollivander, her grin widening. "One last question, old man. Then we'll be finished for the day... You've already told me about little Harry's wand - very interesting bit about the core, by the way. But what about Dumbledore's, hm? Tell me what it is. I want to hear about that."

"I... I-I don't know." Ollivander cried out as Bellatrix pressed her gloved finger against the open injury splitting his knee. "I don't know!"

"Is he lying to me, Draco?" Bellatrix asked. 

Ollivander turned his pleading eyes to Draco, who couldn't bring himself to look away from such a miserable sight. Four days of this and the man had already broken down. Draco didn't know whether to feel pity or disgust. Whatever the case, he didn't want to cause him any more pain, but they both knew he was hiding something. Bellatrix would surely notice if Draco tried to protect the wandmaker.

"Yes."

"N-no, wait, please don't hurt me!" Ollivander shied away from Bellatrix as she raised her wand again. His hands were buckling against the straps tying him to the metal chair, his eyes wide and unseeing. 

Pity. That's what Draco decided he felt for this man. 

"I... I've only guessed at the make of it. He didn't purchase it from my shop... But it's impossible! It's nothing but a legend, if not a fairytale used to put children to sleep-"

"I didn't ask for your opinion on what qualifies as a proper bedtime story," Bellatrix whined. "I asked to hear what Dumbledore's wand is. I'm always happy to provide more motivation if you're having trouble remembering."

"No! It... The wand, its exterior seems to be made of elder wood from the look of it! There are very few wands in existence with that material - it generally makes for a very powerful wand." Ollivander's voice had gained a dramatic effect now that he'd been given a chance to spare himself further agony. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Not many can put it into use. But there... I felt something dark from that wand in my past interactions with Albus Dumbledore. It is no ordinary wand."

"Go on..." Bellatrix prompted. 

"Perhaps you can recall an old story that many young magical children know. The Tale of the Three Brothers. It details a visit from Death that resulted in the placement of three objects of unspeakable power in our mortal world. A stone to bring back the dead for a time. A cloak to hide oneself from all others... And the deathstick. The Elder Wand."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at him, her wand edging closer to his neck. Draco couldn't tell if she bought it or not. He personally thought this whole speculation was ridiculous. His mother had read that story to him when he was a child, and even at that young age, he'd known that no part of it was possible. 

A visit from Death? As if Death in all its glory could be contained in a single form for three wizards to summon. It was all ridiculous nonsense. 

"We're done here." Bellatrix stood up and brushed the dust off her hideous black dress. "Let's go see Potter. Maybe we'll have a more productive time with him. Come along, Draco."

Draco gave a last look at Ollivander, trying to ignore whatever was tightening in his chest, before shutting the door to the dungeon behind him. This had used to be Potter's cell before he'd been relocated for reasons unknown. Draco wondered what he had offered in exchange to make that happen. Had the boy wonder finally accepted defeat, or was there a more complicated reason for the recent change of scenery?

Bellatrix hadn't turned around to acknowledge him yet, so Draco assumed that the rest of their walk would be spent in silence. He was fine with that. The woman terrified him enough as it was, and he wasn't eager to interact with her more than he already had to. She was supposed to be in charge of his training before his initiation to the Death Eater ranks, but Draco hadn't learned anything other than that she was the complete opposite of his mother despite their being siblings.

He wondered what sort of torture they had forced Potter to endure as of late. Bellatrix would be in charge of what to do with him while the Dark Lord was away for the week. It was a miracle the boy was still alive thus far. A normal person would have died a long time ago from blood loss and lack of nutrients. It was only Potter's magic that was keeping his body functioning at this point. But once even that became too weak...

“What are you going to do to him?” Draco asked before he could help it. 

Bellatrix didn’t waste any time in spinning around to sneer at him. Almost as if she’d been waiting for him to ask that question. Draco hated to think he was that predictable. “What does it matter to you? Don’t tell me you faint at the sight of blood.”

“I just don’t see how needlessly making him suffer is…” He decided to use her word for it. “... productive . There are far more subtle ways to get him to talk. Manipulations, wordplay, mind games - they all seem more sensible options.”

“Sensible?” Bellatrix echoed, raising an eyebrow. All amusement melted away. There was a deadly glint to her eyes now. “Are you suggesting that I’m not being sensible when carrying out a task my lord has given me?”

Draco looked down. “No, I would never suggest that. My apologies.”

“My apologies,” Bellatrix mimicked, sneering at him.

“I didn’t think you had it in you to go down to that disgusting cell of his.” 

Bellatrix snorted. “You really don’t want to hurt him, do you? That’s pitiful. Where’s all that hatred gone for him, hmm? He ruined our lives, Draco. He is the reason the Dark Lord fell. He’s why the Ministry won’t leave your dear mummy and daddy alone. Don’t tell me you’re not itching for even the slightest bit of revenge?”

“Any more pain and Potter will be dead before he can hit the ground. The Dark Lord’s recent actions suggest that’s not the outcome he’s hoping for.”

“Good thing Potter will answer your questions willingly, then.”

Draco blinked. The Potter that Draco knew would never do such a thing, especially if it meant betraying his friends. That idiotic moron would probably rather die than put them in harm’s way. 

“Veritaserum?” 

Bellatrix’s laughter was high and cruel. It sent shudders racing down Draco’s spine. “I suppose you’ll have to see. He’s waiting for us in the East Wing of the Manor.” She didn’t wait for a response before stalking away, her brisk steps loud and sharp against the ground. 

Draco stared after her, hesitating before resuming his strides. He hadn’t visited Potter for a week, ever since the Dark Lord had obliged the two of them with his presence. A few hours later, the Dark Lord had apparated into their dining room with the explicit instructions not to disturb Potter until he personally gave the go-ahead. 

That day, the Dark Lord’s face had been smeared with blood, a grotesque and horrifying color that lay stark against his unnaturally pale skin. Draco had felt something curl and tighten in the pit of his stomach at the thought of who it had come from. 

He had repeatedly told himself that he shouldn’t care. He questioned why he did care after long hours pondering such things at night. Draco was intelligent - he would be at the top of the class if not for the Gryffindor mudblood, but he somehow always fell short of an answer. 

Perhaps some things weren’t supposed to make sense. Draco doubted he would discover a plausible reason why the thought of Potter in pain made him feel so uneasy. He’d seen people in worse circumstances than the Boy-Who-Lived, witnessed numerous bloody sessions prisoners had with his aunt, but this of all things was affecting him this way? 

It didn’t make any sense. 

Nor did the Dark Lord’s decision to keep placing Harry and Draco in the same room. He had to have guessed that they were childhood rivals - they had never been on the best terms - so why the sudden forced company? It wasn’t like they would be enemies one day and friends the next, not even their common fucked up situation could fix all the bad blood they had between them that quickly. 

Bellatrix took the key out of her pocket to unlock the door. Draco swallowed hard. What would it be like to face Potter again after leaving him in the cell alone with the Dark Lord last week? 

It wasn’t like the Dark Lord had given him a choice, but he wished he’d at least looked back over his shoulder to assure Potter that he hadn’t wanted to leave. He hadn’t wanted to see Potter hurt, no matter how much he used to hate the other boy. But Harry didn’t know that. And Draco didn’t want to face him if it meant he’d be angry. 

Is that cowardly? Probably. I’ve never denied that I am one. Like father, like son, I suppose. 

Potter wasn’t chained up anymore. That was the first thing Draco noted as Bellatrix waved her wand to shed the room in light. The raven-haired boy was sprawled on the room’s bed, his fingers coated with dry blood that he hadn’t taken the time to wash off. His face was turned away and hidden from view. 

At least he was still breathing, though it seemed faint and labored, as if he had to keep reminding himself to do so rather than it being involuntary. “Potter,” Draco called out tentatively. Harry whipped around - he had been pretending to be asleep then. He visibly tensed when he saw Bellatrix. 

Potter looked thinner than usual. Draco had always noticed that at the beginning of every school year, the raven-haired boy looked gaunt and skinny, which was gradually rectified by the large feasts Hogwarts supplied. This was much worse than that. There were dark circles under Potter’s eyes. His cheekbones were hollowed out unnaturally, and his ribs poked out from underneath his shirt. 

Draco tried to refrain from taking a step back when he looked at Potter’s face. Something was wrong with him. There was no anger, no fear - there was a complete lack of anything in his expression. It was like looking at a Roman sculpture. Stony. Lifeless. His emerald eyes were dark, his stare intense in a way it had never been before. What exactly had the Dark Lord done to him?

“Hello, Harry-kins,” Bellatrix purred. “Enjoy your stay here? And be honest. I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

Potter didn’t answer. 

“Come on, you’re supposed to listen to me! That was one condition of the Dark Lord’s Imperius, he told me so.”

Draco’s breath stopped. 

“It’s more comfortable than that dungeon.” Potter’s voice was as emotionless as his demeanor. He sat up straighter and leaned against the headboard. His shoulders were uncomfortably rigid. “Not sure if I could enjoy being locked up like a stray animal. That’s more suited for people like you.” 

The laughter Bellatrix gave off was full of delight. “Not even an Imperius can teach you manners, I see. Fine. Draco here has some questions to ask you. And…” She walked over to him, slamming her hands down on the bed as she leaned close to his ear. Potter didn’t even flinch. “I order you to answer with the truth. Is that understood?”

Potter’s eyes slid to Draco. “Of course.”

Godammit, why is it so hard to look him in the eye? Aunt Bellatrix already went over the questions I’m supposed to ask him on the way here. I’ve had conversations with him before. Hell, I’ve even fought with him before. It shouldn’t be this hard to just talk to him. Just get it over with. 

Draco coughed lightly to give off the appearance of nonchalance. He could do this; it wasn't a big deal like he was making it out to be. “What happened in the cell after I left?”

A test question. Bellatrix already knew what had happened thanks to the Dark Lord, so this was meant to see if Harry would really tell the truth, no matter how hard it was to recount the events. 

“The Dark Lord,” - not Voldemort anymore, Draco thought with a wince - “brought a woman I knew from my younger years down to the cell I was previously in. We talked for a bit, I don't remember much of the conversation we had anymore. Then he forced her into attempting magic despite her being a squib, and then when she predictably couldn't, he murdered her. Right in front of me. And there was nothing I could do since I was still chained up.” His words were hollow. “The body was gone the next time I woke up.”

Draco focused on keeping his own face blank. He understood how Potter would have felt. Potter wasn’t the only one who had borne witness to the suffering of someone else at the hands of the Dark Lord. It was how the Dark Lord had broken down and guaranteed the servitude of the Malfoy family. Draco had now heard his father scream more than he’d heard the words I love you from the same man. The continuous torture had fractured something in his father, who seemed to have lost his spine. Even his mother hadn’t been spared, whose warm eyes had never looked so cold and hopeless. 

“That’s all true,” Bellatrix confirmed, backing away and leaning against the wall. She gestured for Draco to continue. 

“Have you come into contact with any members of the Order of the Phoenix?” Draco asked. Potter had shown no signs of recognition when Draco had mentioned it the other day down in the dungeons. But maybe he’d been trying to cover up what he knew. Anything was possible; Potter was not to be underestimated, especially when he was desperate. 

From what Draco had gathered from recent gatherings with the Dark Lord, Dumbledore had left Potter out of the loop. Instead, he’d chosen to bring Potter’s two best friends into the fold instead. The Dark Lord’s eyes had glinted with interest when that report had come in from Severus. He had no doubt been planning how to use that to his advantage. 

It wouldn’t be a simple thing for Potter to digest. The Dark Lord had likely specifically crafted the next question Draco was supposed to ask for that purpose. It would fracture Potter’s trust in his circle of trustees, and who knew what the Dark Lord could do with that. Draco didn’t even want to mention it, but Bellatrix had her watchful eyes on him. 

“No.”

Here goes nothing. 

“Are you aware that Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were informed of its existence before the end of last semester?”

Something flickered in Harry’s eyes. “No.” There was an undercurrent of emotion to his voice now, a barely-there trail of tremors that could equally be anger or hurt at this deception. 

“What was the last thing Albus Dumbledore said to you?”

“He wanted to talk with me about what happened in the graveyard. I didn’t feel like having that conversation. So instead, he told me to have a pleasant summer. Then I left to board the train.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. That sounded unusually tactless of the Hogwarts headmaster. No child who had been put through such a traumatic experience would want to talk about it so soon after. There were better approaches than that; distracting them to take their mind off it for one. 

“How do you think he will take action now that he knows you’re missing?”

Potter shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to him if he was saved or not. “Write to Ron and Hermione to see if I talked to them recently. They don’t know where I am, so he’d inform them that I’m missing and tell a few other people of the current situation. Sirius, the rest of the Weasley family, Professor Lupin… If I were him, I’d make sure that my disappearance doesn’t go public otherwise people would panic.”

Draco blinked in surprise at the thoughtful assessment. It was exactly what Dumbledore had done these past few weeks down to the letter. In recent interviews, including a harsh one with Rita Skeeter for the Daily Prophet, he’d insisted that Harry was safe and sound, just reeling from the harrowing situation he’d been thrown into. It was a dangerous position for the headmaster to be in; if he hadn’t recovered Harry by the time the public realized he’d kept this information from them, their current glowing opinion of him would change. 

It wouldn’t surprise Draco if that had been the Dark Lord’s intention all along. The future wasn’t looking up for Dumbledore, that was for sure. 

“Has he ever told you about the Prophecy regarding you and the Dark Lord?”

“... No.” That was definitely anger or the closest thing Potter could get to it under the Dark Lord’s curse. “I wasn’t aware that there even was one. He never mentioned or hinted at anything.”

“Really?” Bellatrix frowned curiously. If it wasn’t for her faith in the Dark Lord’s curse, Draco didn’t think she would have believed him. “That seems odd. Don’t you know the reason the Dark Lord went after your parents in the first place, potter?”

Draco wanted to roll his eyes at the seemingly rhetorical question. The murder of Potter’s parents had been a tragic, life-changing event. Of course Harry would have wanted to know more about it. Dumbledore had to have told him at some point; Draco wasn’t oblivious to how much Potter respected the headmaster nor how close the two of them were. It had annoyed him to no end. Saint Potter already had everything he wanted and then he’d wanted to play teacher’s pet, too? Draco had been disgusted. 

But looking at Harry’s face now, watching the confusion cross his face - confusion so utterly genuine that even the best of liars could not fake it even - Draco reconsidered. 

“What did you hear about their deaths, then?” Draco asked. He felt more than saw the warning look Bellatrix shot his way. This wasn’t a question he was supposed to ask, but he had to know now that it had been dangled in front of him so temptingly. 

Potter licked his lips, his face set in a gentle frown. He looked very much like he didn’t want to talk about it at all. “The muggle family I live with over the summers told me they died in a car accident.” Draco’s eyes widened. A car accident? What the bloody fucking hell- “It wasn’t until I met Hagrid on my eleventh birthday that I found out the Dark Lord had murdered them. Dumbledore never told me anything beyond that. Somehow I never found it in me to ask.”

“A car accident?” Draco repeated, still shocked by the audacity of such lesser creatures to even think of -

“Want to know what really happened?”

Bellatrix smiled sweetly when Potter tilted his head in her direction. 

“Enlighten me.”

“Sybil Trelawney created the Prophecy during her interview with Dumbledore for a position at Hogwarts. She foretold that a child born at the end of July would grow up to be the Dark Lord’s downfall. Normally, no one puts any stock into predictions like that, but Trelawney’s gift of Sight was real - an inherited trait from her family line. The Dark Lord moved to neutralize this threat to his rule after coming to know about it from a spy. As you know, it didn’t turn out the way he’d hoped. We believe it’s because the Death Eater who overheard it didn’t hear the entire verse, which we suspect carried important information on the consequences of any action taken against you. You’re sure Dumbledore never told you?”

Draco watched Harry’s reaction carefully. 

“No, I didn’t. Everything you just told me is new information.”

It wasn’t a lie. The painful tone of betrayal wasn’t either. Potter’s head turned downwards, his face, which must have been warring with emotions by now, hidden from their view. 

Bellatrix scoffed, throwing her arms in the air. “That’s pathetic. What, you never asked why the Dark Lord would waste time to go after a mudblood like your mother? At least tell me you wondered about your parents’ death instead of accepting whatever Dumbledore told you.”

Potter looked at her. “You know, Neville once described you to me. Loud, cruel, insensitive, whose laughter sounds like a hyena starving to death.” Draco highly doubted Longbottom had ever said such things. The boy was hardly brave or confident enough to. “But he never told me what an obnoxious bitch-”

Draco flinched at the sudden crack that came from Bellatrix’s harsh slap. Potter’s cheek came away red, but all that anger in his trembling form had dissipated. He looked like he was trying not to smile. 

“I like you, Potter,” Bellatrix smiled, leering over Potter’s frail body. “You’re far more interesting than I would have thought. But don’t test me. That little Longbottom is a fool, and he will soon join his parents the second the Dark Lord lets me off my leash.”

“The fact that you identify yourself as nothing but the Dark Lord’s attack dog is just sad.”

“Apologize for that, Harry darling, and I might play nice from this point forward. Now.”

“I’m sorry,” Potter said immediately, the curse kicking in at the order. 

Bellatrix hummed, sliding away from him and turning to Draco. Her eyes were crazed, full of pleasure - it was the way she got any time she got the chance to antagonize someone. She opened her mouth to add something further, another taunt perhaps, but something stopped her. Draco spared a downward glance at her forearm, where the Dark Mark was burning black. The Dark Lord was summoning her. 

“Finish up the questions, Draco. My presence is required elsewhere. You’ve done well today. Potter will join us for lessons starting tomorrow, so please catch him up to speed. We don’t need his morals getting in the way when we start.”

“I will, Aunt.” 

Draco dipped his head and kept it lowered until she disapparated. 

He waited a few minutes, looking up and meeting Harry’s gaze head-on. Potter just stared at him with blank eyes, his head tilted slightly to the left. It was oddly reminiscent of someone else Draco knew. He wondered if Potter knew just how much his little mannerisms emulated the Dark Lord, much less the reason why. 

This was as good an opportunity as any to find out. 

“So… Harry.” Draco put on his most charming smile. “Know what a Horcrux is, by any chance?” 

Potter’s hand found its way to Draco’s throat, slamming him hard against the wall. Draco smirked through watery eyes, too satisfied with the response he’d gotten to notice the pain creeping up his throat. There was panic in Potter’s eyes - something Draco had never seen before in him. Rightly so, considering. “What makes you think I would?”

Besides your aggressive reaction to when I mentioned it? 

“Takes one to know one, right?” Draco goaded, delighting in the sparks of anger and fear Potter was throwing off. “You know now, don’t you? I bet you’re wondering how I found out. I just spotted the signs after spending so much time with you and the Dark Lord in the same Manor. It wasn’t difficult.”

It had been ridiculously difficult to figure out. Draco had worn himself down, pulling all-nighter after all-nighter, in an attempt to understand why the Dark Lord wanted Potter alive. His trail of thought had led to him questioning how the Dark Lord had been resurrected in the first place. Hundreds of books had fallen to the ground in frustration, bookshelves overturned in frustration, before a term his father had once told him about long ago weaseled its way into his mind. 

He should have seen it before. Harry’s ability to speak with snakes when no one else in the Potter family had ever been able to do so - a talent Draco had been endlessly jealous of back in his second year and even now to some extent. The burning sensation that Potter constantly complained that he felt in his scar whenever the Dark Lord was near or angry. And then there were the more subtle things. His mannerisms - the intense look in his eyes whenever he looked at you, whether or not he realized it, how he tapped his fingertips against the nearest available surface when he was thinking. 

It was nice that Potter had confirmed his suspicions by reacting like this. 

Harry Potter is the Dark Lord’s Horcrux. 

“What, going to kill me now, Draco?” Harry asked quietly. Something really had changed in him. It was written all over his face. He had never been this demanding of attention before. His presence felt dangerous as opposed to comforting, deadly instead of warm. It was interesting to note that Potter’s first instinct in the face of panic had been aggression. Did that have something to do with Draco or the Dark Lord himself? “Go ahead, I’d welcome it.”

It seemed his unbearable savior complex hadn’t disappeared. 

“And get rid of the only way to find the other ones he made?” Draco said in disbelief. “I know you can sense them.” Like calls to like was what the passage had read. When two vessels are placed in close proximity to each other, they will inevitably attract. A shattered soul yearns to be whole. It had taken Draco days to find that book. “Come on, you don’t see an opportunity here?”

But that was a topic for another day. 

Now that he’d gotten Potter all riled up and angry, it was easier to see. Draco started laughing, even as his airways strained under the pressure on his throat. It was likely going to bruise by tomorrow.

“You threw it off,” Draco grinned. “You actually threw his curse off.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Shut up, Draco.”

“I knew it! The entire school was buzzing about how you could withstand an Imperius last year. God, it annoyed me, hearing about you everywhere I went. But the Dark Lord doesn’t know, does he? Crouch never got the chance to tell him since Dumbledore and his lot apprehended him before he could make contact-”

“Draco, if you know what’s good for you, stop talking.”

The raw seriousness in Potter’s tone made Draco obey, shutting his mouth with a pop. Potter looked scared, his eyes wide and frantic. All that blankness he’d been forcing on himself faded away in an instant. 

“Potter, are you okay?”

Harry seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. “The Dark Lord’s been reading your mind.”

Draco paled. “... What?” 

“Shit, I shouldn’t have…” Potter let out a string of curse words that even Draco would deem as impressive. He could give Pansy a run for her money. “Shit. He’ll know that I told you! He’s been reading your mind to listen in on our conversations ever since your first visit to me. Crap, that means he knows I can resist it now… How did you even figure it out?”

“I’d tell you if you would stop choking me for a damn minute. Wasn’t aware that you were into that kind of stuff, Potter.”

Harry flushed, hurriedly backing away. Draco dropped to the ground, heaving as his lungs flooded with oxygen again. 

“That was a good act,” Draco admitted once he’d recovered. “I’m impressed you pulled it off - fooling my aunt is no easy task. Have you been practicing in the mirror or something while you were locked up in here?” 

Potter looked away, his blush growing deeper. It was kind of cute. 

“Not bad. But it wasn’t perfect. You had little slips here and there. I must have noticed because I’ve known you the longest. The ‘Dark Lord’ instead of his true name was a nice touch, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“How long did it take you to beat it this time?”

Harry scowled in annoyance. “Until a few hours ago, actually. Two full days since he used it on me. If you and Bellatrix arrived this morning, I would’ve been screwed. It was…” He sighed. Draco wondered if that was grudging admiration in his voice. “... I’ve never felt anything like that before. It wasn’t like Crouch’s curse at all.”

“He is the Dark Lord. It’s to be expected.”

“Yeah, well, it’s of no use now. He’s probably figured it out by now.”

“Not necessarily. He’ll be gone for the rest of the week. I heard he’s thinking of recruiting dark creatures to his side - giants, werewolves, dementors, and the like. He’s already gotten to the dementors. That’s how he got my aunt and the other imprisoned Death Eaters out. He’s rushing things now that Dumbledore knows you’re missing.”

“Can’t he read your mind right now?”

“Not from this long of a distance.”

Potter frowned at that. He sat back on the bed, his hands fiddling restlessly with each other. “But I’ve always been able to get a glimpse at his thoughts even with great distances.”

“I don’t think that’s Legilimency at work.” Draco shrugged. Everything about this was unusual, to say the least. “More like the connection between your souls that makes your scar hurt. At least, that’s my theory at the moment. There’s never been a human Horcrux before, not to anyone’s knowledge, so there’s only so much we can guess at.”

Harry made a frustrated noise, rubbing at his face. Did he ever stop moving? 

At least he didn’t seem completely worn down yet, which Draco supposed he should give the boy credit for. There was a dullness to Potter now, a part of his innocence that would forever be tainted, but apart from that, he looked better than expected.

Maybe this was why the Dark Lord was so fascinated with Potter. A prisoner who would not submit, who would not accept that they had been chained down. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what the Dark Lord did to you. You don’t deserve it.”

Potter nodded in acknowledgment, his mind already drifting away to something else. 

Times like these were common during Draco’s meetings with Potter. There were moments when Potter didn’t seem to be present at all, his eyes looking past the walls towards something no one else could see. He wondered what it was. 

“Draco, what exactly is the Order?”

Draco looked away. He’d hoped that Harry wouldn’t ask about that. But there was no avoiding it now. He owed this information to Potter, especially after the way he’d left him during his last visit. 

“An organization Dumbledore founded in the ‘70s to oppose the Dark Lord during his first rise to power. Loads of prominent figures and families were a part of it. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Professor Moody, your godfather, the Longbottoms, the Prewetts, Shacklebolt - even your parents. It’s made a reappearance now that the Dark Lord is back. They’re smaller in numbers than before and recruitment isn’t going too well since the public doesn’t believe the Dark Lord is back thanks to the Ministry, but the name still carries weight. It’s got a lot of Death Eaters concerned; a sizeable portion of their ranks was incarcerated or killed by Order members.”

“And Ron and Hermione already know about it?”

Draco reluctantly nodded. 

“Everything Bellatrix said… The Prophecy, the reason my parents are dead - is it all true?” Did Dumbledore keep all of this from me? went unsaid, but Draco’s heart still gave a pang, anyway. Potter’s tone was impossibly sad. Draco prayed that this wouldn’t be what finally broke him, that made him give up. How ironic that would be - the people he trusted contributing to his ultimate defeat and not the Dark Lord. 

“I’m sure Dumbledore had a good reason,” Draco tried. 

Harry scoffed, looking away. His temper was flaring again, but there were no dramatic outbursts like Draco was expecting. Potter seemed content to silently simmer in his rage and hurt. 

“What was that Bellatrix said about lessons?” Harry asked after a long moment’s pause. “And that stuff about morals - what exactly does she have planned?”

“Oh. Yes, that… Don’t get angry. Please.”

“Why would I get angry?”

“The Dark Lord ordered my Aunt to teach you dark magic.”

“I am not doing dark magic,” Harry said angrily.

Draco sighed in frustration. He knew Potter would say that. It just didn’t make any sense why people would be so vehemently against a branch of spell work - magic was magic - but then again, Draco had grown up surrounded by it, learning how to use it as natural as breathing. Potter, on the other hand, had already been influenced by the righteous ideals of the rest of the wizarding world. “Yes, you are.”

"No, I’m not.”

“Potter, come on. I don’t know what that blood traitor family has already told you about it, but-”

“Don’t call them that.”

“The Weasleys,” Draco corrected, hiding his grumble. “It’s not like you have a choice in this matter. My Aunt will just order you to do it, and unless you want to break your cover and risk the Dark Lord returning early to make matters worse for you, you’re going to have to do it.”

“I could just pretend that I can’t cast the spells. I’m weak from being starved and dehydrated, right? My mental state is probably not the best, either, but you can be the judge of that.”

“That…” Draco paused, tilting his head in surprise. Since when had Potter grown brains? “... could actually work. You’d need a solid excuse, though. Everyone knows that you’re a bloody strong caster when you actually try.”

“Actually try? Draco, that hurt my feelings,” Harry pouted.

Draco ignored him. 

One of the basic things every young witch or wizard, with the exception of Harry Potter apparently and a handful of uneducated mudbloods, was someone’s magic affinity. It was important for everyone to know their aptitude for the different branches of magic so they could pursue their education and magical prowess accordingly. Those who had an affinity for light magic had difficulty casting with the Dark Arts and vice versa. It was a pretty simple concept. 

At least, it was for Draco. It took around ten minutes to explain it to Harry, who thought the whole thing was stupid. 

That doesn’t make any sense, Draco. What’s different about the two branches? How come light magic is the only branch taught in the school curriculum, then? What’s a core, anyway? I never really understood it. Is it a body part only wizards have or abstract like someone’s soul? Please don't tell me it's an organ.

Those were loaded questions for a fifteen-year-old like Draco to answer, except for what a core was - Potter was just being an idiot as usual. “Look, the specifics don’t matter right now. You can ask my aunt tomorrow if you really want to, she’d be more than happy to educate you on her... opinions. Right now, I have to go get a knife.”

Potter blinked as though he’d heard wrong. “What do you need a bloody knife for?” He squinted. “Are you going to kill me, after all?”

“I’m not going to kill you, Potter.”

“That’s something I never thought I’d hear, ferret.”

Draco looked up at the ceiling, praying for patience and on the verge of taking his statement back. “Just… wait here. Getting a professional to test your core is ideal, but we don’t have any of those around.” It was more accurate, too; they’d be able to tell precisely how powerful an individual’s magic would be. “We’ll have to settle for using your blood.”

He pretended not to notice the way Potter’s hand instantly went to his forearm, where an ugly scar was prominent against his pale skin. Draco felt sick just looking at it. He didn’t want to hurt Potter or make him uncomfortable after all he’d been through this past week alone. 

“I’m sure we can come up with something else, though.”

“No, it’s fine. I’d rather get it over with now. Um, can… Can I be the one to draw the blood, though? Sorry, it’s just-”

“No need to apologize. Of course you can. Wait here while I get the knife.”

As Draco headed down the stairs at a hurried pace, he wondered what he had been thinking when he suggested that. An affinity test? Really? Draco had never performed one before and he’d only read in theory about using blood instead. Not that he wanted to impress Potter with his knowledge or anything - I don’t. 

That didn’t stop his heart from pounding as if it was trying to get out of his chest. He’d prefer that in all honesty. Death seemed nice right about now compared to the embarrassment he would go through if this didn’t work. 

He gave the acquired knife to Potter. The latter raised an eyebrow at it, looking a little amused that Draco had found one so quickly, but didn’t question it. 

“You can heal wounds, right?” Potter looked up, the tip of the knife resting against his palm. “Don’t want Bellatrix figuring out that we did this without her permission.”

Draco nodded, trying not to watch the blade so close to Potter’s skin. He felt queasy all of a sudden. He just imagined the silver knife sliding alongside the flesh and he wanted to throw up. 

It was like Ollivander all over again. 

How do you expect to become an ideal Death Eater like this, Draco darling? You can’t even stomach the sight of a wound. How are you going to kill in the name of the Dark Lord? You’re a disappointment to the Malfoy name, your father will be so disappointed that you cannot carry out the legacy of him and his forbearers--

By the time Aunt Bella’s voice had stopped ringing in his ears, Harry pushed the bowl they were using to contain the blood back at him. There was a good amount in there, a little more than necessary, but Draco decided not to say anything. He brought out his wand, noticing Potter staring at it with envy, and murmured the incantation that he may or may not have re-memorized on his way back here. 

They both watched the blood move inside the bowl, separating and changing color. 

“Huh,” Draco muttered. “There goes that excuse.”

Potter frowned down at the bowl, moving up close to look at it. Draco didn’t see the point of doing that - it wasn’t as if blood looked different up close as opposed to far away. “What do you mean?”

“The blood lightens to an almost white color if you have a light affinity and darkens if you have a dark one. It separates into amounts that are proportional to your prowess with each branch. People generally have more light than dark. Bellatrix will probably go over the reason tomorrow since it’s your first lesson with her. See how yours is split equally?”

Harry leaned over even closer. Draco slapped him across the forehead to make him back away. “Ow! Wait… So that means… Mine is equal?” Rather than looking impressed with himself, as any other person would be given how rare an occurrence that was, he groaned, grabbed a pillow, and slammed his face into it like a bloody child. Draco gaped at him. “I don’t have an excuse now.”

“Looks like you’re going to have to deal with it.” Potter lifted his head to glare at him. “Look at this way, no one will expect you to want to learn it extensively. You can use that to your advantage if you play it right. One more weapon against the Dark Lord, right?”

Something dark flickered in and out of Harry’s eyes. Draco paused, waiting for him to say something, but Potter just kept quiet. He was staring down at his hands, a thoughtful expression consuming his features. 

“Yeah...” Harry’s smile was slightly mad. “It is.”

***

Remus Lupin was soaked in blood. 

He watched as Sirius took him in, his lips parting in a horrified gasp as he registered the red sheen to his previously tan cloak, the dull glaze to his eyes after what he’d just seen. Remus didn’t think anything could get the sight of Arabella Figg’s mangled body out of his mind. He’d known the Dark Lord was capable of terrible things, but seeing it up close… 

It hadn’t even looked like a human body anymore. Her stomach had been clawed open, her head bashed in, brain matter leaking onto the floors of her house. Voldemort couldn’t have been the one to tear her apart that way. He wasn’t one to damage his victim’s bodies after killing them. Greyback had likely been put up to it; this was more his style. The thought made Remus feel sick and dizzy. Would he be capable of such brutalization if he were in his werewolf form? 

“Remus.”

Sirius’s calm and collected voice, so at odds with the fear in his dark eyes, shook him out of his thoughts. He raised his head but couldn’t bring himself to look at his friend. It had devastated him when he went with Dumbledore to inspect the poor woman’s body earlier that day, but he knew it would be nothing compared to what Sirius would feel. They’d failed James again. The cycle that started with Peter just kept repeating itself, no matter what either of them did. 

“He’s gone…” Remus choked up, burying himself into Sirius’s chest. Sirius wrapped his arms around him, his hand rubbing soothingly along his back. It kept building up, his rage, his despair, his hopelessness, grief, panic, fear, horror - He stifled a sob, held back his tears. For what good would they do? He didn’t deserve to cry, not after what had happened.

“Remus.” As always, Sirius’s voice helped to ground him. “Tell me what happened. Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, trembling badly. “It’s not my blood. Sirius… Harry’s gone.”

The chest pressing against Remus’s face went rigid, breaths ceasing to filter through. Sirius went silent. Somehow, that was even worse than the reaction Remus had been expecting. He wanted Sirius to sink down to the ground, to yell, to scream, to demand how this could happen. But this - Sirius trying desperately to hold it together for Remus’s sake alone - was unbearable. 

“Who took him?” Sirius asked. 

They both knew the answer. 

“Voldemort.”

Sirius exhaled slowly, the smallest tremors finally making their way to his body. Remus removed himself from the safe comfort of his arms and stared up at him. His best friend’s eyes were dark with rage, almost manic with the lack of light. At that moment, he looked like his cousin. 

“I’m sorry.” Remus furiously wiped at his face. He was an adult now, for god’s sake, but he’d just acted like a child. Sirius was likely going through his own forms of grief; he didn’t need Remus breaking down in front of him like that. Remus should be ashamed of himself. 

“It’s not your fault, Moony,” Sirius said sternly, as always picking up on what was going through Remus’s head. “Don’t you dare blame yourself.”

“Only if you do.”

Sirius’s frown broke out into a sad little smile. It disappeared as quickly as it’d appeared. He gestured for Remus to follow him to the bathroom, not commenting on the blood that’d made its way to the ground. Remus cast a look around Sirius’s old bedroom, noting the messy state it was in because of the man’s constant boredom, and followed. 

His friend sat him down on a stool before heading to the closet. Remus stared down at the floor, content to stay there for as long as it took for the fear to drain out of his body. He hated this. Hated not knowing. Harry had been missing for weeks now, and they hadn’t even noticed. Weeks where Voldemort could have done whatever he wanted with him. For all they knew, Harry could be dead by now. And they wouldn’t even know. 

Sirius came back with a damp towel. He set himself down on one knee, lifting Remus’s face gently, and started to wipe away the blood. Remus barely noticed. He wondered how Sirius was keeping it together like this. 

“We’re going to get him back,” Sirius said quietly. “We’re not losing him again.”

Remus couldn’t help but smile. That was the difference between him and Sirius. While Remus was basking in the feeling of his own failure, Sirius was already looking for ways to fix it. He should’ve known this meeting would go like this. Sirius had always been one to look to the future and not the present. “Right.”

“He’s not dead.”

Sirius sounded like he was trying to convince himself, but Remus decided not to say anything. There were things that both of them needed to cope with this, and for Sirius it was faith. He needed to believe that he hadn’t lost his godson in order to keep moving forward. Otherwise… In some ways, Remus was glad that he’d never visited his friend in Azkaban, if only to spare himself the sight of a Sirius without hope. 

Which is why he didn’t mention the note they’d found in Arabella Figg’s hand. The only part of her body that hadn’t been completely destroyed. Two words written in Tom Riddle’s elegant scrawl. 

He’s mine. 

Chapter Text

It was early evening the next time Harry brought himself to get out of his bed. His body screamed at him to return to those beautifully soft and supple sheets, but the reality was that he didn’t have much time to waste. A whole day spent in his room brooding over his new prison would bring him nothing. 

He rose unsteadily, black dots swimming in his eyes from his prolonged time spent with lack of movement. Blood rushed to his head all too fast as he got up in a drunken manner, swaying on his feet. He braced himself on the wall closest to him, recoiling at the feeling of dry paint and not cold rock. 

He wasn’t going to get used to this for a while.

This new room reminded him a bit of the one he’d stayed in at the Leaky Cauldron in his third year. The only difference was this one seemed more luxurious. The furniture consisting of a bed, a wardrobe, a dresser with a mirror on top, a nightstand, and a desk was all black and polished. The fireplace flickered in place opposite to the bed, though it didn’t look like it was connected to the floo network, much to his disappointment.

It was still a cell, just made to look like it wasn’t one.

He painstakingly made his way to the restroom, each step worse than the last. His movements felt mechanical. The ground felt too hollow, his feet too bare. He stumbled his way to the sink and turned on the cold water, waiting for it to flow at a steady temperature before splashing it onto his face. 

It had been a couple of hours since he’d tricked Bellatrix and had that long talk with Draco. To Harry, it felt like it had been years. 

He tidied himself off, changing into the rich black robes that had been set on the bed for him next to his glasses. He didn’t stop to wonder how they knew his size - stranger things had happened during his imprisonment here.

There weren’t any doors besides the one to enter these quarters and the one to the restroom. The bedroom was locked, and Harry didn’t want to risk opening it. No windows had been placed in his room, no vents either. 

Still, he supposed it was better than his cell. There had been nights when he’d thought he’d die from starvation or thirst in there. Nights where he had been almost disappointed when he’d woken up still alive by morning. The bed was a nice change. He’d just have to grow to accommodate it. That, and the running water. He would no longer have to be forced to drink from that cursed cup in order to stay alive.

Instead, Harry had found himself backed into another corner. He would be forced to do whatever Voldemort told him to do unless he wanted to lose what little freedom he’d gained.

Harry’s lungs felt tighter the more he thought about it. The more he realized that Voldemort had trapped him so efficiently with such ease. He had practically run towards the snare Voldemort had set, too oblivious to realize it was there in the first place.

The only solace he found in this was that Voldemort couldn’t have factored in Harry’s resistance to the Imperius to his plans. It couldn’t be another one of Voldemort’s calculations; Harry refused to believe he had fallen for yet another ruse. Crouch had never told Voldemort about Harry’s capabilities with fending off the curse’s control - he had never gotten the chance to. He had been arrested by the Ministry shortly after Harry returned from the graveyard. There was no way Voldemort could know. And yet…

These past few days had shredded through Harry’s confidence in his own assumptions. Every action he carried out felt like it was according to Voldemort’s plan. 

He’d just have to take another chance and pray that Voldemort remained unaware of one of Harry’s few strengths. He didn’t have any other choice.

He glanced at the door and walked over to the tray of food that had appeared once Draco left. The doorknob was still locked. Not that it was a problem anymore, now that he had proven himself capable of a wandless unlocking charm. But he couldn’t break himself out yet. 

He picked up the spare bowl that had been provided for him. Possibly so he could set food aside for later, as it was empty, but he didn’t really know. It could have just been another Malfoy family habit.

If Voldemort had known that Harry could resist his magic, he would’ve made sure that Harry didn’t have such an easy way of escape. But, Harry thought as he ran his fingers across the bowl, Voldemort would have taken precautions just in case. The door was the most straightforward way to get out so that meant it would probably be the most difficult. Who knew how many more traps Voldemort had set in place?

Harry would have to be careful this time around. There were no more trial runs, no more second chances, no more guesses or hopes. If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t leave things up to chance if he wanted to succeed. He had to make it so that he would succeed.

Which was all the more reason for him to keep playing along for now.

The metal bowl flew through the air, making a direct impact with the mirror. It shattered to pieces. Miniscule fragments of the reflective surface spilled onto the carpet, lost among the silver and green fibers. Slytherin colors. Even his room was mocking him. 

Harry ran a hand over his face, his other one curled into a fist and braced against the wall. He needed to calm down. He tried taking deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, but he was trembling too much.

He’d learned his lesson not to punch the walls from his bloodied knuckles back in the cell, but he was really considering going against his better senses again. He was trying not to shout or tear up - he’d feel like a toddler throwing a tantrum if he did.

Harry sighed, his shoulders slumping, and walked over to the bowl. It remained unbroken, though slightly dented from the harsh swing he’d flung it with. His temper was getting the better of him. He brushed off the mirror shards and put the bowl back on the tray.

“Reparo,” he muttered, flicking a hand towards the mirror.

The fragments rose slightly, hovering above the emerald carpet before drawing towards the frame, slowly piecing themselves back together.

With nothing better to do after Draco had departed, Harry had spent the following hour practicing magic on his own, without a wand. It was the only thing that was keeping him sane at the moment. He felt the slightest bit of freedom whenever he succeeded with a spell - no Ministry owls could reach him here after all. That was one of the few things he didn’t have to be afraid of. If it helped him grow stronger in the future, then all the better for him. 

Something had changed him down in that cell. Harry wasn’t sure what it was - maybe it was because he’d been the one actually going through it - but he felt different. Colder, somehow. He was more focused. It could be that he’d finally broken at some point in his solitude. Perhaps it was his renewed hatred for Voldemort.

“Stop thinking so much,” said his repaired mirror. “You’ll get frown lines.”

“Shut it or I’ll throw another bowl at you,” Harry threatened. 

“Anger doesn’t suit your pretty face either. Try smiling. I haven’t seen you do that yet.”

“Try keeping your thoughts to yourself, I haven’t seen you do that yet.”

Satisfied that he’d succeeded in offending the mirror, Harry decided to risk it and try at the doorknob again. “Alohomora.” Nothing. And he knew for a fact that it wasn’t because there was something faulty with his spellcasting. He’d tried it on the bathroom door after locking it and it had worked perfectly. There must be a charm on the bedroom door preventing someone from magically opening it. Looked like he would have to wait for someone to come with a key if he wanted out of here.

Perfect. Just what I need. I can’t be spending the six days I have left before Voldemort returns doing nothing!

He thudded his fists against the bedroom door. He’d already tried violently hammering at it, even running into it a few times like some human battering ram. Unfortunately, no one had answered his sophisticated attempt at communication yet, and probably wouldn’t anytime soon.

Where was Draco when Harry actually needed him? The one time he wanted to see the slimy git’s face, he was nowhere to be found! How typical.

Damn it, what had happened to make everything go so wrong? Was this the universe’s way of punishing him? But punishing him for what? Harry had done nothing to earn this, nothing to deserve something so utterly cruel. What happened… what had he… 

He couldn’t breathe, he didn’t want to, he just wanted…

He couldn’t breathe.

“Where are you?” Harry’s voice cracked. “Ron… Hermione… Dumbledore, where are you?”

He stifled a sob. He held back his tears.

Every day he’d been kept in that dungeon, he’d worried over his friends’ wellbeing. He’d worried over the people who had cared for him ever since he’d entered the wizarding world. He’d nearly given himself away to Bellatrix when Draco mentioned Ron and Hermione during their interrogation. He cared so fucking much…

But did they?

Days, maybe even weeks had passed since Mrs. Figg’s murder. Dumbledore had to know that Harry was missing by now if he hadn’t noticed something wasn’t right before. He’d have contacted Ron and Hermione the moment he confirmed Harry wasn’t at Privet Drive. That meant they knew of his appearance as well. So why, why had no one come to save him? Dumbledore was the greatest wizard of this age, surely he would be able to find Harry with little difficulty…

Maybe it was just Harry’s fault for childishly wishing for someone to save him.

But it was well within their capabilities, wasn’t it? Since they all knew about this mysterious Order of the Phoenix, even when Harry himself had been kept in the dark? 

It had hurt like hell when he found out everything that had been kept from him all these years. How he had been deceived by the people he thought of as a surrogate family. He couldn’t believe Bellatrix had ultimately been the one to reveal all this to him. 

It suddenly felt real, this hell he’d been put through, as he sat there silently crying with his back against the door. He slammed his hand over his mouth to keep the noise muffled. This wasn’t some sick dream, some terrible nightmare - this was real. No one had come for him and the worst thing was that Harry didn’t know why… If any of his friends went missing, Harry would have done anything to save them. He knew that he would have gone against Dumbledore. He’d have gone against the entire Ministry if it meant bringing them back safely.

Fuck being the Boy-Who-Lived. Fuck being this hero of the wizarding world. The only thing that would have mattered, the only thing he would have given a shit about, would be them. 

So why did it feel like they weren’t doing the same thing for him?

Harry wanted to break right then and there as he pondered it. Pondered the answer to that impossible question he’d subconsciously been asking himself for weeks now. 

Screw whatever Draco had told him about staying strong. Harry wanted to say fuck it and let Voldemort do away with him. Because what was the point? He couldn’t beat Voldemort, Harry couldn’t even stay on equal footing with him! Why had he insisted on fighting this far? What on Earth had he been fighting for?

So far, all he’d been doing was what Dumbledore had told him to do. We, that wasn’t good enough for him anymore. He was afraid. No, he was terrified of what Voldemort could do to him. And if he was going to continue like this, if he was going to go headfirst into danger and drown in all this pain and agony and suffering, he needed a reason.

His reason had been them.

He’d wanted to be better for them.

And it didn’t look like they were coming to save him.

“I’m sorry…” he breathed, unable to help it. 

He didn’t know who he was even apologizing to. 

He barely wiped at his face, barely noticing that there weren’t any tears. Perhaps some forms of agony surpassed the need for them. They were too painful to be contained in such a small vessel.

Forget about your friends. Think only of yourself and what you want.

He stared at the floor as he thought of the Horcrux’s words. The only person he could count on now was himself. Funny how he hadn’t realized that sooner. He wasn’t going to be able to carry on for much longer if he kept putting all his focus on people who were miles away.

Harry would just have to learn how to live for himself and not others.

Forgetting about his friends was something he would never be able to do. He would always care for them, he knew that, no matter what they did. But thinking about what he wanted… He drew in a raggedy breath, curling in on himself, not letting himself doubt or waver.

“I want to make Voldemort pay.”

Maybe it didn’t matter what Harry would have to become in order to do that. Maybe no one would care that much. Maybe his friends would remain none the wiser - after all, they hadn’t come to save him yet, so why would they ever?

Maybe Harry wasn’t worthy of saving.

Maybe he was meant to give and give but never receive anything in return. If that was true, then he would just have to start taking what he wanted. Easier said than done as he’d said before. But he’d already become someone he didn’t even recognize these past few weeks. There was nothing to say that he couldn’t change a little bit more.

He hated Voldemort with everything in him. Those cold crimson eyes, that sneer full of wicked amusement, the nonchalance as he ruined lives with just a flick of his wand. Harry hated him.

Rage was a comfort compared to everything else he felt. It was a fire that kept breathing warmth, heated coals that helped to stoke the flames of his desire, an endless source of energy that kept him going. If rage was what he had to rely on from now on, if that was what would keep these cracked pieces of him melded together, then so be it.

Letting out another shaky breath, Harry pushed against the wall to rise to his feet. The food was still on the tray, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat a bite. For now, Harry would have to deal with a whole different problem than keeping food down after being starved to the point of death for so long.

Draco’s Aunt. Bellatrix Lestrange.

Fooling her had taken everything out of Harry. He would have to put on the performance of his life to keep the deception going. One slip could mean the Dark Lord coming to know of Harry’s stolen freedom. Perhaps Lestrange would be happy to take care of the matter herself; she was the right-hand of Voldemort, after all. Who knew what she had done to earn that position - what she would take pleasure in doing to Harry when given cause to.

What would she do to him if he refused to perform dark magic?

Harry tilted his head in contemplation. Just another weapon against the Dark Lord. That’s what Draco had said. When he put it like that… Harry was tempted. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t. But he couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth the risk. What would his friends think of him if…

Well. That didn’t matter anymore now, did it? If it hurt Dumbledore, who Harry was beyond pissed at for lying to him, and simultaneously benefited Harry’s own struggle against Voldemort… Why the hell shouldn’t he at least attempt it? There couldn’t be much harm in it, not when it came down to his survival. The only thing holding him back was the opinions and ideas he’d heard ever since enrolling at Hogwarts.

But he would throw those away if it meant getting revenge on Voldemort. For the time being, at least. He didn’t intend to become a bad person, he wouldn’t be able to stand himself if he did… But… He bit his lip. Better to deal with the issue when the time came.

A house-elf appeared a few minutes later, the sharp crack of apparition startling against the rhythmic buzz of the room.

Dobby’s replacement, he realized upon turning to meet it. This one was female, sporting a torn pale dress instead of a ratchet pillowcase. Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, the spark of reverence and admiration in them identical to that in Dobby’s. Harry felt sick at that expression. What had he ever intentionally done to deserve it?

“Is Mr. Potter feeling well, sir?” the elf asked. Her voice was full of nervous tremors. Her hands shook at her sides. That wouldn’t do at all. Harry didn’t want her to be afraid of him.

“I’m feeling much better than before, thanks for asking.” He made sure to give her a kind smile. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

The elf looked slightly taken aback, quickly disguising it with a low bow. “It is no problem, sir. Tilly is always happy to be of service. Lord Malfoy is asking for you to join his family for dinner.”

Harry’s face remained impassive, though he wished he could laugh at the sheer absurdity of what Tilly was saying.

“Lord Malfoy also said that you would think he is making a joke, sir, and to tell you that he is being very serious. They want to make sure you are really eating, sir.”

“Wonderful,” Harry said, forcing an easy grin. He wanted to puke. “Will you take me?”

Tilly nodded.

Her steps towards him were tentative and slow, her hands still shaking. Harry wondered why that was. Dobby had never been this way with him. Sure, Dobby had made it seem like the honor to be in Harry’s presence was more than he could stand, but he’d never seemed afraid. 

Harry offered his hand for Tilly to take. Her trembling lessened somewhat before she grasped it.

The ground underneath them fell away as they disapparated. Harry’s ears popped, his vision swirling in and out of black and white and all shades in between. A magically conjured wind rushed against him and hammered at him from all sides, contorting and jerking his body this way and that before finally pushing him down onto a solid floor.

***

By some sheer amount of will, Harry managed to not fall over once they apparated into the Malfoys’ dining room. He didn’t let the terror of being in this place show either, though the memory of being chained on display for Voldemort and his inner circle was fresh and vivid in his mind.

Draco choked on the water he’d been sipping when he spotted Harry. He fumbled for his napkin, eyes widening but never wavering. “What is he doing here?” he demanded to his father, not with an angry tone but rather one of confusion.

Harry carefully kept his face blank, remembering how he’d acted that first time with Draco and Bellatrix. At least the ferret wasn’t outing him to his parents. 

“Mr. Potter will be having meals with us from now on,” Lucius replied. His cold eyes regarded Harry with distaste, as if Harry was nothing more than a patch of dirt on the pristine flooring of his house. “The Dark Lord was the one to give the order. We are ever his honored servants.”

What a load of bullshit. How could they still be honored servants, if they had ever been, after Lucius had failed Voldemort the way he had? Harry remembered how Voldemort’s attitude had been towards him in the graveyard. His anger that Lucius had abandoned him like the others even though he claimed to be one of his most loyal. It could have only grown worse after Voldemort learned of how Lucius handled the diary.

Eating meals with the Malfoys was one of the least appealing things Harry had ever heard before. He didn’t want to associate with these people any more than he had to. What he wanted was to get out of this shithole and to safety.

But what choice did he have? They were going easy on him right now, what would they do if he decided to step out of line? He didn’t care much for his life, but he also didn’t want to die for such an insignificant reason.

Draco had calmed down, setting his cup of tea onto the table. The three Malfoys seated at the lengthy table looked rather odd, Harry thought, letting his gaze drift over all the empty seats. How could they bear to do something as civilized as eating at the same place Voldemort explained his sadistic plans and most likely tortured his followers when they dared to displease him? The thought of merely sitting in one of those seats made Harry’s stomach twist with unease.

The fireplace was still lit; it was likely never put out. Harry surveyed all the doors the dining room was connected to. The massive chandelier looked the same from the day he’d been brought here in chains, the floor was polished and shining. It looked like nothing happened here except for, well, meals. The truth was hard to find, covered and buried as it was. No wonder the Ministry never found hard evidence against the Malfoys during their trials.

The chair next to Draco was empty. Lucius was at the head of the table, predictably, while Narcissa was seated opposite to her son. Narcissa Malfoy looked at Harry with indifference painted across her face, but Harry had the feeling that she was studying his every move. At least Bellatrix wasn’t here.

“You’re looking better,” Narcissa offered. “Must be a nice change of scenery.”

Harry managed a tight smile. He didn’t remember seeing her before now. She had never come by his cell or visited him in the room since Bellatrix and Draco had met with him. “It is.” He reluctantly walked over to the family, pulling out the chair next to Draco and sitting down.

A Death Eater had sat in this chair. A man or a woman who had likely murdered people, who had committed atrocities severe enough to land them a life sentence in Azkaban. 

He shoved those thoughts out of his mind and instead looked at the plate that had appeared in front of him. He couldn’t resist a little smile. Lasagna. The meal felt a little too muggle to belong in a place like this. He’d made it himself on many occasions, though he hadn’t been able to eat any. Dudley had always insisted on having second servings, then thirds, then fourths. 

“It’s not poisoned,” Lucius said, sounding awfully sorry that it wasn’t.

Harry nodded. He wasn’t quite sure what else to do, so he started eating. The taste of it was heaven on his tongue. It took every amount of willpower he possessed not to moan with every bite. Draco was watching him with pity in his eyes, probably recalling this was the first decent meal Harry had eaten since the end of school.

Narcissa offered him a small smile. It was kind enough, though a tad bit strained. “Don’t feel a need to finish any of the food. We know you haven’t had a proper meal in a while. If there’s anything else you need or would prefer, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you.”

At least Lucius had been telling the truth when he’d said the food wasn’t poisoned. That would have been an unfortunate way for Harry to go out, not to mention embarrassing. Death by lasagna? Harry stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“I have a few questions for you, Mr. Potter,” Lucius said after Harry had managed a few bites. Harry looked up, heart leaping into his throat. There was a hunger in Lucius’s expression now. That couldn’t mean anything good. Harry really wasn’t in the mood for another interrogation. “If you’d be so kind as to answer them.”

Draco shot Harry a warning glance.

“Of course,” Harry said. Did he really have a choice?

“What did you offer the Dark Lord?”

Harry was momentarily taken aback. That hadn’t been what he was expecting. “Uh… Come again? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lucius’s wand was out in a flash, the point crossing over the table to point directly at Harry’s chest. Draco flinched, his mother looking on with slight concern. Harry’s heart began to pick up the pace. Lucius Malfoy was no Voldemort, but having a wand directed at him made his breaths shorten, his shoulders tense, his hands trembling at his sides. He just wanted a day without any form of pain, just one goddamn day.

“Why does the Dark Lord insist on keeping you alive?” Lucius persisted. It looked like Draco hadn’t told him. “He ordered your release from the dungeons and when asked if he would then take your life, he refused. He threw away the chance to achieve the goal he had set for himself and for all of us Death Eaters just like that.” Lucius snapped his fingers loudly. “Do you see my confusion now, Mr. Potter? How is it that the boy who vanquished him all those years ago is allowed more kindness than us, his loyal followers?”

“Perhaps it’s because you keep failing him,” Harry suggested, clenching his hands into fists. “I was there in the graveyard with you, remember? He didn’t seem very happy with you, Mr. Malfoy, not after you abandoned him and his cause in favor of gaining amnesty from the Ministry. Does he know what you did with his diary yet? He can’t have been too happy with that. You just keep digging your own grave while insisting on blaming it on others, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I have always been at his side,” Lucius snapped. “I was there when he summoned us that night, unlike Severus Snape, but even him the Dark Lord grants such forgiveness. You have never done anything for the Dark Lord, yet he insists on keeping you alive and well.”

“He just wants to continue taunting me with my failure to kill him. Ever consider that? I mean, it is the most logical explanation, but I suppose with the size of your brain it’s quite difficult-”

“Spare me the childish wit,” Lucius snarled. His cane was in his other hand. Harry felt rather ridiculous clenching his spoon and fork in comparison. Should he just make a break for it now? Take his chance while Voldemort wasn’t here? “What is it that you offered him to gain such favor?”

“What do you think I did?”

“I think you sold yourself to him.”

Harry barked a disbelieving laugh. “What?”

“There’s nothing else you could have done that would be as effective,” Lucius sneered. “You gave yourself over to him, didn’t you? You saw his might in the graveyard and realized that there was no way a boy like you could stand a chance against someone like him. You went to him and begged him on your knees to take you in, to do with you as he pleased if it meant you would go on living.”

“Father,” Draco started.

“Lucius, that’s enough,” Narcissa cautioned. She placed a calming hand on her husband’s shoulder, but he shook it off not even a second later.

“What has he done to you already, hm?” Lucius’s voice was nearly mad. “What has he done to you in those visits down in the cell that none of us are aware of? Does he let you beg him some more?” Harry clenched his hands into fists, struggling to breathe through the heat of his anger. “Does he listen to you betray information on your friends and Dumbledore with a smile on his face? Does he fuck you into the walls until you’re crying with relief that you finally chose the right side, until you can’t walk-”

All the glass on the table shattered.

Just like that, the cold grip over Harry’s body returned. Infinitely small strings wrapped around him, the foreign control settling down. Harry trembled as he fought against the emotionless sensation, focusing to keep the reigns of his awareness to himself. He had come this far; he wasn’t going to let Voldemort get one over him now.

He wondered if it was because he had used a large output of magic. Alohamora and reparo were by no means powerful spells, but it did take a significant amount of magic to break all the glass in his immediate surroundings. Voldemort must have assumed that if Harry was using that much power, it could only mean he was trying to escape. The stronger return of the curse must be a fail-safe.

“Reparo,” Lucius scowled, waving his wand. The shards of glass hovered, folding in on themselves as they repaired themselves. Harry finally seized back his self-control from Voldemort, feeling like he was suddenly able to breathe again.

“My apologies,” Harry said, making sure his voice sounded detached. Draco looked at him strangely, a hint of doubt in his eyes. Was he wondering if Harry had succumbed to the curse or not? At least that was a sign that Harry’s performance was still going smoothly. “That tends to happen from time to time. I think I should leave you to your meal.”

Draco tucked his chair in, taking a step closer to Harry. “Potter and I can both go,” he addressed his father. “I should show him around the Manor before our lessons start tomorrow.”

“That can wait until morning, Draco.” Lucius ran a skeptical eye over Harry. Harry wanted to throw something at him. “Tilly will bring him back to his quarters. I don’t trust him alone with you, after all, not over this… reckless lack of control. I can see he takes after his godfather in that respect. A pair of rabid dogs, the both of them.”

Harry inclined his head in agreement, all the while gritting his teeth. His heart fluttered in panic, lungs squeezing it in its place at the implications of what Lucius was saying. “Thank you for the food.” 

Tilly arrived a moment later to take him back to his room. He didn't even bother to change as he flopped down back into his bed, moodily staring at the ceiling. 

Five more days until Voldemort returned.

Chapter Text

Bellatrix was waiting for him at the foot of the steps, staring at her wand as she twirled it with childlike fascination. Upon spotting him, her red-slash grin widened to a frighteningly gleeful expression. Harry repressed a shudder, pocketing his hands and proceeding towards her as if he wasn’t terrified out of his mind. 

“Harry-kins,” Lestrange smiled. Harry barely stopped himself from tripping and falling onto his face from the force of his disgust. “You took your time. Almost had me waiting here forever!” It had been ten minutes since the Malfoys’ new house-elf, Tilly, had told Harry that he was to go downstairs for his lesson. “I guess that’s the first thing we’ll be learning. You really do have dreadful manners.”

Harry tried for a smile, not unaware of the suspicious glint in Lestrange’s eyes as she looked at him. So he hadn’t fooled her completely. He couldn’t afford any mistakes now, then. “Sorry. It slipped my mind that we were having lessons this early in the day.”

Lestrange had the audacity to wink at him and pull an offended look. Harry had never wanted to strangle anyone, but he was coming close to making an exception. “You’d do well to remember from now on. The Dark Lord wants me to be the one to teach you until he returns since I am one of his best. I would rather die than fail him. Is that clear?”

Harry wanted to grimace. Not being taught by Voldemort was a relief, but he wasn’t sure if Bellatrix was any better. She seemed mad in her own way, from the dark look in her eyes to her manic smile that refused to go away. Her dark hair was a mess, her clothes tailored but worn down drastically, though she didn’t seem to care about the state of either. None of it mattered when her very presence was frightening. Harry would be a fool not to recognize that. 

“Crystal,” he replied.

Lestrange clapped her hands together, clearly pleased. “Splendid. How about we start now?” Her wand cut through the air and Harry braced himself, unable to help it, but she was only parting the drapes on the windows to allow more light into the room they’d entered.

Harry was taken aback by the area he’d found himself in. This room was nearly as large as the dining hall. In other respects, however, it was vastly different. The space along the ground was anything but polished and clean. Huge scorch marks were scattered on the ground, dummies were stored in a corner of the room, and shelves upon shelves of books clung to the walls. It looked like a defense classroom.

No wonder Draco had always been quick to get the hang of spells back at school. He’d been practicing and learning over the summer.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry risked asking, carefully keeping his expression bored.

“Go ahead.”

“Why does the Dark Lord want me to get stronger? Won’t that just make it harder in the future when we end up fighting one another?”

Bellatrix’s laughter was full of amusement. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Well, all I can tell you is that he does have a good reason. You’ll come to know in time. And I wouldn’t necessarily call you the Dark Lord’s enemy, Potter. At least… not anymore.”

She stalked over to him and raised a hand, dragging a manicured fingernail down his cheek, trailing against his jawline. Harry fought to stay very still, hating the laughter he saw in her eyes. “He’s got you properly tamed now, hasn’t he? I bet you’re just itching to get away from me, from this entire place, but you’re staying right where you are. If he asked you to go with him to Hogwarts at his side this very moment, would you?”

“I’d do what he requires of me.”

Bellatrix hummed, satisfied and properly convinced of his obedience. She stepped away. Harry felt himself relax now that she wasn’t crowding his space.

“Ever dabble in the Dark Arts, Harry dear?” Bellatrix called. She’d made her way over to the shelves, pulling out books and tossing them to the ground at her leisure, not even glancing at the titles. Her dark gaze, so like Sirius’s, remained on Harry. 

“No,” Harry replied honestly. “I’ve only heard bad things about it. That people can lose themselves to it if they’re not careful.”

She raised her eyebrow, grinning at him. “Wanna learn some?” She took a book from the shelf and dangled it out at him playfully. Harry forced himself to take those steps towards her and plucked the volume from her hand, trying his best to ignore her delighted little laugh.

Lestrange reached over his shoulder, getting unnecessarily close to him, and leafed through the yellowing pages. “Now, let’s see… I’m assuming that most of what you’ve heard about dark magic is from Dumbledore and the Weasley family, correct?”

Harry nodded.

“Ah, I thought so. Well, I suppose I’ll be the first to tell you that magic is neither good nor evil, Harry-kins. It depends on the wizard. And I don’t mean that in a wise or cute sense, I mean it literally. Every wizard has a unique magical core. That core is what determines the magic they’re most suited for.”

Harry fought back a grimace when he remembered the image of his blood in the bowl Draco had brought. The equal splitting of dark and light made him feel sick to his stomach. To think he had that much potential for the Dark Arts… did that make him a bad person? 

“Most of them are affiliated with light magic,” Bellatrix said. “Light magic is generic and easy to accomplish with enough work put in. That’s why the majority of wizards are light wizards. They don’t have what it takes emotionally or core-wise to pull off dark spells. Dark magic stems from intent, from emotion, and the most powerful emotions a human being can feel are rage, anger, hatred, and all in between.”

“Dumbledore always said love was a powerful emotion, too.”

Bellatrix scoffed. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. One could argue love is strong as well, but love is generally felt for others. It forces an individual’s mind to dwell on people outside of their current situation. That doesn’t work for spellcasting as the intent for yourself, the caster, isn’t strong enough. You experienced that down in the dungeons, didn’t you?”

Harry reluctantly nodded.

“Everyone starts off with a light core since it’s the easiest magic to perform. But light spells can be deadly as well; a diffindo to the neck can be just as deadly as a beheading curse that’s considered to be dark. See what I’m saying? The only difference between light and dark magic is the amount of negative emotion put into it. Because of that, certain events can increase a person’s potential for the Dark Arts. Take trauma for example. A person will experience more negative feelings than before, which increases their capacity to bring forth strong emotions, which are needed to power dark spells.”

Bellatrix waved her wand, murmuring something. A purple trail followed wherever she gestured, forming symbols that Harry didn’t understand. They hovered in the air, slowly spinning and wavering, seeming on the verge of disappearing. But Harry could feel the power they emitted all the way from where he was standing. It felt like the same itch against his skin he got whenever Voldemort was in the same room as him. 

“The reason for the stigma against dark magic is the people who use it,” Bellatrix continued. “Murderers, people after revenge, those who feel broken and torn apart - they all experience powerful negative emotions. The practical choice for them to succeed in their goals is to put that emotion to use by using dark magic. That’s why people warn you that it’s easy to succumb to it; a person can get so used to feeling these things that they can’t feel anything else. Then they lose themselves.

“Many wizards never reach their full potential because they’re afraid of that happening. They refuse to explore the whole spectrum of magic out of fear of their darker thoughts. The general population looks at the very worst of Dark Arts users and decides that their example goes for all other practitioners. It’s sickening and unfortunate. We’re not all mad, Harry-kins, we’re just painted that way by a stereotype.

“You, though, Harry, you’ve already tapped into your emotions, down in the cell. The Dark Lord was very pleased with that, I can assure you. Your potential for dark magic is greater than most go to Hogwarts, poor excuse for a school that it’s become under Dumbledore. Dumbledore’s past has led him to fear the Dark Arts, and so he keeps its knowledge away from every bright mind that enters through his doors. The Ministry has been on that path as well for centuries, shaped by wizards who never bothered to open their eyes and see beyond centuries’ worth of bias. It’s part of the reason why we want to reshape the wizarding world; why we follow the Dark Lord as we do. For freedom from all this misguided hatred.”

Bellatrix broke off from her lecture, completely oblivious to Harry’s stunned expression, and tapped the book when she’d found the page she was looking for. She gave it to Harry.

Harry did his best not to fling the book away from him, still thrown off guard from her explanation about magic. 

“Here’s how we’re going to do this.” Bellatrix backed away from him, brandishing her wand in his direction. Harry couldn’t help but recall the last time she’d pointed it at him when he’d insulted Voldemort in front of his Death Eaters. Now, all that malice was gone, purely because her lord had given her a different set of orders. It was terrifying to see this kind of devotion in a person. “I’m going to give you one minute to read it over. One minute only. Then I’m going to use this curse on you, and I will keep doing so until you manage to cast it on me. Or whenever you pass out. Whichever comes first.”

Bloody hell, she was insane after all. 

Harry stared at her and then back at the book, trembling as he fought to keep his face blank, his shoulders rigid. He could barely make out the faded words on the page. The incantation he could make out just fine - it was in big bold letters - but the description of what it did was too fine a print for his outdated glasses to read. 

The diagram made up for most of it, though. He felt like he was going to vomit. 

Should he even attempt this? This was the darkest spell he’d ever laid eyes on, aside from the Unforgivables of course. For Bellatrix to present this almost casually to him as frightening in itself, not to mention Voldemort believing that Harry had the potential to be proficient in this kind of magic. Harry had agreed to learn from him, but he hadn’t imagined… this. He should have. He really should have. Another stupid move on his part.

There wasn’t any getting out of this. If he refused, Bellatrix would know that he wasn’t under the Imperius, and she had a wand while he didn’t. When he thought about it that way, what he had to do was simple. 

Wait. He didn’t have a wand. 

“Time’s up! Aspersos Maculis!”

Dark green, almost black, light exploded in his direction. Harry didn’t have time to move or duck before it hit him. For a moment, he felt numb, just watching the vibrant mass solidify and crawl over him like some strange, animate goo. It latched onto his legs, where it had landed, and seemed to pause there.

Pain exploded throughout his whole body, burning him alive through his agony. Harry was screaming as his skin was ripped apart and shredded to bits, blood leaking out and spilling onto the grounds, making its own mark against the dozens already laying there. He watched through tearing eyes as bubbles formed on his legs made of his own skin, the green mass stabbing down and seeping below the surface only to rush upwards and force its way out. His flesh was wrecked, all while Bellatrix’s high laughter rang through the air. 

“Now I know this is one of the more advanced spells in the book,” she said, “but the opportunity was too good to miss! I’ll give you about five minutes to recover and then we’ll go at it again, yes?”

She couldn’t be serious. Harry strained to raise his head just a fraction from his position on the ground and saw that her smile hadn’t wavered. She really was serious about this. She was going to end up killing him before Voldemort returned. 

“Hate me yet?” Bellatrix asked. “Come on, I know you must be a little angry. That’s the whole point of me casting it on you, so you can have a focal point when you try it!”

Harry definitely wanted to strangle her now. 

“I can’t,” he gritted out, his chest convulsing with the countless sobs he was holding in. At that moment, with the pain as his only companion, he didn’t care about getting revenge on Voldemort, he didn’t care about fooling Bellatrix, he just wanted it to stop hurting. 

“Yes, you can. You just don’t think that you can. Even the Dark Lord’s Imperius can’t take away the fact that you’re afraid to use dark spells? Why? Because it goes against your morals? Grow up, Potter, the only one who actually cares about them is yourself. Because it goes against what Dumbledore taught you? Well, he played you like a fiddle, so shouldn’t you want to spite him in some way? Scared you’ll disappoint mummy and daddy? News flash, Potter, but they’re dead, so they actually won’t give a damn.”

Harry held out his hand and flung it in her direction, unable to see past the red clouding his vision. Anger embraced him like an old friend, taking him and guiding his motions. A faint green shimmered through the air from his hand, making it not even half the distance to Lestrange. The incantation was on repeat in his head like a broken record, the diagram he’d seen on the page of a human writhing on the ground, bubbles of pus and flesh forming on every area, clear in his mind. Only it was Bellatrix instead of the non-identifiable human on the page. 

His hand instantly cramped with pain, his knuckles bending in unnatural angles.

Harry shouted at the abrupt source of pain, clutching his hands close to his chest, cradling them as if that would soothe it any. Bruises were starting to form along his fingers, turning red and purple at an alarming rate.  

The weak spellcasting didn’t do anything, but Bellatrix looked positively delighted. “Oh, that’s very good, Harry! I didn’t think you’d make that much progress today. Here, as a reward, I’ll heal you. Deal?”

Harry kept whatever cursory words he had for her stuck in his throat, resorting to focus on keeping his face as expressionless as possible as she approached him. The pain was still there, a constant burning, but less intense than before. Bellatrix crouched down next to him and brought her wand over his injuries, the skin knitting back together and sealing as she did so. Whatever agony remained gradually faded away. Suddenly, Harry could breathe again. 

“Guess what?” Bellatrix grinned. “Your five minutes are up.”

Harry’s eyes widened, dark green consuming his vision. 

***

Number 12 Grimmauld Place felt more like hell than home. 

Sirius dragged his fingertips across the smooth railing, ignoring the way decades-old dust clung to his skin. Kreacher hadn’t cleaned this floor in a while, seeing as Sirius was the only one who resided on it. It was an act of defiance by the house-elf was the way Sirius saw it, and he himself never mustered the effort to order Kreacher to clean it. 

He descended the steps, brushing the dust off on his cloak. His eyes felt heavy; it was an effort to keep them open. He was sure there were bags hanging underneath them, puffy and red from the tears he’d been holding back as he comforted Remus. His friend was asleep on his couch at the moment, finally coaxed to bed after hours of crying. It had been a while since Sirius had seen the man in such a bad state. He looked at himself in a mirror as he passed by and thought he didn’t look much better.

The house was eerily quiet. His footsteps didn’t disturb that - living with his overbearing mother had taught him to stay silent. He shoved his hands into his pockets, making his way to the cellar. The rooms the Weasley family were staying in had their lights off, no noise drifting out. They must have all gone to bed. Rightly so, since it was nearly midnight. Unfortunately, no matter how tired Sirius felt, he couldn’t get himself to sleep. His mind kept drifting to Harry. 

He had spent twelve years in Azkaban worrying over the fate of his godson. He had begged for scraps of newspaper headlines, shouted at neighboring cell’s visitors for the smallest bit of information. None of that, none of that, compared to the concern he was feeling right then. The concern and worry he had been plagued with ever since Remus told him what he and Dumbledore had discovered. 

Harry was missing. 

And Voldemort was the one who had him. 

It had been nearly a month that Harry had been in Voldemort’s clutches. Sirius braced himself against a wall, wincing at the little thud it made upon impact. An entire month and none of them had noticed. He felt ashamed. 

What if all they found at the end of all their searching was a dead body? 

There was no reason for Voldemort to keep Harry alive. They gave each other no other purpose than to wish the other dead. Yet Sirius refused to think that Harry was nothing more than a dead body now, he refused to think that the last person he thought of as family was gone. Harry was a survivor. He had to be alive. 

Sirius wondered what James was thinking of him now. Not because Harry was purely a reminder of him to Sirius, but because Sirius was the boy’s godfather. He had been trusted enough, loved enough, to be bestowed that title. And he had done nothing but fail ever since. He hadn’t been able to be there for Harry for the majority of the boy’s life, and now… now he’d lost him again. He scoffed. Godfather? A joke, that’s what he was. 

The cellar door was locked. Sirius grimaced, wondering if Remus had been the one to do it, and pulled out his wand. A moment later, it clicked open, letting Sirius into the large collection of alcohol his family had stored up on over the years. He grabbed the three nearest decent-looking ones he could find and strolled out over to the kitchen. He sat himself down at the table and undid the seal on one of them. He tipped it all the way back, leaning his head against the back of his chair as he drank deeply. 

He wanted to be out of here. Out of this… prison of a house. Harry was suffering somewhere out there, and it was Sirius’s duty to find him. But thanks to that idiot Minister blaming him for the recent Azkaban breakouts, Sirius was stuck in here. Wasting away, utterly useless, as his godson fought for his life. 

His deranged cousin was probably out now. Scurrying back to the lord she loved so much. Sirius’s lip curled in disgust, remembering how his family had used to preach about Voldemort’s ideals, about the freedom he was promising them. His heart gave a twinge when he thought of Regulus, of the young age he’d died for those familial ideals. All of a sudden this house felt even more cramped. 

He needed to get away from this place before it drove him insane. 

The bottle was done sooner than he would’ve liked. Sirius glared half-heartedly at it before shrugging and starting on the next. If Remus was here, he would’ve hastily gotten Sirius as far away from the bottles, but he wasn’t here at the moment, was he? 

He was going to need another three if he wanted his mind to go blank the way he wanted it to. 

He got up, swaying on his feet, grabbing onto the table and various pieces of furniture to steady himself on his way. He picked out four more bottles, tucking them into his arms, before going back to the table. He lined up the seven bottles, ignoring the voice in his mind that said this was such a bad idea, before starting on his third. 

“You sure that’s not going to kill you?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, lowering the halfway done bottle to see Ron Weasley standing on the other end of the table. His ginger hair glowed softly against the candlelights, contrary to Sirius’s dark strands which sucked all the light from the room. “Why would it kill me?”

“You’re drunk.”

Sirius grinned and lifted his hand in a salute. “Well spotted.” He took a long swig, ignoring Ron’s unnatural silence. He’d have thought the boy would be yapping away by now. He was certainly talkative around his family, particularly when those twins spoke up. “Mind me asking why you’re up at this hour?”

Ron slowly picked up two of the bottles, setting them down on the floor behind him, out of Sirius’s reach. Sirius was too out of it to snap at him for it. “I could ask the same.”

“But I asked first.”

Ron looked at him with a hint of amusement. “Guess it’s obvious that I couldn’t sleep. I guess you had the same problem. What’s got you up?”

“Too many…” Sirius frowned, struggling to find the words. He stared up at the ceiling, the little Weasley’s thoughtful gaze too much for him to look at. He had a strange feeling that Ron was more observant than he let on. “... thoughts in my head. Worry.” Had Dumbledore told the rest of them what had happened?

“Worry?” Ron echoed. “What for - about all the headlines in the Prophet?”

Sirius heaved a deep sigh, wondering if this was the best idea in the world. Dumbledore would probably be furious with him if he said something without telling him first. But, drunk out of his mind, that thought didn’t exactly make it to the forefront of his mind. If James were the one missing, Sirius would have wanted to know. Ron had that right as well, as Harry’s best friend. 

“You might want to take a seat,” Sirius suggested first. “Feel free to crack open another bottle with me. Unless… Actually, that’s probably not a good idea. How old are you, kid, fourteen?”

Ron huffed a laugh. “I’ve got five older brothers, Sirius, I’ve had alcohol before.” He pulled out his chair, keeping it quiet, and sat down, pulling one of the drinks towards him. He popped off the seal much easier than Sirius thought he would have and took a sip, angling his head to express his gratitude. “Alright. Let’s hear it, then. I’ve got all night.”

“Your mom is going to have my head in the morning,” Sirius complained. 

“My dad will be back in the morning. He’ll calm her down.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. Kids these days. Had he been like this when he was Ron’s age? He scrunched his face up thoughtfully. No. He had definitely been worse. “It’s not going to be easy for you to hear, Ron. Just… promise me you’re not going to do anything rash.”

Ron frowned. “Um. Okay?”

Sirius took a deep breath, all his good mood evaporating into thin air. This was probably what Remus had felt like when he told Sirius. Sirius had to applaud him for going through with it. He felt like shit staring up at Ron. “Harry’s missing.”

“He ran away again?”

Sirius recalled the night he’d stumbled across Harry near his neighborhood. If he remembered correctly, he’d been in his dog form that night. He must have scared the living daylights out of his godson. “No.”

“Then…?” Ron prompted. His voice was calm, his demeanor kept together well, but there was an undeniable current of fear underlying it now. Figures that he’d catch on quickly. Sirius didn’t think this kid got nearly enough credit compared to the rest of his family. 

“I don’t know a good way to say this.”

“Then say it like it is. Anything’s better than nothing.”

“He was kidnapped a month ago.”

Ron stopped in his tracks, his hand clutching the bottle so tight that his knuckles were turning white. He paled. Sirius could see the gears in his head turning, thinking out all the possibilities of what had happened, who had kidnapped him. Then, at long last, Ron’s expression cleared as the realization struck him. 

“Don’t tell me…” Ron shook his head, leaning back on his chair. That had been Sirius’s initial reaction, too. Denial. Deny, deny, deny - it was the easiest trick in the book to avoid confronting the painful truth. But it could only get you so far. The more you thought about it, the more things added up, the more you knew that there was no other way to explain it. 

“Voldemort has him,” Sirius said grimly. 

Ron flinched at the name, an instinctive response nowadays. Sirius felt a flash of regret at saying it so bluntly, the boy must be going through a lot in his head right now. But Sirius had never been one to avoid saying it - fearing the word gave it more power than it began with. And he refused to give Voldemort anymore. With Sirius, the fight against Voldemort had always been personal. From his younger brother to his best friend - he swore he would see Voldemort brought down someday. 

“Then he…” Ron swallowed. His breathing was so sharp and heavy that Sirius could see his chest going up and down from the short distance between them. He didn’t regret telling the Weasley kid, though. The harsh truth was better than any lie, at least in Sirius’s book. “Is that why Professor Lupin looked like that yesterday? Is that how everyone found out?”

Sirius gave a short nod, taking another swig before continuing. Ron mirrored his actions, chugging the liquid down. “We thought he ran away at first, too. But Dumbledore placed an Order member in his neighborhood to keep watch over him. Don’t know if Harry ever mentioned her to you - Arabella Figg?” Ron shook his head. “She was found dead in her home yesterday by Remus and Dumbledore. Along with a note.”

“What did it say?”

Sirius shrugged. “Remus wouldn’t even tell me there was a note at first. It was only earlier this evening that I pried it out of him, but from what I’ve gathered - it was enough to clue them in that Vol - You-Know-who had taken him.”

“I thought his relatives’ house was protected.”

“It is. Which is why we think that You-Know-Who got to him en route to his relatives’ house. There was too much security over Harry at the train station, and his relatives’ place is the safest place in Britain for him. That only leaves the car ride from the station to the house. That, and when Remus asked his relatives about his disappearance, they only told us that a young man had stopped by earlier in the day to inform them that Harry would be staying with him for the summer. Supposedly he claimed to be one of Harry’s friends from Hogwarts. They didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Dumbledore was here yesterday,” Ron said slowly. His eyes were blazing, not with grief, but with fury. Sirius studied him carefully. “Dumbledore asked me and Hermione if we had talked to him at all, and we said no. He just left after that. He didn’t even…” He scoffed. “He didn’t even mention that our best friend was missing.”

If Sirius’s mind was clear, he would have attempted to defend Dumbledore out of an old sense of loyalty. Now, however, he kept silent. He had felt this anger towards the man, too, not too long ago - when he had been forbidden to leave Grimmauld Place in search of his godson. The whole situation was so fucked up. 

“What is everyone doing about it?” Ron managed. “You-Know-Who… you heard what he did to Harry in the graveyard. Now he has the opportunity to do so much worse.” Sirius looked down at the table, not needing the reminder. “What if… What if we’re just wasting time? Time that You-Know-Who has to torture him?” 

So Ron wasn’t able to accept the fact that Harry might be dead either. 

“Can’t you just use a locator spell or something?” Ron asked. 

“You-Know-Who would have hidden Harry from those spells,” Sirius said. “He has access to an unlimited supply of Harry’s blood now. The number of spells and wards he could make from that alone is… It would take us decades to break through all of them.”

“Then how…?”

“Dumbledore says Sniv… Professor Snape is meeting with You-Know-Who in a few days. He’ll be able to ask him, not directly of course, but at least get some bearings on Harry’s situation.”

“He’s not dead.”

Sirius took a long drink. 

“He’s not dead,” Ron insisted. “You-Know-Who has wanted Harry dead for years. It’s his revenge for what happened when Harry was little. If he managed to kill his greatest enemy, then he would have told the whole world by now. He wouldn’t have kept hiding.”

And there was the proof Sirius needed that Ron was smarter than everyone assumed. He glanced up at the ginger-haired kid, smiling a little. He reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t place who. “You know, I didn’t think about that, actually. But… you’re right. You-Know-Who would have started his conquest by now if he didn’t have any more obstacles in his way. And we all know that he’s not exactly one for secrecy when it comes to waging war.”

Ron nodded slightly, setting his chin down on his clasped hands. He looked troubled. And not just about the situation that had been brought to light, but… “You know… I never made it up to him. What I did to him in our fourth year.” He looked down, studying the table intently. There was moisture collecting at the ends of his eyes. 

“What are you talking about?” Sirius said, intending to follow that up with he probably forgave you a long time ago, but Ron wasn’t done. 

“I fucked up so badly,” Ron whispered. “I thought that Harry put his name in the goblet - that’s ridiculous, right? What’s worse is I never gave him a chance to explain himself. I picked so many useless fights. Can you imagine how disgusted he was with me?” Sirius shook his head, opening his mouth again, but Ron wasn’t looking at him. “Especially when all Harry’s done is support me.

“Did you know that he was the first friend I had at Hogwarts? We met on the train and he offered to buy me sweets from the trolley. I didn’t have enough to pay him back, but he never brought it up. Like he was happy to do a kind thing for me. He didn’t leave me when he met my brothers or other much cooler people. I mean… I didn’t have anything to offer him. But he was always happy with me. He was the first person in my life who seemed to think that way - that I was… Merlin, this sounds like some sappy shit but - that I was special, you know? I need to make things okay between us, I have to earn that, but now… I don’t know what to do.”

That made two of them. 

“You know,” Sirius said casually, “your family’s cool and all - your brothers are hilarious and your sister is brilliant - but you have to be my favorite.” Ron shot a wide-eyed look at him. “Know why? Because you’re stupidly loyal, I can already see that from the - what,” he glanced at the clock, “fifteen minutes we’ve spent talking to each other? You’re genuine, you’re clever - don’t give me that look, you are. You’re a good person, and I'm sure that’s what Harry saw when he met you. Don’t listen to the rest of your family, and better yet, don’t compare yourself to the rest of your family, okay? Trust me, that doesn’t end well. You end up lying to yourself, thinking that they’re all better, more unique than you. Am I wrong?”

“... No.”

“So if Harry knows that you’re a good person at heart, then he also knows that you felt bad about what you did. He’s probably forgiven you already.”

“Harry would forgive Draco Malfoy if he needed to. The fact that he isn’t holding my mistake against me isn’t exactly reassuring.”

Sirius wrinkled his nose at the mention of the Malfoy heir. He’d heard his fair share of complaints and exasperation over him straight from Harry’s mouth. But while Ron did have a point about Harry’s concerning capacity to forgive, he didn’t think that Ron should be grouping himself in the same category as young Draco.

“I still need to make it up to him,” Ron said resolutely. “He’s saved my life before.”

Sirius nodded his acknowledgment. “Alright. Then we don’t stop searching for him, no matter what anyone else says. We’re going to get him back.” He leaned the top of his bottle in Ron’s direction, trying to stifle that burning bright light of hope he felt rekindled in him. Harry was still alive. “Deal?”

Ron clinked his bottle against Sirius’s, nodding with newfound determination. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

The Malfoy Library was perhaps the largest collection of useless books that Harry had ever laid eyes on. 

Granted, there was a wealthy amount of books in the spacious room. It was exactly what Harry had imagined it would look like; the Malfoys were incredibly rich after all. Harry wondered how many generations the wealth in their Gringotts vault would last them if they never worked a day again. Decades, he assumed. 

If there had been a word written down, a manuscript formed, or a book published - it was here. Harry had found books on nearly every subject under the sun, from the goblin wars predating the fifteenth century to the detailing of a modernized broomstick. Draco had rolled his eyes when Harry told him this, exasperatedly saying how predictable Harry was by looking for traces of a broomstick in a library. 

Harry had even found a book with chapters all about him. The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts had held more information about him than he knew about himself. He now knew the exact address of his parents' manor in Godric's Hollow, the fact that they had apparently owned a cat, that Sirius had run away from his family when he was a teenager to live with Harry's dad - there had been so much. 

There was one subject that wasn't addressed by the many books in the library, however. Just his luck that it was the subject he'd needed to read up on. 

Harry picked up the book he was currently flipping through - a deep grey one ripped enough to barely resemble one - and threw it onto the table. Draco jolted from his chair across from him. He frowned in disapproval once he saw how Harry had treated the book. Harry elected to ignore him and turned back to the bookcase nearest to him, muttering a wide assortment of expletives under his breath. 

There wasn't one scrap of information on Horcruxes in any of these blasted things, not even a word about soul magic. Harry ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, grunting softly to himself. He checked the time in the massive grandfather clock hovering near the library's entrance. He still had a good few hours before Bellatrix returned, but it didn't look like he would be getting anywhere. There wasn't anything in here that would help him get one step ahead of Voldemort. 

"I can feel your irritation from here," Draco muttered irritably. His back was straight as he scanned through his latest novel of choice. Hermione had always hunched over her books while reading, Harry remembered. "Want to tell me what you're looking for yet? Or better yet, explain why you insist on looking through random points in the book instead of doing the common thing by reading the table of contents first?"

"It didn't occur to me."

"It didn't..." Draco scoffed, his head tipping back onto the chair. His face was screwed up as if he had just suffered a terrible nightmare. "Potter, how have you made it this far in school without failing? Don't tell me you've been copying off of Granger this whole time."

Harry grimaced, turning away without a reply. He busied himself with dragging a finger over the various titles, not liking the burning shame that licked away at his insides. 

"Potter, I didn't mean it like that."

"Forget about it," Harry waved off with an easy smile in his direction. "By the way, how are your friends doing? I haven't seen them here yet, so they must not know about him using your house as his base of operations yet, right?"

Draco looked at him strangely. He set his novel down on the glass table in front of him, crossing his arms. 

Harry rolled his eyes. He knew some of Draco's tells now - his mannerisms for what he was thinking of doing next. This one indicated that Harry was in for a long discussion about some subject that he wouldn't want to talk about. Not that Harry's discomfort would ever deter the other boy at all. It never had. "Oh, here we go. What is it now?"

"You're getting better at that, you know."

"Thank you for specifying so that I know exactly what you're talking about."

"Deflecting," Draco clarified. "I could barely tell that I'd upset you this time."

"You make it sound like you said that I was miserable at schoolwork intentionally," Harry scowled. "Let me guess. That was just you testing me? Wanted to satisfy some sadistic urge to see how far you could push me, right? Thanks a lot, Malfoy, it's not like I was having a bad time already. At the hands of your lord and your family by the way."

"And there you go again," Draco said airily, not affected in the slightest. "Now you're trying to make me angry so that we'll fight like we used to do instead of having this conversation. I suppose it would be hard for you to learn that you're..." He tilted his head slightly to the side, eyes scanning over Harry. The same motions he made whenever he was assessing something. "... changing."

"Might be the trauma," Harry said. 

"Do you ever wonder what you would've been like if you were sorted into Slytherin?"

Harry considered it as he selected another book. He threw it down onto the table, smiling innocently at Draco's small glare, and propped his feet up on the table just to irritate him some more. Old habits died hard after all. "Well... the Sorting Hat offered to put me in Slytherin at first."

Draco's eyebrows climbed to his hairline, his eyes wide. 

"But I asked it to put me in Gryffindor."

"And why," Draco breathed, "did you do that?"

Harry stared at him, recalling the way Draco had sneered at Ron all those years ago on the train. At Draco's utter dismissal of the red-haired boy, as if Ron hadn't even been worth his attention. "Someone told me it was a house full of dark wizards."

"Oh, so it was because of the usual stereotypes," Draco frowned. 

"Is it a stereotype?" Harry waved around at the library. There was a book on a different subject or branch of dark magic everywhere in sight. "I mean, you can't really blame me. I was so new to the wizarding world that I just believed what anyone told me."

"New?" Draco echoed. 

Harry pursed his lips, wondering if he should breach this particular subject. Draco hadn't done anything to hurt him so far, but Harry couldn't afford to trust him entirely. Not yet, anyway. There was always a lingering suspicion in the back of his mind that Draco was only getting close to him because that's what Voldemort had ordered him to do. Likely an unfounded worry, of course, but Harry had recently learned that he could never be too careful. 

Or maybe the reason he was so reluctant to trust someone was the fear of being betrayed again. Harry didn't think he could stand another revelation about someone he had the utmost faith in. 

Then again, he did owe Draco a little honesty... didn't he? It was the least he could do after the other boy had looked after his injuries after training sessions with Bellatrix. As the days went by, Draco's concern had started to appear more and more genuine. Perhaps Harry wasn't the only one who was changing. Maybe... Maybe Draco was, too. 

So he decided to risk a simple truth. "I didn't know that I was a wizard until my eleventh birthday."

Draco's face slackened with surprise. 

"Anyway," Harry rushed on, "I'm looking for a book with something on soul magic. But I haven't found anything yet."

"That's because there wouldn't be anything." Draco didn't miss a beat, the shock wiped from his face by the time Harry turned to face him again. Harry felt a rush of gratitude. Ron and Hermione would likely have pressed him for more information if he'd revealed something along those lines. They would have told him that they were worried about him, that the only reason they pushed was that they cared. And Harry appreciated that. But he preferred the route Draco was taking, he was glad that Draco knew when to let it go. "The Dark Lord would have gotten rid of those books, or at least gotten my dear aunt to do it for him."

"But why?" Perhaps it was just Harry, but that decision seemed a little paranoid. There wasn't much the Malfoy family could have done even with that knowledge. If the Dark Lord had created more than one Horcrux, they would have had to painstakingly search for what each one could be. Harry couldn't picture Lucius Malfoy running halfway across the world in search of such answers. "It's not like you or your parents knew his secret. Or you didn't until I arrived here."

Draco nodded his agreement. "True," he allowed. "But you do remember that he left the diary Horcrux you told me about with my father? If my father's curiosity got the better of him, then it would've been all too easy for him to confirm his suspicions. The resources my family possesses would have expedited that process. The Dark Lord probably didn't want anything close to that happening."

"Doesn't seem like it would be much of a problem, though. Couldn't the Dark Lord just..." 

"Eliminate my father?" Draco filled in. 

Harry nodded uncomfortably. 

"Hmm," Draco pursed his lips into a thin line. "I forget that you weren't raised the same way my friends and I all were. Potter, if you were given a valuable piece of information regarding the man who controls you, what would you do with that information? You wouldn't just keep it to yourself and do nothing with it, right? Merely possessing that knowledge will give you the upper hand - in other words, it's a bargaining chip. One that my father would not hesitate to use to force some semblance of control over the Dark Lord, to gain some ground that he'd lost in the past back. Does the Dark Lord seem like someone who would appreciate that?"

Harry shook his head. 

"Exactly. The Dark Lord plans ahead, and while it makes him seem paranoid to someone foolish enough to assume so-" Draco regarded Harry's subtle flinch with a smirk, "-it keeps him safe. It keeps him alive."

"So there really wouldn't be anything."

"I'm afraid not."

So Harry had just wasted a large portion of the limited free time he possessed looking for something that wasn't even there. He chuckled bitterly to himself, running a hand through his hair. Figures. There truly wasn't any way to beat Voldemort, was there? Not when the man planned so extensively for every possibility, as Draco had just mentioned. 

"You're wasting your time," Draco sighed when Harry couldn't help but rise to his feet in search of another book. 

"Well, then, why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to do instead?" Harry snapped, whirling around. "It's not like I can waltz out of here and ask Dumbledore about Horcruxes or anything."

"Do you seriously think Dumbledore would tell you even if you asked?"

Harry paused, glancing at Malfoy to see whether he was messing around or not. He wasn't. His pale face was completely serious, grey eyes cold and steady. Harry swallowed and sank back down onto the chair, the atmosphere in the Malfoy Family Library abruptly growing tense. Malfoy didn't say anything further, just folded his arms to lean back against a bookshelf and waited.

Not even a month ago, Harry would have shouted at the other boy for making such a remark. He would have said that Draco was being blinded by his hatred for the old man, or that saying that was just a way to hurt Harry in some way. 

But now, after he'd seen the way Draco cared about his well-being, even when it was Draco's own family doing some of the harm... Harry sighed and decided that he could give Draco the benefit of the doubt. The least he could do was hear him out. 

Draco's please smile was enough to show that he'd understood what Harry had been thinking. The small sign of encouragement was enough for Harry to open his mouth and say, "I don't know what you're talking about." Not stubborn ignorance, not denial - just not fully understanding what Draco was trying to imply. 

Yes, Dumbledore had kept the knowledge that Harry was a Horcrux away from him. Yes, Harry was beyond pissed at that. But why would the headmaster continue to withhold information from Harry when it was apparent that Harry already knew the truth? There would be no reason behind it, nothing to gain from Harry continuously being in the dark going forward. 

"Dumbledore knows that you're a Horcrux," Draco said slowly. Patiently. Harry nodded to show that he was listening, even though he was already aware of this. "He knew that. And yet he didn't tell you. Do you realize what that means? He knew about the existence of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, so he knew that there was every possibility that the Dark Lord would return. Which is why Dumbledore has kept you under his protection this long."

"That is not why," Harry protested. 

"Just please hear me out, Potter."

Harry hesitated, then nodded. 

"Thank you. Now... I understand if you don't want to tell me, but I'm asking you to trust me with this. The Dark Lord brought another Horcrux down into the cell with him, right? Something to test that you were really what he thought you were." The golden cup, Harry remembered. He nodded again. "I thought so. What did you feel when you were near it?"

"Nothing."

"The truth, Harry."

Perhaps it was the bizarreness of hearing his first name from Draco's mouth that Harry didn't even contemplate lying again. Perhaps it was the look in the other boy's eyes - that hope that he would be trusted with something as important as this. That, and the fear that flickered there at the thought of being rejected. Whatever it was, Harry found himself opening his mouth without any further prompting. 

"I knew something was wrong about it the moment he showed it to me," Harry murmured. He looked away from Draco's face, his eyes focusing instead on a single candlelight, the little orange flame flickering gently. "There was this... I don't know how to describe it. But he made me drink from it."

"So the other Horcrux was the cup that you said you didn't want to drink from," Draco nodded. "Whenever you asked me for actual water."

"Yes."

"How did you feel after you drank from it?"

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. He didn't want to admit this little flaw. He could perfectly recollect the way the cup it had made him feel. That beautiful light flowing through every inch of his body, that utter willingness and need to just be closer to the Dark Lord. That urge to be whole again, the compliance that had come so easily. Even Voldemort had seemed a little fearful of whatever had occurred, though that had been drowned out by his obvious awe and wonder.

"I felt a connection," Harry said carefully. "I wanted to... be near it."

"Do you think you knew that it was a Horcrux?"

"Yeah, definitely. It's more obvious to me now that I know what it is. There was definitely something there, though... There could be hundreds of identical cups in front of me and I would still know which one it was."

"And that, Potter, is what Dumbledore was counting on."

Harry blinked. Slowly, he shook his head. "No." He knew what Draco was saying. Draco thought that Dumbledore had been planning to use Harry as some... Horcrux-tracker. Nothing more than a tool. 

And when that tool was no longer of use, when all the Horcruxes had been destroyed save for one...

"Think about it," Draco pushed on, seemingly oblivious to Harry's quickening breath. "Why else would he put you into a muggle home? He should've prepared you to fight the Dark Lord early on if he was so sure that he would return someday. You should have been aware of magic, you should have been better prepared! But instead, he put you into an abusive home-"

"They weren't abusive."

"-and brought himself into your life as some all-mighty paternal figure that you could look up to. The only one that would be there for you, who could guide you when no one else could."

"No, you're wrong."

"He made you trust him, Potter. So that when the time was right, you would do whatever he wanted you to do. For the greater good, right? That's why he's never going to give you the information you need. Not all of it, anyway. Ignorance keeps you malleable, easily manipulated... Look, you've got to stop looking at him through a child's eyes because you are only going to hurt yourself more if you do. I know that you're hurt by what he did, but that doesn't mean that you're willing to see what he did to you for what it really was-"

"Malfoy, I'm warning you."

"-He wanted you to die to bring the Dark Lord down. Not fight him, Potter. He wanted you to die. What kind of decent human being takes a child under his wing and grooms him to be a suicidal child soldier? I mean, we both know that you would willingly walk to your own death right now if it meant saving your friends, right? Don't even bother answering, I can see it on your face."

"I know you hate Dumbledore, Malfoy," Harry growled, more to put a wall between them than anything, "but I didn't think you were stupid enough to let it blind you like that."

Malfoy was telling Harry the truth. Harry knew that. He knew that, he knew that, he knew that... Harry curled his hands into fists, trying desperately to slow down his breathing. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. 

"Stop trying to get me angry, it's not going to work." Malfoy leaned forward with lazy grace. "Or... Are you trying to shut me up because deep down you don't want to believe that I'm right about anything - much less this?" There was a note of sadness in Malfoy's tone, one that Harry refused to make him feel guilty. "I'm trying to help you, Potter. I thought we were beginning to trust one another."

"I do trust you."

Draco reared back. His expression was almost enough for Harry to break free of his darkening mood.

"I just don't want to think about it," Harry soldiered on. "If denial is what's going to get me through this, then fine. At the end of the day, I'd rather be under Dumbledore's roof than V... the Dark Lord's, anyway. Only it looks like that's not going to happen. Because if what you said is true, then Dumbledore probably won't come looking for me because he'll think that You-Know-Who's gotten to me because of our connection because I'm his Horcrux and he can read my mind and probably do all sorts of things which would really not be good for the Order or anyone really, I mean I could doom the entire wizarding world and-"

Harry stopped, realizing that he was rambling. "There's... no chance of me ever escaping... is there?" he asked bitterly. It wasn't so much of a question as an admittance. 

Draco looked away. 

"Damn it," Harry breathed, staring up at the ceiling. The lights were growing blurry. 

What was he going to do, then? If there was no way for him to fight back, then what kind of fate did that condemn him to? He couldn't stand the thought of always living under Voldemort's control - he couldn't even fathom being in the same vicinity of the man for more than an hour. His life would be full of nothing but pain and misery if that was the case. 

No, there was just something he hadn't thought of yet. Just because Harry couldn't find anything about Horcruxes didn't mean that he was doomed yet. He was a Horcrux, wasn't he? Voldemort had implied that there had never been a human one before, so it wasn't like a book written on them would help anyway. Harry had first-hand experience; he would know better than anyone what the intricacies of being a living container for someone's soul were.

"Hope isn't a bad thing to have, Potter," Draco said quietly. "So long as it isn't blind."

Harry refused to believe that he was hoping for something that wasn't impossible to achieve. He had always broken down his first day waking up in the Manor's room. He wasn't going to allow himself that weakness again. He had come a long way since then, had he not? He was more sure of himself, more willing to do what needed to be done. At least... he hoped so. 

And there he went again. That word. 

Hope. 

What a fucking joke. 

***

Dear Sirius, 

I never got the chance to finish this letter. I started writing it during the last week of term. I guess you're wondering why I never sent it... or bothered finishing it up. I know it's not much of an excuse since I did promise to write more often, but I really couldn't think of what to say. That's strange, isn't it? You're probably one of the people I trust the most in this world, you're who I look up to - you're everything I could ever want to be. You'd think I know how to get my feelings down on paper when it's to you, but everything just froze up and my mind went completely blank. 

I'll probably have to burn this letter after writing it, so there's no point in me explaining myself I realize. I can't risk Bellatrix getting a hold of it, then she'd know that Voldemort doesn't have a hold on me. I just needed something to get my thoughts down or a place to vent, which I suppose is what these letters are becoming now. 

I just feel so... angry. I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm angry at the whole world. I hate Voldemort, I can't trust Dumbledore anymore after everything he kept from me, I don't know what to think about anyone else... Whose side do I turn to if both of them only want to use me? I'm driving myself mad, Sirius. 

I wish I could talk to you in person. You always seem to know what to do. I keep telling myself that if you survived Azkaban, I can survive being kept in a fancy house. But maybe I'm just not as strong as you. 

Do you think mum and dad would be proud to call me their son? It seems such a silly question now that I'm writing it down, but I've done... some bad things recently. I've lied to people, even if it was so that I can stay alive, I've told myself that I want to kill Voldemort, I've tried casting dark magic. I don't even know what I'm becoming. Whatever it is, I'm afraid of it. I hate it. 

I hate myself by extension I suppose. 

Would you still be able to look me in the eye if I told you everything that I've felt, every thought I've had while being here?

Will there even be a day when I could get the chance tell you any more?  

***

It was getting harder and harder to see how Bellatrix and Sirius were related. 

Sometimes, Harry thought, it seemed that she genuinely wanted him dead.

He dodged a stream of green spellfire, not pondering too hard on which one it had been. She wouldn't actually kill him... right? Not while Voldemort forbade it, at least. 

Harry's fingers twitched against empty space, desperate to hold the familiar solidness of his wand. This fight wasn't even fair. 

Cool blue fire singed his ear, sending racing shivers across his body like tremors in an earthquake. Bellatrix's eyes were dark, pitch black with excitement and eagerness. Her teeth were bared into a frightening smile as she whipped gracefully through the air, looking more like she was dancing than participating in a duel. Harry couldn't help but admire her skill, the method to her madness. She made it look so easy. 

"See something you like, Potter?" Bellatrix asked dryly. Harry started when he realized that he'd been staring at her, rooted to the spot like a deer in headlights. He flushed with embarrassment, shying away from the crowing laugh she let out in answer. She sounded far too happy. It was unbearable. 

"Is this how you learned?" Harry finally asked. Bellatrix's smile slipped into something more hidden, reserved. She motioned with her head for him to explain. "You..." Merlin, he hated her. "Hard as it is to admit, you're a brilliant duelist." Her grin returned in full force. Harry regretted bringing this up in the first place. "You couldn't have learned like I'm trying to right now. This is impossible!"

Bellatrix made a tutting noise, shaking her head. She lowered her wand, allowing Harry to breathe for what felt like the first time all day. From this angle, he could see the Dark Mark seared into her forearm, glistening black and ominous as death. 

"I was taught from a young age by my family," Bellatrix told him. Harry jerked in surprise, having not expected to receive a serious answer. "I had always been gifted at spellwork. Yes, I was better than your godfather, you don't have to ask." She winked with another sharp grin. "But I refined my technique under the Dark Lord's tutelage."

"And he's better than you?"

"Harry-kins, he makes what I struggle with look like child's play."

Great. Absolutely bloody brilliant. Harry averted his eyes, fighting hard to keep his face blank and smooth. He couldn't risk Bellatrix mistaking his frustration for a fight against the Imperius Curse. Not when he'd come this far. "And when will he be back?"

"This weekend. I understand that I'm supposed to present you at the meeting that he will hold that day." Bellatrix chuckled, moving forward. She brought a hand up to ruffle his hair. Harry had to put every ounce of his being into not flinching away. This woman had killed who knew how many people, and she was touching his hair like she had any right to. Harry clenched his jaw at the thought, keeping his head lowered, remembering Draco's warning that eye contact established a pathway for legilimency. "So you'd better not embarrass me, Harry. I expect you to be in prime shape when you perform what you've learned for the Dark Lord."

She dragged a long, manicured nail across his cheek. "You won't disappoint me, will you?" she simpered, a wide grin threatening to break free. 

"I wouldn't dream of it."

There was something she'd said. Something that had stuck out to him. Harry tried to remember every word spoken so far, even as she backed away again and readied her wand. Harry got into position, shifting one foot slightly behind the other, drawing the warmth of his magic into his hands. 

This time he was going to get it. It didn't matter what kind of magic it was, the only thing that mattered was that it helped him kill Voldemort. 

Voldemort, who would be returning to the manor on the weekend. The day after tomorrow. Voldemort would be holding a meeting at the Manor for his Death Eaters at that time. 

Something about that...

"Crucio," Bellatrix said softly. Her favorite. 

Harry's feet moved as if they had their own willpower. He dodged to the left, brain wired on not letting her beat him so easily this time. He held his hands out and muttered a fire curse, eyes dilating with the surge of power as heat blazed through his body in waves. Bellatrix laughed in delight, a tinge of pride to it, even as the fire grew dangerously close to burning her hair. 

His hand recoiled, a pressure building up like a kickback from a gun. Harry panted, breathing heavily through the rush, hardly able to think. That had been his first fully successful curse, let alone a spell dealing with the Dark Arts. 

"See why it's so addicting now?"

Harry glanced up. His hands were spread across his thighs as he bent over towards the ground. Bellatrix hadn't closed the distance between them, her wand still aimed towards his body. 

He could see why it was so addicting. Even though he felt light-headed, even though he knew it was wrong, this feeling was incomparable to anything he'd felt... save for when he had drank from the golden cup down in the cell. Compared to that, this was nothing, but all the same...

"The Dark Lord will be so pleased," Bellatrix purred, her red lips drawn wide. Her eyes were dark with pride. Now Harry could see the beginnings of her resemblance to Sirius. 

Sirius. 

Lupin. 

His friends. 

What the hell was he doing?

Harry was nearly unbalanced by the force of the revulsion that overcame him at the thought. He wasn't thinking clearly, was he? Revenge on Voldemort was one thing, but using these methods was immoral - it was wrong. 

"And that's your guilt talking," Bellatrix sighed, eyeing him carefully. "You just can't stand the fact that you enjoyed that, can you? Pity... But I think we both know that you resolved to carry through with this the moment we started our first lesson. Am I wrong, Potter?"

... she was right. 

Harry ran a hand over his face. 

He had decided to put vengeance over himself. He had told himself that he would go through whatever means were necessary to stop Voldemort from hurting anyone else. Bellatrix was right for once. Harry had spent so long refusing to use dark magic that it had created this... bad reaction to it. It was only exemplified by the fact that he had been the one using it. His guilt was blinding him, and he couldn't afford that. 

"No," Harry murmured. "My apologies."

Bellatrix hummed. She rolled up the sleeves of her hideous clothing, brushing off invisible dust. Harry looked and caught a glimpse of her dark mark again.

And everything stopped.

That's what he had been catching onto earlier. It had been right in front of him this entire time! The Dark Lord's return in a couple of days wouldn't be something to fear, it would be an opportunity. An opportunity to escape from this hell.

When the Dark Lord apparated to Malfoy Manor to hold a meeting, he would have to lower the wards temporarily, right? Otherwise, he and the other Death Eaters he summoned through the Dark Mark wouldn't be able to arrive at the Manor. 

Dropping those wards would also allow for most methods of magical transportation. Voldemort couldn't keep Malfoy Manor completely sealed off all the time. That would look too suspicious, especially if the Ministry or anyone else unexpectedly decided to stop by the Manor. Making those defenses come down at the same time as the wards would make the process of opening the Manor to Death Eaters easier. 

And Voldemort would never expect Harry to take advantage of it. Because he thought that Harry couldn't break through an Imperius Curse. That, and Harry had never worked hard in school anyway, so how would he devise a plan to get out of the Manor anyway? Harry stifled a grin, realizing this was too good to be true. 

He had everything he needed, he had more than enough resources. Perhaps the Malfoy Famly Library was not completely useless after all! And then there was Draco, who Harry could easily convince or trick into helping him. He would be asking for such an obscure favor that Draco wouldn't know what he was planning. 

And Harry couldn't afford to let the other boy know either. Not when the risk of Voldemort reading Draco's thoughts was still there. Harry couldn't trust anyone, he couldn't afford to until he was out of here and free. Then he could start fixing everything - he could make up for all his past failures and grievances.

He just had to survive the next two days.

Harry smiled.

Later that day, he found Draco Malfoy and asked for a necklace. 

Chapter Text

Albus Dumbledore had finally dug his own grave, and the best part was that he hadn't even realized it yet. 

Voldemort couldn't resist a little smile at the thought. After all this time, after all these years of hard work and struggle, the outcome he'd been striving for would finally come to fruition. He felt like a young schoolboy again, eyes wide with wonder and glee at just how large the world truly was; how much of it was ripe for the taking if he grew strong enough. 

It was only a matter of time before the rest of the Order of the Phoenix found out about Harry Potter's mysterious disappearance, if they hadn't already. When the news broke out, those who were particularly close to Potter - Black, the Weasley, and the girl - would demand they form a rescue party at the soonest available chance. And Voldemort could guess at what would play out from that moment forward, could predict what the headmaster's cautionary response would be. Because after decades of studying the old man, Voldemort knew exactly how Dumbledore thought. 

Dumbledore would think that rescuing little Harry wasn't worth the risk. If his precious Chosen One had spent so much time in the Dark Lord's company already, who knew what had happened - what had changed? Perhaps his prophecy child would be pure no longer, long since corrupted by the glorified ideals of the Dark Arts' practitioners; a slave to Voldemort's every whin or perhaps a willing servant. 

Voldemort only wished he could be there in person to witness the horror in the old man's face when those thoughts roared through his mind. When it sank in just what Voldemort had taken away from him. If Dumbledore and Potter ever came face-to-face again, it would become clear that Potter was no longer a gullible fool, a naive little boy just desperate to belong somewhere. Voldemort had opened the boy's eyes to the bitter truth of the world, and in doing so had ensured that he would never return to Dumbledore's waiting arms. 

Then perhaps Dumbledore would feel as Voldemort had felt that Halloween night, the night his curse had rebounded thanks to Lily Potter's powerful protection over her son. All his years of careful planning, of meticulous preparation - all down the drain because of a single flaw in his plan; one minor detail that he had overlooked. How gratifying it would be when Dumbledore finally got a taste of what that felt like. 

Voldemort had already waited years for that to happen. He could wait a little longer if that's what it took. 

His business with the giants had concluded a few days ago. It had been remarkably easy to carry out negotiations; most of the giants were far too slow in the brain to realize what they were trading away and what little Voldemort was giving back. All they cared about was an end to the oppression at the hands of present-day wizards, something Voldemort had easily exploited in his talks with them. He wondered now if he really meant to keep all those promises he'd made. 

Well, he was a man of his word; he had some sense of honor, as he'd told young Harry before, so he supposed he would. So long as they held their end of the deal when the time came. 

He stood below the canopy of trees for a moment longer, looking up with his eyes closed to let his face bask in the sun. He breathed in and out, his smile widening a fraction. His days as a half-dead spirit had made him far more appreciative of the living world, of things he had never taken notice of in his ignorant youth. Fresh air for one - up until recently, it had passed through his body as if he wasn't even there; he'd had no need to breathe as a wraith. Sunlight was now warm on his skin instead of absent no matter how hot the weather grew. 

He only had a few minutes to spare before his presence was required back at the manor. Bella had given him a report three days ago. She had begun teaching young Harry, who showed promise but whose unrealistic ideals she predicted would hinder his magical growth. Voldemort couldn't bring himself to be surprised at that. Harry Potter was nothing if not stubborn; it was equally delightful as it was frustrating. Voldemort was looking forward to teaching the boy himself now that he had wrapped up his talks with future allies. 

His lips curled into a smug smile. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the image of Malfoy Manor: the gothic statues, the dark stone and brick, the peacocks lazily strutting about the grounds near the entrance. He felt the wards lower as he disapparated, gliding seamlessly into the shadows as they carried him to his destination. Phantom wind, now a familiar friend, swept against his back, guiding him along his way. Within seconds, the polished furniture of the building he'd taken to using as a headquarters blurred into view. 

He ran invisible hands along the thread of red and gold between him and the boy, letting it ground him as he took in his surroundings. He had already summoned his Inner Circle to the manor. Severus was due for a report today; the man had been busy lately as the Order rushed to put itself back together. They would be running short on members after Voldemort had decimated their ranks during his first rise to power. He was curious to see what mettle its recruits would possess this time around. 

Bellatrix had been instructed to bring both Harry and Draco to the meeting, but only after Severus arrived to give his report. They had been ordered to be on their best behavior. It was time for Voldemort to assess how far along the Malfoy heir was in his magical prowess - if he was ready to play a role in a larger plan. He'd delight in seeing the pain and grief in Lucius's face as well. 

"My Lord." Yaxley greeted him at the door, his head dipping into a respectful gesture. Ever the portrait of elegance and quiet strength. "We received an owl just a few minutes ago. Severus is running a little late, but the rest of us have arrived just as you instructed."

"Did Severus say what had him so tied up?" Voldemort asked, making his way towards the table. His strides were confident and smooth, effortlessly graceful, just as he'd trained himself to act in order to fit into this group of social elites. Those already seated instantly straightened, coming to full attention and ceasing all chatter. 

"The Order had a meeting at the last minute. Dumbledore was there. I'm not certain as to the details, my Lord. Severus didn't give us a lot to go on in his message."

"Very well. We'll patiently wait for his return, then." Voldemort surveyed the table, offering them a little smile. It wasn't kind. His followers lowered their heads the moment he met their gazes one by one. It was pleasing to see, but at the same time... disappointing. When he'd first met these men and women as a teenager, they had all been filled to the brim with defiant fire, unwilling to submit themselves before a half-blood with no prominent family name. Where had all that gone?

Voldemort stalked to his seat and sat down, graceful and sleek. He lounged across it, a small smile on his lips at the thought of his comfort contrasting with his followers. Their stiff backs and trembling forms were all the more obvious in the face of his lazy confidence. They were wise to be afraid, indeed. 

"You have all done well." A little praise could go a long way, he'd found. "I confess that many here have more than exceeded my recent expectations." He nodded in acknowledgment, smirking at the way his followers' preened under the light praise. Empty praise, but Voldemort was willing to lie if it meant he'd get them more... motivated. 

"It's been a month since my return," he continued smoothly. "Many here have tried to hide it, but I know that you have been anxiously waiting to hear of my next step. Our next step. Your lack of faith is understandable given my sudden absence over the years, and I hope to clarify it soon. For now, I merely ask that you put some of your belief in this promise: that when the time comes for us to make our move, we will take the Ministry for ourselves and we will better this once better world. A world that we will be the saviors of - once our goals have been accomplished."

They were all nodding at him like obedient dogs, lapping up at the sweet little nothings and dark hopes he set forth. Already, with his calm and collected demeanor, Voldemort was beginning to regain the unbridled belief of many. He leaned back and watched with satisfaction, careful not to let his glee portray itself as arrogance. 

"Thicknesse continues to carry out our will," Voldemort said, thrumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Cornelius Fudge is now directly under our thumb thanks to the excellent work of certain individuals present. Albus Dumbledore remains the object of public disapproval thanks to his attempts at disturbing the peace. The general population still believes the lies of their failing Ministry; they force the truth into the dark and choose to give over into fear. Such weaknesses will not be tolerated when we succeed in our mission. 

"Taking the Ministry will be easy, and we will make our move in a few months' time, I assure you. Keep an eye on the Department of Mysteries for now. It no longer holds all of my attention due to recent developments, but I admit that I still harbor a little curiosity about what lies beyond that door. Do not attempt to make it inside, not until I give the order to. Fail to comprehend that and the consequences will be terribly unpleasant for you."

Bellatrix wasn't here to diffuse the tension in the room with her delighted laughter at his hints of cruelty. A pity. All Voldemort was surrounded now was by fear and greed. Not true loyalty, no, just men and women willing to throw themselves into this cause for the benefit it would grant to their future selves. An investment of sorts. And here Voldemort had thought that his followers were truly devoted. It was a miracle how many realizations he had come to during his time as a half-alive wraith. During the time his self-proclaimed loyalists had all abandoned him for naught. 

Forgiveness would not come easily. If it ever came. 

"Our next step requires a little more time." Voldemort put his anger aside, for the time being, knowing full well that this wasn't the place for it. Emotion was a weakness, and showing it was like baring your neck to a fanged serpent. "I need to address the weapon I have in mind personally. It will require most of my attention up until the day we've been waiting for. Bella will assemble a team to train and organize our troops in the meantime. Crabbe, make sure to share that information with her. Keeping Greyback in line would be my only advice, you two can take it from there. As for Albus Dumbledore..." 

Voldemort trailed off with a slight smirk. The wards he'd set in place upon entering the room had been tripped, silent bells ringing in his mind to alert him of the newcomer's presence. It was about time. He flicked his hand and the doors to the dining hall slammed open, revealing the dark figure standing at the entrance. 

"Welcome back, Severus."

"It's good to see you on your feet once again, my Lord."

Voldemort suppressed a sneer at the table-side manners. It was a bold move for Severus to return after all he had done, but then again the man had always been that way. It took no small amount of inner strength to survive in Lord Voldemort's ranks, and Severus had quickly risen up within them to become one of his best. That is, until now. 

Now, Voldemort had to remind himself with every move the man made not to kill him. It would be so delightful to watch his traitorous spy writhe in agony under the Cruciatus, to flail as Voldemort ripped him apart and slowly pieced him back together only to repeat the process, getting more and more creative with his methods every time. 

But no, this required more subtlety. It was imperative that Dumbledore still think he had his prized turncoat, that all the intel Severus gathered was factual, not false. Voldemort could manage that. He would play Severus Snape like a damn fiddle if he had to. It was one of his greatest talents, made easier by the recently-gained knowledge of the man's weak spot, the one flaw in the seemingly cold exterior that Dumbledore had masterly exploited. 

Lily Evans. 

Oh, this would be fun. 

"Your report?" Voldemort smiled, leaning back in his seat. 

"The Order of the Phoenix has finally established a headquarters which will be tended to by the Weasley Family for the time being. I'm afraid that I cannot reveal the location - the building is under a strong Fidelius Charm. They've brought both of Potter's friends into the fold but continue to withhold crucial information from them. Dumbledore and the others remain fixated on the scouts you've posted near the Department of Mysteries. They assume that it's your only goal."

"It is," Voldemort lied easily. The Death Eaters he'd gathered today were wise enough not to glance at their exchange. They wouldn't leak this information that Voldemort no longer trusted Severus, nor would they act of their own volition on the matter until it was allowed. This was an efficient way to set that into motion, to notify his followers of his suspicions, and to keep Severus in the dark. "The Prophecy is imperative to our victory; knowing what words it holds may determine the strategies we employ to the realization of our goal. Dumbledore cannot be allowed under any circumstances to get his hand on it ever again."

If Dumbledore was ever to be questioned on his moral intentions in sending Potter after the great Lord Voldemort, he would no doubt choose to recite or present the prophecy he'd heard word for word that day many years ago. Inevitably, some smarter or more skeptical individuals among his ranks or even in the Ministry itself would question the validity of his words and demand proof. Dumbledore could not be allowed that fundamental evidence. Better to let the old man make a fool of himself all on his lonesome than supply him with the means of his success. He would dig his own grave and lie in it if Voldemort had his way. 

"Potter's whereabouts are still unknown." There was a hint of unease in Severus's voice now. Voldemort picked up on it with interest. "Some questioned if he ran away from home again, but no one could think of a suitable reason why." Voldemort raised an eyebrow and thought back to the flashes of the muggle home he'd seen in the boy's memories back in the cell. Perhaps that required further looking into. "The squib they had on their side is missing as well. And... they found your note."

Everything was moving along smoothly then. 

"Very well," Voldemort said. "Thank you for the information, Severus." He rose from his seat, fingering his wand. "Your Lord is most grateful for the time you spent here today. If I could just have but a moment further..." As if they had a choice. 

He motioned for Narcissa to stand up, nodding at her once - the signal she should leave to fetch Bellatrix. It was time for Potter to make an appearance, to serve as a testament in front of his Death Eaters of Voldemort's ability to bring down even his greatest opponents. He eyed Severus, checking that all the charms he'd set on the doorway had engraved themselves on the man. Silence charms, secrecy charms, discreet vows - they all clustered around Severus like another cloak, one just as dark and intact as the one the man currently wore. 

Severus would find out that Potter was staying here. But he wouldn't be able to tell Dumbledore. Voldemort had gone through extensive research to find spells capable of that, to make sure that whatever he decided to cast would be unbreakable even at the hands of the present headmaster. The result would inevitably pay off. Severus wouldn't be able to convey anything to the Order except the sheer horror of what he had discovered. That ought to get them moving. The indication that even Severus Snape was mortified by Potter's circumstances would force them into a sense of urgency, they would rush, and when something was rushed, mistakes were often made. 

Mistakes that Voldemort would be sure to exploit. 

"Who is it we're waiting on?" 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow in Dolohov's direction, slightly taken aback by the man's daring to question him. The man hastily ducked his head, eyes trained on the ground. A practiced bow. "Why," he deigned to say, "Harry Potter, of course."

Severus whipped his head around to stare at the Dark Lord, his dark eyes widening. 

Yaxley took a step forward. "Is that wise? I don't mean any disrespect, my Lord, but surely you remember the events that transpired in the graveyard. While the boy's skill does not surpass yours by any means... there are certain aspects to him that remain uncounted for."

"While I appreciate your concern," Voldemort replied evenly, "I do not believe he will be much of a threat while under the Imperius Curse." He subtly glanced at Severus, gratified beyond imagining at the sight of the shock slapped onto the man's face. You chose the wrong side, Severus... This is how I repay you. 

"You plan to use him against his allies," Severus murmured. Voldemort had never heard the man's voice sound so strained, so stifled. It wasn't unpleasant. "You didn't kill him when you first captured him because you wanted to prolong his suffering - to break him before ending his life."

"You always were incredibly astute," Voldemort sneered. 

Further conversation was interrupted by the doors opening once again. Voldemort relaxed the heavy charms he'd laid across the entryway now that they had bound themselves to Severus. He nodded to Bellatrix as she bounded into the room, lighting it up with her eccentric presence, her manic smile adding static tension to the air. The Dark Lord took it from her appearance that she had just been in a training session with her two students.

Voldemort looked past her and smiled.

Potter's hair was damp with sweat, the black strands clinging to the tip of his neck, just brushing against his eyebrows. The robes the Malfoy family had supplied him with suited him nicely, far more than the worn-out muggle clothes had. He was still thin, unhealthily so, but there was a small improvement from the last time Voldemort had seen him, when the boy had been sprawled on the ground from exhaustion after escaping from the dungeons. 

The boy's hands were kept carefully behind his back, his head held high - almost challengingly. Compared to him, Draco's trembling form seemed weak and fragile, the Malfoy appearing more as the muggle-raised boy than the pure-blood heir. Voldemort eyed Draco's forearm, wondering if the boy would be able to handle his mark being seared into his skin. Few did without passing out from the pain. 

"How nice of you to join us," Voldemort smiled lazily. "Bella here informs me of your progress, Draco."

Bellatrix grinned at him, her eyes lighting up with mischief. She knew precisely the hidden meaning behind his words; the displeasure and frustration he was carefully concealing from all others at the table. She had always understood him best out of all those in his ranks. 

Draco dipped his head again, a fraction more respectable than his father. Voldemort could have been pleased with it if Bellatrix had not told him earlier that there had been no progress at all. And yet the little Malfoy looked as if he was accepting a compliment. 

"And she told me that you, Potter, have improved much," Voldemort murmured, flicking his gaze over to Harry. 

The boy remained passive, his posture perfect and poised. Green eyes dragged boredly over to him, as if the Dark Lord was nothing to be frightened of. 

"Well done."

Potter merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. Voldemort waited for him to break into a flurry of childish retorts, but the boy remained silent. He was a blank slate, utterly devoid of any and all emotion. None of that delicious fury was present in his eyes, no fire, no tremors as he tried to restrain himself from outright attacking the Dark Lord.

There was a grating sound as someone stood from their chair. Lucius. Voldemort held back a sigh at the interruption - he had so been looking forward to riling Potter up today - but forced himself to wait for the elder Malfoy's incredibly important announcement. 

"With your permission, my Lord, we would like to begin Draco's tutelage in Occlumency," Lucius said. Voldemort looked at him, seeing that the man's hands were trembling furiously. 

"I was never informed of any plans to educate him in the first place." Voldemort slowly rose, walking past Lucius to meet Harry and Draco. "Enlighten me of this sudden interest if you will."

"Draco has expressed interest in all forms of defense. It is an... important skill after all and one we hope to instill in our son at a young age. We'd like him protected against the Order in every way possible once he returns to Hogwarts."

Voldemort raised a curious eyebrow as he pondered the request. "Yes, we can never take too many reasons against the school's esteemed headmaster," he mused.

"Very true, my Lord," Lucius murmured, keeping his head down. Voldemort resisted another exasperated sigh, his fingers tempted to curl into a fist. He hadn't asked for any input; he wouldn't have said anything if he didn't know it to be true. "Yet... Forgive me, but I do remember an agreement we struck shortly after your return."

The other Death Eaters looked away, removing themselves from the exchange as much as they could. Perhaps they could sense the Dark Lord's rising temper; perhaps they were smart enough to realize that Lucius had no place to mention this agreement during a meeting rather than in a private conversation. 

Voldemort regarded the man steadily. He knew exactly what Lucius was referring to. When he'd explained to the man his intentions to kidnap Potter straight from under Dumbledore's nose, he'd assured him that the Malfoy family would not get tangled up in the whole affair, especially young Draco. 

Amusing how Lucius thought he'd been telling the truth. 

"I don't recall promising anything to you, Lucius. I never gave my word or made a vow with you."

Lucius recoiled, his eyes storming with a surprising amount of rage, but he remained silent. A good decision on his part. Voldemort was hardly in the mood for having to repeat himself. 

"I will consider Draco's request," he allowed. "However, Occlumency requires a certain level of skill with magic to accomplish. I believe a demonstration of your talents is required. If you would, take out your wand, Draco."

Draco's face grew pale, the slight quiver in his stance betraying his nervousness. He took out his wand, letting it lie limp at his side. 

"Good," Voldemort said slowly, taking pleasure in watching the boy squirm. "In a moment, I want you to use it to perform a spell of my choosing. Can you do that for me?"

"Y-Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort hummed and turned to Potter, who was resolutely staring at the far walls. He smirked, using a finger to tilt the boy's chin so that their gazes met. Harry's expression was still blank, his face carved from porcelain. 

Voldemort narrowed his eyes slightly. He leaned in towards Potter, his voice kept in a careful hush. The boy shivered. "The same goes for you. Show me what you've been practicing, what dear Bella has put so much hard work into teaching you. Am I understood?"

The Dark Lord reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew his wand. He watched the boy twitch slightly as it was offered to him. There were several intakes of breath from the direction of the dining table, but Voldemort only had eyes for Potter and his reaction. 

Slowly, carefully, Harry reached up and slid the wand from Voldemort's grasp. He was undoubtedly revolted by the thought of using the instrument that had killed his parents, but his hands were steady as he got into a dueling stance. Far better than the one Voldemort had seen in the graveyard. He was almost proud. 

"And Harry?" he couldn't help but add, his voice still lowered to a silky whisper. "Whatever I ask of you, yes? I want them to see what you're capable of."

Harry at last looked up at him. There was a spark of defiance there, defiance Voldemort had dearly missed. How he wished he could've gotten to this boy sooner. 

"Whatever you want," Potter said, lowering his head. "My Lord."

Voldemort's lips parted. 

Oh, this was more like it. A rush of anticipation swept through him as he watched Harry clutch the wand more firmly. Voldemort hadn't felt this excited in a long time. 

“Aspersos Maculis,” Voldemort said, louder this time for the benefit of his audience. He circled the two standing boys, making a show of it. Severus had gone still as a statue, utterly unmoving. They all recognized the incantation. “A spell dear Bella loves to show others, and one she has undoubtedly attempted to teach the both of you. Draco, I want you to go first. Pull it off successfully and I’ll… consider your request. Whenever you’re ready.”

Draco’s hand was shaking badly, far too much for a proper casting, but he tried anyway. He got further than Voldemort expected of him, the eerie green light issuing from his wand. It hit the nearby wall, throwing the building material into a state of decay.

Bellatrix grinned at his success, obviously pleased with herself. Voldemort took it that they had worked extensively to perfect this little spell while he’d been away. Perhaps it was time to reconsider his previous opinions about the Malfoy heir; he hadn’t thought the spell would have packed this much power. 

He turned over to Harry, wondering what he would do when given the opportunity to perform such dark magic.

Harry was looking at Snape, something unreadable in his eyes. Severus’s were full of cool dislike, as they always were when he spoke of James Potter’s son, but unlike before he looked… tense. Voldemort wondered if the potion-maker had remembered to take a breath ever since young Harry had set a foot in this room. 

“Harry,” Voldemort drawled. “Any day now.”

Potter’s lips twitched in the barest hint of a scowl before he raised his hand. He turned to face the far wall as Draco had; the one coming between the interior of the Manor and the garden. 

Voldemort watched him carefully. The boy seemed at war with himself, his fingers quivering and his breathing quick. But he hadn’t moved away, hadn’t refused yet. Severus’s shoulders slumped slightly in relief. Then -

“Aspersos Maculis,” Harry murmured softly, gaze flicking up. He flourished the wand in a perfect movement. Deep green, the color of his eyes when he was drowning in rage, burst forth, swallowing a portion of the wall next to Draco’s attempt in a mass of stunning destruction. It crumbled down, brick by brick, until they could see the clear sky outside. 

A smile curled at Voldemort’s lips, pure glee overwhelming his senses. 

Bellatrix’s features were swept up in shock. She had shot up from her seat at the spell’s completion, glancing back and forth between the wall and Harry with wide eyes. 

Voldemort tilted his head, wondering if that had been the first time Potter ever truly attempted it. Oh, he had underestimated this boy in every way possible.

“Severus,” Voldemort said before he could get carried away by his anticipation. “I believe it’s time for you to leave. I trust I don’t have to remind you not to reveal any of what happened here. Doing so will be deemed an act of betrayal. Am I clear?”

The man’s fists were clenched at his sides. Voldemort had never seen that reaction before. “Of course, my Lord. I will await your next call.” The doors were carefully not slammed as he saw himself out, his shadow receding from the furthest outreaches of the room.

Voldemort mentally called out for the link between him and Severus - the pathway that the Dark Mark branched between them - and focused on it until he felt the man disapparate. He loosed a pleased breath, bringing his attention back to those he had summoned. 

“In fact, everyone is free to leave now. Except…” He set a hand on Harry’s shoulder as the boy moved to go, “you, Bella, and my gracious hosts. Yaxley, I want Severus’s movements to be followed carefully from now on. I want to know what areas he frequents, who he often meets with - everything.”

Yaxley dipped his head, murmuring his assent, before making his way out along with the rest of the Inner Circle, save Bella, whose eyes were glittering at Harry dangerously. No doubt she was cross with Potter for not trying his hardest in front of her. 

“Anything either of you want to say before I continue?” Voldemort asked the two boys. “You have my permission to say whatever you wish, of course.”

“No, my Lord,” Draco muttered.

“Can’t even trust your own spies anymore?” Harry asked unsurprisingly. “How sad. Here I thought you knew how to pick the best men for your side, but now I realize you’re just desperate for the rare few who are stupid enough to actually respect you.”

Narcissa drew in a sharp breath, her son quick to follow. There was nothing to worry about, however; Voldemort had given Harry permission to speak his mind, after all. He hummed as he circled the boy, the poor little orphan Dumbledore had groomed. How satisfying it was to have him here in his clutches now, all ready and prepared to be molded into perfection. 

Just a little while longer…

“Severus is a piece of work,” Voldemort admitted unabashedly. “In time, though, I believe I can make him see sense, if my progress with you is any indication.”

Harry glared at him. “So he will forever remain untouched by your influence, then?”

Voldemort chuckled. “Look at you. You’ve gone from a prisoner who used to grovel at my feet to someone who can pull off an advanced piece of magic without breaking a sweat. I suppose I can begin teaching you now, just as I promised I would.”

“I never groveled,” Harry seethed. “I would never lower myself to that standard. That’s reserved for the majority of your lackeys. And I’ve changed my mind - I don’t want to learn anything from you. There is nothing you can teach me that I will ever use.”

“Really?” Voldemort smiled. He drew closer to the boy, coming in from behind his back, his chest nearly pressing against Harry’s chest. 

Harry froze, his breath stopping. 

“That’s not what I think. Do you want to know why?” 

He let his lips caress Harry’s ear, enjoying the feeling of the boy shuddering beneath him. 

“Because I’ve already taught you to lie.”

Harry knocked Voldemort back with his elbow, pushing away with wide eyes. 

Voldemort laughed in delight. Had the boy really thought he could fool the Dark Lord that easily? Oh, how entertaining this had become. Voldemort had begun to worry he would grow bored, but the boy was still as resilient and fired up as he’d been down in the cell.

What an exhilarating little thing.

“I’m impressed,” Voldemort said softly, not making a move to take his wand back, even though it was pointed directly at his heart. He wasn’t in any danger. “It looks like survival can force a man to do all sorts of things - things he never would have dreamed of accomplishing in the first place. In the span of a mere few days, you’ve tapped into the Dark Arts, you’ve nearly perfected concealing your emotions, and you’ve learned to lie as easily as breathing… Still think of yourself as a hero, Potter?”

Harry’s shoulders grew rigid. They both remembered their first exchange in this very room. The words that had been exchanged, the threats and promises of pain Voldemort had made. 

“I’m not like you,” the boy managed.

“I never said you were, but it’s interesting that you would immediately come to that conclusion. What do you think you would have become, Potter, if the Sorting Hat decided to put you in Slytherin? If you never met your dear friends or had Dumbledore breathing down your neck? Look at yourself right now. You have a wand raised against an unarmed opponent, you’ve deceived people to get your way… and let’s not forget about darling Mrs. Figg.”

“...What are you talking about?”

Voldemort only smiled. “I’ll offer you another deal if you really want to know.”

“I’m not making any more deals with you.”

“What a pity. I had countless more in mind. You wouldn’t give me anything for, say… Peter Pettigrew?”

Harry scoffed, momentary confusion giving way to anger. His eyes darkened beautifully with it. “Ah, yes, I remember him. How very low your criteria must be to accept someone like him into your ranks. Either that or you must have been so utterly terrified of an infant boy that you turn to the most cowardly man alive. Did you give him the Dark Mark as well?”

“Why, were you curious about it yourself?” Voldemort smirked, letting his gaze slowly rake over Potter’s form. “It would look exquisite on you. Maybe someday you’ll allow me the pleasure.”

“I’d sooner die. But you can’t have that, can you, since-”

Harry choked, his hands flying to his throat as Voldemort constricted the air around it. Not as harsh as he’d done down in the dungeons, but enough to make the boy stop talking. He didn’t need others knowing about his plan to preserve his immortality after all. The boy collapsed, the effort to remain standing too much. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

Voldemort walked over to him. Carefully, he placed his foot down onto the back of Potter’s head, forcing it down until the boy’s forehead touched the floor. He smiled slowly, almost drunk with the rush of power and pleasure the action gave him. He could feel the boy’s rage through the link between their minds. “Now this is a sight I could get used to.”

There was a small shuffle to his left. Voldemort looked up and saw Draco subtly standing in front of his mother, his eyes wide as they focused on Potter. Had the two of them grown close recently? Surely Potter wasn’t that stupid, otherwise Draco would just be another tool for Voldemort to use to ensure he got his way with him. 

One he could use at this moment, in fact. 

“Oh, and Draco,” Voldemort added, not looking up from Harry’s kneeling form, “you surprised me today. Bella will be in charge of your Occlumency training… on one condition. I want you to tell me the real reason for your sudden interest in learning it. Lie to me, and you can forget even hearing about it again.”

Draco swallowed hard, obviously conflicted. But Voldemort knew what he would say before he even opened his mouth. Draco wouldn't dare lie to him, not with his parents there, both at as much risk as he was of facing Voldemort's fury. People were so easy to manipulate once you understood what drove them. 

He didn’t miss Draco’s small glance in Harry’s direction, as if worried about betraying him. In the end, his fear of the Dark Lord won out, just as Voldemort expected. His voice trembled as he spoke. “Potter told me about how you read my mind to listen in on our conversations.” 

Harry flinched underneath Voldemort’s foot.

“Oh, come now, Harry,” Voldemort grinned, leaning down. “You shouldn’t be surprised that he told me. Haven’t you learned yet? The only one you can count on is yourself.”

It had been strange for Draco’s request to come out of the blue earlier. Draco had never expressed heavy interest in shielding one’s mind before. There had been no obvious cause for this change of heart… And then Voldemort had thought about it more carefully. 

He’d recalled the little hint he had let slip to Harry down in the dungeons. His subtle way of telling Harry that none of his conversations with Draco were private; that he was not above breaking into the blond boy’s mind to get the information he desired. If Draco had come to know of that invasion, then of course he would want to be protected by it. But that would require Draco coming to know of it in the first place.

The only way for that to happen was for Harry to find a way to break free of the curse in order to tell him.

“You...” Harry gasped softly as Voldemort relaxed the hold on his throat, allowing him to speak freely once more. “You’re wrong there.” 

The Dark Lord frowned disbelievingly at the words. “Is that so?” 

Harry let out a low laugh. “I can count on a lot more than myself. For instance…” His fingers curled in on themselves, his thumb reaching up to touch the base of his index. Voldemort caught a hint of silver flashing against the sunlight streaming in. “... I can count on the fact that when you call a meeting, the wards of the Manor lower to allow them all in. Am I wrong… Voldemort?”

Voldemort’s eyes widened in recognition a split-second too late. One moment his foot was crushing down against Potter’s bowed head, the next it slammed onto the polished floors, nothing coming in between it. 

The world stilled for a moment.

A portkey. 

A portkey. 

Voldemort would never have thought the boy would learn how to make a portkey within the span of a few days. He hadn’t thought Potter was smart enough to. And the sheer audacity to have the key phrase as the Dark Lord’s title… 

“My Lord?” Bellatrix asked hesitantly. She had been observing their whole exchange without saying a word, but now her eyes were bright with feverish concern. She and the Malfoy family both expected Voldemort to lash out in a blind rage at how Potter had escaped, to lose his temper and unleash a whirlwind of fury. 

“He’s a surprising little thing, isn’t he, Bella?” Voldemort murmured, eyes transfixed on the spot where Potter had kneeled not a minute ago. He rolled his neck, shifting his feet into an apparating position. He had given the boy enough of a head start. Now the chase would begin. 

Bellatrix blinked in confusion. 

“Raise the wards after I depart,” Voldemort instructed. “And Draco? Show the slightest bit of friendship towards Potter again,  and I’ll kill you myself.”

He didn’t stop to catch the blond boy’s reaction before vanishing into thin air, the link of red and gold guiding him to exactly where Potter had escaped to.

Chapter Text

The moment Harry’s feet hit the ground, he started moving.  

He couldn’t stop smiling. 

He was free. 

He was free. 

Harry let out a breathless laugh, lips parting with the force of his exhilaration. He felt so much lighter as if shackles he hadn’t even known were there had finally slipped away, their only contact to him remaining the imprints of footsteps he left behind. 

Quickly changing his course, he swooped down to blur the prints that might be used to track him and headed in the opposite direction. Then he switched paths again and went right, ducking into an alleyway between two buildings. He clutched the cold yew wand in his fingertips, murmuring a quick spell to erase any indication he’d headed this way. 

The streets of Hogsmeade were virtually empty at this time of year. School wasn’t in yet, so there weren’t any students to browse the many stands and shops, no teachers to calm them by shouting instructions and reprimands. It was an almost eerie feeling, Harry thought, the usually busy place being so silent. 

Past the summer sun’s heat, he could feel the phantom hands of Ron and Hermione at his side, clutching onto him in comfort. He smiled softly, remembering the last time he had come here with them. Instinctively, he curled his fingers, lips falling when they only met empty air. 

That’s right. They weren’t here. 

But maybe he would be able to see them soon. 

Harry reached up and toyed with the little silver pendant hanging from his neck. Draco’s little gift. Once again, he felt a rush of gratitude for the blond git. Even if he had ultimately betrayed Harry’s trust in the end, Harry couldn’t find it in himself to hold it against him. After all, Harry didn’t know what it was to have a family, to have parents that you would protect no matter what. How could he fault Draco for putting his love for his parents over a boy who up until a few months ago had been his rival? 

He skidded to a halt once he exited the alleyway. His feet planted themselves rigidly between the two buildings, still holding his form in the shadows but allowing him a full view of what lay in front of him. 

Harry breathed out slowly, a stupid grin widening his lips. 

Hogwarts. 

Every time he laid eyes on it, the castle seemed even more beautiful. Harry felt like a first-year again at the sight of it. Just a short distance away was his refuge, the one place Voldemort couldn’t touch him - his home. 

All he had to do was get there. 

He had to find the Shrieking Shack. 

He looked to the left and sped off in that direction, ignoring the curious gazes of the few people roaming about. None of them seemed too interested in his movements; none of them appeared to recognize him. Paranoia got the better of him, however, as Harry reached up to pull the hood of his robes up over his messy hair. He didn’t want to take any chances. 

When he had first been forming this bold attempt at an escape, Harry had considered enlisting the help of some of the residents here, the common folk roaming about these streets. That idea had been quickly shot down. If he were crueler, he would have incorporated them into his plan without a second thought, either as a distraction so he could get away or a tool to help him to do so. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how he looked at it, his conscience outweighed his desire for calculated decisions. At the end of the day, he’d rather he be the one getting hurt than an innocent life on his behalf. 

The upside was that he was stronger than before. Harry might not have much help to rely on, but he had learned things during his imprisonment that made him all the wiser. If he chose to see it that way, then Bellatrix’s harsh, grueling lessons were more of a blessing than a curse. 

Magic flowed easily through his hands now, up to his arms, flooding into his entire body. It was no longer merely a tool but an omnipresent feeling at his disposal. Not to mention the wand in his hands. Perhaps it was because Harry had gone so long without one that Voldemort’s felt so… natural to use. The little prickle in his scar at the thought suggested otherwise, though. Harry fought back a scowl at the implication. The fewer reminders of what he was, the better. He opted instead to place the cursed stick into the sleeve of his robes, the prolonged contact to the wood feeling tainted instead of comforting. 

That was his first mistake. 

Harry’s scar began to itch. 

Voldemort was drawing near. Harry hadn’t expected him to find him that fast. 

In truth, Harry had partially been counting on the Ministry. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of the Trace, nor how fast the Ministry’s response to it usually was. A situation shortly before his third year had taught him that when he’d unintentionally made his Aunt Marge float through the sky, not to mention his second even when it hadn't been him casting magic in the first place. By that logic, Ministry officials should have appeared the moment Harry cast that spell to disguise his footprints. 

But they hadn’t. 

Harry cursed under his breath. That had been one of his precautions. In the event that Harry wasn’t able to make it to the Shrieking Shack because of Voldemort making an appearance, at least the Ministry would have arrived to witness it. They could have come to his aid, or at the very least been confronted with the truth of the Dark Lord’s return. And unlike the civilians roaming about here presently, they would be somewhat prepared to deal with the threat Voldemort presented. It was their job. 

Voldemort must have found a way to remove the Trace from him, then. Harry grimaced in frustration, tonguing his cheek. Of course Voldemort had taken those measures so that Harry could not be brought to safety that easily. It was Harry who was the fool for not realizing that he would have before forming this reckless plan. 

He could try using the barrier surrounding the castle instead. Casting curses on it would likely summon Dumbledore’s attention, seeing as he was the headmaster and therefore connected to Hogwarts through its magic. But that was a big risk. If that plan failed, if Dumbledore failed to respond in time, then Harry would have nowhere to run. Voldemort would recapture him easily. 

So his only option was to try and make it to the Shrieking Shack before Voldemort arrived. That, and make sure that Voldemort didn’t see the passageway into the castle. Who knew what the Dark Lord could do with that knowledge in the future? There could be an entire invasion into Hogwarts right under everyone’s noses, and many would remain unaware until it was too late. 

The chances that Harry was going to make it inside Hogwarts were looking very low.

In that case, he needed to get out of Hogsmeade before Voldemort arrived. 

Harry stared regretfully at the castle, committing the ethereal sight to memory. He’d see it again. He swore it. And he’d be able to walk through the doors with no threat behind him. 

But now wasn’t that time. 

The burning in his scar intensified. 

Muttering several expletives, Harry changed his direction again. There was one place he remembered Hermione showing him once. It had been in the middle of fourth year, when he and Ron had still been in the midst of their disagreement. It had just been him and Hermione when she’d pointed the small place out to him. This shop in the middle of Hogsmeade that sold portkeys. With any luck, he could make it there instead. 

Harry… 

Shit. Harry broke out into a run, doing his best to ignore the whispering that suddenly flooded his mind, his scar pulsing them like a beacon. The parseltongue made his eyelids feel heavy, entranced. He dug his fingernails into his palm to let the pain ground him, gasping for breath. He had come this far, he couldn’t let himself be stopped now. 

Rounding a corner, arms cutting through the air madly, Harry tore through the streets at a frantic pace. He had always been a fast runner thanks to his childhood - at least it was coming in handy now. He reached the shop in good time, the burning in his scar reaching overwhelming levels. Waves of pain threatened to stagger his steps as he trudged inside the shop, clutching the doorframe much to the bewilderment of the shopkeeper. 

“Harry Potter?” The old man whispered in fright. Harry could already see him reaching over for something, most likely his wand. 

“Wait,” Harry wheezed, shooting his hand out in a cautionary movement. “Please. I need a portkey.”

“W-Where—“

Harry… 

“Anywhere,” Harry gasped hurriedly, his legs beginning to tremble. 

Return to me…  

There was a presence trying to fight its way into his mind. Blood began to trickle down his forehead, running down his cheeks. The shopkeeper’s face grew pale. He practically sprinted to the aisles of the shop, his back turned for a few crucial seconds. 

Harry eyed the shelf to his side, making sure the shopkeeper still wasn’t looking. Guilt racked him at the thought of stealing something from this old man, but he didn’t really have a choice. Survival was what mattered. He grimaced and grabbed what he’d spotted when he first entered the shop, shoving the object into the sleeve that didn’t contain the Dark Lord’s wand. He schooled his face into a look of innocence with practiced ease. 

The shopkeeper turned around, approached Harry warily, a little ceramic rabbit in his hands, outstretching his hands as if feeding a rabid dog. Harry couldn’t blame him; he had no idea what he must have looked like. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, trying to convey the sincere gratitude he felt, clutching the rabbit in his palm. 

“To Italy,” the shopkeeper rushed out, backing away, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Tangerine is the keyword.”

Harry nodded, making a mental note to make it up to this poor man somehow. He must have given him quite a fright, showing up here all bloody and manic-eyed. Murmuring the keyword, Harry felt the ground fall away under his feet as the magic kicked in. The pain searing through his forehead muted abruptly, leaving his head crystal clear and focused at last. 

Had he not been running for his life, he might have found the city of Rome beautiful. But the Colosseum in all its glory failed to catch his eye through the face of his panic, the carefully-crafted brick roads burning his feet with the July sun. 

Children shrieked with laughter as their parents picked them up, spinning them freely in their arms. Stands of all colors sold melting gelato, something Harry had always wanted to try in his youth. He caught a whiff of freshly-made food, his stomach growling in sudden hunger. When was the last time he’d eaten? 

His only consolation with the sudden change of scenery was the larger crowd. Rome was packed with tourists in the middle of summer, unlike Hogsmeade. Becoming more aware of the strange-eyed stares he was receiving, he pulled down the hood of his cloak. 

That was his second mistake. It brought him unwanted attention. 

The third was not observing his surroundings carefully enough. 

Overwhelmed as he was by the portkey’s magic and his alarming situation, Harry didn’t notice the man walking up to him until he slammed right into him. “Oh! I’m so…” The apology died on his tongue when familiar red eyes met his green, sparkling with amusement and dark promises. 

“Now where do you think you’re going, Harry?” Tom Riddle asked sweetly. 

Harry took a step back, trying his best not to scream. His scar wasn’t burning, but he knew - knew as well as he knew his name and that he was James and Lily Potter’s son that this wasn’t Tom. It was a facade, a remnant of the past disguising the cruel nature of the Dark Lord. It wasn’t a Horcrux. This was Voldemort. 

“That escape was impressive,” Voldemort continued, oblivious to Harry’s horror, “but not good enough. I am Lord Voldemort, Harry. There is not a place in this world where you can hope to hide from me.” He moved closer. “You cannot run anymore.”

Oh, how Harry loved to prove the Dark Lord wrong. 

Mustering up confidence he didn’t really feel, Harry looked straight up at Voldemort. “Oh yeah?” He grinned sharply, shifting his left arm so that the toy train fell into his hand. The portkey that he’d stolen from the shopkeeper while he wasn’t looking. “Try me.”

He didn’t know the keyword, but pouring his magic into it seemed to do the trick. Voldemort’s eyes widened, uncharacteristic shock seeping through them, before Harry was gone yet again. He closed his eyes, focusing on keeping a steady stream of magic flowing into the portkey. Wandless magic was all about intention, that was what the cup Horcrux had taught him. That was all there was to it. 

It was ironic, now that he thought about it. Voldemort had ultimately been the one to aid Harry in escaping from, well… Voldemort. Harry laughed a little, opening his eyes to an open night sky. His lips parted in surprise. He must have gone to the other side of the world if it was dark here. 

Then his eyes settled on it. The familiar grave of Tom Riddle’s father. That’s when he really started laughing. 

Of course. Of course he would have ended up here. It was like everything was coming full circle. This is where this whole thing had started, right? When Harry’s blood had been taken from him to bring the Dark Lord back to life. By the man who had sold out his parents and betrayed the cause they fought for. 

Harry scoffed, shoving the burning anger down. He needed to be clear-headed for this. Shoving his hand into his robes, he drew out the yew wand, trying his best to ignore the subtle wrongness he felt at touching its surface. More than anything, he missed his own wand at the moment. But who knew where it was or what Voldemort had done with it? A pang shot through Harry’s heart at the thought of the thing being snapped in half. He hoped it hadn’t been. 

Pocketing it in the first place had been a mistake. His reaction time when he’d bumped into Voldemort had been slow, too slow. If he had a wand in his hands, he might have been able to do something, but he’d just stood there for a few moments, unsure of what to do before finally resorting to the backup portkey he had. That couldn’t happen again. 

Harry breathed out slowly. He could do this. Voldemort would appear in a few moments, and when he did, Harry would have to be fully focused. There was no chance that he could beat the Dark Lord in a duel… but maybe he had a chance of getting away again. Except he didn’t have any more portkeys at his disposal. 

So how was he going to get away this time? 

Maybe there was something he could do instead. He closed his eyes, recalling the memory of Sirius asking him to come live with him at the end of his third year. The memory of what Harry had felt at that moment, that exhilaration at the thought of finally being able to leave the Dursleys… Of actually having someone who cared about him enough to take him under their wing. 

“Expecto Patronum,” he murmured. The silver stag burst forth from Voldemort’s wand, materializing on the grass with eternal grace. A wash of calm came over Harry at its familiar sight. He reached a hand up to brush along its antlers, smiling. He wondered if this was the first time Voldemort’s wand had ever been used for such a light spell. “Go to Dumbledore and… tell him he’s right about the horcru- ”

A wave of red light flashed through the air, cutting the stag in half. Harry stumbled back, muffling a scream against his arm as the creature faded into silver dust. He whipped his head around. 

The ground itself blackened with the power of the Dark Lord’s rage, red eyes consuming Harry’s vision until he felt like he was standing at the gates to hell. Anger was a potent, living thing in the atmosphere, suffocating the oxygen out of the air as Harry fought to breathe against the overwhelming tide of panic that swept through his being. 

“You dare–” Voldemort snarled. He didn’t finish his sentence before raising his hand, a solid wave of force issuing out and slamming against Harry, sending him flying into the gravestone of the Dark Lord’s father. A shout made its way out of Harry’s mouth this time, unable as he was to stifle the sound of pain. 

The arms of the silhouette began to move, turning into a malleable substance, threatening to wrap around Harry and trap him. Harry gasped and jumped away before they could snare him as they had the last time he’d been in this graveyard. A metallic clanging sound pierced the tense silence as the arms closed in on empty space. 

“Expelliarmus,” Harry shouted, aiming the Dark Lord’s wand at him. He put his hand behind his back, mimicking a retreating stance, twitching the instrument in his hand once more. The jet of dazzling red light was batted away easily, the Dark Lord’s eerie pale fingers moving through the dark air in an almost otherworldly manner. 

“Have you learned nothing?” the Dark Lord laughed coldly. The steps he took towards Harry were too small considering how fast he was closing in on him. Harry felt liquid terror coating his bones, sending shivers down his spine. He’d nearly forgotten what Voldemort’s rage could look like, feel like. He was way over his depth. “You’re so predictable, Potter.”

That’s what Harry had been counting on. 

Silver glitter brought itself back together through the strength of Harry’s own will. He felt a sense of pride that he hadn’t had to repeat the incantation, instead mending what he had already brought to life. The stag patronus stood up again behind the Dark Lord, who remained unaware because of his fixation on Harry, and charged at him. 

Charged straight through him. 

Disoriented, Voldemort floundered for a moment, eyes widening in surprise. Harry wondered what it felt like to have a patronus rush through you like that. For such a light being to pass over one of such darkness. He wasted little time pondering it as he whipped his wand in an arc, muttering another fire-type spell Bellatrix had taught him, or rather used on him. 

A semicircle of orange flames grew over his head, casting dappling light across the solemn gravestones. Harry thrust his wand arm forward, feeling the magic of Voldemort’s weapon and his own intrinsic power connecting in one perfect motion. The flames careened towards the Dark Lord, rushing at him like a cluster of fiend-fyre. 

Until Voldemort held out his skilled hands, eyes narrowing in concentration. The fire stopped mid-air, never ceasing in its intensity. Harry’s jaw dropped as orange turned to blue, sparks shooting out as if generating magic of their own, before hurtling back towards him. 

“Protego!” Harry yelped, the shield shooting up in the nick of time. 

There went his chance at taking Voldemort by surprise. 

He wasn’t prepared for the heavy barrage of spells that Voldemort sent his way. Green light, neither the right shade of the killing curse but undoubtedly nearly as deadly, brushed against his skin as he weaved his body through them. Like dodging a bludger, Harry thought, just dozens of them. As the last few came towards him, he muttered a transfiguration spell, the emerald lights turning to water, which he froze to ice and sent back to Voldemort. At the same time, he aimed a reducto at the ground, breathing in relief as the Dark Lord stumbled. He still managed to block all the shards of ice, his shield turning them to dust, but not with the ease he might have if Harry hadn’t attacked. 

And then he was gone. 

Harry blinked, doing a double-take. The space where Voldemort had just been standing was vacant now, the serpentine body having somehow melted away into shadow. He popped his mouth closed when he felt the wand tip pressing against his back, the Dark Lord’s breath tickling his ear. When had he gotten so close? 

“Dead,” Voldemort murmured into his ear.  

Harry cursed, whipping around with fury fueling his magic. His wand lashed out with an unknown spell, missing Voldemort by centimeters but decimating the nearest gravestone to grounds of dust. Harry winced, sending a quick prayer up to whoever it had been along with an apology. 

Voldemort laughed. “So sentimental.”

Harry sliced a glare in his direction, mouth opening to gasp another spell. As he rose it, his hand suddenly twitched with a cramp, a strange frailness overcoming his body. He doubled over, heaving as if he were about to vomit. What the hell? 

“Magical exhaustion,” Voldemort observed, nodding his head as if he had expected it. Harry looked up at him, panicked. “That’s right, Potter. You’re not going to be able to go on for much longer. Although I’m sure you’ll give it your all until you simply pass out from fatigue.”

Harry gave him a hard look that said he would do exactly that. Voldemort’s smile widened, satisfaction and amusement glimmering in his eyes. For bloody what, Harry had no idea. 

“... You’ve improved.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. There was no way he was getting praised by the Dark Lord in the middle of a fight. “What?”

Voldemort glared at him, irritated at having to repeat himself. “Do try to keep up, Potter.” Harry scowled. “The last time we fought here, you couldn’t stop yourself from hurling disarming spells at me. You’ve come a long way.”

“Is this where you offer to teach me again?” Harry replied dryly. 

There was a hint of amusement in the Dark Lord’s eyes now. He inclined his head to disguise his smirk. “No. I won’t be making any more offers from now on. If you want me to teach you, you will need to ask .”

Harry let out a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “That won’t be happening.”

“You might surprise yourself.”

Something grabbed his foot. Harry shouted out and looked down, paling at the… thing that was grabbing his foot. Was that a hand? He recoiled in disgust, realizing that he had been standing on top of a recently dug-up grave. A dead man was grabbing his foot. 

It pulled at him, yanking his feet from under him. Harry tumbled over, hitting his head against the gravestone with a concerning crack. He shouted at the sudden pain. At the last minute, he remembered that Voldemort was still here, merely steps away from him. Opening his eyes, he saw Voldemort leveling his wand at him.

Not the yew wand. Harry’s wand. 

“Give that back,” Harry snapped, unfathomable anger filling him at the sight of his wand in the hands of his parents’ killer. 

Voldemort arched an eyebrow. All traces of emotion seemed to be gone now. Harry couldn’t even feel anything from the link between them, his scar strangely silent. 

He aimed a cutting curse at the hand grabbing him, scrambling to his feet before Voldemort could utter another spell. When he looked up, however, the Dark Lord hadn’t made another move. Harry’s phoenix wand was still aimed at him, but Voldemort didn’t seem to have any intentions to use it. He just neared closer, smiling cruelly at Harry’s defenseless form. 

“Dead,” Voldemort said simply. 

Harry scoffed and pointed towards Voldemort’s arm. “Diffindo!” Brilliant light shot forth, arching through the sky without hitting the Dark Lord, who had dodged it easily. Harry didn’t waste any time in using the little distraction to rise to his feet, backing away a few steps. Voldemort covered the lost ground with the grace of a predator, matching each of Harry’s small retreats with his own movement forward. 

The air around the Dark Lord seemed to bend in half with his next step. What should have taken Voldemort five steps took him one, and soon he was standing right in front of Harry, Harry’s chest bent forwards in fatigue so that it was level with the Dark Lord’s chin, the wand tip pressing against his throat before he could react. Invisible bonds kept his arms strapped to his sides. Harry felt suffocated at the sudden lack of space, especially as Voldemort whispered for the third and final time for that day, “Dead.”

“Fuck you,” Harry snarled, unable to admit his defeat. 

Voldemort clicked his tongue. “So crude. You shouldn’t have let me get this close, Harry, that was unwise. But then again, it appears quite in character considering your latest actions. You were a fool for thinking that you stood a chance at outsmarting me.”

“And you were a fool for thinking that you could keep me in that Manor.”

Voldemort snorted, the inelegant sound taking Harry by surprise. He could have sworn the Dark lord’s lips twitched upward in a smile. “Always clever and quick with your responses, I will give you that much. In another life, I think we could have gotten along very well, Potter.” He cocked his head to eye the boy in front of him, unfathomable emotion swimming in his gaze. Curiosity? “Do you fear me?”

“I fear that I’ll be locked up like a common prisoner again.”

Voldemort arched an eyebrow. “And when did I treat you like a common prisoner? Granted, the first week was for the purpose of torture and confirming my suspicions, but after that? When I offered to teach you? When I allowed you to leave your cell; when I allowed you access to proper food and water; when I gave you companionship in the form of the young Malfoy? I have been generous with you thus far, Potter.”

Harry stared at him disbelievingly. The way he said those things, the way he rattled them off like items off a grocery list… did he truly think that he had been doing Harry a service? He rolled his eyes, looking off into the distance. A spark of satisfaction flared when Voldemort’s anger at being dismissed filled the air. 

“And now?” Harry asked. “In the event that you recapture me, what will you do? What generosity will you show me this time?” He let out a mocking laugh, enjoying the way Voldemort’s eyes snapped to attention at the sound. “You can’t lie and say that you aren’t angry that I managed to get away. I could feel your rage through this.” He tapped his scar. “Will you put me back in that cell and claim that it’s a mercy compared to what you could be doing?”

“I recall making a deal with you that you’d never have to see that cell again.”

“My part of the deal was allowing you to teach me,” Harry frowned. “I haven’t done that yet.”

“But I’m still willing to fulfill my part… in exchange for the same from you.” 

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. He turned back to Voldemort, dragging his gaze away from his surroundings and back to the eyes burning with red fire. “You’d still be willing to teach me after all this? I don’t believe that for one moment.”

“What reason would I have to lie?”

“Is that a serious question?”

Voldemort chuckled lightly. It was strangely bereft of any mockery or condescension. The sound wasn’t unpleasant in its genuinity. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been talked to with this level of disrespect.” He scanned over Harry’s face, eyes lingering on the scar like everyone else always did. “Perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised me when you broke free of my Imperius. I blame myself for doubting that you could in the first place.”

Harry stayed silent. 

“You’ve impressed me today,” Voldemort said quietly, begrudgingly. He gestured towards Harry aimlessly, an almost helpless gesture. “You are… so much more than I believed you were. I misjudged you. I can assure you that it will not happen again.”

The praise stirred something unknown in Harry’s gut. He looked away, unable to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. What the hell was going on? Voldemort wasn’t cursing him, he wasn’t taking out his anger on him… “I won’t go back to that place.”

“You won’t.”

Harry faltered, looking up at the Dark Lord. His feet, which had been frantically shifting through the dirt in search of a correct stance, paused. “What are you talking about?” He searched Voldemort’s face for some sign of deceit, some subtle manipulation. There was nothing, no tell of emotion, but what Harry was feeling from this bond between them was complete sincerity. 

Or maybe he was just going insane. That was more likely. 

“I mean what I said. Did I not tell you before that I keep my word?” Voldemort took a step forward, Harry taking another step back. The moon’s light broke through the clouds blanketing them to shine on the Dark Lord’s face, casting it in pale light. Harry’s body approached the overhanging statue of the Dark Lord’s father, the stone blocking the moonlight, leaving his features obscured in shadow. “You will not go back there, Harry. Not unless you ask.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Voldemort allowed. “Let me ask for this one thing, however. One conversation. No wands, no fights, just words. Can you give me this?”

It wasn’t like the Dark Lord to ask for permission. None of this made any sense. 

“If I don’t?

Voldemort shrugged. An answer in itself. He expected Harry to agree and hadn’t thought far enough to consider being refused. A part of Harry urged him to deny him for this reason, to spite the Dark Lord for the fun of it. But the other…

At the very least, Voldemort had already guaranteed that Harry wouldn’t be returning to Malfoy Manor. But that also didn’t mean that Harry was going to be let free. Still… Harry glanced around, not sure what other options he had. Refusing Voldemort at this moment might do more harm than good. 

“What’s in it for me?”

“Now you’re starting to ask the right questions,” Voldemort smiled. “Two people. Whoever you choose. No matter which part of my forces they should encounter in this war, they will remain unharmed. If you know me, Potter, you will understand that this is indeed me being generous. I won’t offer this again.”

Harry glanced up, feeling nothing but honesty once more. 

Voldemort held out his hand, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “Well, Harry?”

Before he could convince himself what a bad idea this was, Harry took his hand, head lowered so that he completely missed the Dark Lord’s smile of dark triumph. 

***

Voldemort apparated them to a cafe he knew in France. 

It was a place he was familiar with. His journey around the world in search of learning the darker truths and delving into the hidden cracks of magical knowledge brought him to all sorts of places. This was a location he had come very early on in his departure, perhaps a year into his search for power. 

He exhaled, releasing the slightest burst of magic through his fingertips, tapping himself once to give himself the youthful appearance of his younger years. Best not to be recognized, even in a place outside of Britain. History had painted him a notorious figure after all; his strives, ambitions, not to mention his unique appearance, would be known across Europe. 

At his side, Harry had stiffened with surprise. Voldemort watched carefully as the boy stepped away from him, seeming to relax as he did so, before surveying their new surroundings with wide eyes. There was a sense of bewilderment there, of childish glee and wonder at being in a completely new place. 

“You’ve been here before?” Potter asked, finally turning to him. The hostility in his eyes had lessened somewhat, through there was still a hint of caution and nervousness. Not fear, though - something Voldemort had begrudgingly come to respect. 

“After I graduated Hogwarts,” Voldemort said, deciding to leave it at that. Let Potter come to him with questions on his own time, the most he would do for now was stoke the boy’s curiosity. In time, perhaps curiosity would come to rival the other feelings Potter felt towards him. That would certainly be a sight. “Come, let’s sit. Feel free to eat something, I have currency. I’ll allow it just this once.” 

He could see that Potter was clearly enraged at the thought of Voldemort allowing him to do something, but in the end his hunger won over. They took a seat on the patio of the cafe, the waitress coming over promptly to take their order. It was such a mundane setting that it nearly threw Voldemort off. His life had been so filled with the frivolities of the magical world that the last time he’d actually placed himself in muggle settings was… He blinked, furrowing his brow. 

“Why not make yourself look older?” Potter grumbled, sipping the cup of coffee that had been brought to him. His nose wrinkled as he burnt his tongue in his haste to drink. Voldemort felt the urge to chide him that coffee would dehydrate him instead of hydrate him, before deciding that it wasn’t worth it. 

“Does it bother you?” Voldemort smirked. Potter’s ears went red, averting his eyes quickly. Now that was an interesting response, though not one that the Dark lord was unfamiliar with. But he wouldn’t have expected Potter to be affected, filled with hatred and contempt as he was. “Get yourself some water, Harry. You’ll only grow more thirsty with caffeine.”

Potter stared, dumbfounded at the suggestion. “Er… yeah. Yeah, I suppose you’re right…”

Voldemort glowered at him. “Of course I am.”

“Bloody arrogant, too.”

“Insulting me will get you nowhere, Potter. Shouldn’t you be trying to earn back my goodwill? I could always change my mind and decide that you’re… replaceable.”

“Sure. I’d like to see you try to find another baby and have another curse rebound on you again so you can replace me with another Horcrux. We should go do that right now.”

Voldemort glared at the boy’s snark before realizing something. “That’s the first time you’ve openly acknowledged it.” At Harry’s frown, he clarified. “That you are a part of my soul.”

Harry looked away, frown deepening. It was clearly an unpleasant subject for him. Despite the fact that Voldemort couldn’t bring himself to empathize with him, much less anyone else, he could understand the jarring sensation of discovering something about yourself so late in your life. Something someone kept from you as if they had any right to. 

This little understanding that he had of Potter… it was why Voldemort had decided to have a different approach to the situation. When he’d arrived in the graveyard, when he’d seen Potter trying to share his secret to immortality, he had been blinded by fury. It hadn’t mattered that Potter was his Horcrux, he’d wanted him dead at his feet by the next blink of his eye. For daring to weaken him… Voldemort had felt fear. 

But he’d held back, something he took pride in now when he saw Harry willingly sitting across from him, asking the waitress for a glass of water per his suggestion. He only hoped it would bear fruit in the future. He was beginning to have his doubts on investing in this boy, but perhaps patience was a virtue he required in this case. It was seldom someone impressed him to this extent, and while the boy would likely never be at the same level of skill and prowess as Lord Voldemort… he could be a useful little thing. 

A weapon. A tool. Voldemort hadn’t quite decided yet. 

Gone were his illusions that he could just mold Potter into being whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter how much time the universe afforded him; it would not happen. Back at Malfoy Manor, he’d thought so, he’d even goaded Potter with the possibility of accepting his mark, but then he’d seen the determination Potter had displayed, the way he’d changed himself in order to get away from him. 

This was going to be more difficult than he thought. 

If this was going to work, Voldemort couldn’t force Potter to do anything. Potter was much too stubborn for that - an admirable but simultaneously irritating quality he possessed. He couldn’t change him. There would be no submission. That left him little to work with. 

When he had first begun recruiting his Death Eaters, the Knights of Walpurgis at the time, he had played to people’s greed, their darker ambitions, their forbidden dreams. That had been easy. Manipulating people - controlling people - was simple as soon as you figured out what they wanted. That was the essence of a person, as Voldemort had found. 

But Voldemort had no idea what Harry wanted, so there would be no bribery. The boy resented the Dark Arts, only using it when it was a life or death situation. Voldemort’s ideals held no appeal to him either. What was the most infuriating of all was that Potter didn’t seem to want anything for himself. There was no selfishness to him, he only wanted things for other people. 

That, in Voldemort’s opinion, was the true enigma to Harry Potter. How could a boy who had been given nothing still want to give everything he stood to gain away? 

“I don’t think of myself as a hero.”

Voldemort flicked his gaze up curiously, knowing full well that Potter was referring to their conversation back at the Manor. Interesting that it was on his mind. “No?” he questioned. “That’s the term the entire wizarding world decides to give you. The impossible boy who stopped the scary dark lord in his tracks against all odds.” He dropped the mockery in his tone, rolling his eyes. “Is it not what you were raised knowing? That you were the savior of the wizarding world?”

Potter swallowed, his throat bobbing as he looked away. There was a quiet sadness on his face now, softening his features somewhat. “No. I try not to…” he sighed, dragging his attention back to Voldemort, looking him right in the eye. Something not many were brave or foolish enough to do. Voldemort smirked. “The wizarding world calls me a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I have to be all of them.”

“That doesn’t answer why you yourself don’t think you were a hero. Doesn’t matter what the prophet says, you know that you foiled two of my attempts to rise back to power. Why not share that with the world and gain the recognition you deserve for something like that?”

“I don’t want fame,” Potter frowned, puzzled as if he couldn’t understand why he would. As if he didn’t understand that recognition brought influence, influence bringing power. The boy didn’t understand how easy he had, Voldemort realized with a flare of annoyance. “Besides, I don’t do the things that I do…” He licked his lips, rephrasing his words. “I don’t launch myself into danger in the hope that I get recognition. I do it because I don’t want my friends to get hurt. I do it for selfish reasons if you want to look at it that way, not heroic ones.”

“And if those friends had never come into your life in the first place?” Voldemort asked. “Do you think it would have been different?”

Potter shrugged, a note of discomfort in the gesture. “Probably.”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, picking his words carefully. “You would have been lonely. Solitude I can understand. Being an orphan is not easy - I would know.” He let that little fact sink in, watching Harry’s eyes widen before continuing. “In the case of you having no companionship, the Ministry would have stepped in as your prime source of protection. Would you have gone along with whatever they said then?”

“No, of course not,” Potter frowned. 

“Yet you chose to do that with Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore was different,” Potter insisted. Voldemort noted the past tense with a hidden smile. “He’s…” The boy floundered for a moment, trying to pick his words wisely, though he seemed inexperienced with doing so. Voldemort would have to rectify that at the next available chance. “He’s not like the Minister. He tells the truth for starters. He uses his position to help others instead of keeping all the power for himself,” Harry finished with a meaningful look at Voldemort. 

“And contrasting that,” Voldemort said slowly, ignoring the jab, “you believe that the Ministry as a whole acts in an opposite manner? That they are corrupt and use their power to keep themselves in office?”

“Well… Not necessarily. I’m sure there are good people in the Ministry, hard workers who just get sucked into whatever game politicians play. But right now… It’s probably just my personal bias speaking since they are saying a load of shit about me, but the Minister seems impressionable, he’s probably taking bribes from Lucius Malfoy by the looks of it, which probably means he’s just desperate to keep his influence. I guess once people get power they’ll do anything and everything to make sure they keep it.”

“Hmm. Not bad, Potter. I wouldn’t have expected you to come to those conclusions all by yourself.”

Harry looked up at him. At last, it seemed all the hostility had drained out of him, fully focused on the conversation as he was. “Why’s that?”

Voldemort let himself appear nonchalant, uncaring. “From an outsider’s point of view, you seem like the Ministry’s lapdog, Harry.”

There was the anger he was looking for, and properly targeted, too. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve never used your influence to change things,” Voldemort elaborated. “With your say, you could have made numerous improvements, as your vote would actually count. Not just as a member of the Potter family, but as the savior they believe you to be. Or… did. It appears you stirred the pot too quickly with all these claims that I have somehow returned from the dead. You could’ve made policies, laws, and daily life better for a lot of people if you tried hard enough before, though. You would have gained a standing.”

“There are people better suited for that,” Harry shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that sort of thing.”

“Why didn’t you teach yourself, then?” Voldemort asked. “It’s the same problem that has come to light in the past few weeks. You could have been better prepared to face me, too, but you didn’t do a thing to rectify your unknowledgeable, rather ignorant situation.”

“If this civil conversation you had in mind involves my lack of work ethic, I think we’re done,” Harry glared, looking away. Going on the defensive now. “I already understand what I did wrong. And it won’t happen again. I’m not… I’m not going to be weak.”

“Good,” Voldemort said. “I don’t waste my time on those who are weak.”

Harry slid a look at him, an odd expression on his face. 

“Would you agree that change needs to be brought to the Ministry at the bare minimum?” Voldemort changed the topic. “Excluding your personal bias, of course. From an objective point of view.”

“Yeah, I reckon.”

“Then let me ask a different question. Do you believe drastic means should be taken in order to improve the system that exists purely to serve the wizarding population? I suppose it would stem from the question: do the people who form the government have a right to overthrow it if it does not serve and protect their rights and liberties?” A rather American point of view, but still a relevant one. 

“I don’t think resorting to violence is the answer,” Harry said. 

“And if nothing else worked?” Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “Think, Harry. Throughout history, what has been the main source of change - whether it be in the rise and fall of empires, the change of governments through revolution and protest? Change is never peaceful, that’s just an idealistic hope we teach ourselves, and in doing so we remain blind to the truth until we force ourselves to look further into the problem. Do you not think that temporary violence is worth it in the long run if it saves millions more from suffering through generations if their current corrupt system remains established?”

Harry’s silence was all he needed as an answer. The boy would never admit it, but he agreed, even if it was only to a hesitantly small extent. Voldemort was satisfied with that; progress was progress. 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Harry allowed. “Say that you’re right about your methods. What are you using those methods for? World domination?” 

Voldemort noted the sarcasm with irritation. One step forwards, two steps back with this boy. “I want to fix several things. Unjust oppression for the practice of the Dark Arts, the bigotry present in the discussion of magical blood, the integration of those who remain unaware of their status as a witch or wizard before they come of age...”

“So you kill meaninglessly and just say that that’s your goal?” Harry scoffed. “That’s bullshit.”

The urge to send racing pain through Potter’s scar was nearly overwhelming now. Voldemort clenched his jaw, careful to not let his anger show on his face. This was meant to be a civil conversation - and he was already getting through to Potter more this way than he had in the past few weeks. “Believe what you want, Harry. But when you see it for yourself, you’ll reconsider.”

“You say when as if you know for sure that I will.”

“I do.”

“So you don’t intend to let me go?” Harry half-laughed, half-scoffed, nodding to himself in what looked like resignation and defeat. It wasn’t a good look on him. 

“No,” Voldemort agreed. “But I’m willing to make another deal if you are.”

“I told you that I won’t be making any more deals with you.”

“But I think you’ll like this one,” Voldemort coaxed, knowing full well that Harry would agree before they were done here. “I still want to teach you, that hasn’t changed. So here’s my deal. You spend three months with me, willingly, and at the end of it, you are free to walk away if you wish.”

Harry’s jaw loosened in surprise, disbelief clouding his features. “You’re joking.”

Voldemort shook his head. “I don’t joke, Potter. Three months of your time is all I ask. Then you can run back to Dumbledore and your little friends, and I will turn a blind eye. That does not, however, mean that I will offer you leniency if we meet on opposite ends once more. If I capture you again, I will not show you this same mercy.”

“I won’t give you a chance to capture me again once I leave,” Harry narrowed his eyes. Because he would be stronger than thanks to the Dark Lord’s teachings. This plan would be useful for both of them, just as Voldemort had wanted when he formulated it. 

And there was the agreement Voldemort had known would come. “Sounds like you’ve already accepted my deal.”

“You said that in exchange for coming here with you, you would spare two people of my choice,” Harry said. “Will that still hold even after the three months are up?”

“Yes.”

“Ron and Hermione,” Harry said immediately. “You’re not to harm them.”

“Done,” Voldemort smirked. “Throwing Dumbledore under the bus already, Potter? And what about your godfather?”

“Dumbledore’s more than capable of protecting himself,” Harry said. “Everyone says that he’s the one wizard that you’re afraid of, after all.”

Afraid of Dumbledore? Voldemort sneered at the thought, snorting in derision. There was nothing to fear from the old man. He was just that - an old man who hadn’t realized that his time in the wizarding world was up. The only thing Voldemort felt for the headmaster was complete and utter loathing, an unending desire to see him dead and forgotten. 

“The same goes for Sirius,” Harry continued. “He isn’t afraid of you.”

“Like yourself?”

“The only thing I feel for you,” Harry said slowly, “is complete and utter loathing.” 

Voldemort looked up at the echo of the thoughts he’d had towards Dumbledore just now. Was it possible that Potter could understand and feel his thoughts as Voldemort could with him? No, that couldn’t be. Potter was an utter failure at occluding his thoughts, which meant he’d be at a similar competency with legilimency as well. 

“Do you really think you’d be able to kill me?” Voldemort asked quietly, a knowing smile on his lips. Potter averted his gaze. “That’s what I thought. You’re too good, too pure of heart to commit such an unspeakable act, aren’t you? No matter what everyone urges you to do, you’d only move forward according to your own unchanging conscience. If that didn’t disgust me, I’d say that it’s admirable.”

“Thank you…?”

“I take it that we have a deal, Harry?”

Potter bit his lip, looking off into the distance, conflict in his expression. It was such a mesmerizing thing to see, Voldemort thought, someone completely at war with themselves. Even though they both knew what the only possible path Potter would take was. Voldemort wondered if Potter ever got tired of being so inherently good that he had to debate on something as useless as this. “Yeah, we do.”

“Wonderful,” Voldemort said, standing up, placing the money for their meal down on the table. He gave Harry a little smile, just to see his discomfort. “I’ll be returning this evening. I expect you to be back at this spot by say…” He peered over at a nearby clock, ignoring Harry’s confused expression. “9 o’clock? It’s 2 right now, so that should give you sufficient time.”

“Wait,” Harry said hurriedly, “what are you talking about? You’re just going to leave me here?”

“I don’t think you’ll run away,” Voldemort pointed out. “Because if you do, our deal’s off. You’re in a foreign country with no means of communicating with your friends or your Order. I believe that you’re a man of your word, I urge you not to disappoint me.”

Harry stared at him, mouth open. 

“Enjoy your day off,” Voldemort said, stepping away and preparing himself to apparate back to the Manor. “Oh, and Harry? Happy Birthday.”

Chapter Text

"Are you done with your food, dear?"

Harry blinked up at the waitress, barely realizing that he still hadn't gotten up from his seat. The sun had gone down a little, the noon heat lessening somewhat with the passage of time. How long had it been since Voldemort left?

"Dear?" the waitress repeated, her smile faltering. 

"Yes, I am," Harry said, blinking twice to snap himself out of his daze. It was his birthday. Voldemort had wished him 'happy birthday' and had left him here to his own devices as a present. The world surely couldn't still be spinning in the right direction. Harry felt so off-balanced. "Sorry for the wait."

Everyone else had already left. The small cafe looked like it was about to close. Harry smiled at the waitress in apology before exiting the small area quickly, closing the little green gate to the patio behind him. 

There weren't as many people on the streets now compared to when he and Voldemort had first arrived. Still a couple of pedestrians but no real crowds. A lot of the shops were closing for the moment, signs being hung up and places being locked until evening came. It felt so... domestic. 

Now what was he supposed to do?

Freedom, Harry thought, was nothing to someone who didn't know what to do with it. 

it was his birthday. That meant August would be tomorrow. Voldemort had taken him towards the end of May. That was close to two months of captivity, of being holed up in that creepy Manor either in obscure dungeons or that god-awful room, both of them locked without a key in sight. 

Harry got the strong feeling that he should be somewhere else instead of here. The roads and sidewalks were too open, the city too large and too full of people that he didn't know. Some hidden part of him wished Voldemort hadn't left him here - he felt lost. 

This could be what Voldemort had intended for him to feel upon bringing him here, Harry realized. This panic, this helplessness in the absence of the Dark Lord. All his life, Harry had been told what to do, had he not? He had always had a direction, some supervision over him, that he wasn’t accustomed to going without. 

It was that, the very idea of proving Voldemort right about something, that at last broke Harry out of his strange depressing trance. Being alone in France was nothing compared to what he had already been through; he couldn’t imagine why he was making such a big deal out of it. 

“First thing’s first,” Harry murmured to himself, “find a way to get a message back to people who can help me.”

But he had already made that deal with Voldemort. Two months with him, under his power, in exchange for his future freedom and the safety of his friends. 

If he was taken back by the Order before that time was done, that would nullify their agreement. Voldemort wouldn't hesitate to recapture Harry at that point, to decimate the Order's forces and possibly hurt more of Harry's loved ones. 

It was just like with the Imperius Curse. Harry had to play this situation safe and smart. That was the only way to deal with Voldemort, he was finding. Not through brute force or foolish misconceptions that he could somehow win a fight against him, but by carefully laying out plans so events moved according to his own design. 

At the very least… Harry could send a delayed message.

A message that would alert the Order to Voldemort’s whereabouts in two months' time. When Harry would be free. That would give the Order time to prepare, wouldn’t it? It could work. 

He started to walk, muttering quietly to himself as he followed that train of thought. 

On the way, he passed by a newspaper stand. He blinked when he recognized his own face on the cover of a recent edition of the Daily Prophet. 

So he would get recognized here, too. 

Harry cursed and pulled out the wand shoved into his pocket. A burst of warmth flooded through his fingertips. It was his own wand. Somehow, during their encounter with each other, Voldemort had switched them. 

Sneaky bastard. 

Tapping his wand to his head and glancing around to make sure no one was looking, Harry disillusioned himself. Green eyes turned to blue, his nose turning up, his jawline becoming more round, his height growing by several inches. He caught his reflection in a nearby tinted window, blinking in appreciation. 

One positive thing of this experience was that his magical prowess had increased. 

That fight with Voldemort in the graveyard had felt… different. Harry had felt much more confident this time around, more sure that he could hold his ground even if he ultimately lost the battle. His spells had flowed seamlessly from the incantation on his lips to the burst of light through the Dark Lord’s wand. 

He’d felt powerful at that moment. 

If this was what Bellatrix had taught him in the mere course of a few days… what could Lord Voldemort show him? 

And that was a dangerous line of thought Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to go down. He knew Voldemort was trying to break him, to mold him into what he wanted Harry to be. Well, Harry would not let him. 

He hoped that wouldn’t change. 

But even now he could feel himself wavering. Because he had changed throughout the past two months, hadn’t he?

He thought back to his initial capture, when he had screamed in front of Voldemort, when he had broken down after Mrs. Figg’s murder, when he’d been so desperate for companionship and comfort that he’d taken the advice of one of Voldemort’s horcruxes. 

He was… different now. Not drastically, but there was still something there. Voldemort had looked at Harry in the graveyard, at the cafe they’d just sat at, with so much approval. With pride and a type of smugness that only came with success. 

Was Harry fighting a losing battle? 

Why had Voldemort acted that way earlier? As if Harry was something to be marveled at, not merely an object to be manipulated but a treasure to covet? Or perhaps that was all Harry’s imagination - perhaps he was so starved for approval and care that he was starting to become desperate for anything.

“God,” Harry breathed, hands shaking, “what the hell is wrong with me?”

What would Voldemort say to him if Harry asked him that? 

Stop thinking about Voldemort. 

Slowly exhaling, Harry opened his eyes and reached out for a copy of the Daily Prophet, fingering his wand to cast a translating spell. 

He instantly wished he’d never done so. 

The column was written by none other than Ron’s brother, Percy. There was a photograph directly above the words of him standing next to Fudge, arrogance holding his back straight and chin up. Harry let his gaze drift over what Percy had to say about him, feeling more and more sick to his stomach the further he got. 

He flipped a page. 

The Boy Who Lies! 

He flipped that one, too. 

Harry Potter: Dumbledore’s New Weapon to Take Down the Ministry! 

Another one. 

Dumbledore: Daft or Dangerous? 

Dumbledore: Demoted from Chief Warlock in the Wizengamot! 

Mass Breakout from Azkaban!

Fudge: All Is Well! 

What the hell were Dumbledore and his friends doing to stop this? Harry scoffed, not even caring to read the words on the pages. They were all the same. The same lies, the same desperate attempts to quell people’s fear rather than tell them a truth that could save their lives. 

The Ministry was wrong. So wrong in this case. For the first time, Harry agreed with Voldemort on something. Corruption needed to be rooted out in the Ministry, they needed to be put in check, overthrown even if this was how they were serving the people they’d sworn to protect. 

He wanted to leave. 

“You alright there, kid?”

The woman covering the newspaper stall was talking to him, her brows furrowed in concern. Harry blinked before realizing his breathing had grown erratic, his hands clenched into red fists. 

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Sorry, just… You speak English?”

“Obviously,” the woman drawled. Harry winced, shooting her a rueful grin, noticing the thick French accent. “You were out of it, weren’t you? I’ll let you in on little secret - the Daily Prophet has been driving me a little crazy as well.”

“Yeah?” 

“Sure,” the woman shrugged, her elegant bob of dark hair jostling with the motion. “First Britain praises this poor boy for saving them, and when he tries to again they all put him down? Senile old men in government never learn, do they? Or they grow complacent after forgetting what it was like. Voldemort’s reign was feared even here in France, back when he was in power.”

“… You said his name.”

“No person can teach me to be afraid of a name,” the woman chuckled. Harry smiled slightly. “You think I could call myself brave if I was afraid of such a little thing? No, and I’d like to call myself brave. If he decides to come for me one day because of any disrespect… I’ll be proud of the way I died, yes?”

Harry nodded slowly, his anger already draining away to make room for the respect he felt for this stranger. “That’s very admirable.” 

“You are British? Not from here?”

“Yeah. I’m on vacation.”

“Well, when you go back,” the woman said, leaning closer as if telling him a secret. “You teach others to be brave, yes? No tyrant should win without a fight, not like how he is winning right now. If this doesn’t change, the British Ministry will hand him the world on a silver platter. And Voldemort deserves nothing but the dirt beneath our feet.”

Harry cracked a smile despite himself, wondering what Voldemort would say if he heard that. “I’ll try, you have my word.”

“Good, good.” The woman nodded to herself, brushing off her shirt before glancing down at the newspapers. “You want one? I’ll give you one for free.”

“No, that’s alright. I wouldn’t be able to get through all of it anyway.” 

“You and me both. Say… there’s a reporter for the Daily Prophet around here. You should talk to him. He should be somewhere in that area.” The woman motioned towards the entrance to a bar, rolling her eyes. Two men stood at the door, one with a blue cap and one with a cane. 

“Why haven’t you?” 

The woman scoffed. “As if he’d take my opinion. You stop to talk to me, but he just looks, sees me, but doesn’t listen to anything I have to say. Maybe he’ll listen to you. Worth a shot, yes? 

“Of course, I’ll do what I can.” Harry backed away. “It was a pleasure, ma’am.”

“Ah, but you given me such a great conversation. The pleasure was mine.”

Giving her a last smile over his shoulder, Harry made his way towards the reporter. 

An idea had started to form in his head from the moment the woman pointed him out. Harry had been thinking of a message earlier, had he not? What better way to get one from France to Britain than through a Daily Prophet reporter writing from here? It was almost too perfect. 

Harry faltered. It was almost too perfect. That was usually a sign that Voldemort was involved. 

But that was ridiculous. Voldemort would have no reason to want Harry to be rescued. 

I’ll just have to take some precautions. Harry already had a decent plan in case Voldemort suspected anything. 

Well, Harry amended, it’s either decent or the worst plan I’ve come up with so far. 

This was the worst plan Harry had come up with so far. 

The bar was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Harry had been among some very hyper crowds, the Quidditch World Cup for one, but it didn’t compete with the sheer energy that radiated from this group of people. 

Glasses of alcohol were held up in the air, couples laughing, grinding against each other - which Harry quickly averted his eyes upon seeing, his cheeks flushing - and hollering along in an off-key accompaniment to the pounding music. 

The reporter Harry was tailing was sitting down by the bar, chatting with the bartender. He was a younger man than Harry thought he would be, with sandy blonde hair and brown eyes. His suit, which was hung on the back of his stool, looked tailor made, the white button-up he was wearing simply pristine. He didn’t seem to be having a hard time chatting up the men around him, winking in a suggestive manner, seeming at complete ease. 

Harry felt severely out of place. 

He glanced towards the entrance, wondering if he could just give up on this idea and leave. But he would probably live to regret that decision, so he steeled himself - he’d fought a basilisk for fuck’s sake - and strode up to the bar, plopping himself onto a stool. Not too close to the reporter but not too far either. 

The bartender spotted him and made his way over, asking him something in French. With an embarrassed smile, Harry shook his head, hoping at least his inability to understand the language would translate properly. 

He got a smile in return, a wave of the hand to show all was fine, and another gesture towards the variety of drinks. 

This was such a bad idea. 

Harry had tasted alcohol before. Last year, he and Ron had raided Bill and Charlie’s vacant bedrooms as a joke and had found a small supply left behind from their younger years. They hadn’t tried a lot of it, and Harry had only done it so Ron wouldn’t gloat at him. 

He shrugged and smiled at the bartender, not quite sure what else to do. Thankfully, the bartender took it that he was indecisive, giving him a wink and pointing to himself before starting to make a drink. 

Harry let his gaze wander while the bartender busied himself, the harsh sound of the music’s bass reverberating through his chest. It was hard to think in here. 

Two seats down from him was the reporter. Since the bartender had moved to speak with Harry, the man was left alone now, swirling his drink with his left hand and leaning his chin on top of his right. 

“You going to stop staring now?”

“Should I?” Harry found the courage to ask. 

Huffing a laugh, the reporter turned to face him fully, his eyes sparkling with interest. It was a look that would have worked on anyone else, gauging how attractive the man objectively was. “What’s your name, love?”

“Dan,” Harry said. 

“Just Dan?”

“Seeing as I only met you just now, yeah.”

The reporter chuckled, nodding to himself as he took a sip of his drink. “William, but you can call me Will. You’ve got a British accent there. You here for business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Harry said, “but I wouldn’t mind a bit of the latter.” 

God, that seemed like such a stupid thing to say, but the reporter - Will - looked as if it was anything but. That spark of interest had grown immensely, his gaze now fixed on Harry, eyes openly appraising him. “You and I seem to be on the same boat there, friend.”

Someone nudged Harry’s shoulder. The bartender. Harry accepted his drink with a small smile, nodding to show his appreciation. He started to fish through his pockets for money, then realized that Voldemort hadn’t left him any. 

“It’s on me,” Will said breezily, picking up his own glass. “Cheers, Dan. May we both find what we’re looking for.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Harry lied with a grin, tipping the glasses together and bringing it to his lips. He pretended to take the barest sip, in reality not having any at all, before bending over and making a show of coughing. “Oh wow, that’s a lot stronger than I thought it would be.”

“Can’t take alcohol very well?” Will asked dryly. “I bet I can fix that. Open up, love.”

Harry blinked, wondering what he was supposed to be doing. Will raised an eyebrow playfully and tilted his cup. He wanted Harry to open his mouth so he could take a drink. 

That wasn’t according to plan. 

For this to work, Harry needed to be as clear-minded as possible. There couldn’t be a second chance.

But it didn’t look like there was any way to avoid this, not with Will so close in his grasp. 

So he smiled indulgently and tilted his head back, parting his lips. 

Will winked as he positioned his glass over Harry’s open mouth, pouring the contents in. “Close.” Harry sealed his lips, eyes fixed on the reporter. “Swallow.” The liquid didn’t burn his throat as he swallowed it like it had when he’d tried some with Ron. That actually hadn’t been so bad.

“Thanks,” Harry managed. 

“I’d do that again anytime you like,” Will grinned. “You’re incredibly easy on the eyes, Dan.”

Too bad that Harry’s features were all magically fabricated, or Harry might have felt something for this man. But as it stood, he couldn’t bring himself to care or be interested in Will aside from what he could do for Harry. Compared to Voldemort, Will was a frighteningly simple man with simple needs - needs that Harry had been catering to from the moment they made eye contact. 

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Harry said. “Say, music this loud always gives me headaches. I might step outside for a moment or two. Care to join me?” 

“Eager to join you, more like.”

Harry laughed and got up from his seat, taking his drink with him. Will followed him like a lost puppy on their way outside. 

This was too easy. 

The moment Harry set foot outside, hands found their way to his shoulders and spun him around, shoving him against the wall. Before he had a chance to steady himself, lips were pressing roughly against his, a stray finger tilting his chin up for a better angle. 

Harry froze, unsure of what to do. 

Will pulled back, frowning in confusion. “Something the matter?”

“No,” Harry said hastily, lifting his hand to cup Will’s cheek. “No, I just wasn’t ready is all. But um…” He leaned closer, making sure to make eye contact, his fingers resting on Will’s temple. Magic flooded through his hand, spreading warmth across his body. “I just wanted to do something first.”

“Get on with it, then,” Will said, a tinge of irritation in his voice. So little patience. 

“I will,” Harry smiled, concentrating hard. “Imperio.”

The effect was as remarkable as it was instantaneous. Will’s eyes became glazed over, his grip on Harry’s shoulders growing slack before falling away entirely. Almost as if he was dreaming despite appearing awake. 

“I’m going to need you to tell me some things,” Harry said quietly. “Let’s start small, shall we?” 

***

“Happy Birthday, Harry.”

Hermione raised her glass of apple cider with a small smile. The sunset seemed exceptionally beautiful today, the beginnings of stars becoming apparent among the sky’s orange and purple hues. Grimmauld Place lay beneath her feet, the terrace she was standing on completely vacant except for her. 

“I really wish you could be here,” Hermione went on. “We all wish you could be here, really. It’s been months since Ron and I last heard from you. Should I be getting concerned?”

There was no answer. 

Hermione sighed, lowering her glass onto the ground. She curled up on herself, folding her knees to her chest and her arms around them. It brought her little comfort. “Don’t get me wrong, being with Ron and his family is great. I’m having a great time. It’s just, um… Somehow it’s different when you’re here? Ron and I get along fine enough but the summer’s felt incomplete without you.”

She lowered her head, biting her lip. “And I can’t shake this feeling that something is wrong.”

A pigeon landed next to her feet, flapping its wings almost indignantly at her cider. 

Hermione smiled ruefully even as she moved her glass further away from the bird. She didn’t have any food on her, otherwise she would have spared a bit for the creature. Harry had once criticized her for deigning to feed them. 

That had been a long conversation, indeed. Harry had gone over an entire list of cons about pigeons, ranging from their ubiquitous presence to their annoying tendencies once you acknowledged them. Hermione had argued that pigeons weren’t that different from other birds.

It had been a stupid little argument, one that had gradually grown more heated with Harry saying that Hermione’s bushy hair could house pigeons if she loved them so much. 

It had been so ridiculous that they immediately laughed it off, almost dropping the conversation altogether. Until they both looked over at Ron, who had been sitting in the armchair of the common room with a flabbergasted expression. Harry and Hermione had made sure to bring up the habits of pigeons as often as possible when Ron was around moving forward. 

“I can’t believe Professor McGonagall still won’t put more emphasis on the theory over practical use - understanding how spells work leads to innovation more often than not.” “It’s the pigeons, Hermione.” “I think Snape genuinely hates my guts.” “It must be because of the pigeons, Harry.”

Ron had never understood that they were messing with him, leading both Harry and Hermione to wonder if Ron even knew what a pigeon was. 

Hermione smiled at the memory, wishing that Harry was here so she could share it with him. 

“You must feel so angry with me and Ron,” she mumbled, burrowing her chin onto her crossed arms. The sun was beginning to set, the orange colors of the sky deepening to red. “I know that Dumbledore told us not to contact you, which is probably why we haven’t heard from you in so long. But… it’s your birthday. We always see you for your birthday, don’t we? Surely whatever’s going on isn’t so serious that you can’t be among your friends on this one day of the entire year. I just… I don’t understand anything that’s going on. 

“They told us about the Order the other day. About how they’re a cause dedicated to fighting You Know Who. Harry, I wish I could tell you all about it. Your parents were part of it, Sirius was part of it…

“Sirius has been acting so strange these past few days,” Hermione said with a frown .”I understand that he must be frustrated being stuck inside all the time, but… This is something else, I just know it. There’s something terribly wrong, and God, I hope that it doesn’t have anything to do with you, Harry. You’re my best friend, I’d do anything to make sure that you’re safe.”

And then there was Ron. Ron, who still acted like his normal self, but Hermione could tell that he was hiding something from her. If that something was in regards to Harry, then Ron would be in for a long talk. 

Unless… What if they both had come to know of something but Dumbledore had ordered them not to talk about it? 

In that case, Hermione couldn’t fault Ron for hiding something from her. Sure, she would be angry for a while, but ultimately her blame would be placed upon Dumbledore. She would understand that he had good reasons, but when it came to Harry and Ron, logic was often thrown out the window. Otherwise she would never have engaged in the activities they did, never broken as many rules as she had or followed them on their exploits. 

“Well, I don’t mean to talk to you like you’re dead,” Hermione scoffed lightly, pushing herself to her feet. “You’re not, otherwise I would have heard something about it by now. I’d like to think that I’d be able to just know, too. Anyways, wherever you are, I hope you’re taking care of yourself. When we see each other again, you’ll have to tell me all about your summer.”

She made her way down the stairs, careful not to spill her drink. At the bottom of them, she spotted shoes. Looking up, she realized that Ron had been standing there the whole time, the expression on his face grave. 

That had not been a look she had seen on his face in… well, ever. 

“Is everything alright, Ron?” Hermione asked worriedly. 

Ron stared at her. “Are you alright?”

“Me? Yes, of course I am. I was just…” She gestured up the stairs, fumbling for an excuse. Somehow, telling him that he had been talking to Harry sounded embarrassing in her head, even though she knew Ron would never judge her for it. “Er, anyways, what are you doing here?”

Ron looked away, shifting uncomfortably. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” Hermione frowned. 

Heaving a sigh, Ron looked at her. Hermione took a step back at the anguish she saw hidden in his eyes. The fear. “Something I should have told you as soon as I learned it. And I’m sorry for that. But… ‘Mione, it’s about Harry.”

***

Will was at a stall the next time Harry saw him, around an hour after their first meeting. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked over to him, careful not to make eye contact. Will didn’t seem to notice him anyway, too busy arguing with the old man running the food stall over some prices. 

Harry felt a little bad for the vendor. He looked on the verge of losing his temper with Will, his face red and veins bulging along his neck. 

Now or never. 

“Hey,” Harry smiled, tapping Will’s shoulder to get his attention. “Hi, sorry, could I talk to you for a moment?”

“Does it have to be right now?” Will snapped, his own face flushed red with anger. There was no recognition hidden in there, though, which made Harry sigh with relief. He hadn’t expected Will to recognize him - he’d changed his features again to an almost Middle Eastern look - but this was good confirmation. 

“Yes, I’m afraid so, sir,” Harry said with feigned sympathy. “It’ll only be a moment of your time. Trust me, you won’t regret it.”

“I’d better not,” Will grumbled before acquiescing and following Harry to a more secluded area. People still roamed about, doing their last minute shopping for the day, but none of them paid attention to the two of them. The notice-me-not spells Harry and put up before this made sure of that. They wouldn’t be disturbed until he wished it. 

Will turned to him with a frustrated huff. “So. Do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

“I need you to put something in the Daily Prophet for me.”

“Oh, I should have known this was about my job. Listen, I can’t just put something in the Wizarding World’s most well-known newspaper for some nobody that I met by chance-“

“Not even for Amelia?”

Will paused, his emotions becoming unreadable. “What did you just say?”

“Amelia Davies,” Harry shrugged. “Twenty-four years old, right, sir? Engaged to be your wife with the wedding happening next year on March 15th because she had this obsession with Julius Caesar. She wants to have a girl but you want to have a boy, who you originally wanted to name Davis but dear Amelia protested against because it’s too similar to her current surname, so you’re thinking more of Oscar or Tom at the moment-“

“How…” Will’s face was shockingly pale, his back pressed against the tree with his retreating footsteps. “How do you know all of that?”

Harry hummed, stepping closer. “Same way that I know your mother doesn’t live in Britain but in America, Los Angeles. Your father lives with her and works for MACUSA. She prefers to stay home and knit, which you honestly think is kind of ridiculous, especially when she sends you scarves every single Christmas without fail.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to put something in the Daily Prophet for me.”

“How important is this?” Will swallowed. “That you’re willing to threaten my family to get this in there?”

“I don’t recall  outright saying that I’m threatening anyone,” Harry said, arching his eyebrow. There was a sliver of hope in Will’s eyes. “But I’m glad that the message got across anyway.” Will’s face fell. 

Harry stepped closer, trying not to feel a sense of glee at Will’s flinch. “It’s imperative that this gets published. What I have to say needs to reach some very important people. And that can’t happen without your help. So. Let me say this just once. You help me or else I will personally hunt down your fiancée, your mother, and your father, and ensure that you never see them again. Am I understood?”

Harry knew that he would never carry that out. He wasn’t that kind of person, no matter what anyone tried to turn him into. But if that’s what he needed to say to get a message out to his friends that could result in his eventual rescue and a blow to Voldemort’s efforts, so be it. 

He had considered using the Imperius Curse, but realized that wouldn’t work because once Will left, Harry wouldn’t be in constant contact with him. There would be no insurance that the spell was still in effect. If he had been given more time, Harry would have tried convincing Will to do this out of the goodness of his heart.

But because of his lack of both time and resources, seemingly real threats were the only way he could think of that would ensure a result. The only method that would stick. 

So he had walked into the bar earlier today with that in mind. He’d talked Will up, brought him outside, and cast the Imperius Curse on him.

In that time, Harry had made Will tell him everything about his life, about his family members, about what he was passionate about, everything so that he had endless bits of information to fall back on in case one threat didn’t work. Then Harry had modified his memory to make it seem as if they had made out for a bit, then split up amiably as Harry got a work call and had to leave. 

“Alright,” Will whispered. “What do you need me to write?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Harry smiled, grabbing the papers he’d already prepared out of his pockets. He glanced over them once, making sure the charms he’d placed on them to make sure they would remain intact were there, before handing them over. Will grabbed them gingerly, his hands shaking as he avoided eye contact. 

Is that what Harry had looked like to Voldemort at the beginning of his capture? This shaky, trembling, fearful being? Harry looked away, fighting a sudden surge of disgust. 

“They come out in the issue one month from tomorrow,” Harry said quietly. “Not before, not after. Do whatever you have to.”

“I will. You have my word.”

“Then you have my word that your loved ones will receive no harm from me,” Harry replied. “So long as you hold up your end. And… one more thing.”

Fear crept its way into Will’s eyes again. “What?”

“Sorry to do this again,” Harry sighed. He reached up and grabbed Will’s temple again, ignoring his attempts to struggle. “Imperio.”  

He waited for the familiar sensation of the body beneath his hand falling lax before pulling away, satisfied. 

“I need you to obliviate me,” Harry murmured. “The last two hours of today, from the moment that lady by the Daily Prophet stand told me about a reporter. Can’t have someone reading my mind and finding out what I did with my day. Once you obliviate me, you stand here for twenty seconds before leaving, and then you forget that you obliviated me. Nod if you understand.”

Will nodded. 

“Take out your wand, then,” Harry said, waiting until Will had done so. “Do it.”

“Obliviate.”

Two minutes later, the old man running the stall looked up to see a boy with green eyes walking up to him.

“Hey,” Harry said. “Could I get something to eat? I’m starving.”

“It’s getting late, kid,” the old man frowned. “Didn’t you eat dinner already, growing boy like you?”

“You know, the funniest thing is I don’t even remember what I did with my day.”

“Huh. Well, help yourself, kid. You able to pay for it?”

“Ah…”

“Well, I am closing up shop in a little bit. No use in throwing away all this stuff, eh? Help yourself.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Chapter Text

Harry felt his presence long after the sun had set. The stars were out now, barely visible against Paris’s light pollution, but there all the same. 

The scar on his forehead began to hum almost pleasantly as Voldemort arrived. Harry could feel the Dark Lord’s eyes focused on his back, studying him with their usual intensity. Harry tried to pay no mind to it, but he couldn’t help the way his body tensed up at having all that attention on him. 

He was sitting on top of a building. The terrace had been used as a restaurant up until about an hour ago. The kind old woman running the place had let Harry stay up here a little longer. So here Harry was. Dangling his feet off the edge and staring out at the view.

It was peaceful here. 

It was so different from what his life had been like so far. There had always been something adding a little hell to his days. Threats to his life, summer at the Dursleys - and this summer, which deserved a category all to itself. 

The Dark Lord’s presence was so demanding, so intoxicating, that Harry had forgotten what other people were like for a moment. He’d forgotten that there was an outside world still waiting for him full of people - not just Death Eaters or Order members. There was an entire world out here where there was just, well, peace. 

Harry had needed that reminder. Otherwise, he surely would have been spiraling by now, if not delayed by a couple more days, falling into the exact place that Voldemort wanted him to. He would have probably given up on the chance of escape, of victory and freedom, because what would be worth all that struggle outside his tiny little circle of people he trusted?

He gazed down at all the people roaming about the streets. They were all unaware that the most dangerous man in the world at the moment was somewhere above their heads, allowing them to live. They were all so innocent and oblivious. 

But if Voldemort won, their lives would be forever changed. Paris wouldn’t look like this anymore. How could it? These were all muggles. Maybe they would all be dead in a few years once Voldemort took over. 

If Voldemort took over, Harry reminded himself. There were no sureties yet. And even if there were, Harry would gladly deny that they were there until he couldn’t anymore. 

Voldemort was walking up to him, coming up to his side. Harry didn’t turn to face him. For some reason, just the thought of meeting the Dark Lord’s gaze set off his nerves, anticipation tightening its grip on him. It had been so odd to not have any Death Eaters or dark lords looking over his shoulders, watching his every move closely. Now it was like a familiar weight on his shoulders, though not as uncomfortable as Harry would have liked. 

“Enjoying yourself?” 

Harry finally looked over to the Dark Lord, a reflexive quip on the tip of his tongue before he remembered to hold it. Instead, he gave a short nod. Voldemort must have noticed the stall in response, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Voldemort murmured. “This is your last chance to back out, Harry. I won’t be extending this offer again.”

“You know I’m not backing out,” Harry said, slightly annoyed. He was getting tired of Voldemort having to constantly prove that he could manipulate him, that he knew what Harry would answer before Harry had even heard the question. “Just get me out of here already.”

“So desperate,” Voldemort said quietly, his lips curling up at the ends. “You know, when I saw you up here, I was afraid you might jump.”

“So the Dark Lord does fear something,” Harry mocked. “How reassuring. Maybe you can pass for a human once in a while.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. 

“If not to jump,” he said, “why were you up here?”

Harry shrugged, feeling oddly embarrassed at the question. To see the view seemed like such a mundane, boring response. 

“Nothing could ever be mundane or boring about you, Harry.”

Harry stared at Voldemort, too stunned by the compliment to be angry at the invasion of his thoughts. Red eyes gleamed at him knowingly, almost pleased. 

“Does my approval really affect you that much?” 

“Yes,” Harry said, trying not to think about the flush crawling up his neck, “it makes me want to vomit.”

“We can’t have that,” Voldemort drawled, laughter in his voice. He was definitely entertained now. “I’ll do my best to keep silent about these thoughts, moving forward. How does that sound to you?”

Harry angled his head to give the Dark Lord a flat stare when he paused, seeing Voldemort's hand hovering near his scar. He stilled immediately, fear taking over his instincts. Pain, his mind cried. Pain is coming. What else could be coming?

“Shh,” Voldemort murmured, bringing his finger to trace the outline of Harry’s scar. 

All at once, that blissful warmth overcame Harry’s senses. His eyelids drooped slightly as everything seemed to calm, the world rotating more slowly than before. Harry’s mind was blank as Voldemort traced the outline of his jaw, spreading that glowing heat with mercy. 

“Do you remember when you drank from my Horcrux?” Voldemort asked, his voice strangely distorted. “I’d never seen you like that, Harry. You’re always so full of anger and pride… That was the first time I’ve seen you let go.” 

What was Voldemort doing? 

“That’s what I want to accomplish with you by the end of these three months,” Voldemort continued. “I want to see you let go for me at least once. To show me that you’re capable of it. And then you can go back into Dumbledore’s welcoming arms, and I’ll forget what I made you into until the day I’m forced to kill you. If that’s what you want.”

Harry tried to nod, but Voldemort’s grip was too tight. At least, it felt too tight. 

“For now, however… Let me show you something.”

Harry’s vision was darkening at the edges. The building, the tables set aside on the terrace, the people milling about the streets - all of it disappeared until the only thing Harry could see was red. 

And then it was all gone. 

The next time Harry blinked, he was soaring through the air. Misty clouds brushed against his face, damping his hair. 

He didn’t know if it was because of Voldemort’s touch, but the sensation of it was everything, this lightness that he had been missing for who knew how long. 

Harry was flying. Without a broomstick. 

Wonder struck him still. He looked down below to see nothing carrying him and Voldemort, no magical apparatus hefting them up through the sky. It was all Voldemort’s magic. 

This was… incredible. Harry wanted to laugh with excitement. He hadn’t flown in so long. 

He felt infinite at that moment. Everlasting. Like nothing in the world could stop him from soaring. 

The Eiffel Tower blended into view, the little lights flickering at the edge of Harry’s vision. Voldemort brought them towards it, landing on the highest point that he could. It was only then that he let his grip of Harry go, backing away slightly. 

The view. 

Harry’s lips parted in amazement. 

It was exhilarating… He could see the city of Paris from miles on out from here. Buildings, not just the one he’d been on, but structures both large and small carefully planned out on the ground. The people looked so tiny, so insignificant from the height he was at, but somehow that made him even more in awe. 

The world seemed so big. And this was only one city!

“Do you like it?”

In the haze of his excitement and reverence, the reminder that Voldemort was next to him didn’t even faze him. Harry merely turned around and grinned. 

The Dark Lord blinked, his lips parted slightly. There was something unreadable in his gaze, this strange look that Harry had only seen on rare occasions. 

“What’s that look for?” Harry asked. 

“Nothing.” Voldemort put his hands behind his back, strolling up until he was shoulder to shoulder with Harry. 

For a moment, they both stood there, next to each other, drinking it all in, hostility the furthest thing from their minds. 

Harry tilted his head up to Voldemort on a whim then, waiting until red eyes met his before murmuring softly, “Thank you.”

“What for”

“You didn’t have to do any of this,” Harry said. He knew this, he had been thinking about it for the past couple of hours. There had been no reason for Voldemort to allow him this small amount of freedom on his birthday other than pure consideration. No reason for Voldemort to take Harry to the top of the Eiffel Tower because Harry admitted to liking the view other than pure consideration. 

And while nothing was ever that simple with the Dark Lord, that thought led Harry to start believing that maybe… 

Maybe there was something inside Voldemort that was still worth saving. 

Something human. 

Something Harry found himself almost desperate to see more of. 

And the truth was, Harry had begun to think of Voldemort as a human more and more lately. Before, he’d always been this mystical threat, some shadow of doom that was chased away by the light of Hogwarts and the safety it offered him. Now, however, Harry had spent so much time with Voldemort that he’d stopped thinking of him as some sort of… monster. 

He was just an incredibly evil human being. 

Not that Voldemort needed to be made aware of this change to Harry’s thinking. 

“Your eyes are different,” Voldemort murmured, wonderingly, almost to himself. “You’re not looking at me the same way you did while I chased you.”

“Because you’re not trying to kill me right now,” Harry pointed out. 

“I haven’t been trying to kill you for weeks now, Harry.”

“Well… Maybe I’m seeing something I didn’t see this morning,” Harry shrugged, feeling strangely free of worry or fear. 

A slight breeze picked up, tilting Voldemort slightly so that his shoulder brushed against Harry’s. Harry started, shifting away slightly. The silence made him look back at the Dark Lord. 

Voldemort eyed him curiously. “And what is it that you see this time?”

“What do you think I see?”

“What you have always seen. A murderer. A sinner… A monster. I disgust you, don’t I, Harry.”

“You’re all of those things,” Harry agreed, “and worse. All these killings, all these manipulations… splitting your soul… ” He hesitated before deciding to make that leap. “But that doesn’t that-”

“You can’t save me?” Voldemort smirked knowingly. 

“You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?”

That didn’t mean Harry wouldn’t try. 

“On the contrary, Harry, I’d delight in your attempts. And then, perhaps one day, you’ll see which one of us really needed to be saved.”

Harry shot him a dubious look. 

“So you think you’re doing some charity work for me by keeping me captive.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Why does that not surprise me? Thought I knew you better than that.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Think that you know me.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m learning, aren’t I?”

Voldemort laughed softly. “That you are. One thing we can agree on.”

“What about me?” Harry asked impulsively. 

“What about you?”

“I told you what I see when I look at you,” Harry said. “It’s only fair you tell me. I suppose I can guess if that makes it easier. I’ll skip the whole rant about me having potential, shall I? Let’s see… your leverage against the Order? Your Horcrux? Oh, and we can’t forget your weapon–”

“Careful, Harry darling, you’re coming dangerously close to admitting that you’re mine,” Voldemort murmured, his eyes dark. 

Harry’s ears burned red and he quickly glanced away, stammering that that hadn’t been what he’d meant. Voldemort only laughed, a surprisingly melodic and clear sound. 

“I’m not sure anymore, to tell the truth,” the Dark Lord said once his good mood had calmed somewhat. “I thought I knew. But…” he turned to Harry, eyes dragging up and down him leisurely, appraisingly. “I suppose if I had to sum it up in one word I’d say… a puzzle.”

“How flattering,” Harry said dryly. “Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t understand you. Every step of the way you’ve acted the complete opposite of how I would expect someone to act. You think with your heart and not your head and it’s kept you alive this long. It’s truly…”

“A puzzle.”

Voldemort inclined his head. 

Harry looked away. “So what happens now?”

“Well,” Voldemort said, “we do have around half an hour before your time in Paris is up. Then I’ll take us somewhere more private. Away from the Malfoys, my Death Eaters, everyone else. And then, tomorrow, we’ll start.”

“And what will we be starting, exactly?”

“Your training.”

“Bellatrix has already been teaching me, technically.”

“Yes,” Voldemort allowed, side-eyeing Harry, “but she’s not me. Who do you think taught her, Harry? However good she can make you, however good she already has made you, I can make you ten times better, if not more. Do you want that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You made the choice to take my deal. But yes, you do have a choice. But we both know what you would choose.” Voldemort smiled knowingly at this. “Not very content staying weak anymore, are you?”

Harry averted Voldemort’s smug gaze, muttering a quiet, “No.”

“Then tell me so.” 

Why was he being so insistent on Harry asking him for things? “Why do you keep offering me all these choices?”

“To teach you that you’re allowed to make them for yourself.”

Harry fell silent, his heart stopping. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

“Tell me at least once what you want and I’ll give it to you. I’m a very good listener.”

“Funny, during your meetings it’s usually you doing all the talking and planning.”

Voldemort cocked his head, reinvigorated interest igniting in his eyes. Harry wanted to shy away from the intensity of the Dark Lord’s gaze, of having its weight focused solely on him, but found himself rooted to the spot. “I don’t remember inviting you to one of my meetings. At least… not intentionally. Have you been prying into my head, Potter?” 

“Not on purpose,” Harry frowned. “As if I’d voluntarily watch that sort of thing.”

“Well, perhaps by the next one, you’ll be an active participant.”

Harry scoffed. As if. Voldemort could do whatever he wanted to him, but Harry would never take his side. There was nothing Voldemort could say that would change Harry’s mind on that. He was not some servant to a Dark Lord, he wasn’t even a soldier in the first place. 

“I want to… I want to stop letting others make decisions for me,” Harry said finally. “I want to stop being afraid. I want to stop not knowing what to do. I’ve always waited for someone to tell me what I should do, to tell me what I’m meant for. And I’ve always gone along with that because I wouldn’t know how to do any of that on my own. But now I’m learning. And I want the power to fully achieve that, to become someone that I can respect. Instead of…” 

He bit his lip, feeling the now-familiar regret at how utterly useless he had been in the past. 

“... being a coward.”

“I think you’re many things, Harry,” Voldemort said quietly. “But I have never once truly thought you were a coward.”

And there was another compliment. Another one that Harry wouldn’t accept so easily. 

“Aren’t I?” Harry barked out a laugh, tasting bitterness on his tongue. “I’ve failed so completely ever since I learned of my obligation to this world. I’m not someone they should respect, I’m a fraud if anything.”

There was a lick of anger in Voldemort’s eyes now. Their color seemed to glow against the soft lights cast by Paris, even at this distance. “You want to become strong for them? For the world and your friends?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps I won’t teach you.”

Harry faltered, staring up at him. “Why not?”

“Because that’s a lie. You’re not doing this for them,” Voldemort stepped closer, the air turning cold and still. “Is it truly so hard for Dumbledore’s star pupil to admit he wants to be selfish once in a while?”

“That’s not why.”

“Stop fooling yourself. Dumbledore’s not here to look over your shoulder. It’s just you and me.” 

“Why are you so focused on this?” Harry snapped. “It’s always back to Dumbledore with you, isn’t it? Can you just not stand that he likes me more than you? Is it jealousy, Tom?”

“And there’s the anger and pride,” Voldemort muttered irritably. 

“You want to talk about anger and pride?” Harry raised his eyebrows tauntingly. “Sorry if I don’t go prancing around the hallways showing off my parseltongue or killing little girls in bathrooms just because they see my ugly pet snake. Or taking out my anger at never fitting in on people who are just like me.”

“ I at least possess an ounce of self-control, of common sense, and ambition,” Voldemort sneered. “More than you ever did. I’m not trying to protect the people who wronged me over and over again because I can’t bear to be on my own. You’re weak, Harry Potter. And you will stay weak if you keep going on like this.”

“Oh?” Harry laughed in his face. “Is that why you want me to let go? What kind of bloody nonsense is that? What does that even mean?” 

“It means I’m tired of you accepting your place in chains,” Voldemort said quietly. “I’m tired of seeing you so complacent. It makes me sick .”

“You make me sick,” Harry hissed. “You’d have no problem with seeing me complacent. Not if it was for you.” He had the audacity then to stab his finger into Voldemort’s chest, pushing him back by the barest fraction of a step. 

For once, Voldemort didn’t have a response to that. His mouth was open, surprise in his eyes. Harry rolled his eyes and turned away, not wanting to know what had caused that reaction. 

“I’m sorry,” Voldemort said after what felt like the longest silence of Harry’s life.

Oh, Harry was definitely dreaming now. He gaped at the Dark Lord, not sure that he’d heard quite right. I’m sorry? Had Voldemort just apologized to him? 

“What?” he managed. 

“I’m not repeating myself.”

That almost made Harry huff a laugh. 

He’d just argued with the Dark Lord and Voldemort had ended up being the one to apologize. This was insane. Unless, Harry thought with a suspicious glare at the man in question, he was just manipulating him again. Making Harry believe that there was something in Voldemort to save in order to get him to stay. 

No. That couldn’t be a manipulation. Harry wasn’t seeing things. This, at least, had to be real. 

It had to be. 

“Maybe I want it for myself,” Harry admitted. An apology like that should be rewarded, right? Well, he could afford some honesty, even if it hurt to say this out loud. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Maybe?” Voldemort scoffed. “I’m never wrong, Potter.”

Whatever. Harry took one last look at the city of Paris before meeting Voldemort’s eyes once again. This time, he was scared. Not of Voldemort, not this time. Of himself. If Voldemort could see through Harry that easily, if he had claimed with such confidence earlier that he could turn Harry into something else… What chance did Harry have?

Please don’t let me regret this, Harry prayed to whoever was watching. He didn’t want to be weak, but he wasn’t sure that Voldemort’s definition of strength was something to strive for either. 

Some of what Voldemort wanted was obvious. He wanted Harry’s complacency. He wanted Harry to let go in more ways than one. To let go of the Order, his friends, his morals, everything but him. If there was one constant to Voldemort, it was his obsession. 

Obsession with eternal life. Obsession with ruling the world. And now an obsession with breaking Harry.

“Well?” Voldemort asked. “Do you think I’ll succeed?”

“No.” Not without a fight. 

Voldemort smiled, and it was back to how it was before their little argument. Quiet amusement and pleasant entertainment. Harry felt relieved. “Good. I wouldn’t have expected anything less.” He extended his hand. 

For the second time that day, Harry took it. 

Please don’t let me regret this. 

Chapter Text

They apparated into the middle of a field full of red flowers.

Harry stumbled a little at the landing, hands flailing in the air before he steadied himself. It must have been late at night, past midnight at a rough estimate. Harry didn't get the chance to look up at the stars to tell before Voldemort snared his attention, gesturing with his fingers for Harry to look at him. 

"Where are we?" Harry asked before Voldemort could say something condescending. He cringed a little at the slight uplift of Voldemort's eyebrow, the slight exasperation in his eyes. 

"One of the only places in the world Dumbledore will never be able to find you," Voldemort answered, gesturing to the empty space in front of them. Harry stared, glancing between the fields and the Dark Lord until the silence dragged on for too long. Seeing his confusion, Voldemort smirked and leaned forward, pulling Harry closer to whisper something in his ear.

"Slytherin Manor."

Harry stared back at Voldemort, wondering what the hell he was playing at. He shied away once it was clear Voldemort wasn't going to explain anything further, shrugging one shoulder to rub at his ear. It wasn't until he looked up again that he realized there was something else in the distance now. A large portion of the eerie red flowers had disappeared to make way for a large Manor, gleaming distantly in the moonlight. 

The Manor's exterior was dreadful. Dark, on the verge of falling apart. There was a sinister air about the place, from the dark, tinted windows and crawling ivy to the ravens flying overhead. It all seemed a bit dramatic, Harry thought, which made him wonder if it was all just for show. If this was Slytherin's Manor, there was no way he would live in a dodgy place like this. 

Then again, Harry reconsidered, the Slytherins at Hogwarts did live in a fucking dungeon. Maybe there was a creep factor they were going for. As if they weren't already all out of sorts. 

"How come I'm just now seeing it?" Harry wondered aloud, knowing full well that Voldemort had anticipated the question. He glanced over and saw Voldemort staring at the Manor with something like reverence in his eyes. It was the first time Harry had seen an expression like that on the Dark Lord. There couldn't be a lot for Lord Voldemort to admire. 

"It's a complex piece of magic," Voldemort told him. "It's called a Fidelius Charm."

The term was foreign to Harry. "A what?"

"A Fidelius Charm," Voldemort repeated, narrowing his eyes slightly in irritation. As if there was a person on earth capable of keeping up with him. "A wizard or witch casts it upon a given space to hide it from eyes other than their own." He sounded like he was reading off a textbook, although there were none in sight. Sometimes Harry forgot that Voldemort must have been a student at Hogwarts, too. "In doing so, they tie the spell to what we call a 'secret keeper.' Once they share the location's secret, others are let into the place."

Harry blinked and looked back at the Manor. A spell like that sounded near impossible, especially on a place as big as this. A single apartment Harry could imagine, maybe a small house, but a huge building like this? "Who cast this one?"

"Me."

Of course. Harry nodded, cursing himself for not predicting that. He could feel the smugness radiating off of Voldemort with that answer. 

"You'll be able to, too, one day," Voldemort said casually, not taking his eyes off Harry. "You're not quite there yet. But you will."

That wasn't happening. Not because Harry had no interest in the Fidelius Charm - it was a bloody good spell to know, he figured - but because he didn't think he could manage a feat like that. He wouldn't know the first place to start. 

"If this is Slytherin's Manor," Harry said slowly. "Then why on earth does it look like that?"

Voldemort's face looked almost approving at the question. "Why don't you tell me, Harry?"

This was not an opportunity for teaching, Harry scowled. When Voldemort showed no sign of answering him, he sighed and thought about it. 

"It's to keep the muggles away, isn't it?" Harry asked finally, once he'd finished taking it all in. "Even if they are by chance able to see it, it looks too much like their stereotypical haunted house for them to try going in."

"Very good, Harry," Voldemort praised. "You're starting to use that brain of yours."

Harry scowled. He didn't want to mention that the appearance of the Manor was working on him, too. Being close to it just felt wrong. And Harry had come to recognize that feeling as the overwhelming presence of dark magic. 

Slytherin Manor. As in Salazar Slytherin. That could be the only explanation for how ancient and almost alive the Manor looked despite being in the state that it was. The exterior must have at least reflected how old the building was if nothing else. And if Salazar Slytherin had lived here... Harry didn't want to know what he would find inside. 

Voldemort had to be doing this on purpose. He had mentioned that Slytherin Manor was one of the places that Dumbledore would not be able to find. Because only a Parselmouth could. That's what Voldemort had spoken in when he revealed the location of the Manor to Harry. And since Harry could understand Parseltongue as English, the Fidelius Charm had lowered for him. 

Besides that, the place was very obviously saturated with dark magic. Harry would have to spend the next couple of months in this place, where there was barely any trace of light magic at all. He would be completely out of his depth here. What would happen if he was exposed to this much magic for such a long period of time? 

Voldemort had started walking towards the entrance of the Manor. Heart racing and fear spiking, Harry followed after him, glancing over his shoulder in case something was watching. Maybe a ghost would pop out of nowhere at any moment and attack him or a zombie would rise from behind these blood-red flowers. 

Or maybe he was just being paranoid and an idiot. 

The door opened with a large creak after Voldemort murmured a hissed word to it. Harry cautiously peeked inside, waiting until Voldemort crossed over the entryway to follow him. Harry shut the door behind him quickly, flinching at the deluge of dust that rained onto his head as he did so. Voldemort whipped around, confusion on his face, before looking at the state of Harry's hair and casting his eyes heavenward. 

"Harry, if this place is enough to scare you, I'm sorry to inform you that you're not going to last very long against me."

Harry made an offended face behind Voldemort's back. "I lasted more than a little while against you in the graveyard, actually. You know, in case you forgot."

"You surprised me when you escaped from Malfoy manor," Voldemort acknowledged, not turning around. A staircase came up on their left, several closed doors on both sides. Voldemort reached the end of the small hallway, placing his skeletal hand on the handle before saying, "But if I was really trying Harry, you wouldn't have lasted two seconds in the graveyard."

"That's such a lie," Harry scoffed in an effort to salvage his own pride. "You beat me in the end, but -"

"And if we were enemies, you would have been dead either way, no matter how hard you tried."

"It wasn't that terrible."

"Oh?" Voldemort turned around, his hand still on the door handle, making no motion to open it. Harry wished he would if only so he wouldn't feel so embarrassed under Voldemort's stare. "Your form was better, but still not good enough. Your spells worked but there was no passion for what you were casting, your reflexes quick but acting to avoid the wrong things." Harry tried and failed to suppress his wince, oddly hurt. "We'll go over it later this week."

"Wait - what?"

Voldemort opened the door without a response, stepping into the room. 

And what a room it was. 

It was similar to the large ballroom Malfoy Manor possessed, and this was just the foyer. The outside really didn’t do the interior of this place justice, Harry thought, dazed as he wondered how many galleons it must have taken to build just this space. He didn’t even know how big the rest of the Manor was. It had seemed so much smaller when he looked at it from the fields on the other side of the door. 

Elaborately decorated pillars stood in vertical rows from where Harry was, travelling all the way to the end of the hall, where a grand staircase lay underneath the railing of the upper floor. Serpents of silver, ranging from all sizes, curled up snug against the walls, the railings - if Harry had ever doubted that this was Slytherin Manor, he surely didn't now. The doors at the top of the steps seemed recently furnished, gleaming bright despite being hardwood. Glancing around, Harry spotted several other staircases, placed smartly enough to not seem out-of-place but instead to tie the whole space together. 

“Your wing is up there,” Voldemort said, pointing towards a spiralling marble staircase on his left. Harry stared at it, dumbfounded, before registering that Voldemort had just said his wing. Not just a room - a whole section of this place. 

This was so weird.

And terrifying. This all felt incredibly civil granted that it had been Voldemort’s idea to come here. There had to be something up with this place. Harry wasn’t being paranoid at all. 

Right? 

“Um,” Harry began. “Is that all?” 

Voldemort peered at him over his shoulder. His wand was in his hand, grasped almost lazily. The constant itch that came with dark magic was already making Harry feel on edge - it would be even worse if Voldemort decided to start casting spells. Harry inched back, bracing himself. 

“Hogwarts will be starting next month,” was all Voldemort said. 

Oh. 

Harry blinked, trying not to show how hearing that little fact affected him. It felt like a slap to the face. 

He swallowed again, hard, feeling as though there were rocks in his throat. 

Hogwarts, his home. The one constant that he’d had over his summer: looking forward to going back there. 

And now even that would be taken away from him. 

Harry studied his shoes, frowning painfully as he tried to keep his emotions in check, his eyes dry. 

If Ron and Hermione didn’t know that he was missing by then, they certainly would by the time they boarded the Hogwarts Express. It wasn’t just them, too - it would be the entire world that would know he was missing. 

The question was whether they would call him a captive... or a traitor. 

“We’ll talk about it more tomorrow,” Voldemort said, watching Harry carefully. He looked more like how he had been at the start of Harry’s capture at that moment, cold and suspicious. As if Harry really was a puzzle that he was trying to solve. Just so he could take it apart. Piece by piece. 

It was so strange how this calm, collected version of Voldemort made Harry more uneasy than when he was flying into a rage. At least the Dark Lord was predictable when he was angry. Now, Harry had no idea what he was going to do. 

And he’d have to sleep under the same roof as Voldemort while wondering all of this. 

“What about our lessons?” Harry asked. 

“Tomorrow as well. You’ve had a long day, and when I teach you I want you to be at your best.”

Harry just nodded in response, unsure of what to say. Any vocal agreement felt too subservient to him - as if he was just another one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. Disposable and non-important. 

“Disposable?” Voldemort asked, the first traces of a smile since Paris gracing his face. “That’s rather harsh, Harry. And,” he interrupted when Harry looked at him in anger, “before you demand that I don’t have the right to look through your thoughts, keep in mind that you’re not exactly in a position to demand anything. The moment you stepped into this house, you sealed our deal. You are under my power for the next three months. The only way you get me to change something is by making me. Is that understood?”

Like Harry could ever make Voldemort do anything. Regardless, he knew how to pick and choose his battles now. So he nodded again, this one a sharp dip of the head without the false politeness. 

“If you weren’t as fascinating as you are,” Voldemort told him, “you would be punished for your disrespect.”

“If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t show you that amount of disrespect.”

Voldemort looked at him, eyes sharpening with irritation. “As much as I enjoy your cheek, Potter, I’m tired of you for tonight. I have matters to attend to tonight that are far more important than this… bantering with you. Have a good night.”

The dismissal was obvious. Harry had the sudden urge to keep talking to Voldemort, but he knew that was stupid. And since when did he want to talk to Voldemort anyway? Since Voldemort turned out to be his only entertaining form of company? 

Entertaining. 

That sounded like something Voldemort would call Harry. 

The slightest shift of Voldemort’s feet told Harry that he’d heard that thought. Flushing with embarrassment, Harry quickly sped up the staircase. He dug his hand into the pocket of his clothing, clenching his wand with relief. He wasn’t as helpless as before. What were three more months after all the time he’d already spent with Voldemort? 

Yet something told him that these three months would be entirely different from what he expected them to be. 

The next morning, Voldemort woke Harry up with a sharp lace of pain to his scar. 

Harry hated the man all over again as he got up, letting out a string of curses that would make even Molly Weasley pale after all she’d heard from her sons. It couldn’t be that late in the morning; Harry was always an early riser. 

The amount of sunlight in his room said otherwise. Once his vision adjusted with his glasses, Harry saw the dust suspended in the air, highlighted by the incoming streams of sunlight - bright enough to indicate a time around noon - through the large window in his room. A window, Harry realized. Voldemort must have been extremely confident that Harry wouldn’t escape this time if he was being given a window this time. 

It had taken Harry a while to find these chambers. There hadn't been any house-elves to give him a tour of his wing or show him to his room. He’d had to use the painstaking process of checking every door in search of a bed. After what felt like hours, he’d found this one. 

The bed was covered by a luscious green comforter and framed by drapes of the same colour. The pillows were a pale white and the softest Harry had ever felt. These could have been Slytherin’s rooms considering the quality of everything. 

It was that very thought that persuaded Harry to sleep on the couch near the window instead of the bed. He’d found some spare blankets in the large armoire, tugging it over along with a pillow from the bed and falling asleep quickly. Like the majority of everything else in the room, the couch was dark green with silver serpents crawling up the legs, though out of the way of anyone lounging on it. 

“Ow!” Harry yelped, slapping a hand to his forehead when another burst of pain shot through it. “Coming, coming…” 

After forcing himself to tumble off the couch and freshen up, he made his way through the maze of his wing. His gut pulled him along the way after he’d descended the spiral staircase from last night, into the foyer and up another one to wherever Voldemort was. 

Harry found the Dark Lord by a small, dainty circular table on the other side of the Manor. 

Voldemort was sitting in a room that seemed to protrude slightly from the Manor’s walls, an interior balcony of sorts. Beautiful glass paintings framed the room instead of walls, turning the inside shimmering shades of blue, green, and red. They almost looked too perfect to be real. Harry walked up to the glass doors, tried to open them, only to find that they were locked. 

He glanced down and saw twin serpents framing the door handles, looping around in an infinity sign. 

Red eyes flicked over to him. Challenging. 

Harry scowled and looked down again. Summoning up the image of a snake, he whispered, “Open.” 

The serpents slithered away. Harry let himself into the room, glancing at the table and sitting down on the opposite side before Voldemort could order him to sit down. He wasn’t a dog. 

“No, you’re certainly not,” Voldemort murmured, smirking. 

“You owe me some answers.” 

“Good morning to you, too, Harry.” 

“In the dungeon at Malfoy Manor, you said that you’d answer four questions. One for each day I’d been there before you killed Mrs Figg. I only got to ask one.”

“And so I owe you three more," Voldemort sighed. "Very well, Harry - if you must. Ask away. Personally, I was looking for a pleasant conversation to start my day.”

Harry ignored this. “Why did you bring me to Paris?” 

Voldemort brought his cup of tea to his lips, gesturing for Harry to prepare his own cup while he answered. Harry complied, reaching for the sugar. “Because you needed it.” 

Harry was really tired of the cryptic answers. “I’m going to need a better explanation than that. You could have brought me straight here. You already knew that I would agree to your deal. And,” he reached for the kettle, “you once told me everything that happens to me is all part of your plan.” 

Voldemort was quiet at that. His eyes didn’t leave Harry, moving steadily in their curious study. The silence dragged on long enough that Harry was about to give up and ask his other question when - 

“We had fought in the graveyard. That place serves as a reminder to you of what cruelties I’m capable of. The tragic death of your friend, the ritual Wormtail was instructed to force you to partake in... I didn’t want that idea fresh in your mind. So I brought you to a place that would provide you with some comfort so you would think of me in the way I wanted you to. You’ll trust me soon enough, Harry - I just wanted to expedite the process.” 

But Voldemort had done more than just take Harry to Paris. He'd engaged Harry in conversation; he'd wished him well on his birthday, a date Harry wouldn't have expected Voldemort to know in the first place; he'd put in much more effort than required to gain a better standing in Harry's eyes. Surely Voldemort, as clever as his mind was, was aware of that. Harry just didn't understand why he was making it seem like he didn't. 

“That doesn’t explain why you took me to the top of the Eiffel.” 

“No,” Voldemort set his cup down, turning instead to his croissant with an air of finality. “It doesn’t.” And that was the end of that. 

“What else am I missing - out there? Besides… Hogwarts opening soon.” 

“Touchy subject?” Voldemort mused. “You had a strong reaction to the news last night. But of course you would. You’re missing the chance to parade your fame to everyone willing to witness it, to have everything you’ve ever wanted again. Am I wrong?“

Again, Voldemort knew that was wrong. At least, Harry thought he did - unless this was just a test to confirm Voldemort's assumptions. Harry had never taken pleasure in his fame, he’d never utilized it - all he’d ever done was find regret and drown in it. “Yeah, you are, actually. I don’t care that I’m famous. Hogwarts was just…”

“Your home.” 

Harry gave a short nod. 

“If you could use your fame to your advantage,” Voldemort said, leaning back and setting his utensils back onto the plate, “would you? You could gain support, backup - power.” 

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about doing that.” 

Voldemort tilted his head, resting it on the back of his chair. Green as well. Slytherin was an arrogant bastard all right. “Perhaps you don’t have the skillset yet. But you are a fast learner.” 

“Teaching me that wouldn’t be to your advantage at all.” 

“No?“ Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “I won’t delude myself into believing you’ll stay in my care after the three months are up. Once my time with you is up, you’ll be out in the real world again. Where people will be far, far worse than I’ve been to you.” 

That was true. Voldemort had tortured him, damaged him - but he’d never broken Harry. Because he couldn’t. Harry was his Horcrux. But that didn’t matter to other people. Fenrir Greyback for one looked like someone who would rip Harry apart no matter what Voldemort’s orders were. 

“Precisely,” Voldemort said quietly, his voice darkening with a hint of rage. “I will not allow my Horcrux to be destroyed. I want you to be able to defend yourself, to be as difficult to harm as the other pieces of my soul.” 

The explanation sounded reasonable enough. Logical. But somehow, Harry didn’t think it was the whole truth. 

“Let’s go through a little exercise, shall we? Before I get to answering your question.” With a start, Harry realized he’d forgotten all about the question he’d asked. Voldemort smirked at him knowingly. 

“You’re an arse.”

“Do you think Severus Snape's true loyalties lie with me or Dumbledore?” 

Well, that was an odd question for Voldemort to ask - most of all to someone like Harry. Harry was in the dark about Snape. All he had were his own assumptions, despite whatever Dumbledore had insisted on telling him over and over again. 

“Dumbledore always told me that Snape was on his side,” Harry said truthfully. “But I’ve never thought that. I don’t think you can just walk away from being a Death Eater. The person Snape is hasn’t changed, and if he sided with you once before based on his own beliefs, then that wouldn’t change. Especially if there’s a high chance of you winning.” 

And there was a high chance of Voldemort winning. Maybe Harry could have deluded himself into believing that one day, maybe many years in the future, he could have beaten Voldemort. But the reality was that the other was leagues ahead of him. Just being in Voldemort's presence was enough for Harry to know that the power he commanded was unfathomable. If Voldemort had toyed with Harry in their last round of duels - what would happen if the Dark Lord decided to put in his full effort? 

Harry would be dead long before his body hit the ground. 

“That’s what I believed as well,” Voldemort said, lacing his fingers together and setting them into the table. His plate was already removed, as was Harry’s finished cup of very sweet tea. “Until quite recently, I fully trusted that I held Severus’s loyalty. Can you guess what changed?” 

Harry thought about it. The only recent development he could think of was, “You captured me.” 

“Yes. Now can you tell me what it is about you that might have led me to suspect Severus?” 

What would Snape have told Voldemort about him? Harry angled his head back, staring at the glass painting of the ceiling - a dragon curling in an infinite loop with a splash of red at the centre, almost protective in its embrace - as he wondered. “He would have told you about me, right? About… what I’m like?” That was the only information about Harry that he could think of Snape passing along. The man likely didn’t know much else, unless Dumbledore had somehow trusted Snape more than Harry. 

The likelihood of that happening was high enough to make something inside Harry burn. 

Voldemort’s smile was pleased. “Good. You’re far smarter than you lead others to believe, Harry.” 

Harry didn’t know what possessed his cheeks to burn as he ducked his head, not wanting to make eye contact. 

“Severus’s information on you was drastically incorrect. Though I have several suspicions as to why - and all of them point to his true allegiances being with Dumbledore. You’re right that Severus’s core beliefs would not have changed, even after all these years. So… what do you think persuaded him to run to the old man?” 

That was just it. That’s why Harry found it so hard to believe that Snape would ever be on Dumbledore’s side. There was nothing in it for him. Not like with Voldemort. 

So if there weren’t any rewards… that left threats. Dumbledore had something Snape didn’t want to lose - at all costs. Just the thought of losing it scared Snape enough to switch sides - to turn spy against Voldemort. 

And what a good spy he must have made it Voldemort was only now having suspicions. 

“I slipped,” Voldemort acknowledged, not looking very happy about it. The utensils rattled softly. Harry looked around warily. “I was so desperate to rebuild my forces that I was blind. But never again. And when all of this is over… when Dumbledore has been taken care of…” 

He gave Harry a look that meant nothing good could be coming to Snape. A slow death would be a mercy. 

“Why is Snape spying for Dumbledore?” 

“I suspect it’s because of your mother.” 

Harry snorted, dismissing that with a laugh. Yeah, right. Snape and his mother. Lily Potter - who everyone said had the smile of an angel and a character to match it, who both Sirius and Professor Lupin gushed over. Someone like her wouldn’t be associated with someone like Snape. A blood purist. A Death Eater. 

“On the contrary,” Voldemort said, looking as if he was enjoying this far too much, “Severus was utterly in love with dear Lily. They grew up together. And once they got to Hogwarts, they remained friends. That is - until your mother believed that he’d gotten too involved with the wrong sort.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“Not about this.” 

Part of Harry reasoned that Voldemort really was telling the truth, especially now when it served a greater purpose than false information. But... 

Snape and Harry’s mother? 

“But my mother’s dead.” No thanks to the man sitting across from him. 

“But you’re not.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“What greater way to continue his devotion to your mother than by protecting you?” 

“That’s stupid,” Harry said petulantly. Snape had done nothing but bully and harass Harry ever since Harry had arrived at Hogwarts. The man hated him - perhaps more than Voldemort did now - and had shown that hatred with every interaction they had. That wasn't protection. 

“It’s likely the truth.” 

Harry stared. 

“Now,” Voldemort said, unbothered by Harry's bewilderment,  “we can talk about the world outside our little home here-”

“This is not my-”

“Hogwarts is re-opening,” Voldemort continued, smiling faintly at Harry’s glare. Harry fumed silently. “But you obviously already know that. What you don’t know is what our dear Ministry is up to. Dumbledore has been struggling to keep the reins on the public - and is failing magnificently. Minister Fudge believes that you and Dumbledore are merely telling lies in order to spread fear and assume control-”

Harry made a sound of outrage, standing up fast enough to knock back his seat, slamming his hands on the table. Not even that newspaper in Paris could have prepared him for hearing this from Voldemort’s mouth. It suddenly felt more real. “Lies?” Harry demanded. “I wouldn’t lie about-”

“I know, Harry,” Voldemort said soothingly, though his red eyes were endlessly amused. He gazed at Harry, cocking his head. “I would know better than anyone, wouldn’t I? No need to lose that temper of yours in front of me. Save that for Fudge.” And Dumbledore were the unspoken words. 

Grudgingly, Harry nodded and sat back down, not bothering to pick up the cup that had shattered onto the ground. There weren’t any house-elves around - Voldemort could clean up the mess then. 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “How cruel," he said mockingly. Then he waved a hand, not bothering to look as the cup magically disappeared. Bastard. “As I was saying - Fudge is obviously not in the right here; but how could he when he is being controlled by his fear? Although I admit, that might be some of my doing. At my request, Lucius Malfoy has been steadily… guiding him through these troubling times. Fudge is now desperate to retain any control he has left - including that which he possesses over Hogwarts.”

The way Voldemort said it made Harry nervous. “What kind of control?”

“He’s hiring a new Defence professor. Dolores Umbridge. Heard of her?” Harry shook his head. “Thought not, though that’s likely for the best. One less person for you to care about when I decide her usefulness has ended. She plans to rise the ranks in Hogwarts to eventually take Dumbledore’s place. The use of magic will be banned in classrooms and the Ministry will be overseeing every aspect of what goes on in Hogwarts moving forward. All to prevent Dumbledore from raising a wizarding army of teenagers against our dear Minister.”

A wizarding army? Against the Ministry?

“That’s insane.”

Voldemort hummed in agreement, his eyes flicking away. “Now that I’ve answered your question… I want you to do something for me.”

Harry was instantly on guard. Of course these answers wouldn’t come without a price. Even though he should have paid it long ago through his time in the dungeons - Voldemort still had to spin it in some way so it benefited him. Harry braced himself for whatever unspeakable act Voldemort wanted him to commit - what atrocity - maybe he wanted Harry to murder someone or worse - 

“Don’t look so scared, Harry,” Voldemort chided, smirking in a way Harry could only describe as playful as he rose from his seat. The chair tucked itself back in on its own. The casual display of power had Harry grimacing. “Tell me what’s wrong with this room.”

Harry stood back up, too, leaving the chair pushed out. Again - Voldemort could do that, Harry wasn’t going to play nice and civil all of a sudden. “Besides the fact that you’re in it?”

Voldemort chuckled. He was in a much better mood than last night. “Besides the fact that I’m in it.”

“Then there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Try again.”

Harry stamped his foot in frustration, crossing his arms. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t see anything wrong with it. Nothing’s out of place - it’s just a room with way too fancy furniture and an unhealthy obsession with green. You tell me what’s wrong.”

Voldemort tsked. “And there’s that temper again.” As if he didn’t have a way worse temper than Harry. Voldemort killed people when he was upset. The best Harry could do was slam his hands on the table in a small act of rebellion. “I do recall you ‘blowing up’ your aunt, Harry, when your temper got out of hand.”

How did he even know that?

“This isn’t a room,” Voldemort explained, folding his hands behind his back as he paced to the furthest wall of glass paintings. Harry followed him with a confused stare, stopping when there was a minimal distance between them. “Close your eyes, Harry.”

Harry scoffed. 

“These things would move by so much smoother if you just listened to me for once. You don’t have to fight me on everything,” Voldemort murmured. “Close your eyes. I won’t hurt you.”

Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice, maybe it was the clear tones of reassurance with no hidden threats - but Harry obliged, albeit cursing himself while he did so. When he stopped to think about it, he realized that Voldemort could have hurt him at any given moment from Paris to right now - while he slept, while he was on the Eiffel - even at this very second. 

And yet… here Harry was. 

“Open them.”

Harry slid his eyes open to find that same field of red flowers from last night. This time, however, they weren’t in front of him - they were a long way down below his feet. 

The dizzying height was too real to be another illusion. Voldemort’s gaze was too expectant, too entertained. It really had never even been a room to begin with. 

Harry spun around to see the table that they’d eaten at, still there except floating on air. Just like he was. Floating on air.

Voldemort must have… compacted the air beneath them to create such a steady surface, Harry realized. And… to conjure up a room that believable, that Harry hadn’t thought twice about the realness of the glass paintings or the ground beneath his feet… 

It was just like the trick Voldemort had pulled in the Malfoy's foyer after Harry had escaped the dungeons. He'd made Harry believe he was in one place when really they'd been in another. At the time, Harry had been too terrified of Voldemort's punishment for escaping that he hadn't had a chance to fully appreciate how much power the illusion must have taken. To completely fabricate a different surrounding, to make everything from the temperature of the space to the light flowing into the room to tricking Harry's own instincts - it was insane. 

And this time - this time Harry was in no danger. At least, not for the time being. So he tilted his head to look up at the sky, the winds of a higher altitude breezing past him, the sun so warm on his skin. He took a step forward, gasping a little as he didn't fall. It was exhilarating, it felt like nothing could touch him up here-

Harry was flying again. After such a long time of being stranded, tortured on the ground - Voldemort had brought him into the air for the second time in the mere span of a day. 

Harry met the Dark Lord's eyes, not bothering to hide his awe this time. Voldemort could probably feel it through that strange link between their minds. Voldemort’s lips were curled up in a smirk already - a telltale sign that he’d been buried in Harry’s thoughts again, no matter how much Harry hated it. 

“Do you remember what I told you last night?” Voldemort prompted, looking far too pleased with himself. The very embodiment of arrogance and yet - not arrogance unfounded. If Harry could pull off something like this, he’d probably be insufferably proud of himself, too. “You think our small argument in the graveyard was a fair fight? Think again. You were never on the same footing as me, Harry. You’re not even close.”

Harry knew that. He knew that now more than ever. To have fooled him so completely… Harry swallowed. 

This didn’t even seem like that much of an effort for Voldemort. 

Voldemort had moved close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of his breath. Voldemort dipped his head down so they were at eye level. Harry blinked to realize that he hadn’t been breathing properly. 

“Aren’t you going to thank me, Harry?” Voldemort smirked.

“Is this how you got us to the Eiffel?” Harry breathed. He wasn’t thinking properly - He was dazed and just… completely entranced by what Voldemort had pulled off. It had been beautiful for once. “Are we…”

Voldemort nodded. “Flying? It’s something that took me a long time to figure out. Flight is not thought to be possible without a broom.”

“Teach me.”

“Why, Harry,” Voldemort smiled lazily, backing away, sucking all the warmth from the air as he did so. “All you had to do was ask.”

Flight, he informed Harry a little later in the day, was a piece of incredibly advanced magic. It wasn’t something that Harry would be able to learn so soon - especially not at the level he was at. Harry tried not to take offence to that, but it still stung all the same. 

They made their way to a separate wing of the Manor - Voldemort’s study area. He’d told Harry that there was a library that he wanted them to work in for the foreseeable future. Harry was barely keeping up with him as they made their way there, but Voldemort seemed to know his way around this place perfectly. Harry wondered how often Voldemort had visited here - when he’d come to know of this place. 

“Is this where you lived during the war?” Harry finally found the voice to ask. It had been dead silent ever since he’d caved in to ask Voldemort to teach him to fly - any sound felt wrong somehow. 

“No, I had… other residences. This is not the only home I’ve received through…” Voldemort seemed to have trouble with the word. Out of disgust if nothing else. “... family.” Harry didn’t quite know how to respond to that. It was odd to imagine Voldemort having parents. Being a child. He shuddered. 

“Strangely enough, I think the same of you, Harry,” Voldemort murmured. “You don’t seem like the type to bow to the will of anyone - even a mother and father. You’re far too independent.”

Harry thought about that. Voldemort wasn’t necessarily wrong. And Harry supposed it wasn’t a bad thing - he was just so used to thinking for himself in certain situations. Well, unless he was too far out of his depth - that’s where people like Dumbledore came in. Or -  used to come in. 

Voldemort laughed softly. “Indeed,” he said as he led them into the library. 

It was… smaller than Harry expected. About the size of the room he’d been given - not nearly the size of the Malfoy library or the one at Hogwarts. There likely wouldn’t be much information he could find in here. Not even on… 

Harry cut that thought off before Voldemort could catch a glimpse of it, focusing instead on his initial surprise. That particular interest of his should remain a secret until he had enough information to move forward. “This can’t be everything.”

“No, but it is everything that I’m allowing you access to,” Voldemort replied, striding over to a nearby chair and settling down. A simple rug lay at his feet, decorated with - curiously - lions of gold and red. “If you behave, I might give you more. Consider it a reward.”

To think that Harry would ever consider books a reward. 

There wasn’t another chair for Harry to sit in, leaving him awkwardly standing there as Voldemort fell silent. Harry shuffled his feet, glaring at Voldemort imploringly. He didn’t expect Harry to sit on the ground, did he? Scratch that, he definitely did. Another sick power move. It made Harry want to punch him again or –

“Behave,” Voldemort said quietly. 

“I told you I’m not a dog.”

“Sit down or this lesson will be pushed until tomorrow. Or perhaps the next day. Maybe next month if you keep stubbornly refusing to listen to me. Knowledge doesn’t come free, Harry.”

“You said all I had to do was ask.” Bastard. Dick - 

“Calling me those names won’t do you anything. Does a chair really matter that much to you? Then summon one yourself. Oh - you can’t do that, I forgot.”

Since when did Voldemort make jokes? Harry tongued his cheek, frustrated to hell and beyond. This was so demeaning, so embarrassing. 

Voldemort leaned forward, growing serious once more. His attention felt disturbingly intense. Harry’s skin crawled under its weight. “You can walk out that door right now, Harry, and I won’t stop you. You can waste away until these three months are up. But we both know you’re better than that - you think of yourself more highly. I told you that you could become a force to be reckoned with, and you asked me to teach you not a moment ago.”

“I just don’t understand why I have to…” Harry gestured towards the floor helplessly. 

“Because I’m telling you to,” Voldemort said quietly. “Sit down or walk out that door. Your choice.”

Gritting my teeth, Harry sat down on the floor. 

Thankfully, Voldemort didn’t say anything further about it, even though Harry knew he could have easily launched into gloating. The Dark Lord merely reached over into his lap for a book Harry didn’t remember him retrieving. Deft fingers ruffled through the yellowing pages until they reached a spell somewhere three quarters into the book. Voldemort looked over it before rotating the text so that Harry could read. 

Harry couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. 

“We’re not just setting things on fire,” Voldemort said, noticing Harry’s shift in mood. His eyes gleamed with anticipation. That was never a good sign. “You’re going to learn to make it move. To shape it, bend it…”

“You want me to work with fire,” Harry said in disbelief. Even he knew how hard a skill that was to learn, even for fully-grown wizards. Incendio was an easy enough spell, but controlling… Fire was a living thing; exerting your will on it would be like trying to cup water with your bare hands. “That’s - I haven’t -”

“Exactly,” Voldemort interrupted. He inched the book closer to Harry, knowing that he would not be able to refuse the opportunity, no matter how impossible succeeding might seem. “You’re doing a good job of harnessing your magic so far, exceptionally well. Your technique - your control - needs work.”

“This seems like a big leap…” 

Learning spells and casting them was easy enough since it was a repetitive exercise. You were bound to get it right with a little practice. This… Harry had never done anything like this before. Not on his own, not even in Hogwarts. 

“We’re starting with fire because so far you haven’t tampered the flow of your magic all that much,” Voldemort went on like he was a professor in a lecture hall. Harry was startled at the change. “It comes rushing from you in waves. Fire takes a lot of energy. And lucky for you, I’m already sufficient at controlling it, so we won’t be burning anything today. You’re free to put in as much effort as you need.”

“How reassuring.”

Voldemort rolled his eyes and shoved the book closer. “Go on - and don’t use your wand. Impress me.”

Harry scowled but snatched the book from Voldemort, bringing it into his arms with an exaggerated sigh. He could feel the other man watching him. That and his obvious impatience. 

Harry carefully set the book down. As he did, Voldemort flicked his wrist and a candle floated over to them, hovering between the chair and Harry’s place on the floor. A tiny flame sprouted, dancing on the wick like an elegant dancer. 

“I could’ve done that myself,” Harry said. 

“Put the lights out,” Voldemort said simply, looking up. Harry followed his gaze and blinked at the tiny candles hovering above them, suspended by a thin layer of magic. 

“What?” Harry frowned. “I won’t be able to see anything except the bloody candle - I can’t focus like that.”

“You’re also going to close your eyes.”

“What?”

Voldemort looked completely serious. “I want you to be able to feel the fire without touching it first. That’s the first step to controlling it. Recognizing its signature as separate from yourself and realizing that it has a life of its own. You reach out with your awareness and feel the magic of the fire. That’s what you’re going to do for me right now. And when you’re absolutely sure that you have it, I want you to make the flame bigger.”

“I don’t know the spell for that,” Harry said immediately, but Voldemort was already shaking his head as if he’d expected the protest. 

“Use your magic,” Voldemort stressed. “You don’t need words and incantations for everything, Harry.” His dark eyes flickered to the flame, his hands falling to the arms of his chair, palms flat as he concentrated. Harry watched as the fire swelled in size, giving off tiny sparks. Voldemort tilted his head to the side and it moved, twisting and shuddering as it bent into shape. A serpent, Harry observed, thoroughly impressed. Voldemort smirked and pulled back, the dancing flame returning to a resting position. “I didn’t use words for that.”

That looked incredibly difficult to accomplish. Harry grimaced at the realization that this wouldn’t be one of the few spells Bellatrix had shown him where he managed to achieve it on the first try. This was something that he would get wrong over and over again before he got it right. Just like it had been back at Hogwarts. 

“Fine,” Harry groaned, muttering a quick Finite under his breath. The lights flickering above them winked out as the spell was cancelled. The library was instantly shrouded in darkness, save for the glowing embers of the candle on the table. Voldemort leaned backwards, the flame barely illuminating his figure. 

“Eyes closed,” Voldemort ordered. 

Grumbling curses under his breath, Harry obeyed. He quieted his flurry of thoughts and focused, searching the room with his mind. It came to him easily, a startling warmth on the outskirts of his mental terrain. He didn’t know what he was doing exactly, but he decided to wing it and reach out, bringing the magic into his mind until it belonged to him. 

“I think I’ve got it,” Harry said out loud. 

“Good,” Voldemort said quietly. “Make it grow now.”

Harry frowned and tried doing what Voldemort had hinted at. Pouring only a slight trickle of his power and will into the flame’s magic. But Voldemort was right in that Harry had little to no control over his magic. Harry gasped as he felt it rush forward without permission, like an overturned jug of water, and he was too late to stop it. 

His eyes flew open and the flame grew exponentially, nearly reaching the ceiling. He looked at Voldemort worriedly but wasn’t confronted with any anger or disappointment. Voldemort merely waved his hand and the flame shrunk. 

“No one gets it on the first try,” Voldemort said. “Even you, Harry, so don’t look so down about it. Some of these things take practice. I find the result is always worth it.”

“I never would have thought you had more patience than I do,” Harry glared. “How many more times are we going to do this?” He frowned. “How long did it take you to figure it out.”

“That would only discourage you.”

“I’m already discouraged.”

“And I already told you that there is nothing wrong with initial failure, so long as you get it at the end. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think you were capable.”

Harry reluctantly nodded, careful not to meet Voldemort’s eyes. An old determination burned in his gut - one that had been absent these past few days. He wanted to get this. 

Voldemort noticed his resolve. “I’ve got all the time in the world, Harry, and I'm not going anywhere,” he said, leaning against the back of his chair. “At your leisure.”

Harry was momentarily taken aback at that. When he hadn’t gotten a spell right with Bellatrix, she’d punished him for it - over and over again until he got it right out of pure fear of further pain. At Hogwarts, if he didn’t cast successfully within the span of a class period, the professors didn’t offer any more help beyond instructing them to learn on their own until they got it. 

And yet here Voldemort was, willing to stay for however long Harry needed it. It was… different, Harry thought. 

He closed his eyes, reaching out and bringing in the flame’s magic. Once again, he extended his magic and the flame roared out of his control. Harry grimaced and opened his eyes, muttering a quick finite and watched as the flame winked out. “Incendio,” he muttered and the light returned. He closed his eyes again and repeated the same process, making it grow far greater than Voldemort was looking for, extinguishing it, then relighting it. Voldemort didn’t say anything. He just watched as Harry relentlessly tried over and over again. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Harry snapped when he failed for what must have been the thirtieth time. This was tiring enough for him; he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of Voldemort, too.

“I’m well aware.”

Another fifteen tries went by. “This must be boring to watch, though. It’s the same thing every time.”

“Is it?” Voldemort asked. 

Harry wasn’t sure what Voldemort could possibly be seeing. It all looked the same to him, so he decided to ignore the seemingly rhetorical question and went back to his experimentation. 

This time, however, he didn’t immediately reach out for the flame’s magic. A different approach couldn’t do much harm. Like muggle scientists said, trial and error. Instead, he stretched out his own magic to reach the flame. 

Then it dawned on him what his mistake had been. He had been drawing the fire to him, and in doing so he had surrounded the foreign magic with the full extent of his power. He couldn’t control his own magic without the flame acting alongside. Combining them would result in too much magic. It was like throwing a shirt into the sea and expecting it not to get wet. 

So he had to extend his magic to the flame instead, not make the flame a part of him. Controlling the flow, like pouring water into a container with a funnel. 

Something rustled in front of him. Voldemort was leaning forward in his seat, the flaps of his robes brushing against the legs. Harry was on the right track, then. 

Harry slowly reached out, not rushing headfirst as he had before. It was a bit like free-diving. You had to be in perfect position and form so you broke through the ocean instead of breaking your bones. Harry manipulated his magic, fighting to keep his mind calm, and imagined himself diving headfirst into the fire. 

He bounced back. 

He held back a scowl and tried again, reshaping his magic and trying from a different angle. He brought a mental hand forward, focusing only on that portion of his magic, not allowing any more of it to seep in lest he overdid it again and cause the flame to spiral out of control. He opened his eyes and saw Voldemort staring at him intently. Trying not to feel intimidated, Harry reached with that figurative hand and lightly caressed the flame. 

It flickered, moving slightly to the left. Harry jumped in alarm, half-expecting it to shoot up to the heavens once again, but it didn’t. 

Narrowing his eyes, he clasped that mental hand around the flame, allowing a little more power in. Fingers elongated into claws and he pushed forward into that flame. Grow, he thought. The flame sputtered and rose about an inch higher. 

But he didn’t allow himself to feel accomplished. Not yet, when there was something else he wanted to achieve. He withdrew those figurative claws but kept his mind on the flame. He pushed a little, a slight mental shove, and the flame curved in on itself. He kept at it until it formed a ring hovering over the wick, not making contact with the candle anymore. He raised it into the air, eyes transfixed on it as if hypnotized, and tilted his head as he shaped it like he’d watched Voldemort do. It folded in on itself, utterly compliant and bound to his unshakable will. 

The flame transformed before his eyes, shifting until his own serpent formed only inches above his head. Harry pushed further and watched it grow until it was the size of the real-life creature. That’s when it got harder. The fire was alive, after all, and already Harry could feel the strain of keeping it under wraps. So he opted to do what he had started out doing. He enveloped the flame with his own magic. Now that he had already enforced his will on it, it was safe to do. 

The slight headache that had been growing lessened instantaneously, and Harry’s shoulders slumped with his relief. Then he jumped back when the orange flame abruptly shifted to blue. 

A finger brushing against his chin startled him. He jerked to find Voldemort’s hand tilting his face, forcing Harry to look at him. The Dark Lord’s gaze was pleased - approving. A rush of pride flowed through Harry’s chest. He had done it! 

“Well done, Harry,” Voldemort praised, satisfaction sprawled across his face. “You’ve pleased me greatly today.”

Voldemort stood up, beckoning for Harry to follow. The ground felt unsteady as Harry rose, his fingers trembling slightly with exhaustion. 

Voldemort extended his hands, presenting two sleek black gloves. They looked expensive, though simple. “Wear these from now on. They’ll help ease the shaking in your hands. It dampens the flow of magic slightly - enough to alleviate any pain after long uses of spells.” 

Harry eyed them critically. In the end, it was the slight pain rattling through his fingertips that persuaded him to snatch them from Voldemort’s grasp. He slid them on, sighing at the instant cooling relief, like putting ice on fresh burns. 

“You only take those off with me,” Voldemort told him. “Until you learn full control, I don’t want any sudden bursts of magic without me there to prevent any damage. Now that you’ve been using magic without a conduit like a wand, it’ll happen more than usual. Understood?” 

Harry nodded. 

The blue flame was put out, the candles hovering over their heads relit with brilliant little sparks. It was pretty in a medieval sort of way, how the library seemed to come back to life with the entrance of light. 

Voldemort walked out of the library, not waiting for Harry to follow but knowing that he eventually would. Biting his lip, Harry decided to go without a fight - just this one time. He was still riding the high of his latest success, it would take a lot to ruin his mood now. Not even Voldemort would put a damper on it. 

As he followed the Dark Lord, Harry glanced down at the black material hugging his fingers tightly, almost melting into his hands - they fit perfectly.  

"Now what?" he asked. 

Voldemort didn't bother answering, but somehow Harry knew he was smiling. 

The gloves grew cold against his skin.

Chapter Text

The night of July 31st. 

Albus Dumbledore had dug his own grave, and he had at long last realized it. 

He could not resist a little smile at the thought. Not one of joy or relief, though there was certainly some relief at the prospect of all of this finally ending, but helplessness. 

Helplessness. Albus had forgotten what that felt like. And now that he knew it again, greeted it like an old friend, he wondered how he could have ever let its sensation slip from his mind. Ariana, Aberforth, Gellert, Tom… and now Harry Potter. 

Another name added to Albus’s long list of grievances. Another person Albus had so utterly failed. 

Severus was silent as he stood in the headmaster’s office, poised and resolute. But Albus had known the man long enough that even the slightest blink betrayed Severus’s emotions. He had come back from Voldemort’s meeting shaken, more so than Albus had witnessed since that Halloween night all those years ago. When the only light Severus had ever wanted, had longed to be around, had been extinguished. 

“Harry was there, wasn’t he?” Albus asked tiredly. 

Severus’s throat worked, constricting with the effort to speak, but no sound came out. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Albus that Voldemort had made certain that the secrets of his meetings could not be shared. 

“You need to tell them,” Severus said instead. “Inform the wizarding world that Potter is missing or your reputation will become even more… irreparable.”

And that. That was the genius of Tom Riddle. 

Severus could not see it but Albus had picked up on it immediately. The wondrous and beautiful mind of Tom Riddle. Albus couldn’t help but admire it, want to study it and how it worked, but his time with young Tom was up and there was only Voldemort, whose cleverness was only magnified by his cruelty. 

Two choices. That’s what it narrowed down to. 

One, Albus could wait for the world to notice. He could wait until next month when Harry Potter was not seen on the train to Hogwarts. When Harry Potter continued to remain absent for the rest of the semester with no explanation. And then the questions would arise. Perhaps Harry Potter was a coward roaming about in Gryffindor red, after all, and had abandoned the world to bow down to the Dark Lord. Or perhaps the rumours were true and Voldemort really had returned and had taken him. 

But by the time the public realized this, the truth that the Dark Lord had indeed returned, it would be far too late. There was no doubt in Albus’s mind that Voldemort had more up his sleeve, that there was a plan in effect. Voldemort was playing the long game, and Albus was certain it would come to fruition by the time the world finally regained its senses. And then Voldemort would have won. 

And then there was the other option. 

Albus could tell the Daily Prophet what had happened. He could go behind the Ministry’s back and ensure that the news of Harry reached every household in the wizarding world. And in order to salvage his reputation, to make certain that he was believed before Voldemort had a chance at securing his victory… he could damage the Ministry. 

He could make it seem like the Ministry’s fault that Harry was missing. The Ministry had a track on Harry - the Trace, which Albus could back up with by citing their intervention when the Malfoy’s old house-elf had framed Harry for using magic, and again with the incident regarding Harry’s aunt. So why had the Ministry not picked up on this? Albus was not responsible for Harry; the Ministry was responsible for protecting a child of their world, especially considering they had far more outreaching resources than Albus. 

But that presented an even larger problem. 

If Albus ruined the Ministry… he would facilitate Voldemort’s rise to power. People losing faith in their central form of government would only make it easier for a new figure to rise to power. And it would not be Albus. 

The wizarding world had never known what it would be like to truly be under the rule of Voldemort. They had known fear at his hand when he strove to claim that power, but he had never truly seized that figurative throne. And Voldemort was clever enough to manipulate everyone’s perceptions, to make it seem that the hard part was over now that he’d gotten what he wanted, and that he could be merciful and kind if properly convinced. 

That is what it came down to. 

Albus was backed into a corner. 

“In truth,” Albus murmured aloud. “... I believed that young Harry would find his way back to us. He has escaped Voldemort before, and I have full certainty that he could do it again, no matter where or how Voldemort kept him. If not that, then somehow get a message to us.” He took off his glasses, cradling his forehead in his hand, elbow resting on the desk. A momentary sign of weakness, he knew, but there were bigger things to worry about than Severus witnessing his worry. “The fact that he has not is… troubling.”

“Potter is where he wants to be.”

Albus looked up sharply. Surprised that whatever spellwork Voldemort had weaved allowed Severus to say that much. 

The words were even more disturbing. 

He could not even begin to decipher the secrets that lay beyond them, what horrible truths and sweet lies Severus had been fed. 

“You realize Voldemort does not trust you anymore, Severus,” Albus said. Otherwise, these spells would not have been placed. They never had been before, no matter how paranoid Voldemort had been. He had trusted Severus. Now that had all fallen apart, and Albus had lost the upper hand. 

“That means he realized that some of the information you passed to him was false,” Albus continued, dreading the conclusion he was beginning to reach. “The only information as of late that has been untrue is that in regards to Harry. If Voldemort realized it was false, it means he had taken an interest in learning about Harry, in learning to know him.”

When Voldemort took an interest in someone… it was only ever in ultimately convincing them to willingly bow down to him, to serve him, to want to give him everything. Voldemort would not be interested in Harry himself, but in what Harry would do for him if his loyalties changed.

Potter is where he wants to be. 

Albus let out a shaky breath, causing Severus to glance up in alarm, his eyes narrowing. He reluctantly placed his glasses back on, letting the room grow back into focus without noticing. Before, when Harry had told him that Voldemort had returned, Albus had been so sure that he would ultimately lose, no matter how much time it took. Good would always triumph over evil, light over dark. 

And now… he was faced with the harsh truth that he had been wrong. This war had always depended on Harry. But Harry was no longer his pawn to play. He was Voldemort’s. 

“I failed him, didn’t I, Severus?” Albus asked quietly, almost afraid of hearing the answer. After all, he had always entrusted the other with telling him the truth, no matter how harsh and cruel it might be. “Harry was never a soldier. I should have never tried to make him one.”

“You’ve failed many people,” Severus scoffed. “Myself included. The Dark Lord included, from what you have told me. Do not add Potter to your list. Potter cares about this world, even I am aware of that. Do not fail him by letting the Dark Lord take it so easily. You’re giving up, I can see it. If you want to, so be it. I have always known you were a coward.”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” Albus smiled that helpless smile again. “Are the Weasleys ready?”

“They’re likely waiting for us with bated breath, headmaster.”

Knocking on the doors of Grimmauld Place, no matter how many times Albus had done so in the past, was one of the hardest things he’d had to do as of late.

He waited patiently, clasping his hands in front of his midnight blue robes - decorated with constellations of different sea creatures this time. Beside him, Severus twitched, unable to stand still. There was restless energy to him today, it made him seem more… young. Or perhaps Albus was getting too old to be perceptive enough as to whether people acted their age or not.

He’d always thought Harry acted older than his age. Enough that he had forgotten that young Harry was still a child. Fifteen years old now, not even a quarter of Albus’s age. And yet Albus had expected the young man to do what he could not: beat Voldemort. 

“It’s bad enough I have to wait to be let in by the Weasleys,” Severus said dryly. “If I have to be subjected to your depressive contemplation, then you’ll have to excuse my presence for the night.”

Albus smiled a little. 

There was a woman shouting behind the door, muffled behind the black-painted wood as it opened slightly, yelling for her children to be quiet as she saw who it was. 

“When is a door not a door?” Molly asked, not showing herself. Her wand was likely in her hand, clenched tightly as she counted the moments of silence following the question. 

“When Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean is in season.”

Severus gaped at him incredulously. Albus looked back at him with earnest cheer. He thought it was one of his more amusing ideas as of late. The classic answer to the riddle was when it’s ajar, but Albus had come up with a response so ludicrous, so utterly ridiculous, that surely Voldemort of all people would not be able to guess at it, nor any Death Eater. 

And, Albus admitted, the image of Alastor for one having to use that response was entertaining. 

“You have the mind of a child,” Severus uttered. 

“Dumbledore?” Molly asked at the same time, stepping out from behind the door. He was right, her wand was in her hand. At least he could still get some things right. “We…” she looked around curiously, looking for someone. “We were expecting you much earlier in the week. It’s Harry’s birthday today, after all, in case you…”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Albus sighed. This was going to be more difficult than he thought. However, this wasn’t anyone’s fault besides his own. “Is everyone here? Ms Granger arrived a few weeks ago if I’m not mistaken?”

“Oh, well, yes. I sent them all upstairs, though, just now. I assumed you were here on Order business. Shall I call them down? I just made dinner, so we can eat in the kitchen if you prefer…?”

“I won’t be staying that long,” Albus tried at a comforting smile. Not for very long at all, in fact. Just enough to get the news out and see if Mr Weasley or Ms Granger knew anything about poor Harry, or if they had picked up on something that he could not. It was always possible, especially in this case; Harry’s two friends knew him much better than all the adults in the Order combined. It was worth a try. “The sitting room will suffice.”

Molly was slightly taken aback by the unusual request. They almost always discussed matters of importance in the kitchen. It was one of the rooms with a sufficient lock and, more importantly, able to be blocked off from extendable ears and dung bombs, though Albus found the use of both devices inventive and amusing. Mrs Weasley disagreed with him, insisting it was immature and bothersome. 

“Well, if you’re sure,” Molly shrugged, stepping back and leaving the door open for them to walk through. Albus did so promptly, knowing Severus was following close behind from the way distaste coloured Molly’s face. “You can have a seat, I’ll be there in just a moment after calling the rest down. Sirius and Remus as well?”

“If you please, Molly. Thank you.”

“Of course, Dumbledore.”

There were several thuds as she went up the stairs. Albus knew that if he and Severus hadn’t been there, she would be hollering for them to get themselves down instead of sparing the effort to go up. There was a chorus of muted replies from the overhead floor before several more footfalls joined her as they all came trampling down. A family of redheads along with one Hermione Granger. 

It didn’t even take more than five seconds for Albus to realize Ron Weasley already knew. The minute Ron’s eyes met his, something flared. Shock… along with something much, much darker. Anger. If anyone had told him, it had to have been Sirius. And if Ron knew… Albus shifted his attention and saw a similar look in Hermione’s eyes. So she knew as well. 

“Ah, good,” Albus said, aiming for a smile. He failed at it miserably. “You’re already here, Ms. Granger. It’s always a pleasure to see all of you. Please, have a seat, have a seat…” He waited until they were all settled down. The Weasleys were unnaturally silent, though the children besides Ron and Hermione were practically bouncing with eagerness. Perhaps excited at the prospect of this being an official Order meeting that they were at last privy to. 

“I would like nothing more than to catch up, learn how your summers are going so far,” Albus said truthfully. “But I’m afraid we don’t have any time to waste. I need to know if either of you has been in contact with Mr. Potter recently.”

Ron frowned. 

This was Albus’s last hope for the moment. Voldemort could have convinced Harry to turn his back on Albus, but Harry would always care for his friends. They were the first ones he would have contacted. 

His hopes were immediately dashed. 

“No, professor,” Hermione said. There wasn’t a doubt in Albus’s mind that she knew what he was hoping for. Knew that he was partially dancing around the subject. “You told us not to.”

Albus didn’t bother with a response. His contemplative, sombre mood had perforated the air by now. The eagerness that had previously had Fred and George glowing had died down, leaving a residual aura of suspicion and anticipation. 

Sirius and Remus were missing from the conversation. Albus was almost grateful for it. They had been through enough already with everything that had happened. They didn’t need to be subjected to Albus’s struggle in somehow telling the people who thought of Harry as their own what had happened. He could almost picture what the two of them had done to cope. Remus would have looked dreadful, holing upstairs with only Sirius for company. And Sirius… Sirius must have rummaged through the cellar once or twice since finding out. Drinking the stars away, trying to drown out sorrows that knew how to swim. 

“Very well,” he sighed. “I… understand that this won’t be an easy piece of information to digest. Harry is missing.”

“Harry has run away from his home in the past,” Molly said slowly, predictably. It was an admirable effort to stay calm, though there was an undeniable current of panic in her voice. “We all know he doesn’t like spending summers with his relatives.”

“That’s what I first assumed, too,” Albus acknowledged with a dip of his head. “But I placed an Order member in his neighbourhood to keep watch over him. She was found dead in her home by Remus and I. Along with a note.”

“A note,” Molly echoed faintly. Her face was as pale as porcelain. 

Albus looked away, breathing deeply. Behind him, having refused to sit, instead choosing to blend in with the shadows, Severus had folded his arms, his hands harshly digging into the opposite arm. Albus opened his mouth-

“Voldemort has him.”

Albus looked straight ahead to see that Sirius had appeared. Remus was behind him, keeping his distance. Sirius was glaring, his dark eyes crackling with almost manic energy. He looked furious. 

“Sirius…” Albus began. 

“They deserve to know,” Sirius cut him off, “not to hear whatever excuse or lie you were going to tell them. They have a right to worry. Like I am right now. So…” he walked up to the couch, right behind Ron, and braced his palms flat against the surface. His hands were trembling. “... I want to know what we’re going to do about it.”

“We’ve been searching ever since we first realized that he’s missing,” Albus said. 

“Then search harder!” Sirius snapped. “Hell, I’ll go out there right now.”

“Do try to have some common sense, Black,” Severus drawled, stepping closer. Ron and Hermione instantly tensed at the sound of his voice. “I know it might be difficult after being locked up for twelve years, but you must be capable of some form of sane thought.”

“Severus,” Albus warned. “That’s enough.”

They couldn’t start fighting amongst each other. 

“No, no,” Sirius said, huffing out a dry laugh. “I want to hear what Snivellus has to say.”

“I’ll spell it out for you,” Severus said. His voice was dripping with cold condescension as if he was speaking to a child. Sirius bristled in response. “The Dark Lord has taken him. A man who has had nearly a decade to plan this out, a man who hates Mr. Potter with every inch of his being. Finding him will be next to impossible at this point.”

“Why don’t you waltz up to him and ask him, then?” Sirius sneered. “Since you’re all buddy-buddy with him?”

Severus’s expression did… something odd at that moment. It twitched, hiding something underneath - panic of sorts - before closing off again, walls erecting and locks clicking. 

“The Dark Lord still has doubts about my loyalty,” Severus replied finally. Sirius mouthed don’t see why with a roll of his eyes. “I cannot simply ‘waltz up to him' and demand to know of Potter’s whereabouts. He’ll see right through me. I am not going to put my life in jeopardy simply because you are so desperate to keep some reminder of Potter’s father to yourself.”

“That is not why,” Sirius roared. 

“So we’re just going to sit here and do nothing?” Ron exclaimed, his voice at last returning to him. Everyone else silenced themselves, turning their attention to him. Their expressions were written with surprise. Albus had never felt more tired. “You heard what You-Know-Who did to Harry in the graveyard. Now he had the opportunity to do so much worse. What if…” he choked up. “What if we’re just wasting time now, time that You-Know-Who has to torture him?” 

“Every hour you waste here arguing amongst yourselves on the right way to go about this is another one that Harry could be closer to…” Hermione couldn’t say it either. Neither of them wanted to face the fact that their best friend might be gone forever. 

“How are we getting him back?” Ron demanded. 

Albus couldn’t find an answer. 

He truly did not know. 

“We are getting him back, aren’t we?”

“Voldemort is quite clever,” Albus said. “He’s had a long time to plan something like this - our search isn’t easy.”

“Then we need to put more people out,” Sirius repeated. “Broaden our search.”

Albus’s face grew serious as he regarded the man. “Sirius, I am well aware of what Harry means to you-”

Sirius snorted. It was a frail, bitter thing. “No, you don’t. He’s not just James’s son, Dumbledore. I don’t spend time with him to keep some reminder of what I’ve lost. Harry is my godson. He’s my family - you can’t stop me from going to find him.”

“Voldemort most likely knows of your animagus form, Sirius,” Albus warned. “And the Ministry is placing the blame for the recent escapes from Azkaban on you. You go out there, and you will have Death Eaters and Aurors on the hunt for your head.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t recklessly put yourself in danger, Black,” Severus interrupted. “Whatever fighting experience you had from your younger years is gone now that you have been in Azkaban for twelve years. You wouldn’t stand a chance against the weakest of the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters.”

“I disagree,” Sirius raised his eyebrows, eyes wide and innocent. “I think that I could take you on in a fight right now.”

“Charming. Your immaturity is as apparent as ever. No wonder you and Mr. Potter get along so well.”

Sirius scoffed and took a step forward, his wand in his hand. His eyes darkened with anger. “Do you want to repeat that?”

“If that’s what I need to do for some form of sense to penetrate that thick skull of yours.”

“What are you not saying, professor?” Ron asked. 

Surprised, Albus regarded him. Ron met his gaze steadily, not flinching. Not backing down. Albus had not expected the youngest Weasley son to be this… perceptive. Perhaps he had not given him enough credit. 

The staring contest between the two of them continued for a long stretch of time - everyone else fidgeted as they waited for it to break. Albus knew that telling Ron and Hermione, and all of them, would be the right thing to do. Secrets only backfired nowadays. The least Albus owed them was the truth. If nothing better, it would alert them to the gravity of the situation; they would no longer be unprepared if the situation progressed further down the road of problems. 

Albus withdrew with a sigh, lacing his hands in front of him and giving a nod to Severus. 

“Headmaster,” Severus began, eyes darting to Ron and Hermione. “This is not a good-”

“They have a right to know, Severus. Tell them what you can.”

Severus hesitated for a long moment. It was the most uncomfortable, most uncertain that Albus had ever seen him. This fidgety, worried version of Severus didn’t coincide with the harsh and cruel man Albus knew he could be when the time called for it. 

“The Dark Lord is a dangerous man,” Severus said finally, his voice carefully monotone. “He has a way of seeing into one’s mind and twisting it into a tool for his liking. Even without being a master of the Dark Arts, perhaps the most powerful user there has ever been, he has swayed thousands to his cause. Some lusting for powers, some simply utter fools.”

Albus looked over sharply, a light frown caressing his brows. 

“Such a man cannot be overestimated,” Severus said. “At the same time, Potter’s resilience cannot be overestimated. Every enemy of the Dark Lord’s has eventually fallen.”

“He’s not dead,” Ron snapped stubbornly. 

“I did not say he was dead.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. 

“You don’t know that!” Hermione exclaimed. “Harry would never. Voldemort killed his parents-”

“Parents that Potter has never known,” Severus interjected. “It is not possible for a child to learn to love only the idea of family. That is not enough, no matter how selfless they are at heart. Such a child can only lust after some semblance of belonging, of affection and pride… Something the Dark Lord is acutely aware of. You would be even greater fools than his followers if you think he would not take advantage of this.”

Ron was still shaking his head. Albus could see the poor boy denying it even in his own mind, clashing his inner thoughts against each other, arming them in a silent war. 

“This is the most bullshit I’ve ever heard,” Sirius huffed. 

“It is… incredibly unlikely,” Remus agreed, finally speaking up. “There is also Harry’s personal hatred of Voldemort to factor in. He saw a schoolmate killed in front of his eyes at Voldemort’s hand. He was used in a ritual and was the victim of multiple attempts of murder. It’s not just Lily and James - Harry has his own reason for hating Voldemort.”

“Perhaps,” Albus allowed. “However… Years ago, I knew a boy who was headed down this path. I did not see the signs, I did not try to stop it or interfere. Time ran out, it was too late, and the suffering caused at their hands has been devastating. I cannot make that same mistake.”

“Leave your personal guilt out of it,” Sirius snapped. “This is Harry. Harry has people who care about him, he has a home even though you won’t let him take it. Stop trying to see something in him that isn’t fucking there.”

“You better not have rescinded some of your efforts in finding him, Dumbledore,” Remus said quietly, leaning forward. “Because if you lose him that way… he won’t be the only one you lose. I’ve lived with a lot of guilt in my life, and I won’t add losing Harry to it because of your… baseless suspicions.”

“I have not lessened the search in any way. You have my word on that, and I will continue to put in all of our efforts. I merely want to urge you all to exercise caution. There is no possibility that young Harry will not come out of this experience the same.”

“Yeah, well he’s still Harry, isn’t he?” Ron said. “You think Harry will give up that easily? He might come out different - but hey, maybe that won’t be such a bad thing. Maybe he’s better prepared now. Maybe he’s stronger. He would never let You-Know-Who or anyone break him that way.”

“Professor?” Hermione asked. 

“Ms. Granger.”

“If I may,” Hermione said. “I think your mistake with your prior student… was you gave up on them. Just like you’re giving up on Harry. We know you started ignoring him, distancing yourself from him towards the end of next year. You’re cutting off his support that way… and any consequences from that similar to those in the past will be no fault but your own. You give up now and you lose Harry. We lose Harry. That will not happen.”

“I had no intention of giving up on finding Harry, Ms. Granger.”

“Then why…?”

“There are risks in getting him back,” Albus said gravely. “Risks that must be made aware of. Are you prepared for what we might find at the end of this?”

The answer was immediate. “Yes.”

Albus didn’t say anything further, just nodded once again, vaguely. They were aware of the risk of Harry being changed by Voldemort and they still intended to persevere until he was recovered. It was admirable. 

But they had never lost someone they knew this way. Albus had. He’d watched as Gellert became consumed by a lust for power, as Tom had, as Albus himself almost had. He didn’t think he could bear to watch Harry fall in the same way. To become so lost in the darkness that he was unable to be truly found once more. 

Albus hadn’t believed Harry could ever be that person. Harry had always been so generous, so caring and forgiving. But it seemed there had been a lust for power in him as well. No one was truly infallible, truly good. Voldemort had merely seen that in Harry before Albus had. And he’d realized that it was possible to bring that quality forth, until it became not an afterthought of a trait but one that would grow to define Harry and his future actions. 

If Harry gave in to Voldemort… what would they do then? They were intent on finding him, but what happened if Harry didn’t want to return? 

August 1st. 

“What the bloody hell are these?”

Voldemort glanced up from his chair, setting the book down on the table beside him. “Everyone benefits from a little specificity, Harry.”

Harry scowled and gestured towards the dark green robes he’d found on his bed, the silver cufflinks he hadn’t the slightest clue of how to put on, and the new shoes. “I’m not a doll for you to play dress-up with.”

“Yet you’re still wearing them,” Voldemort said amusedly, his red eyes almost playful. Harry glared harder. “I see you still have your gloves on. Well done.”

Flushing slightly, Harry resorted to deepening his frown and held out the cufflinks. “I can’t put these on.”

“Are you truly so incapable?”

It was impressive how the Dark Lord could go from praise to degradation in the mere span of seconds. “I’ve never had to put cufflinks on.” Except for the Yule Ball, but those had been much simpler, less elegant than whatever these damn things were. 

Voldemort hummed thoughtfully, holding his hands out for the cufflinks, which Harry gave him promptly. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but at the last moment, he held it, calculating a different path to take. Harry was instantly on guard out of old habits. 

“Relax, Harry,” Voldemort drawled. “I can’t very well harm you with a pair of cufflinks, now can I?”

Harry highly doubted that Voldemort wouldn’t find a way to kill him with a pair of cufflinks, but decided to keep that thought to himself. Instead, he remained silent as Voldemort tugged him closer, bringing Harry’s sleeves forwards so he could place the cufflinks in their designated spots on the fabric. Harry watched him carefully, wondering what Voldemort was playing at with all these new gifts. 

“Giving me new clothes will hardly sway me to your side,” Harry felt the need to say. 

Voldemort scoffed lightly, almost offended by the very notion that he could assume such a thing. “When I sway you to my side, Harry, it will not be by using weak-minded tactics like giving needless gifts. I think you are above such… trivial manipulations. When I gain your loyalty, it will be by… other methods.”

“Such as?”

“Oh,” Voldemort frowned, bringing up Harry’s other arm, one cufflink left in his hand now. “That would ruin the surprise, Harry. There would be no fun in that.” He let Harry’s arms fall and gestured for him to sit, apparently intending to have a lengthier conversation. Harry eyed the floor uneasily, remembering how he had eventually given up and taken his place on the green carpet yesterday during their lesson, but still felt that heavy reluctance to repeat his actions. It felt too much like giving up, like letting Voldemort get what he wanted in a way. 

And part of him knew that was stupid. Sitting on the floor didn’t give Voldemort anything other than an annoying boost to his ego. Denying Voldemort would only put Harry on the receiving end of either an exhausting fight or a bottomless well of pain. The choice was ultimately his, unfortunately. 

Harry grunted and sat down, wincing as he tried to adjust the robes to splay out neatly against the carpet. The green hues of his clothing perfectly complimented the colour of the carpet, screaming the colours of the house he had turned his back on in his willingly turned away ears. 

“You would have made an exquisite Slytherin,” Voldemort murmured. 

“And yet I am a Gryffindor,” Harry shrugged, letting the seeming compliment slide off like water off an umbrella. 

“Perhaps because Dumbledore wanted you to be one.”

Harry looked up, more curious than angry at the proposal. It wasn’t often that Voldemort spoke about Dumbledore so casually, with only the slightest ounce of venom in his voice. 

“Do you not think it is a coincidence that the Weasleys were the first wizarding family you came into contact with?” Voldemort questioned. “The first ones who offered you a home and amicable conversation? Ron Weasley was the one who informed you of the unjustified prejudices against my noble house, was he not? If you had befriended Draco first… do you not think that things would have been different?”

They would have been different. Harry would have grown up in a house that valued power and ambition above all else. Maybe eleven-year-old Harry would have struggled to conform to their ideals, but the person he was now would have no trouble navigating the tense atmosphere, not after spending his entire summer thus far in the stifling presence of the Malfoy family and Voldemort himself. 

“Why am I wearing these?” Harry asked, changing the subject. He raised his arms to give Voldemort that specificity he’d asked for earlier. “It’s only the two of us in this place, isn’t it? I hardly think you’ll see much change in my behaviour if I’m wearing better clothes.”

“That’s a good question, Harry,” Voldemort said. “Perhaps you’ll find the answer later on. For now…” He paused, eyes raking over Harry in interest. “I want to take you somewhere.”

“Take me somewhere?” Harry repeated. He had assumed that he and Voldemort - or Harry at least, considering Voldemort was still the Dark Lord - would be holed up in Slytherin Manor for their three months. Voldemort would have no trouble teaching Harry what he wanted in this confined space. Which begged the familiar question - just what was Voldemort playing at? 

“You’re a curious little thing, aren’t you?” Voldemort observed, smirking slightly. Harry knew he wasn’t just talking about the question he’d posed earlier; Voldemort had been reading Harry’s thoughts as he contemplated what the Dark Lord was truly up to. The reminder that he had no privacy in regards to his thoughts would have made him scowl if he hadn’t been growing… used to the casual invasion. 

“No one but me. Understand, Harry?”

“Everyone benefits from a little specificity,” Harry said cheekily. 

“I mean no one gets into your head other than me,” Voldemort said, giving him a dry look. “I’ve been building your shields ever since I decided to make this deal with you. They will be strong enough by now to keep the more moderate Legilimens out… but upon our departure, you must be careful who you make eye contact with.”

“Eye contact is how people read your mind?”

Voldemort raised his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head slightly before looking back down, almost reluctantly. “Legilimency is not reading minds, Harry. It’s delving into the surface of someone’s thoughts and interpreting the images you find there. And yes - eye contact is often crucial to establishing the link needed to breach the space between minds…” Harry ducked his head, looking down at the carpet instead. “However, I do not need eye contact to see into your mind. So there is no use in hiding yourself from me.”

“Because I’m your Horcrux,” Harry guessed. 

“Indeed. There already exists a link between our minds. It’s why you can feel what you do through your scar.”

“Then I could…” Harry hesitated. 

“See into my thoughts as well?” Voldemort finished for him. He gave a half shrug, unbothered. It surprised Harry that Voldemort wasn’t more concerned with the fact that Harry could potentially see into his mind, walking into it as freely as entering another room if he mastered it. “Thirty seconds in my mind and you will be desperate to leave.”

Harry shuddered, wondering what horrible thoughts Voldemort had going on in his mind. What catastrophe he dreamt of wreaking upon not just Britain, but the entire world. 

“You’ll be accompanying me to a meeting,” Voldemort moved on, though his eyes glinted knowingly. “I wouldn’t be too scared, Harry - it will be a learning experience for you, after all. It can only benefit you.”

The way Voldemort worded that was making Harry more nervous than he already was. 

“Don’t you trust me, Harry?”

“Is that a serious question?”

Voldemort’s lips twitched. “Humour me.”

“I don’t think you’d trick me into my own death,” Harry shrugged uncomfortably. He wasn’t entirely sure if that, but it seemed like something Voldemort wanted to hear. From the dark look in his eyes, it was. “But that doesn’t mean I trust you. You wouldn’t trust me if you were in my position.”

“True. But you will still come with me.”

It wasn’t a question. Harry knew that was on purpose. Of course he would go with Voldemort. He had no reason to stay here, cooped up on his own when, as Voldemort had stated earlier, this could potentially be a learning experience. 

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“We’ll leave in five minutes.”

Voldemort’s apparition was smooth and seamless, so unlike the nauseating jerk from one world to the next that Harry had experienced in the past. 

That didn’t mean Harry didn’t need a minute to adjust himself to the new environment. He bent over, catching his breath slightly. At least this wasn’t nearly as bad as his prior attempts at instantaneous travel. When he had ran across the world using stolen portkeys in hopes of escaping Voldemort not too long ago, he had felt sick to his stomach, unwilling to take another step before ultimately forcing himself to do so. Now, he merely had to take a few deep breaths. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Voldemort said patiently, without judgment. “It was a strange sensation, the first several times I did it myself.”

“How long did it take you to teach yourself?” Harry asked, partially to distract himself from how winded he felt, partially because he was truly curious. 

Voldemort stared off into the distance, frowning as he tried to remember. Not that long then, if it wasn’t a particularly memorable experience. Nor a very difficult task. “A day or two?”

Harry rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond. He raised himself up, straightening his back. “Where are we now? And why did I have to wear whatever this is instead of normal clothing?”

“A ratty shirt and muggle jeans are not normal clothing for wizards. When we leave the Manor from now on, I expect you to wear these clothes, you’ll have to get used to moving around in them. Granted, we won’t meet anyone you’ll need to impress today, but experience is experience. As for where we are…” Voldemort nodded pointedly to the large, daunting compound that lay in front of them. “Welcome to Marasme. A decade or so ago, this was my… prison, of sorts, but certainly more refined than that. Dissenters, traitors - I could not send them to Azkaban, I had no authority to do so. This place was fitting.”’

It was certainly fitting if nothing else. Even in the early morning sunlight, it was eerie. A complete contrast to the beautiful sunrise above. Harry reckoned it was rather like a Dementor: dark, unapproachable, and seeming to suck all the happiness out of the world. 

“That’s rather dramatic,” Voldemort remarked. 

Harry gave him a sidelong look. 

“Another day, I will show you around,” Voldemort told him. “Properly introduce you to those I have trusted to take care of this place in my absence. But not today. There is someone in particular we have to meet. Follow me, stay close, and do not make eye contact with anyone.”

“I thought you said you trusted the people here. Why would they try to read my mind?”

“I trusted them to take care of this place. That does not mean I trust them with anything else. Be on guard and do not get lost.”

Harry glared but nodded his consent. Voldemort didn’t wait another moment before entering the compound through the large gate that was as dark as obsidian. It opened up into a courtyard, but Voldemort did not bother crossing it. Instead, he turned immediately to the right, entering a long, extended hallway with no guards. Harry followed, interest piquing. 

For all that Voldemort said everything he did was out of necessity, Harry was learning that he was rather dramatic. He knew it was morbid, but once he saw the decorations of little skulls and snakes, he had to clap his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. Because who was going to see all of this besides Voldemort himself and the guards when they were out for a stroll in these winding hallways? So excessive. 

“You find something humorous?” Voldemort asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“No, of course not.”

“You really are a terrible liar sometimes.”

“I must have had an awful teacher.”

Voldemort’s lip twitched. 

The light banter did not last long. It came to an end with the appearance of the first guard. A towering figure, even taller than Voldemort, draped in a billowing black cloak. The temperature of the hallway instantly dropped, leaving Harry shivering and wide-eyed. 

It wasn’t a dementor; Harry had encountered enough dementors to know when one was at least a mile away. This was something else, but no more human. 

“My Lord,” it hissed quietly. 

“Has the prisoner already been seen to?” 

“Yes, just yesterday. We have been awaiting your presence.”

Harry didn’t even realize the creature had left - there had been no movement - until his skin felt warm again. He whipped his head around, wondering where it had gone or how it had vanished without him noticing. Shuddering, he faced forward once more. Voldemort had already begun walking again, not waiting up. 

That encounter was enough to sap Harry of any willingness to talk. His mood had worsened, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to wonder what else was in this place. He now understood what Voldemort had meant earlier when he said that he trusted the guards to take care of this place but nothing more. It was like Demetrius and Azkaban. The Ministry trusted dementors to keep prisoners in, but not much else. 

At the end of the hallway appeared a door. Harry was instantly reminded of one of his more vague dreams as of late - one where there was a locked door at the end of a black-tiled hall. That dream had been happening less and less as of late, but he hadn’t forgotten it. This wasn’t the hallway, though. It looked similar, but it wasn’t the same. 

Voldemort opened the door. He held it wide, raising his eyebrows. He wanted Harry to go in first. Harry, never one to back down, merely scowled and walked in, making sure not to give Voldemort another glance or an ounce of hesitation. He didn’t even pay attention to what was actually in the room. 

That was a mistake. 

The minute Harry walked into the room, he caught the metallic scent of blood. 

His feet instantly grounded to a halt, and he refused to take another step. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Voldemort was behind him, impatiently waiting for Harry to move so he could enter the room as well, but he couldn’t bring himself to get out of the way, much less pay attention to anything rather than what lay in front of him. That, and the overwhelming smell of blood that he hadn’t smelt since his days in the dungeons when that and the rank smell of the cell had been his only company. 

“What is this?” he managed, unable to take his eyes away from the sight once he'd seen it. He should have known Voldemort would pull something like this. Things had been too fucking calm these past few days, Voldemort had to have been planning something. And he had. 

This confirmed every single one of Harry’s suspicions, Voldemort had some ulterior motive, he had to because there was no comprehensible reason he would show Harry something like this, why he would bring him here. 

“I think you mean who,” Voldemort said calmly. He placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder, ignoring Harry’s answering flinch, and gently prodded him forward, closer into the room. Voldemort’s hand wasn’t shaking; it was firm and confident and still somehow soothing to Harry’s racing heart. 

This was so wrong. He needed to get out of here now. 

“But Harry, then you’ll miss what I have to teach you.”

“T… Teach me?”

“Tell me what you see.”

Harry shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Are you not ready for this, Harry?” Voldemort asked quietly, though there was a clear note of danger in his voice now. “Perhaps I was mistaken. I had hoped you’d have the stomach to handle something like this. It seems you are still too…” He sighed, removing his hand. “Weak.”

That stung more than it should have. 

“I’m not weak,” Harry whispered. 

He wasn’t. He was getting stronger. All of his suffering and pain couldn’t have been for nothing. He was going to get stronger, no matter what it took. 

“There we go,” Voldemort chuckled, turning around to face him again. He moved in front of Harry’s vision, blocking his view of what lay in the room. “Now tell me, are you ready? Nod or shake your head, I don’t expect you to speak.”

Reluctantly, Harry nodded. His stomach turned over as Voldemort shifted out of the way once more. 

“Now tell me what you see, Harry.”

“I see…” Harry faltered, studying the man in front of him. A man he didn’t even know. “A man chained down to a chair. His chest is bleeding. It looks like some of his teeth are missing. There are hex marks along his arms. He’s unconscious. The chains keeping him down are moving almost like…” the picture finally clicked. “snakes.” He looked to Voldemort for confirmation, receiving a nod in return. “He looks like he’s been tortured for days. I don’t understand…”

“I don’t expect you to,” Voldemort murmured. “Astute observations, Harry. This man has been subjected to the torture of Fenrir Greyback for a long time now. Almost a month.”

A month…

“Why?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. What action could constitute getting this as the consequence? 

“That’s not your concern at the moment,” Voldemort waved off. “You only need to know what this man’s use is. You don’t need to know his name, either, or that will just allow you to form an attachment. Never personify someone on the receiving end of punishment, Harry, especially when that punishment is deserved, and I can tell you that it is. Now, what is important is that he knows the whereabouts of something that I want as well as the key in getting it. I want that information.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

Voldemort hummed. “You’ve told me what you see when you look at him, Harry. Know what I see? A golden opportunity for you to learn from the best.”

The best meaning Voldemort. 

The best at… 

“What, at torture?” Harry exclaimed. “I don’t want to learn this! In fact, I want nothing to do with this. Just… just take me away from here. I won’t say anything, I’ll do whatever you want, just - I can’t be here -”

“Not even when he holds the key to getting the prophecy that convinced me to kill your parents?”

No. 

Harry paused.

“Want to know what really happened?” 

Bellatrix’s smile had been so sickeningly sweet as she stared at him, licking her lips in anticipation. Back then, Harry had been acting as if he was controlled by the Imperius curse, so there had been no other choice but to respond, “Enlighten me.”

“Sybil Trelawney created the Prophecy during her interview with Dumbledore for a position at Hogwarts. She foretold that a child born at the end of July would grow up to be the Dark Lord’s downfall.”

And later, when she had left the room… Draco had told him that it was all true. 

But there had to be more to it than that. The prophecy had predicted that a child born at the end of July would be Voldemort’s downfall, but Voldemort was still going after it. Whatever Bellatrix had told Harry regarding its contents had not been the entire thing. None of them knew the entirety of it. 

Well, other than Dumbledore and Professor Trelawney, it seemed. 

“Come on, Harry,” Voldemort crooned. “I know you’re curious. The question is… what are you willing to do about it? Whatever we do won’t take too long.” 

“There is no we in this. I’m not willing to hurt him.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not,” Harry insisted. 

“Then you can go the rest of your life not knowing what the contents of that prophecy were.”

Harry looked away. Not wanting to admit it. He would not let Voldemort win this one. He wouldn’t. Not even if he was right. Harry was curious, he was so damn curious that he was feeling afraid for himself. He needed to know what it was - Dumbledore had kept this from him even though the prophecy had been about him - it had gotten his parents killed; it was in essence the one factor that had shaped Harry’s entire life. 

It had convinced Voldemort to kill his parents. 

Harry needed to know what they had died for.

“If it convinced you,” Harry said, “then you know what it said.”

“I know only a part of it. Only Dumbledore and the Seer who made the prophecy know its full contents. And they have not shared that information with any other living soul that I know of. Unless you want to put your faith in Dumbledore telling you… this is your only opportunity.”

Harry shook his head stubbornly, even though his heart was beating yes. I want to know. 

“You think this man is going to matter?” Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know his name. The extent to which he matters pales in comparison to what impact the contents of that prophecy will have.”

No, the man had to matter. It was a human life - once taken it would never be returned - 

“So were your parents’ lives which the prophecy-”

“That you took away,” Harry snarled. “You’re the one who made the choice to kill them. You’ve never taken advice from anyone in the past, so don’t you dare try to convince me that a couple of words dictated your actions entirely.” He strode forward and stabbed his finger to the heart of Voldemort’s chest, trying not to break with his anger. “Don’t,” he breathed, punctuating each word with a poke of his finger, “Lie. To. Me.”

“I have never lied to you, Harry.”

Bullshit. 

Bullshit. 

His mind screamed the word, even though he knew Voldemort was likely telling the truth. He had omitted certain facts, yes, he had manipulated Harry… but he had never lied. 

“You had to have been so scared, Tom,” Harry sneered, “to let the words of a Seer push you to do something so honorless.”

“You think I was not?” Voldemort seethed. “I was on the brink of getting everything I have ever wanted, everything I have burned for - and then that prophecy spelt out the end of it all. The end of everything I had worked my entire life to build. Naturally, I could not accept what the prophecy said - that it would all come crumbling down. How would you have felt?”

“Don’t try to get me to sympathize with you.”

“Isn’t that what you’re good at?” Voldemort laughed. “Playing the hero? Harry, didn’t you want to understand me. Understand me in order to fix me? Do you understand now that there is nothing to fix, nothing for you to save, no reason any longer for you to play at being a hero because you’re not. You never were.”

“I hate you. You’re so incredibly fucked up it’s a wonder your soul didn’t fall apart on its own.”

“Why is it so impossible for you to be selfish once in a while? Does it truly pain you to abandon these morals Dumbledore has taught you? Wake up. You’re not a child anymore, not after what you’ve been through. The world is not that simple. Refusing to torture this man will not benefit anyone but yourself. It will appeal to you, it will leave you in peace, but it also comes at the sacrifice of losing this information potentially forever. One moment of guilt… or a lifetime of regret.”

“There are other ways-”

“Going to go crawling back to Dumbledore, then? See if he cares. Unlike you, Dumbledore understands what this world is. And he will let himself be selfish. He will sacrifice you, as you know he would have if I remained unaware of what you are, in order to win. In order to secure his own victory. Dumbledore was your definition of good, wasn’t he? He’s not. All he is… is a broken man clinging to childlike ideals he could never let go of. Don’t let yourself be like him.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re better.”

“... You don’t know what the hell you’re saying,” Harry snorted, shaking his head. His thoughts raced around his head like horses on a carousel, spinning faster and faster until they all blurred out of focus. “You keep trying to make it seem like my morals are there purely because of Dumbledore-”

“If they weren’t, then why is it you want to get the information?” Voldemort pressed. “Why is it that you want to get stronger, to get more power? If these morals were truly yours, they would not falter so easily in the face of what you desire. You know what you want. You’re just too scared to get it. Too scared to accept that they have groomed you for a purpose, and too scared to break free.”

“You’re just trying to twist my head - you’re trying to manipulate me - and I won’t do what you want me to, I don’t lose to you, I won’t I won’t I won’t-”

“Harry.”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Harry laughed hysterically. “You’re so fucking stupid to try to push me like this. So… Maybe you’re right! Maybe this is what I want - but that means everything…” He shook his head, clutching his hair with his hands and pulling until it hurt . “I won’t do it. You can’t make me like you, I won’t become like you - I’m better - they know I’m better -”

“Harry.”

“I’m better than this. Even if I want to do it, I want to do what you know what I want to do - I can’t I won’t I can’t I-”

Voldemort grabbed his wrists, shouting, “Harry!”

He froze.

“I’m not trying to make you like me,” Voldemort said softly, “All I’m trying to do… is show you what it means to take what you want. No one is here to watch you step over that line you’ve convinced yourself is there. No one's here to pull you back. It’s just you and me. You can let yourself go, and do whatever you want… and I will think nothing except that you are exquisite when you allow yourself to be.”

The world stopped spinning. Harry only stared, drinking every word as if he was dying of thirst. 

“Let me show you,” Voldemort continued. He moved closer, his hand moving to cup Harry’s cheek. Harry was too much in shock to think of moving once more. “Let me show you what you’re capable of. All of this training has made you strong, Harry. So let me show you how to use it. You can get anything you want.”

He moved closer. 

His breath was on Harry’s ear, his hand on Harry’s cheek. Stealing all of Harry’s breath as his mouth pressed against skin. 

Harry’s mind went blank. 

“Let me show you, and you won’t even feel a thing for this man by the time we’re done.”

Somehow, Harry believed him. 

“Good,” Voldemort murmured. “Now, tell me once more. Are you ready? If not… I will bring you back to the Manor, and you can forget all about this. The man, me bringing you here… and the prophecy. Yes, you want to stay here; or no, you want to leave?”

“… Yes.”

Harry felt Voldemort smile against his ear before he pulled back. The Dark Lord turned his back to Harry, facing the prisoner, who had miraculously remained unconscious despite Harry’s furious shouting. 

“Rennervate,” Voldemort cast. 

Eyes fluttered open. Before Harry could make out what colour they were, Voldemort moved once again to block his vision. At the same time, however, he reached backwards with his hand, leaving the palm up. Getting the message, Harry tentatively reached forward, grasping Voldemort's hand in his own and allowing himself to be tugged forward until all that remained between him and the man on the chair was Voldemort himself. 

“Do you know me?” 

The man shivered. He must have. Harry didn’t know how anyone could not. 

This wasn’t the soothing calm voice that Harry had suddenly grown accustomed to. This was the cold, merciless one he’d heard in the dungeons at the beginning of the summer. The voice that had held no sympathy during the murder of Mrs. Figg, that had haunted Harry while he suffered. 

“I know who you are.” Harry was impressed the man had managed that much.  

Voldemort nodded approvingly and moved towards the back of the chair. Harry kept his gaze fixed on the floor, unwilling to pay attention to what was truly going on. His mind screamed that he was being a coward but his heart knew he was not built for the agony he would face, the relentless guilt that would succumb to him if he did face reality. 

Unfortunately, as Voldemort shifted out of the way, the man strapped down to the chair got his first real glimpse of Harry. Harry knew what the reaction was without even having to look. It was the same with everyone. 

The widening of the eyes, the spark of recognition. The awe on their face for something he hadn’t even known he’d done until he was eleven. And even when he was a baby, it hadn’t been intentional; taking down Voldemort had just been an accident, something completely out of his control. 

But that didn’t matter to people like this man. All they saw, all they could think of was-

“H-Harry P-”

Voldemort murmured a silencing spell. “Shhh. It took a lot of work and time to bring Harry this far…” His eyes flicked up. “Harry. Eyes on me.”

Harry didn’t listen. His heart had begun pounding again when the man said his name. He knew who he was; he knew who Harry Potter was supposed to be. And it wasn’t this. All the doubts Voldemort had managed to quiet in Harry’s head slowly began to creep back in. 

“Eyes on me.”

The smooth, velvety quality of the words made Harry at last glance up. Voldemort was staring at him, the parseltongue fresh on his tongue as he waited for Harry to banish all those doubts once again. To return to this task with a clear, willing mind. Harry swallowed as he attempted to do just that. 

He needed to do this. He needed to find out about the prophecy. 

About what had made him the famous Harry Potter in the first place. 

“Good,” Voldemort praised. “Take out your wand, Harry. Now place it on his chest - a little higher, it’ll be more effective if it's aimed towards the centre of his body. Now… I don’t want you to look at him. I want you to look at me the entire time. You are familiar with the Cruciatus curse, are you not?”

Harry’s vision flashed back to Crouch performing it in the defence classroom. How the spider had writhed with sudden phantom pain, twitching and convulsing uncontrollably. 

He looked back down at the man, trying to imagine him twitching as the spider had done. 

Then he remembered what Voldemort had told him. Eyes on him. Straining with the effort, Harry tilted his head up, keeping his wand steady on the man’s chest. He let out a deep breath, staring directly at Voldemort’s red, red eyes. Letting himself drown in them and everything else fall away. 

“I do,” Harry managed. “Know it, I mean.”

The man beneath his wand struggled. Voldemort didn’t look away from Harry, raising his eyebrow challengingly to see if Harry could do the same. Harry could. 

“Focus on me, not your wand,” Voldemort instructed him. “If he screams, he screams. If he is in pain, then he’s in pain. Those screams and pain are not yours. They don’t matter. Let it happen and I’ll tell you when to stop. All you have to do is keep looking at me, maintaining that spell, and nothing else.”

“I don’t mean it.”

“What don’t you mean?”

“The curse. I don’t really want him to…”

“To be in agony?” Voldemort finished. “Very well. Then let me give you a different image. Peter Pettigrew, perhaps?”

A spark flew from Harry’s wand, causing the man beneath it to twitch. 

“I didn’t even have to ask,” Voldemort purred. “I never meant for him to come to me. No, that was all on his own. Your father, Black, and Lupin were all out drinking that night. Celebrating something after finishing up a meeting with the Order of the Phoenix. I was holding a meeting at Malfoy Manor. I expected nothing… and then two of my Death Eaters dragged in poor Peter Pettigrew, who had been standing outside, who had come to me. You should have seen him, Harry - he was pathetic. Trembling, shaking - I was about to kill him. Until he said the few words that changed your life as much as that prophecy. Pettigrew already knew what the prophecy said, and he was the one who gave me the means to make sure it failed. Know what they are?”

“No.”

“I know where the Potters are,” Voldemort told him. “I can help you find them.”

Harry’s hand was shaking. 

“I asked him what he wanted in return,” Voldemort chuckled. “All he wanted was for me to give him what so many others desired. Power in the new world I was creating. He wanted to matter. And for that… he was willing to let two of his best friends, two of the people who thought of him as family, your mother and father die.”

“Crucio,” Harry gasped out. 

The effect was immediate. Force pushed back on Harry’s wand hand as the body convulsed. Screams lit up the air, blanketing it with fear and agony. Harry trembled as he stared into Voldemort’s eyes, knowing there was no way he was going to block this out. 

It wasn’t long ago that he had screamed like this. 

And now he was on the other side of the ordeal. The one causing the screams. 

He felt like he was going to throw up. 

“There you go,” Voldemort coaxed. “You’re doing wonderfully. Just don’t look down. Keep your focus on me. You’re safe.”

The screams grew louder. Harry choked back a sob, tears running freely down his cheeks. He couldn’t do this. 

“Help!” The man screeched, breaking through the silencing spell. “Someone - make it STOP-”

“More,” Voldemort said.  

Harry pushed more power into the spell until the screams overtook the words, obliterating any need for a silencing spell. The man couldn’t even form words anymore, his eyes going glassy and hazed with unspeakable pain. 

“A few minutes of this or an entire life of regret for what you couldn’t accomplish,” Voldemort reminded him. “Do not feel remorse.”

“How can you be so…” Harry shook his head disbelievingly. “… cold-hearted? Detached from this?”

“It gets easier. More.”

Harry focused harder on the curse, damning himself to hell.

”The key,” Voldemort said, “is to keep the flow steady. Feel the magic flowing through you, but also exercise restraint. The Cruciatus Curse can be almost… euphoric at times. As a result, the caster loses his control and ends up either hurting their intended target, or worse themselves. Causing someone the greatest amount of pain is a steady stream over a long period of time, not a great amount at one moment.”

The man screamed  

“Stop.”

With a breath of relief, Harry yanked his arm back, cancelling the spell. His body was high on adrenaline, blood and energy roaring in his ears. He had never felt more alert, more awake in his life. He felt alive. 

Euphoric, as Voldemort had described. It was hitting Harry in full force now. His magic sang to him, so dangerously sweet in his ears, urging him to use more. The drown out the torturous shrieks with the pleasure numbing his mind and conscience. 

“Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?” Voldemort asked calmly, removing whatever remnants of the silencing spell that remained. He waited for the man to catch his breath, to bowel saliva back into his hoarse, ripped-up throat before he could speak. 

“Never.”

Harry did not know this man’s name. But he knew he would remember his bravery. 

“How unfortunate,” was all Voldemort said. “Again, Harry. Look at me and then continue.”

Harry did just that. Forced himself to stare into those scarlet irises and cast the spell again, dredging up whatever anger and fury he could remember feeling for anyone, not just Peter Pettigrew. The screams resumed, replacing the quiet and stillness with chaos and pain. 

Voldemort had been right. It was easier this time. The screams were to be expected. Harry didn’t even know what the man looked like when he was writhing under the Cruciatus. All he was seeing was red. Not red like the man’s blood, which Harry just knew he had to be choking on in this state. Red like something Harry could get lost in, red like something forbidden that Harry was just now learning to reach for. 

“Crucio.” Without being prompted, Harry pushed the curse further. He felt weightless, so impossibly light.

The screams were almost… normal now. Instead of silence, there was noise. It was easy to tune out in the face of Voldemort’s penetrating, intense gaze. Everything about this ordeal faded into the background; Harry didn’t even know what was happening anymore. And slowly, eventually… he started breathing again. 

“You’re beautiful like this, Harry,” Voldemort murmured. 

“Crucio.”

The man writhed and screamed. 

Voldemort smiled. “So utterly perfect.” 

Harry couldn’t hear the screams anymore. His mind went quiet. His magic reached a blinding crescendo. It was… incredible. 

“In a moment, I will need to enter his mind in order to get the information we need,” Voldemort said. “Keep him under the curse until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Can you manage it? Once I start, I don’t want any interruptions. That is imperative.”

“Yes.”

Voldemort studied him, searching for any waverings in Harry’s conviction. But there weren’t any. Harry had entered this state of pure calm, of weightlessness almost. He couldn’t focus on anything but Voldemort. And perhaps Voldemort had known something like that would happen by instructing Harry to only look at him earlier. Harry had to hand it to him… he really knew how to make people do what he wanted. 

“Legilimens.”

And the world went quiet. 

Harry closed his eyes, allowing his feelings to wash over him. He didn’t even have to block anything out anymore. He didn’t have to distract himself by putting all of his attention on Voldemort's presence. He was relaxed and clear-minded. 

He didn’t know how long he waited before Voldemort’s eyes flickered open. It was long enough for his arm to start trembling under the strain of conducting so much magic in a continuous flow, however. He hadn’t had aches through magical exhaustion since duelling with Bellatrix. 

Sweat dripped down his cheeks and down to his chin. 

“You got it?” Harry panted. 

Voldemort nodded slowly. Light pinpricks were rushing through Harry’s scar. Not searing hot anger but… joy. It rendered him speechless, feeling such a poor, elated feeling from the Dark Lord. 

“I was right,” Voldemort mused. “Pain was the key to bringing down his mental defences. And you provided that. You performed extraordinarily, Harry.”

Harry tried not to pay too much attention to the words and how they made him feel. He suspected that thinking too hard on it would only lead to something he wasn’t ready to handle. “What now?”

“We won’t be able to act on this for now,” Voldemort said, brushing off his sleeves. His hands were covered with blood. “I will tell you when the moment comes.”

“You’ll… you promise?”

Voldemort glanced his way. “Harry, I will never keep something of meaning to you from you. You have a right to take part in this. There will be no shunning or withholding of information on my end. All you ever have to do is show me you are ready for me to share it with you.”

Harry couldn’t help the relieved smile. 

“As for now, we are going back to the Manor. You have been through a lot today, and accomplished more than I previously thought possible. Consider me… impressed. You will have the rest of the day to recover and gather your thoughts. The true test comes after this; when the realization of what you have just done hits you. You will probably prefer to be alone for that part. Then, when you have adjusted… you are free to seek me out. I believe I promised you a duel.”

“You do keep your promises…”

“I have honour,” Voldemort frowned. “Now, if you will… step out of the room and start walking to your left. Loose ends require tying up, and I am sure you will not want to witness it. I will join you shortly.”

Harry nodded and pocketed his wand before following the instructions. He had just closed the door when he somehow knew that Voldemort had taken out his wand, brandishing it in the captive's direction. 

He knew what would happen. So he started walking, not wanting to listen to it. Not wanting to know what had happened. But he still heard the two so small but significant words. 

“Avada Kedavra.”

Harry shuddered, walking faster. 

Voldemort was right. It was all hitting him now. He felt like he had been a different person in there from how horrible he felt now, outside the room, compared to out here alone. 

He did not know what headspace he must have been in while torturing that man, and he had no way of returning to it. He didn’t feel bad for the man, as Voldemort had predicted. Harry had no attachment to the man - he hadn’t looked at him too long, he hadn’t known his name - he had just been an obstacle in the way of information Harry had needed. That said… What did haunt him was how he had acted there. What Voldemort had convinced him to do. 

Voldemort reached him after a few moments, catching up to him easily. Without a word, guessing at Harry’s mental state, he merely reached out his hand. The hand that had been pale as bone this morning as he helped Harry with his cufflinks, was now a vivid scarlet deeper than the shade of his eyes. 

Harry reached out and took it, curling his fingers around the firm hand. A blink and his surroundings were familiar once more. Back in Slytherin Manor. In Harry’s room no less. 

“Come to me when you are ready,” Voldemort told him before disappearing as well. 

Harry slowly blinked, taking in the emerald green of his room. Of the soft blankets on his couch that were still undone from this morning. The spare robes he had spitefully tossed aside while dressing, scoffing at Voldemort’s gifts. 

Now, he raised his arms and studied himself. At the drying red on his fingers. Remembering what he had just done. 

There was blood on his hands.

Draco Malfoy finished writing the letter just in time. 

He had just laid the parchment flat on the table, sealing it in an envelope, when his mother burst into the room, pale and alert. Draco immediately sat up, capping the bottle of makeshift ink and standing up. The only times she looked this startled was when the Dark Lord had arrived unexpectedly. 

“He is here,” Narcissa said quietly, warning laced in her tone. 

Draco nodded, rolling up the parchment and pocketing it, noticing how it snared his mother’s attention. He would have to be careful today - more careful even than he normally was. The last time the Dark Lord had been here, Draco had tried to keep something about Harry from him. He’d given the secret away in the end, but there had still been that damning moment of hesitancy. 

It was that moment of hesitancy that could get someone like Draco killed if he put one toe out of line now. He was wading through dangerous waters. All it would take was one wrong move before the Dark Lord ordered him drowned. 

Even writing this letter was a risk.

“Does he want to see us?” Draco asked, his voice slightly shaky. He had never pretended to be brave. There were many facades he’d used in front of others - cold masks and stony demeanours - but he’d never be able to truly mask his fear. 

Narcissa slowly shook her head. Her eyes finally moved up from where Draco had pocketed the parchment to look at her son worriedly. She fiddled with her hands, a telltale sign of nervousness, before ultimately deciding to clasp them in front. 

“The Dark Lord requested that you see him alone.”

Alone. 

A spike of fear shot through Draco, quick and deadly as a bolt of lightning. He stood there, as good as struck, taking in the information. The Dark Lord requested to speak with him alone. That meant Draco was surely as good as dead. 

“I’m going in with you,” Narcissa Malfoy said, her tone leaving no room for argument. But if fear was one of Draco's reliable faults, os was his stubbornness. And his mother knew it, too. 

“No, you’re not,” Draco made his way around the small circular breakfast table he’d been sitting at. He moved to the small space between his mother and the doors. “You know what he’ll do.”

“You’re my son,” Narcissa insisted. His mother had never been like Draco and his father. Where they were both slaves to higher powers out of terror and compliance, Narcissa had always been comprised of the bright, resilient stars of her namesake. The least Draco could do was protect that. 

“And you’re my mother. I’ll be alright. The Dark Lord wouldn’t kill me without an audience.”

The very mention of any killing was enough to bring slight tears to his mother’s eyes. Draco instantly regretted it, nearly crossing the room once more to comfort her. But the Dark Lord couldn’t be kept waiting. Or else it would be on both of them. Narcissa, who’d been sent to retrieve Draco, and Draco, who had already lost the Dark Lord’s good graces. 

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Draco said, trying to sound reassuring, even though he was just as worried as she was. Without giving himself time to think any more of it, he closed the doors behind him. He paused for a second, leaning his head back against the closed surface, his eyes closed as he took in several deep breaths. He felt like he’d need all the oxygen in the world to get through this encounter. 

One of the many things Draco had never understood about Harry Potter was how he could be so brave in front of the Dark Lord. How he could make cutting remarks and sarcastic comments, how he could fight back without faltering from his knees giving out - how he had made it this far without succumbing to the need for less future pain. 

Draco felt for the parchment at the inside of his robes, hidden from view. He needed to get it to Potter. That was essential - it was one of the few things that mattered anymore. 

The Dark Lord was waiting for him in the dining hall, seated at the head of the large, dark table. Cold blue flame flared behind him from the fireplace, casting the room in an eerie light. It dappled in brilliant waves across the room, making the Dark Lord look almost otherworldly, ethereal. Fitting. The way Draco saw it, the Dark Lord was nothing of this world. 

“My Lord,” he said, dropping to his knee before fear overcame composure. The floor thudded under his feet. He kept his gaze fixed on it. 

“I should kill you, Draco,” the Dark Lord said softly, smoothly, “for how you have disobeyed me.” 

So this was to be his end. 

Draco kept staring at the floor, unwilling to speak. Not able to get out a single word much less a breath of air. 

It was a peculiar feeling, knowing that you were about to die. Everything else fell away - his parents, the Manor, his friends - and all he could see was this very moment. His heart didn’t even speed up. His surroundings, himself even, felt extremely slow, as if he were walking through a dream instead of reality. 

This was it. 

“However, recent events have forced me to reevaluate that decision.”

What?  

Draco’s gaze shot up, his lips parting in surprise. Just like that, the world came crashing back down, the speed of reality hitting him with full force. 

“You expected to die,” the Dark Lord mused softly, chuckling. He was in a very good mood. There was not a trace of unpredictable temper, no darkness behind his eyes. Something significant must have happened recently. “And yet you still came. It seems you inherited your mother’s bravery instead of your father’s. For that reason alone… I believe you can be of use to me.”

Draco’s father would have been quick to say anything, my Lord. Anything you need. Just let me redeem myself, I will not fail you again. 

“Of use?” Draco asked instead. 

“Indeed. Before I continue, you must swear an unbreakable vow to me. Nothing I say here will leave this room. If you do this, not only your life will be spared, but the lives of your parents as well. It is your choice.”

Not much of a choice. 

Draco held his arm out, instinctively shying away as the Dark Lord took out his wand and reached forward with his hand. So he intended to conduct the ritual without a third impartial party present. He certainly had the power for it. The skin of the Dark Lord’s fingers was cool, as cold as the blue flame that roared behind him, licking up in dangerous tendrils of icy flame. Draco swallowed hard as the Dark Lord walked him through the words. 

“Do you swear not to tell anyone of what has transpired in this meeting of ours?” the Dark Lord asked quietly. “That you will reveal nothing of what you or I or any participants of this discussion said to anyone or anything?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear not to communicate any of this? Through verbal language, writing, or any other way your clever mind may think of getting the information to anyone?”

Draco gritted his teeth. “I swear.”

The Dark Lord smiled and pulled back, folding his wand back into his dark, billowing sleeve. “Well done, Draco. Now… you are aware that Severus Snape was my spy in the Order of the Phoenix? Into all of Dumbledore’s plans?”

Draco had known this, but one little word snagged his attention. “Was?” he repeated. 

“I have reason to believe that he may have been… compromised. I can no longer trust him as I have done in the past. Perhaps certain events transpired during these past fourteen years… but no matter. What’s done is done, and the only thing I will allow myself to ponder is the slow death I will give him when the time comes. Don’t look so worried, Draco. Rather, you will not have time to be concerned… not when I want you to be my new spy.”

Once again, the ground fell away from under Draco’s feet. 

“You… are not your father,” the Dark Lord continued, seemingly oblivious to the inner turmoil Draco was being subjected to, increasing in intensity with every word the Dark Lord spoke. “Dumbledore is surely aware of this as well. Severus has also likely provided information on his personal opinion of you compared to the rest of your family that has sworn their loyalty to me. Dumbledore… will try to offer you a choice. It is inevitable - he keeps trying to convince himself that he is a force for good, that compassion will ultimately allow him to triumph. However, I want this compassion to be his undoing.”

“When he offers me a choice,” Draco said, slowly figuring it out. “You want me to go to him. Act like I need his protection. But secretly report back to you on everything I find out.”

“Do you think you can do this? I will not send you on this mission if you think there will be… complications. No attachments, young Malfoy, no sympathy can be afforded for Dumbledore and his order. Not even for Potter’s friends.”

“And Potter?”

“You want something in return?” the Dark Lord raised an eyebrow. 

No backing out now. Not when he was so close. “I want to apologize. I lost his trust.”

The Dark Lord considered this carefully. “Very well.”

Draco reached into the back pocket of his trousers. He remained steady, his fingers firm as he pulled it out. “I’ll do whatever you need me to, my Lord. I ask… that you give him this letter.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed. “I will have to read it. I will not have you interfering with my plans for him. I have guaranteed you and your parents’ lives should you choose to accept this task, but that does not mean there are fates worse than death.”

“I understand.” 

If the Dark Lord found out what Draco had planned, he would suffer greatly. 

But this was a risk he had to take. 

This was the only risk he had ever truly taken - it had to be worthwhile, it just had to. And the only person he trusted to carry out this task, to actually succeed … was Potter. 

He couldn’t believe he was banking on Harry Potter for this to work. A couple of months ago, he would have hated to merely be in the same room with the other boy. 

“Why this interest in returning into his good graces?” the Dark Lord asked. “Surely loyalty to Potter does not mean this much to you. It never has in the past from what I have been informed. Your own father claims you despise him.”

“Potter would do more than this for me,” Draco answered. “He would go to great lengths for the people he chooses to, even if they don’t… appreciate it as much as they should. Even if they are his enemy. I know this because he’s done so for me before. This is a way of settling my debt.”

He paused then, noticing that the Dark Lord was staring at him, red eyes glinting with interest that hadn’t been there before. Prior to whatever Draco had just said, the Dark Lord had seemed curious only about what Draco could do for him, but now… 

Had Draco said something wrong? He ran over the words he’d just said in his head and replayed them until his ears began to ring, all while the Dark Lord continued to study him. 

“If Potter were to show this loyalty to you continuously,” the Dark Lord said then, “you would continue to exhibit similar loyalty to him?”

Draco frowned. There was more behind the question than it appeared, he knew that for a fact. An innocent question like this had greater motivations behind the scenes. The Dark Lord had just realized that he wanted something. The question was what. 

And how he was going to use Draco to get it. 

“I would, my Lord.”

“Interesting.”

“My Lord-”

“I will expect your first report when you return to Hogwarts next month. I will allow you a week of rest, to get everything in order… and then your work begins. I do not expect you to come into contact with Dumbledore so soon… However. By the end of September, I want you to have retrieved some information that you know will be of use to me. Is that clear?”

 “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good. Then my business here is done.”

The Dark Lord reached his hand out. Startled, Draco realized he had still been holding the letter in his hand. He quickly handed it over, trying not to look too concerned as the Dark Lord immediately removed the seal Draco had spelt onto it - the Malfoy family crest. 

“Do not fail me, Draco.”

Draco forced himself to nod, staring straight ahead as the Dark Lord disapparated. All the while hearing the last words the Dark Lord had spoken, all the while knowing he already had by writing that letter. 

Chapter Text

Harry knew fear. 

Never of death. But fear of loss, he knew. Fear of pain. Courage could not exist without fear, or there would be no reason for it in the first place. He had always been told he had his mother and father’s bravery. If that was a compliment, then that meant there had been a lot of it. And with that came a lot of fear. 

But Harry had never feared himself.

Not like this.

It had been a week since they came back from Marasme. That entire time, Harry spent in the safety and privacy of his room. Sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, and wondering what the hell had gone so wrong with him. 

Because that hadn’t been him back in that cell. He would never have done that, he would never have even thought about doing that had Voldemort not been there. And that was at the heart of his worries. 

Voldemort.

Harry really had had no idea of what could happen from being around Voldemort for so long. To have the Dark Lord as his only form of company, to grow used to his thoughts and outlook on the world.

Had he become so desensitized to Voldemort that he had started to become influenced by him?

That was a scary thought. It had only been two days in Slytherin Manor when Harry had tortured an innocent man, after all. What could happen in three months? 

His room was a mess. The first day had been denial, an absolute rejection that any of the events of the day had occurred. He had been assaulted by memories of dying screams, tortured wails and the horrible gurgling sound that resulted from choking on blood. 

Harry had hurled his guts into the toilet shortly after. 

The second day had been a steady and horrifying realization of what he had done, that he had caused someone as much pain as Voldemort had caused him. The third, Harry stifled his magic and raged about his room, destroying anything he could. The mirrors were cracked, glass vases shattered on the floor, bedsheets in tatters, until it was unrecognizable from the room he had first entered. 

On the fourth day, he had gone quiet. No thoughts had entered his mind. He had just stared and stared out the window that Voldemort had so graciously allowed him. 

On the fifth day, he had begun wondering what he would have done if anyone else besides Voldemort had been there. If even one other person would have been enough to remind Harry of who he was, that he was not the person that Voldemort was manipulating him into becoming. 

The sixth day had been full of hatred. Hatred for Voldemort, for the world even, but mostly for Harry himself. And that was all he had done. He hadn’t eaten, he hadn’t slept, he hadn’t done anything other than wallow in his own self-disgust. 

And here he was on the seventh day, wondering if now was the time to seek Voldemort out again. 

He was surprised that he had been left alone this long. He’d been thinking long and hard about why Voldemort had done what he had done that day. And he had come to a single, sound conclusion. 

Voldemort was running out of time. 

There had been much, much better ways to go about pushing Harry into torture. Into considering the life of a human so insignificant that he was willing to stand by and watch it be drained away. He could have bought his time, gradually got Harry desensitized to the idea of torture, brought Harry with him and forced him to watch over and over until Harry didn’t feel anything for it anymore, until he was more willing to participate. 

But he had not. Instead, he had rushed it. Harry wasn’t sure why it was so important that he learned that particular lesson, but Voldemort had deemed it so crucial that he had rushed Harry. 

And in doing so, Voldemort had made a calculation. 

Harry rubbed his eyes furiously, wiping away the stray tears. 

That had to be the reason why Harry was enjoying as much solitude as he was. Voldemort was aware that he had made a mistake, so he had to exercise caution. Push Harry too far at this point and he risked losing whatever progress he thought he had made. 

Harry stood up, exhaling slowly. He swayed at the instant head rush, groaning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. Now was a good time as ever to go outside. This was the most emotionally stable he had been all week. 

His feet dragged him to the same room with the breakfast table. Voldemort was already waiting for him, glancing up with no sign of surprise upon seeing him. He must have felt Harry coming through whatever link existed between their minds. Harry gazed around, noticing this time the elaborate, decorative illusions Voldemort had picked out for today. He chose not to comment on any of them. Voldemort frowned, appearing almost disappointed at the lack of acknowledgement. 

“Good morning, Harry,” Voldemort said, keeping his voice soft, pretending not to notice the wretched state Harry was in. 

Harry didn’t answer, opting to continue staring down at the plate in front of him. Waffles appeared, courtesy of the charm on the plates, which Harry dug into without a word. A flicker of surprise shot through the scar. Harry could understand why. He had never started eating as soon as he sat down before; he had always started a conversation while moving the contents of his plate around aimlessly with his utensil, needing a reminder before he even remembered he had to eat. 

Voldemort studied him warily. 

Harry didn’t say anything. He just reached over to grab the maple syrup and spread it onto his waffles. 

He could feel Voldemort’s growing suspicion and confusion through his scar. Had Voldemort expected Harry to act worse than he was? Harry could admit he had quite a temper, no matter how much he picked on Voldemort for having one, so his reaction should probably have been more… volatile than this. His movements felt lethargic even to himself, uncaring. His usually bright eyes were dull. 

Voldemort leaned forward slowly. His eyes were strangely contemplative. “I understand how you feel, but-”

“No, you don’t.”

Voldemort frowned at the interruption. There was a spark of anger, but before he could lash out on it as Harry suspected he would, he closed his mouth and went quiet. It was enough to temporarily jerk Harry out of his depressive mood. Voldemort had never acquiesced and remained silent for another person’s benefit before, at least not to Harry’s knowledge. 

“Then tell me.”

Harry looked up uncomprehendingly. 

“Tell me how you feel. Make me understand.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I’ve hurt you.”

Harry scoffed, setting his fork down and pushing his plate back. Food was once again forgotten, though his stomach growled in protest. “You can’t hurt me, Voldemort. I don’t care enough about what you do for you to ever do that.” He snorted. “I… let you manipulate me. You knew exactly what to say to make me do what you wanted. And I’m just so incredibly weak that I didn’t even see it.”

“That’s not your fault,” Voldemort said in what he must have thought was a consoling manner. It wasn’t. “I have much more experience with this than you. You never stood a chance.”

“But I should have,” Harry snapped. “I should have realized what you were doing earlier. I shouldn’t have been so weak-minded that I lost myself to satisfy you. That’s why you made this deal, isn’t it? So I would become so accustomed to you and your bullshit ideals that I started getting influenced by it too, is that it?”

He knew that was it. And it frightened him so fucking much. Because it was working. All he had was Voldemort, he didn’t know when to stop. Harry knew where his lines were, but somehow Voldemort had erased Harry’s sense of direction. 

Harry’s lip trembled furiously. 

“I can’t do this,” he breathed. He stood up and headed for the doors. 

Only for them to abruptly slam on him. 

Harry whipped out his wand, the glass on the table cracking with his fury. Magic seared its way through his veins like living fire. All that lethargy and fatigue from before was gone. All he could do was burn and hope Voldemort got the brunt of the flame. 

“Let me go,” Harry said softly. 

“No,” Voldemort said, equally soft. “You leave and you will break. Perhaps I don’t understand what you feel, but there is enough that I know you will not deal with it well alone-”

“And that’s what you wanted, right? For me to come crawling to you, for me to take comfort from you, just so you can finish what you started.”

He was afraid. Harry hadn’t been afraid of Voldemort for a long, long time, but if he could turn Harry into this? Harry didn’t want to be around him for a second more than he had to. 

He had made a mistake in taking this deal. 

He had never imagined what it would do to him. 

“I thought you wanted to break me,” Harry said. 

Voldemort didn’t respond. 

“I don’t want your company,” Harry said, unnecessarily loud to make sure Voldemort couldn’t possibly misunderstand. “I don’t want to see you any more than I have to. I want you to leave.”

Silence. 

“At least tell me why,” Harry begged desperately. “You owe me an explanation… I can’t live with myself right now. Can’t you feel that much?” He tapped his scar. “I need to know what this was for. Why do this?”

There was something close to genuine regret on Voldemort’s face. “That… I cannot reveal to you yet. That would jeopardize everything I have set in motion. I regret what I have put you through, Harry, but I will not compromise my plans for anything.” 

“You regret it?”

“Not at the time,” Voldemort answered. “But I have seen how much pain I have caused you, no matter what I initially intended. I am not sorry for what happened… but I regret this much.”

Harry smiled bitterly. “I don’t believe you.”

“As I have asked you before: have I ever lied to you?”

“No. But I remember saying before that I trusted you not to harm me. Well, I don’t. Not anymore, that is. Whatever progress you think you made? That’s all gone now.”

The pause that followed was anything but silent.

Voldemort’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Do you want us to be enemies once more, Harry Potter?” 

“I’d rather that than whatever fucked up mess this is,” Harry said. “Now let me out.”

“I have already allowed you a week,” Voldemort said quietly. “I have patience, but it is quickly wearing thin.”

“Then give me another and fuck off.”

It was an incredible thing to see, Voldemort controlling his temper. His eyes flared with warning, anger making the shadows of the room grow darker. The temperature dropped. Harry almost cowered as the Dark Lord’s power shot through the air like tendrils of electricity with fatal voltage. He felt like a prisoner again, his hands and feet chained down along with the rest of him. 

“One more week,” Voldemort agreed grudgingly. “But that is all.”

Harry didn’t say thank you. He didn’t care if Voldemort was being a merciful or gracious lord. All he cared about was getting away from him. 

“Let’s see how far that gets you,” Voldemort crooned mockingly. 

The last impression Harry got of him was his furious red eyes before he was gone. 

There was a letter waiting for Harry when he got back to his room. 

At first, strangely enough, Harry assumed it was from Voldemort. Whether it was instructions for what to do in his absence to keep his training up to speed or some final cruel words, he didn’t know. Glancing at it, he turned to go to the bathroom instead. Slytherin Manor had some splendid amenities, after all. Might as well take advantage of them while he had the time. 

His black gloves peeled off smoothly as he took them off. The air felt too cool against the bare skin now. Harry had not taken the gloves off since Voldemort had given them to him. He felt naked without them now. 

The shower water ran hot faster than Harry was expecting, but he didn’t react to the burn on his skin. Cleaning himself was almost a mechanical process. There was no blood left on him, but he could have sworn he still smelt the pungent scent of iron, so he washed his hands furiously over and over again, scrubbing them clean until they were as raw as the skin on his back from the boiling hot water. The blood had been on his gloves, but he couldn’t help but think his hands were still red red red -

His scar was completely calm. There was not an ounce of feeling in it, no sparks of emotion or hints of hidden thoughts. The silence was certainly a surprise. He hadn’t realized how much he had felt through his scar until the source of that feeling was gone. 

Good riddance. 

The gloves slipped back on as seamlessly as they had come off.

Moodily, Harry strode past the bed, still not wanting to give Voldemort the satisfaction of sleeping in it, and flopped down on the couch. Now he had a whole more week to himself. Maybe he could break down and cry on the floor again and collapse into a pathetic mess until Voldemort returned. Realistically, Harry knew that was not a good way to spend his time, but he also didn’t really care at the moment. It sounded like a good option. 

Would Voldemort feel Harry’s distress through their link? 

Harry’s mood soured. Perhaps that wasn’t a good way to spend his time after all. 

In that case, perhaps ripping up Voldemort’s stupid letter would give him the gratification he so desperately needed at the moment. It wasn’t enough that Voldemort had actually agreed to Harry’s demand and left him alone. Harry wanted to paint a huge “fuck you” to Voldemort across the sky so that all the people of London could see it for themselves. 

As he strode over to the letter, a simple loose shirt and black trousers on instead of a robe, he noticed that there was a seal on the envelope. Voldemort would have no need for a seal if the letter had been from him to Harry. Harry would have instantly realized who it was. 

Harry gingerly picked it up, not recognizing the seal. Frowning to himself, he ripped it open, bringing out the folded parchment inside and scanning over it, confused. His eyes immediately darted to the bottom. 

Draco. 

Oh, thank Merlin. Harry sank down to his knees, leaning against the bed frame as he sat down on the floor, relieved. There had been so much happening after his failed escapade from Malfoy Manor that he had given little thought to Draco. A fact he regretted now. Voldemort must have been furious with Draco for lying, for keeping the truth of Harry’s secret freedom from him. 

Harry grinned. Draco really wasn’t so bad after all once you got to know him. 

The letter was exactly what Harry had expected. A long apology in ridiculously flourish-filled handwriting, asking for Harry’s forgiveness and assuring him that if given the chance, he would not break his trust. 

Unlike with Voldemort, Harry was already ready to accept Draco’s apology. He hadn’t even needed one to forgive the young Malfoy. What else could Draco have done when his family was at risk? When it had mattered, he had helped Harry. That’s all there was to it. 

He wasn’t sure what to do with the letter, though. There wasn’t any way he could respond to it. 

What did surprise him was that Voldemort had delivered it for Draco. What on earth had motivated him to do that? 

Harry looked around. There wasn’t any pen or paper. But maybe he could look around the Manor - there had to be some somewhere in this giant of a place - and pen a quick response to Draco. If Voldemort had delivered Draco’s letter, he would probably do the same for Harry as well. 

The first place Harry could think of that would have either of the things he needed was the library. With a rush of amusement, he realized he had been going to libraries rather frequently as of late. It was a strange feeling, willingly stepping into the room with a search for knowledge through books and nothing more. No restricted section to steal from or secret meetings discussing philosopher’s stones or basilisks. 

The library was lit with those small candles from last week. Harry scowled and pointedly looked away when he passed the chair Voldemort sat in and the rug Harry was expected to sit on. Pushing aside the feelings he felt rather forcefully, he looked around for a desk or a table or something that would have writing utensils. 

The first that he found wasn’t quite far from his and Voldemort’s usual sitting area. There was a dark wood desk laying off against the wall, a single lamp with burning fire making Harry sweat lightly as he neared it. Laying on top of it was a quill, a bottle of ink, and some spare parchment. 

It was almost convenient. 

Harry rolled his eyes but decided to use them, anyway. What harm could it do? He unscrewed the ink bottle and dipped the quill in, settling himself on the chair. 

Draco,

I understand why you did what you did. There is nothing to forgive. 

If I can ever repay the kindness you showed to me, let me know. Anything for a friend. At least, if you agree that’s where we stand now. I certainly hope you do. 

Harry. 

Harry glanced over the words anything for a friend. There was a twinge of doubt at including that phrase. For one, if the letter had been addressed to Voldemort, he would have taken advantage of that implied promise immediately. Anything could mean, well, anything. And Harry would have already agreed to it, as a friend. 

But Draco wasn’t like that. It was definitely just Harry, who was overthinking things and growing paranoid thanks to Voldemort’s influence. 

Making up his mind, Harry left the response as it was and rolled up the parchment. He shoved it into the pocket of his trousers, at the last minute folding it carefully. 

“Now what?” he muttered. 

Draco’s letter was still on the desk. Harry had been referring to it while penning his response. Shrugging to himself, he picked it up. 

And stopped. 

“What…” There were words on the page. Not the ones that were already there. Just faint outlines of them, almost bleeding into the paper like very precise water stains forming words… 

“Draco,” Harry smirked. “You’re a bloody genius.”

It was a muggle technique, writing in invisible ink. Harry gave little thought to what Draco had used for the ink, focusing on the ingenuity of the action instead. Voldemort would have never thought that snobby, pureblood Draco Malfoy would use a muggle technique, especially not to get a message to Harry Potter, of all people. 

The ink appeared to be heat activated. The lamp, Harry realized, his gaze flicking up to the flame in front of him. Carefully, making sure not to burn the page, he lifted the parchment up and waited for all the words to bleed through. 

Harry 

Rip this message to shreds after you read it. Incinerate it if you have to. Cover it up by making it seem out of anger. This cannot be discovered. 

Horcruxes. 

You wanted to research them. I have while you’ve been keeping Him occupied. And knowing you, you want to fix it. 

You’re stupid, Potter, but I know you’ll try with or without help. So you might as well have some shot at success. 

Remorse. 

To mend a soul, it needs to feel genuine and extreme remorse. Both you and I know how unlikely that is. Good luck. 

Draco. 

Not giving himself much time to register what had been said, Harry thought of what Voldemort had forced him into doing, of everything the man had ever done to him, how he had murdered his parents, killed Cedric - and let that rage consume him as he burned the letter to smithereens. 

“Incendio.” 

Harry had said he would save Voldemort. That conversation they’d had at the top of the Eiffel Tower was not forgotten. And deep down, Harry knew that no matter what Voldemort did to him, he would keep trying. That’s just who he was. 

But this… Harry mentally ran over the words Draco had written him. 

Remorse. 

“That’s impossible,” Harry scoffed. How could someone who had willingly ripped their soul apart ever feel regret powerful enough to mend it? He didn’t know where Draco had gotten this information, but it couldn’t be right. That was impossible. 

And there went Harry’s hopes of somehow piecing Voldemort back together. 

Everything was falling apart along with Harry nowadays. 

He could always leave. 

It wasn’t… a bad idea, but Harry couldn’t make it hastily. There was nothing binding him to this deal with Voldemort except for the safety of his friends. At the time, Harry had thought surely nothing could stop Voldemort from winning, especially not him. 

But had he been underestimating Dumbledore? 

Dumbledore had already taken down one Dark Lord. Reading about Grindelwald whenever he had stumbled upon such a book was exactly like reading about Voldemort. They were both ruthless, cunning, cruel, and above all, frighteningly powerful. If Dumbledore could match someone like Grindelwald and could beat him… who was to say he couldn’t do the same with Voldemort? 

Harry was no longer Dumbledore’s pawn to play. Both of them knew that. There was no way Harry would walk to his own death, and no way Voldemort would allow Dumbledore to convince Harry to die now that the knowledge he was a Horcrux was no longer a secret. Now that Dumbledore didn’t have to rely on Harry to kill Voldemort, he could do it himself. 

There was the problem of the other Horcruxes, but Harry could find them. In the Malfoys’ dungeons, something had strangely drawn him towards the cup Horcrux that Voldemort had brought before him. So there must be some way to find all of them if he set his mind to it, to let himself sense them. And once Harry found them, he could-

He could destroy them. And in doing so, ruin any chances of Voldemort’s soul ever being fixed. 

Harry could walk out the door right now. He could trust Dumbledore to protect Ron and Hermione - and any others Harry cared about - from Voldemort. He could trust Dumbledore to end this war before it started. To succeed where Harry could not in killing Voldemort. 

The deal would be over. Harry would never have to suffer another moment around Voldemort ever again. 

Harry slowly pivoted to turn around toward where he knew the front door was. Unlocked and so, so tempting. 

But he knew he couldn’t do it. He had seen what cruelties Voldemort was capable of… but he also knew what Voldemort could become. Voldemort was so clever that he wouldn’t need force to take the wizarding world by the reins. He could climb his way to the top and no one would suspect a thing if he played it right. Dumbledore and the Order would never stand a chance. All of their efforts would seem paranoid, attempting to stop a threat that did not even exist to the public. 

Voldemort could become so much more. 

Was this what it was like for Voldemort when he spoke of Harry’s potential? It must have been, because once he had set his mind to it, Harry could not think of anything else. Nothing would change who or what Voldemort was at heart. He would always be the same cruel, ruthless man, but that did not mean he had to focus those qualities on the rest of the wizarding world. 

Violence most often occurred when Voldemort was unstable. Any time he had harmed one of his followers, it had always been in a bout of rage. From the shock on the rest of his followers’ faces every time it happened, or so Harry had noticed from his dreams, Voldemort had not always been that way. 

What if Voldemort became how he used to be? 

What if Harry mended his soul? 

Harry bit his lip. This was all speculation. There was nothing that carried enough influence over Voldemort to convince him to embark on such a task. Voldemort was not interested in losing the key pieces he had to his immortality, even if there was an abundance of them. He would stop any efforts to do so. 

“I disgust you, don’t I, Harry.” 

“You’re all of those things and worse. All these killings, all these manipulations… splitting your soul… But that doesn’t mean that-”

“You can’t save me?”

“You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?”

“On the contrary, Harry, I’d delight in your attempts.”

Voldemort had not seemed opposed to the idea of Harry trying his best. Because he did not think that Harry stood a chance at succeeding. If Harry played it that way, if he kept trying to while keeping Voldemort’s prediction of the outcome steeped in failure, but he did end up succeeding, not only Voldemort but the whole world would be the better for it. 

But the only way to do that, to save Voldemort or whatever else that implied, was to make the Dark Lord feel remorse. 

Voldemort had felt regret after seeing what damage he had caused Harry after the interrogation. If he was capable of that much, then that meant Harry mattered to him. Harry didn’t understand how or why or to what extent, but it was something he could use. It had to be. If he could somehow make Voldemort feel more than that…

Harry could not reconcile this Voldemort with the Voldemort who had initially captured him. That Voldemort would have never felt bad for causing Harry pain. No matter how terrible the action was, that Voldemort would have only found delight and pleasure in making Harry suffer, period. But not this Voldemort. The Voldemort that Harry knew now was not very different, but he had made this much progress. If he cared for Harry enough, then what else could he be capable of? 

Harry raked a hand through his hair, pondering this.

Choosing this path would mean seeing their three-month deal to the end. It meant that Harry might lose sight of who he was after so much exposure to Voldemort’s influence. If Harry had changed this much, then who knew what kind of monster he would be by the time Voldemort was done with him? He never would have thought Voldemort could be this manipulative, but there was nothing he could do about it now short of leaving. Harry had to trust that he would not change to become someone unrecognizable; he was stronger, more resilient than that. 

Three months spent with mainly the other did not spare any of them from the consequences, however. Voldemort might change Harry, but if the progress the Dark Lord had made recently was any indication, Harry could be an influence, too. Just enough to change Voldemort for the better. He was under no illusions that Voldemort would suddenly become a good person who only wanted to improve the world, but if Harry could help facilitate bringing a saner Voldemort into existence, then perhaps the wizarding world would be truly better. Young Tom Riddle had not embarked on this journey for nothing, after all; he had wanted the glaring flaws he had encountered fixed. 

Back to remorse, Harry thought, the beginnings of a plan forming in his head. 

Voldemort would have to care about Harry enough to feel remorse on his part. That was the part that sounded impossible, but Harry had never been known for his lack of trying. Perhaps his purpose had never been to defeat the Dark Lord, but to save the wizarding world in a different way. 

So he could not leave. Not yet. 

That meant at the end of the week, Harry would have to see Voldemort again. And he’d have to forgive him for what he had done if he stood any chance at tolerating these three months. That way Voldemort would trust him again, to spend more time in Harry’s company. 

“This is such a bad plan,” Harry muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. There were so many ways this could go wrong. So many that there was little to no chance of it even working, much less ultimately succeeding. 

But it was the only plan he had. 

He still had five days to decide, at least. 

He made a memorial to the man with no name. 

It was a pathetic piece of work, really. Harry hoped that whoever it was Voldemort had killed last week valued effort over quality. Though, he would probably not appreciate anything on Harry’s part, not after what he had done. 

Voldemort was right; it was hard to grieve properly over a man whose name Harry did not even know. 

But he still tried. That was all he was capable of doing, it seemed. Harry lit what felt like an acceptable amount of candles, all stolen from the library, and set some flowers picked from the field of roses. Warm sunlight made the flames grow brighter, the absence of wind making Harry sweat profusely. He was in robes again, which were quickly growing damp the longer he stayed outside. 

The candles and flowers were set up against the side of the Manor, on the side to the right of the front door. Harry cast a stasis charm on the dancing flames with the ease of breathing. Slowly, he placed the wand down and closed his eyes. He stooped down and knelt before the memory of the man he had caused so much pain. 

Remorse. It was easy enough for Harry to feel. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, meaning the apology with every bone in his body. “There is no excuse for what I did. I do not know who you were or the people waiting for you to return home, but I swear to you that you will not be forgotten. I will remember you when I am ever faced with this decision again, and I will remain selfless. It doesn’t matter what I want - there are things that cannot be sacrificed no matter what.”

Cedric. 

Mrs. Figg. 

And the man without a name. 

The list of whose memories Harry would carry on had gained another name. He would make their deaths mean something. 

He could not make this mistake ever again. 

Not even if Voldemort found him… Harry swallowed hard. 

Voldemort had praised him for what he had done. He had sung Hary praises like exquisite and beautiful while Harry slowly descended into darkness. Harry had never been called any of those things before. He had never been praised for anything he had done. Every accomplishment he had completed thus far had been out of necessity; it had been expected of him. But Voldemort treated him like something marvellous, like a diamond he had recovered and refined to perfection.

He had called Harry perfect. 

How could Harry be perfect when he so obviously had issues, the most glaring of which was letting Voldemort’s praise mess with his head like that? 

None of it was genuine. It was all fabricated. All part of a grand web of manipulations that Harry had foolishly gotten caught in before realizing it was there. 

“Voldemort will pay the price,” Harry said resolutely. Whether that was by killing him or saving him in the end - by turning Voldemort into something he did not want to become - was not clear yet. But either way, he would pay a price. And Harry would pay one as well. Voldemort may have manipulated him, but it was Harry who had made the decision at the end of the day. 

“I don’t know your name. But I will remember your bravery. I won’t let you be forgotten.”

Boredom hit him halfway through the week. 

Harry had now spent more time in the library than he had in his room. His head rested slightly tilted on one hand, his eyes drooping constantly. The low flickers of the candles overheard cast mesmerizing patterns across the parchment he was currently taking notes on, luring him into a sleepy state. A yawn forced its way out of him, and by then he realized that he wouldn’t get much work done if he was this tired. 

He’d been thinking about Draco’s letter constantly. There had not been one waking hour where he hadn’t struggled to come up with a decision. That was why he was in the library, too. But Voldemort must have predicted Harry would get curious sooner or later, and had removed any books regarding soul magic from Slytherin’s personal libraries. Where Voldemort had moved them to, Harry didn’t know. All he knew was that he was pissed that they had been moved out of his reach in the first place. 

Fuck Voldemort. Honestly. 

It was getting harder and harder for Harry to convince himself that the man was still worth saving. 

Maybe having Dumbledore at his back to tell him what to do had not been such a bad thing. This entire summer, Harry had been floundering from one moment to the next, completely unsure of what to do with only a few moments of clarity. And even those moments where he thought he’d gotten hit with the figurative lightbulb of a brilliant idea had proved to be useless in the end. 

If Dumbledore were here, he would tell Harry to leave. To get away from Voldemort while he still could and return to the safety of the Order. Where his friends were, where Sirius and Lupin were, where the Weasleys and Dumbledore and McGonagall - where Harry would have no shortage of help. 

Another part of him was revolted by the idea. Maybe he had gotten so used to the idea of doing things on his own now that he could not stand the idea of anyone telling him what to do and expecting him to follow through on it. 

And even while being fully aware of this, Voldemort honestly expected Harry to bow before him one day? For Harry to willingly drop to his knees and serve the Dark Lord, desiring nothing more than to carry out his latest command? 

Fuck. Voldemort. 

Fuck his torn-up soul, too. 

“Save him or kill him?” Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes harshly. They would surely be red by the time he lowered his hands. 

There was another issue with that. Killing Voldemort. There was no chance that Harry would be able to accomplish that. Harry had witnessed Voldemort’s casual use of power on multiple occasions. That had been skilful enough. He could not imagine what it would be like if Voldemort was engaged in a serious duel with someone. 

Would Dumbledore kill Voldemort if given the chance? 

Somehow… Harry’s mind centred on the word ‘no.’ Dumbledore would not. 

Or maybe that was the same part of Harry that refused to trust any given task to someone else. Harry knew he could not kill Voldemort himself, but he knew he also wouldn’t be able to hand the task off to Dumbledore and completely separate himself from the situation. 

Save Voldemort or kill him. 

Deep down, Harry knew his mind was already made up. It had been from the moment he allowed himself to think about it. 

It was just… who he was. 

That sounded like such a simple and cliche reason, but Harry knew it was true down to his very core. Just like he could not change Voldemort from a heartless, cruel man, he could not make himself not care about saving people - even someone as horrible as Voldemort - either. Voldemort could turn Harry into something he was not, but Harry knew he would not be able to take away his urge to save people. 

His definition of saving people had certainly narrowed. Before, Harry would have wanted to save everyone he could. Now, he knew that was impossible. He would be completely out of his depth. But saving the people he thought were worth saving? Granted, that was still a large number of people, but his perspective had certainly shifted. But it was still there.

Mend Voldemort’s soul. 

With two days left in his allotted week away from Voldemort, Harry had made his decision. 

Now all that remained was to wait for Voldemort to return. 

Harry would not be able to stand being around Voldemort for a long time, he knew. Recent events had changed any hopes of that. But he would have to deal with it if he stood a chance at mending Voldemort’s soul. The only object of regret Harry had discovered for Voldemort was, well, Harry. So he had to use that. He had to make himself matter to Voldemort enough and manipulate Voldemort into feeling remorse for him in the required circumstances. 

How on earth could he get Voldemort to care for him, though? 

Voldemort saw potential in Harry. He wanted to see Harry flourish and become strong and more stupid hopes but Harry could use that, couldn’t he? Pride had often flared in Voldemort’s eyes when Harry showed signs of what Voldemort deemed as an improvement. Pride could lead to care, could it not? 

Harry groaned and hit his head on the table. 

Voldemort was right about this, too. Harry was an insufferable martyr. And he couldn’t do a single fucking thing about it. 

On the day Voldemort was due to return, Harry decided to relieve his stress by cooking. 

He was in the mood for soup. 

Chopping the vegetables was therapeutic. The steady thuds of the knife as it hit the cutting board were a smooth rhythm, calming him down. Once he finished with the carrots, he moved on to the tomatoes. Then the mushrooms and then the greens. 

The water was boiling, the soup base collecting. Harry waited a bit before tossing in the other ingredients as well. The slightly sweet scent of boiling carrots hit his nose. He breathed in deeply, taking comfort in it despite the memories he couldn’t help associating with cooking. 

He was cooking for himself this time. 

He was also in the mood for cake, strangely. 

Humming to himself, he rummaged through the cupboards in search of the ingredients. Flour, butter, sugar and eggs were easy to find. There weren’t any extracts he wanted, like chocolate or vanilla, but there was fruit on one shelf. Magically preserved, of course. Blueberries and strawberries would have to do. 

Gathering all the ingredients in his arms, straining slightly with the abundance, he set them on the counter. Even Salazar Slytherin had found a use for an oven, it seemed, despite it being a muggle invention. Either that or the Manor magically updated itself to the resident’s needs. Harry realized he did not have a single clue how old Slytherin had been, or if ovens had even existed in his time. Thinking back on it, Harry couldn’t remember if Mrs Weasley had one back at the Burrow either. 

He set it to preheat and moved on to mix the batter. The first brief interruption he had was when the timer he had set for the soup was done. He yelped at the abrupt noise and abandoned the pan he had been pouring the cake batter into. 

The second interruption came from the return of feeling in his scar. 

He stilled.

“Harry.”

He could do this. He could do this. 

“Voldemort,” Harry swallowed, turning around slowly. 

Meeting those red eyes, the same eyes he had stared into a week ago, sent a wave of nausea rolling through him. He quashed the feeling down relentlessly, breathing out in a long exhale. 

He knew what he had decided. And he had not changed his mind. 

“You’ve certainly been busy,” Voldemort noted, eyeing the messy counter as if unsure what to think of it. “I hope you have spared enough time to make a decision. You will not be getting another week.”

“I don’t need another week,” Harry said shortly. He went back to pouring the rest of the batter, emptying the container before looking up again. Voldemort was watching him intently. “You should probably sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

Voldemort’s eyes lit up with approval that Harry didn’t understand.  

Nor did he understand the little thrill running through his chest in the face of Voldemort’s presence. Of the danger he faced by merely talking to Voldemort without dipping his head like his cowardly followers, without falling to knees without hesitation and instead standing in defiance, without whispering my Lord my Lord like a prayer to the devil. 

Chapter Text

“You should probably sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

“We have a lot to talk about?” Voldemort mocked. 

It was laughable that Harry thought he could demand how Voldemort spent his time. How he thought he could exhibit some modicum of control over the Dark Lord. If Voldemort wanted to leave, he would do so. If he wanted to kill the boy by slowly ripping him apart limb from limb, he would do so. Harry Potter had disrespected Voldemort in so many ways recently, and he was only alive because Voldemort had a use for him. 

There was no other reason. 

“Yes,” Harry said through gritted teeth. 

Voldemort arched an eyebrow. So Harry was under the impression that he could take control of this conversation. Perhaps he felt that Voldemort had wronged him and therefore he was owed the steering wheel, as a small form of recompense. Voldemort would not allow him that. 

“I made a mistake,” Voldemort said before Harry could start. He watched the subtle intricacies of Harry’s reaction. So far, there was nothing, even though it was what Harry had wanted to hear. He felt a rush of frustration at the lack of response. Potter never made things easy. “Certain… events have forced this game to move at a quicker pace than I predicted. After you left the Manor, I decided that I would not force you into something against your will, but I went back on that. You have my sincerest apology.”

“Your apology is anything but sincere.”

There was the first sign of temper. Voldemort held back a disappointed yet playful click of his tongue. “I imagine you want… compensation for what I have done. I cannot, however, guarantee that it will be given.”

“I’m adding another person to the list. In addition to leaving Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger alone, you will leave Sirius Black alone as well.”

Truthfully, that had not been what Voldemort had been expecting. He could not manage to restrain himself from scoffing once the words tumbled free from Harry’s lips, so confident and sure that this was the right thing to do. Harry could have asked for so many other things, and yet he had asked for merely the safety of his godfather? It did not matter that Voldemort might not have granted him anything else; Harry Potter was not known for his lack of trying. 

Even though Voldemort fully intended to give Harry this small victory, for it was one of the few the boy would be getting for the foreseeable future, he asked, “And what do I gain from this?” 

There was an edge to Harry’s eyes now, usually crystal clear and bright, now dark and vibrant with clashing emotions. Voldemort wanted to see what else he had up his sleeve. 

“I don’t end our deal right this second.”

Voldemort repressed a gleeful smile. For there were many things that Harry Potter had learned during their time together. There were so many qualities he had picked up almost seamlessly, taking to them like fish to water. 

However… keeping secrets from Voldemort continued to elude him. 

If Harry truly wanted to leave, he would have told Voldemort he intended to end their deal on that first day, when Voldemort had agreed to leave him alone in the Manor. Voldemort had been anticipating that. He had needed to force Harry into that situation two weeks ago, but he had needed insurance that the boy would choose to continue their deal afterwards. 

Draco Malfoy had been such a lovely pawn. 

Slowly guiding the Malfoy heir to the knowledge of Horcruxes had been an easy feat. Draco thought he had found the information all on his lonesome when in reality it had been Voldemort pulling at his strings, bringing him from one scene to the next until finally allowing Harry to be his audience. The truth of how to heal a broken soul - nothing less would have convinced Draco, who was a surprisingly intelligent boy. 

Nothing less would have convinced Harry to stay. 

Harry was unpredictable. He was… a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, as Winston Churchill had aptly put it decades ago, though referring to a different subject matter entirely. Voldemort had never been able to sufficiently apply the eloquent phrase to anything, or anyone, until now. He did not understand Potter no matter how hard he tried. He could not hope to. 

But he could count on the boy’s martyrdom. 

Draco had thought himself clever in disguising the message by making use of muggle methods. Any lesser wizard would have been fooled by it, would have thought nothing of it, and in doing so would have unknowingly contributed to a heightened chance of Voldemort’s downfall, for Voldemort would not be aware of Harry’s plans behind his back in that case. 

Voldemort was not a lesser wizard. 

Harry had needed to be reminded of one of his core beliefs - that anyone could be saved. And Voldemort had given him just that. He had given the boy hope, even though he had constantly tried to teach Harry that hope was a dangerous thing - only to be predictably and constantly ignored, that Voldemort could be saved. That there was a way. 

Voldemort had snorted softly to himself as he placed the message on Harry’s nightstand. Harry was truly a fool to think that there was a possibility of getting the great Lord Voldemort to feel remorse. For there was none, not a single ounce of regret for anything he had done. Every action Voldemort had taken had been out of necessity, a small step in a master plan, each carefully placed and as equally important as the other moves. 

The likelihood of Harry succeeding did not matter. The purpose it gave Harry, the reason it gave him to continue to stay in Voldemort’s care - that was important. 

Always such a martyr. 

Always such a fool because of it. 

But still so utterly entrancing. 

Standing here before him, Voldemort remembered why had taken interest in Harry in the first place. Harry had been drowning these past two weeks but he, as always, had managed to pull himself back to the surface. But it was Voldemort who felt like he could finally breathe. Harry’s eyes had been so pitifully empty the last time they had laid eyes on Voldemort that he had wondered if he misjudged the boy. But now all his fears were erased.

“You can do better than that, Harry,” Voldemort drawled. 

Harry glowered at him, fierce and bold. “Let me be more clear. I don’t want you to ever force me into a situation like that ever again. I don’t know what happened there… but if it ever happens again, this deal is over. I want you to teach me, but not at the expense of human life. You ever pull something like that again, and I walk away, no matter if I’ll lose to you eventually.”

It was astounding how much a stranger could mean to the boy. Voldemort himself cared about nothing except his own path, his own goals - the future he had strived towards since he was a child. But Harry seemed like he would abandon everything he wanted for the first person who needed his help. 

“I’m not Bellatrix,” Harry continued. “There is nothing you can do that will make me enjoy torturing people for sport, especially if it’s for your sole benefit. I will never be devoted to you, no matter what you do.”

“I know.”

Bellatrix had taken to torture the moment Voldemort had taught her. She had begged for more, chasing the high of the Cruciatus Curse, often going too far. And Voldemort had let her off the leash, never one to refuse her the pleasures she derived from the act, not when it contributed to his own gain. 

That was not Harry. 

“Look at me, Voldemort.”

Eyes on me, Harry. 

Without thinking about it, Voldemort flicked his eyes up. Harry was staring at him, unusually serious. Meeting his gaze without a trace of fear or apprehension. 

Voldemort had always been interested in Harry Potter. But now he thought he just might respect him as well. 

“You pull something like this again…” Harry said, utterly soft. Voldemort wondered if he knew just how threatening he sounded. It would have sent chills running up anyone else’s spine. “And you lose whatever use you have for me. I will not care about anything else other than killing you. I will devote my life to your downfall, no matter what it costs me. Do you understand?”

“I thought you wanted to save me, Harry.”

“At that point, I’ll consider you irredeemable,” Harry fired back. He had given this a lot of thought, then. “You know you made a mistake. Because you were in a hurry to do something, right?”

“Perhaps.”

“You needed me to get used to torture before our three months up. You have a task for me that includes torturing someone to get information.”

“You’ve grown wonderfully better at deduction.”

“Don’t say that.”

There was fire in that comment as opposed to Harry’s previous icy tone. Voldemort wondered what could have caused it. He had said nothing to offend Harry; he had been careful not to since the boy was in as fragile a state as he was… 

Voldemort smirked. “What? That you’re wonderful?”

Harry’s glare deepened impressively. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Voldemort. I know it’s just a way for me to lower my guard and trust you. It might have stood a chance at working before… but I wouldn’t know. Because it will not work anymore.”

“Why assume that I do not mean it?”

Harry’s face flattened out instantly, eyes becoming unreadable. Like the stone mask he had worn while attempting to convince Voldemort he was under the Imperius. 

How curious. 

But not a subject he should push now. 

“Very well,” Voldemort allowed. “I have pushed you where I should not have. That will not be a mistake I make again, you have my word. I…” He grimaced with distaste. “... miscalculated. Every one of my Death Eaters has taken to what I have shown them with greed for more. The Cruciatus has always been a tool I have used. The curse affects the user, though I doubt you knew this when you cast it. You and I could compare it to the high that muggles get off of drugs. Often, casters of the Cruciatus grow addicted.”

“I’m not a Death Eater, Voldemort.” And he was strong enough to use the curse without growing attached to it, to remain aware of just what he was doing, what pain he was causing. 

“And you never will be.”

Harry looked up, startled at the statement. At the clear bells of truth ringing through the air. 

Seeing the famous Harry Potter with Lord Voldemort’s mark on his arm would have certainly been a sight. Even now, Voldemort longed to make that vision a reality, to chase after that dream until it became not something to experience while asleep but awake. 

But it was no longer enough. 

He wanted Potter to be his, but he also wanted him to be more. 

“You will continue with our deal in exchange for my restraint,” Voldemort continued smoothly. “Yet you also want me to spare your godfather. Continuing our deal is not a sufficient gain for me in exchange for two actions on my part. I will need something else.” Not strictly true, but there was something else Harry was holding back, and Voldemort wanted to know. 

Harry stared at him, silent. He had set the pan with the ridiculous cake batter aside. It was a common effect for both of them, being so consumed with the other’s presence that they did not acknowledge anything else. If the entire Manor had suddenly burst into flame, turning the sky orange and dark with devastation, Voldemort doubted he would even notice at this moment. 

“I’ll get the prophecy for you.”

There it was. Harry’s trump card. 

Voldemort could not help the slow, satisfied smile that curved his lips. He had known Harry was hiding something, but he had not expected it to be this. Potter had worked out the task Voldemort had intended for him to carry out all on his own; Voldemort had not needed to aid him this time. He really was learning. 

Well… one of the tasks Voldemort wanted to use him for. The others, Harry was better off not knowing. Until the end of their deal, that was.

“Oh, Harry… you do realize that I taught you torture so you could retrieve the prophecy?” It was a rhetorical question. Of course, Harry knew that already. “I did not realise you were so eager to go through the experience again.”

“For my godfather’s safety?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “You already know the answer to that. However… I will not be causing harm in any way in the process of retrieving it for you. Maybe whoever I need to get information from will be unwilling to give it, but there will be no torture.”

So innocent. “Do you really think there is any way you will find the prophecy without forcefully getting the information?”

“Yes.” The answer was quick and resolute. There would be no changing his mind on this. Voldemort would just have to wait for Harry to walk into the Department of Mysteries to get the prophecy for him to finally understand. 

“You can be incredibly irritating at times.”

The ghost of a smile flickered across Harry’s face. Voldemort did not know why he counted that as a success on his part. 

“I want to know one more thing,” Harry began. “Why did you decide to teach me then? You could have waited. You could have done it in a way that I would have needed no encouragement, could you have not? This seemed…” He stared up at the ceiling as he searched for a word. “... sloppy.”

Voldemort clenched his jaw at the word sloppy but elected to ignore it for the time being. He was finally getting somewhere with Potter after two weeks of waiting. He could not hold his temper for the time being, until he had gotten Potter comfortable around him once more. 

“You needed to do it. I intend to get the prophecy in the last month of our deal. Three months would have been the ideal time to make you willing to do it for me, but I could not risk a mistake on my part. If I forced you into it near the end of our deal and you reacted like you are now, unlike what I would have expected, and walked away without getting me the prophecy… Dumbledore would be allowed to use it for his own ends. I could not allow that chance.”

“So you’d have rather taken the chance with me earlier when you could still have time to convince me to stay with you as well instead of risking me running off when time was running out,” Harry muttered. He looked delightfully annoyed. “You think too much, Voldemort.”

“And you too little.”

“Insulting me is hardly the way to earn my forgiveness.”

“So forgiveness is not out of the question.”

Harry scoffed disbelievingly. “No, it is. But now you’re pushing it even further out of your grasp. Well done.” 

The oven dinged. Harry broke eye contact to hurry over and check it. 

Voldemort glowered at the contraption in the meanwhile. He had been entertained for the first time since his last encounter with Harry. He twitched impatiently with the urge to reach out and force the boy’s attention back to him, as he had done many times in the past, but held himself back. That gesture would not be appreciated. 

“Are we done with this conversation then, Harry?” he asked dryly. “I have had a long two weeks attempting to ignore whatever emotion I could feel from your end-”

Harry straightened, oven all but forgotten, turning back around. “You could feel my emotions?”

Voldemort paused, narrowing his eyes. Harry looked stunned, as if considering something he had not before. As if he had finally found a key to a lock hiding the answer to one of his many burning questions. Except for this time, Voldemort could not guess what it was. “Yes. In the same way that you feel mine.”

“Why do I have to get the prophecy? Why not you or one of your Death Eaters?”

A sloppy change of subject, one that Voldemort would investigate at a later date. “Only the subjects of the prophecy are able to retrieve it. I could not set foot in the Ministry of Magic, not with Dumbledore paranoid about my presence there. He knows that I am after it, and will move to stop me. Even I cannot defeat the forces of Dumbledore, the Order, and possibly the Ministry if they see proof of my existence, combined.”

“Why not just disguise yourself as Tom Riddle?” Harry was picking up the pan of cake batter to put into the oven, shutting it closed afterwards. Voldemort noted his gloves were still on, raising his eyebrows faintly in approval. 

“Clever, Harry,” Voldemort praised. “But not enough. Dumbledore knows what I look like. He would move to stop me, he could sense my presence from miles away. He would force me into a more… difficult duel, and once witnesses observe my magical prowess along with Dumbledore’s claims of who I am, there will be no doubt in their minds that I am Lord Voldemort.”

“You can’t downplay your ‘magical prowess’ or anything?”

“Duelling against Albus Dumbledore would require all my strength,” Voldemort said quietly. He watched the effect his words had as they sank in. The impressed look in Harry’s eyes, likely for Dumbledore being strong enough to push Voldemort as much as he implied. That was an odd thought. It was well known that Dumbledore was perhaps the strongest wizard of the century, a fact that grated on Voldemort’s nerves to no end; for Harry to think that Voldemort would be able to be lacking in effort and still manage his own against him… 

It was oddly flattering. 

He continued before Harry could pick up on the unintentional compliment as well. “Dumbledore thinks there will be no chance that I let you out of my sight. That I want to have my way with you, break you, and keep you all to myself.”

Harry snorted softly. “Is that not what you’re currently trying to do?’

“Break you? I thought we already discussed this, Potter.”

“No. Keep me all to yourself.”

Voldemort tilted his head curiously. “That is what I have been doing, hasn’t it?” he mused. 

“Don’t act so ignorant,” Harry rolled his eyes. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do I?”

Harry gave him the driest look Voldemort thought he had ever seen. “And what makes you think that I will succeed even if I remove the prophecy from wherever it is. If what you say is true, then it is likely Dumbledore will be there. And then I’ll have to see him again, and you know he will take it from me.”

Voldemort hummed, unbothered. He had considered the possibility, of course. But Harry was once again underestimating himself. “He can certainly try, Harry. For I believe, in your own way… you can be just as dangerous as I am.”

A curious expression clouded Harry’s face, softening his features ever so slightly. “So… my godfather?”

“Will be unharmed,” Voldemort agreed, as he had been intending to do from the start. Not that Harry needed to be made aware of that. “Not bad, Harry. You might not be hopeless at negotiation after all.”

“Don’t condescend to me.” The boy still thought far too little of himself. Voldemort wondered if he would ever be able to change that. Then he wondered why he would even want to. If Harry doubted himself at every corner, it would make it that much easier for Voldemort to control him, to convince the boy that he was always right. 

Somehow, that did not bring Voldemort the satisfaction he craved. 

Voldemort left Potter alone for the rest of the day. It was the only reprieve Harry was going to get from Voldemort for the foreseeable future. If Harry wanted to spend the rest of the day baking that ridiculous cake, which Voldemort found absolutely pointless and a waste of time, then so be it. 

Everything was back in place. Draco Malfoy was in a position to become Voldemort’s eyes and ears in the Order, the true location of the prophecy was now determined as well as how to get it, among other things. Harry Potter would remain under Voldemort’s care, though no longer as under his thumb as he previously had been. 

The risk Voldemort had taken was worth it, however. They always were. 

He had been privy to the entirety of the inner turmoil Potter had been submerged in these past two weeks. The terrifying guilt, the overwhelming and all-consuming self-hatred. Because how could Harry Potter have done what he had done back in that cell, how could he have stood by, much less participated in the torture of that poor man whose name he would never even remember? 

Always blaming himself. 

Never once suspecting that every move he had made… every move he had convinced himself he wanted to make… had been because of Voldemort. 

He had warned Harry not to make eye contact if he did not want to facilitate a pathway into his mind. How unfortunate that Harry had not taken that advice to heart. And now he was left with the consequences and the blood on his hand. 

Eyes on me, Harry. 

It had taken many failed attempts for Voldemort to succeed in subtly influencing Harry’s mind. The Horcrux served as a direct link between their minds, but Harry was nothing if not stubborn despite his terrible skills in occluding his mind. Voldemort had not been reading Harry’s mind so frequently for nothing. He had been understanding how it worked, picking it apart until he could influence it in such a way that Harry would suspect nothing. 

Voldemort had found it was much easier to convince someone to do something they already wanted to do. Harry had wanted to know about the prophecy. He had been having doubts as to how great Dumbledore’s influence over him truly was. 

Voldemort had used that. Played to those weaknesses until all Harry could focus on were those thoughts, however minor they had previously been. Not his guilty conscience, not his growing fear of himself - just the thoughts that Voldemort wanted him to concentrate on. 

Not a complete implantation of foreign thoughts. Just a little… push. 

He had known it succeeded the first time Harry’s mind went quiet, when Voldemort had erased any ill emotion he might have had at the moment. Until Harry had done exactly what was expected of him. 

And he had performed beautifully. 

Far better than Voldemort could have ever hoped. It was a shame that Harry was just getting started with dark magic, for if he had been fully experienced in it now, he would be breathtaking. The shadows that darkened his usually bright green eyes, the righteous fury that made his face impossible to look away from... 

Voldemort did not think the high of the Cruciatus would ever compare now to the high of witnessing Harry using it. The fury on the boy’s face, the darkness lingering around his eyes, calling the shadows in the room towards him whether he noticed or not, like some angelic harbinger of death. 

Unfortunate that Voldemort would not be able to pull this trick again undetected, manipulating the boy’s emotions The next time, either Harry would suspect something was up, or Voldemort would miscalculate how a single action could affect the boy, and he would lose him forever. 

No, there would only be one more opportunity for Voldemort to put this little trick into play. 

Teaching Potter torture had not been his only goal, after all. In comparison to what his true intentions were, it paled in comparison, a mere river compared to the vastness of the ocean, though the river certainly led to it. Voldemort had needed to determine the control he could exhibit over Potter when he needed to, the extent to which he could mould the boy’s thoughts and emotions. 

But not yet. 

Not… yet. 

Everything hinged upon that one moment. 

He just had to keep Harry Potter exactly where he was. 

Voldemort did not sleep that night. He had not slept since the splitting of his soul. The aftermath of making his Horcruxes, of inducing such significant trauma to his soul, had left him strangely awake, free to roam about the world like the wraith he had later been turned into due to the sacrifice of Lily Potter. 

The next day, at the break of dawn, he travelled through the wing he had granted to Potter, moving smoothly and utterly silent. He came to a stop outside of Harry’s door, listening in on the gentle snoring that was muffled through the door. Still asleep, then. 

He glanced down at his hands. No longer gaunt and pale, white as bone, but with a healthy flush that had been characteristic of his younger years. Glamouring himself had taken no effort at all. In fact, it had been a relief to exert his power in this way lest it became too overwhelming. The face of Tom Riddle would serve him well if he played it right. Now was the time to start the game. 

Voldemort carefully opened the door, not wanting to startle Harry. To his bewilderment, the bed was empty. Frowning, he immediately looked towards the window, wondering if Potter had decided to flee the Manor and break the deal after all. But no, the charms Voldemort had set into place upon their initial arrival would have alerted him immediately. And Harry would not have put all that effort into negotiating yesterday if he had been planning to throw it away the next. 

Then he saw that Harry was sleeping on the couch. 

Was this one of Potter’s many ways of defying him? Choosing to sleep on the couch instead of the bed was hardly offensive to Lord Voldemort. He did not understand what the boy was attempting to accomplish by refusing a better sleep. 

A puzzle, indeed. 

Focusing, Voldemort pushed a spark of energy through the link between their minds, a silent command to wake. Harry’s eyes fluttered open immediately, his green irises dazed and confused. It morphed into complete surprise when he registered Voldemort’s presence. Not only that but the absence of the skeletal body that had defined the appearance of Lord Voldemort for many years now. 

“Um,” Harry managed. “Why do you look like that?”

His eyes were unusually wide. 

Voldemort gave what he knew was a charming smile. “I did promise you a duel, Harry. And… I recall you telling me that you held your own quite well in the graveyard. I have been looking forward to proving you wrong.”

“It can’t even be six o’clock in the morning.”

“No, it certainly isn’t. It’s likely earlier.”

Harry huffed and pulled the blanket over his head, grumbling into the pillow. Voldemort was taken aback for a moment by the sheer gall to turn one’s back on him like that, and then proceed to stuff their face into a pillow. He shook his head, half fascinated, half offended. Or perhaps offended by his fascination at the startling disrespect. 

“I would not turn your back on your enemies in the future, Potter.”

Harry peeked out from under the blanket, arching an eyebrow. Voldemort wondered if Potter even noticed that he’d been using that gesture more and more after so much time in his presence. He strangely liked the idea of leaving these lasting impressions on the boy, on giving him some of his habits. “Are we enemies again, Voldemort?”

Do you want us to be enemies once more, Harry Potter?

Voldemort raised his own eyebrows, wondering if Harry would notice. “You seem unusually fond of throwing my own words back at me. Is this your way of getting revenge? Because I could show you infinitely better ways to achieve such a thing.”

“Really?” Harry asked with exaggerated excitement. “Tell me something, then. How should I,” he put a finger on his chin, pushing the blanket back to tap it thoughtfully, “get revenge on this one pathetic bastard who murdered a man in cold blood-”

“Enough, Potter.”

“We’re going outside?” Harry asked incredulously. He looked younger when he was terribly confused like this. Like the child that Dumbledore should have allowed him to be once upon a time. Voldemort’s hands curled into whitening fists. “But won’t the Ministry find us?”

“You think I would suggest such a thing if I thought the Ministry would find us?”

Harry wasn’t sure what to do with that answer, evident by the way his mouth kept opening and closing like a gaping fish. Voldemort did not wait for him to find the words he was looking for, sweeping past him and through the front door. Once he heard Harry hurrying to follow, he set a wandless locking spell at the door, sealing it shut. 

“It’s just the two of us.” Voldemort looked around the field of roses although there was obviously no need to. The space was big enough for both of them to dabble in more powerful magic. Not enough for him to put in all of his efforts but enough to adequately tire him, albeit slightly. “You may take your gloves off.”

Harry cocked his head to the side as he slipped them off one by one. “Why make me wear these anyway? I’ve never had trouble controlling my magic before. Er… at least, not when it’s accidental magic…” He paused. “I haven’t had trouble controlling it since I came here,” he decided. 

For a moment, Voldemort pondered answering the question with the truth this time. But Potter had been cheeky with him all morning. “You figured out my motivation for showing you torture. If you can do that, you can figure this out, too.”

Harry scowled. 

Voldemort ignored this. “First…” He pivoted around, lining himself up so that he and Potter were a fair distance from each other but still directly across. “We bow.”

“Yes, I know, you already told me before.” There was a hint of bitterness and anger in Potter’s voice. Something his eyes were seeing that Voldemort could guess at. “And then you started casting curses at me. It was very much appreciated.” Again with the sarcasm, Voldemort noted with an itch of irritation. 

“It would be wise not to anger the one you are duelling against.” 

Harry’s face scrunched up in distaste but he acquiesced, surprisingly. Voldemort had been half-expecting him to walk away out of spite. The bow Potter gave could hardly be described as such, however. It was over and done with in the span of a single second, a quick jerk up and down. 

At least he had done what Voldemort told him. “Now, read me.”

Harry blinked. “Uh, what?”

“Read me,” Voldemort repeated impatiently. It wasn’t like the boy did not know what he was referring to. He was just trying to be difficult once again. “Evaluate your opponent.”

“Uh…”

“Surely you have done this before. When you have an opponent against you, what is the first thing you do?”

“Well, usually I just start firing spells at them.”

Voldemort tongued his cheek, turning his head towards the clear sky above them. How Potter had served this long continued to astound him. 

“Harry,” he said. “Let me tell you what I see. Then I will give you a chance to do the same. I see a strong duelling stance. You have your wand in your right hand so you will be adept at defending your left, so I should aim for your right. Your wand is already raised so you are likely to start casting the moment we begin. I should be prepared to throw up a shield no matter what spell it is, as I have to be quick enough to block whatever level of spell it is. You have been looking straight at me this entire time, so you are unlikely to be aware of your surroundings, therefore I can use that to my advantage.”

Harry did not look nearly as confident as he had before Voldemort had started speaking. Almost hesitantly, he nodded, his swallow visible. 

“Now, do the same.”

He gave Harry two minutes to come up with something. Anything would have sufficed. Harry tilted his head, eyes raking up and down Voldemort’s youthful form, brow furrowing in concentration. Halfway through, his jaw had started to tighten in frustration. 

“You don’t have your wand out, so I don’t know if you’re right or left-handed. I don’t know which side to go for. The fact that you don’t have your wand out means you’re extremely confident that you will win. That, and you can probably use wandless magic since you won’t be able to take your wand out fast enough to block one of my spells.”

“And what weaknesses does that show you?”

Harry looked away. “None,” he muttered. “I don’t see any.”

Voldemort nodded. There was no shame in admitting that. That had been the point he intended to make. “That is how you want to seem to your opponent. Any adequate dueler will size up their opponent. When they do the same for you, give them nothing. Duels are a test of skill, but they are also a mental game. If you can convince your opponent that you are sure that you will win, that you have no weaknesses, they will think they are fighting a losing battle from the start.”

“Who taught you that?”

“My Defence professor I had at Hogwarts,” Voldemort said dismissively. He saw Harry open his mouth but waved aside any further questions, not particularly wanting to dwell on events that lay in his past. There was a reason people said the past was behind you; it should remain there. “Let’s start with shields. You used those in the graveyard, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Good.” Without giving the boy a warning, Voldemort fired off a cutting curse. It was not a light curse, bordering on the more powerful, but he had seen Harry’s shields before. He knew Harry could successfully block it. And block it, he did, whipping his wand up in a smooth arc, muttering under his breath as the shield warped into being. 

“Shields are useful,” Voldemort lectured once Potter had recovered from his surprise, “but they have one weakness. Instead of throwing one up, there are times when it is better to dodge. When you are engaged in a rapid-fire duel similar to the one we had in the graveyard, putting up a shield keeps you safe, but it also stops you from answering your opponent with your own spells. I can teach you a shield that will stay up even as you use other spells, but you are not ready for that yet. 

“Knowing when to use shields is also a part of the evaluation. If I were duelling with Dumbledore, for example, I would use them constantly. His spells cannot be dodged. They will not be minor spells, they will have the force of power that could command tidal waves in my direction, that will bend the weather to his will and rack the ground beneath my feet.”

“For all you hate him, you respect him, don’t you,” Harry noticed. 

Voldemort felt a rush of disgust at the thought. “I can respect his power, Harry, without respecting the man himself. Now, I am going to cast another spell at you. I want you to dodge it instead of throwing up a shield. Then cast the spell back at me.”

“Er, is it going to be a cutting curse this time?”

“It will be if you keep asking so many questions,” Voldemort told him. Let Harry decide if he was being serious or not. He raised his wand and shot a disarming spell. Harry’s favourite, apparently, given how many times the boy had used it before this summer. 

Harry neatly dodged, swerving out of the way. His timing was excellent. Then he raised his wand and cast a tickling curse, much to Voldemort’s amusement. He batted it away easily. 

“Don’t wait for my spell to finish,” Voldemort instructed. “By the time it has rushed past you, I might be launching an entirely new and possibly more deadly spell at you. While dodging, cast your own.”

“I can’t concentrate on both dodging and summoning a spell at the same time.”

“You are thinking about it too much.” Voldemort strode over to him quickly, not wanting to waste more time on something that was purely instinctive and should not have to be taught. Potter had incredible reflexes; he should be understanding this immediately. “A spell is coming up on your right. How do you react?”

Potter frowned and twisted his body further to the right, angling his right arm away from where his opponent would be standing. 

“You do that, and you expose your chest to the path of the spell. What happens if the caster curves the spell and it does not travel in a straight line? Not only that, but you have angled your wand away from your opponent. Your response time will be slower, giving them more chances to cast at you and yourself fewer chances to put up a shield or cast at them. Start again. A spell is coming up on your right. What do you do?”

Harry huffed but did what Voldemort implied. He turned his back towards the path of the spell, his right arm and wand pointing towards his opponent. 

“Good,” Voldemort murmured. “Now-”

“Won’t the spell hit my back instead?” Harry interrupted. “If the spell curves, it would hit my chest if I was in the other position, but in this, it would also hit my back.”

“Yes,” Voldemort allowed. “But if a spell hits your chest, what is your first instinct?”

Harry thought for a moment. “To bend over and clutch my front?”

“Correct. If a spell hits your back, however, you lean backwards to relieve your pain. Instead of staring at the ground when it hits your chest, you are looking higher up, but your opponent is still within your line of sight. More deadly spells are often not able to be curved; they travel straight, and the worst that spells that can be curved will do is collide with you rather painfully. It takes remarkable control to be able to manipulate the pathway of any spell, mind.”

“That’s… really clever.”

Had Potter expected anything different? 

He watched as Potter practised the dodge himself a few times over, muttering to himself under his breath. Ingraining it in his mind, incorporating it into his already admittedly impressive technique for his age. Voldemort saw potential in the person Harry was first, but after seeing his display of dark magic in Malfoy Manor after Bellatrix’s teachings and their second round in the graveyard… 

He could make Harry a prodigy. 

And how he wanted to, if only so he could have the opportunity to see the boy weaving his way around spells like a moving labyrinth, letting magic fly through his fingertips in bolts of lightning to match the scar on his forehead. 

Voldemort wanted. 

“Practice it more at your leisure,” Voldemort interrupted, taking his wand out of his sleeve as Potter slowly came to a stop. His eyes were dazed, excited. It seemed Voldemort had correctly guessed that duelling would be an apt distraction from the rest of Potter’s thoughts, particularly the negative ones targeted toward Voldemort. 

It had been one of the many aspects of Harry that Voldemort had considered recently. The boy was constantly facing danger, which admittedly was through no fault of his own and mostly the fault of an entirely different individual, but that was not the point. The point was that no child should be exposed to these many life-harrowing experiences, to this much adrenaline as a result. 

Harry loved duelling because it gave him that adrenaline that his body had started to crave after being given it so often when it was not ready for it, when his mind had not matured enough to differentiate between true excitement and the biological response to danger. To Harry… there was no difference, and it was not his fault. 

But it did present another tool Voldemort could use. He could be the one to provide Harry with duels, the only one to supply it, the only source of this excitement that Harry lived for. The burning taste of adrenaline, the danger-induced chills, the anticipation clouding his mind - it was, in simple terms, another high entirely. 

Not to mention that the face of Tom Riddle, who was certainly not the skeletal form of Lord Voldemort, was confusing Harry’s mind further. For Harry to associate this excitement being brought to him by Tom Riddle, not Voldemort…

It was one of Voldemort’s more convoluted plans, but no less planned out. And like all his plans, the outcome would ultimately work in his favour. 

Harry hated him right now. He hated Voldemort for what he had done. 

Voldemort brushed his hair out of his face, twirling his wand arrogantly around young fingers. 

Let’s see how long that lasts you, Harry. Until you are just as pleased with my presence as I am yours. 

If only Dumbledore could see him now. Either of them. He’d be so disappointed. Voldemort wanted to smile wide enough to show teeth. 

“You understand I will not be giving it my all.” He hoped Harry did not demand the opposite just to be difficult. It was not a personal slight against Harry, after all. No one could go up against Lord Voldemort when he set his mind to it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. 

Because Dumbledore knew when to give up. Voldemort would just keep coming back out of sheer spite. Over and over, crawling his way through buried coffins and dark graveyards until he finally claimed victory among the stars. 

“When could you?” Harry asked a different question than Voldemort was expecting, one entirely more welcome. The boy looked a little hesitant to continue but Voldemort nodded encouragingly. It was a fair question after all. “I mean… when could you put in all your effort against me?”

“In terms of time?” Harry confirmed this with a nod. “Certainly not in these three months, Harry. With your prowess, however… If I were to continue teaching you with no breaks, no distractions, I’d say five years to a decade.”

Harry let out a low breath. “And if you weren’t the one teaching me? What if it was Dumbledore?”

“Then never. One thing you must learn to understand is that Dumbledore will not stand for a wizard stronger than himself. Especially when he lacks a suitable leash over them. You once told me you were not a dog to be tamed. With Dumbledore, you would not have a choice.”

Harry averted his gaze. “And I’m supposed to believe you’re going to give me one in the end?”

Voldemort reached over, intending to hook a finger under Harry’s chin and force him to look at him, then stopped. 

There had been times when Harry was relaxed. When he had been on the verge of pliancy, almost willing to let Voldemort have his way with him whether he realised it or not. 

This was not one of those times. 

And it would not happen for some time now. Voldemort had been so close to making Harry his, but he had grasped at empty air too soon, just missing the opportunity that had been presented to him on a silver platter. His plans for Harry came first, far more than his urge to bend Harry to his will. 

But he had to admit, the idea of making Harry wholly his was far too enticing. 

He knew his eyes reflected the hunger he felt from the way Harry shrunk back slightly. Wary. The boy could hold his own in the face of Voldemort’s wrath, but even he was not immune to the subtle fear exhibited to such a large extent by the rest of the wizarding world. 

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. He had wanted Harry to move, not further away, but closer. 

“What are you thinking about right now?” Harry asked. “You look…” his brow furrowed. “Angry, but I don’t know why.”

Angry. 

Yes, Voldemort was angry. 

He was enraged. 

“I am sorry,” Voldemort said. He didn’t even know if he meant it or not, but it seemed like the correct thing to say. He had only truly apologised to Harry once before, in that cafe he had brought them to in Paris. He had meant it then, seeing that Harry had been pulling away from him, and he meant it now. Not sorry for what he had done, but sorry that it was costing him Harry’s trust, however fragile and small it might have been. 

“Are you?” was all Harry asked. 

“Yes.”

Harry studied him for a long time. Voldemort would never have described his viridian eyes as calculative, but they were now. Evaluating the worth of the options presented to him by this apology. Determining whether it was genuine or not. Voldemort would have done the same in his position.

“Okay,” Harry replied. Not an acceptance or forgiveness, or even a blatant denial of it. The vagueness infuriated Voldemort, but he knew he would not say anything. 

“Do I frighten you, Harry?”

Harry smiled slightly, a trace of humour in it but no joy. “It takes a lot more than you to scare me.”

“Good.”

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

Voldemort drew closer, raising an eyebrow to dare the boy to move away this time. Harry shifted slightly but stayed where he was. He looked into Voldemort’s eyes without fear, without any of the nausea Voldemort had felt so often from their link recently. Now there was only defiance and that beautiful, beautiful fire Voldemort craved. 

He reached up, exaggeratingly slow so Harry could keep the motion in his line of vision, and placed his hand on the boy’s cheek. It was warm, flushed from summer heat. Harry blinked, staring at Voldemort expectantly. Daring the Dark Lord in his own way to do something. 

Voldemort wanted this Harry. 

The Harry that had moped and tore himself down these past two weeks had been boring. A pawn that Voldemort had no use for, that held no excitement or appeal to him. But this Harry, the one that looked Voldemort straight in the eye as if throwing down a gauntlet to issue a challenge, was like quenching his thirst at the end of a long journey through scorching deserts. 

And he was going to keep him. 

Voldemort dropped his hand and backed away, returning to their starting positions - an acceptable distance between them. “This will be our first of many duels, Harry. I will leave this… choice… entirely up to you. We can cast simple spells today, test each other… or I can make this a challenge for you.”

He knew before Harry opened his mouth which one he was going to pick. Predictable, but simultaneously exhilarating for a change. “The challenge,” Harry said. There was no hesitation, no mulling over it in that head of his. No fear of what this challenge entailed. 

There were so many ideas Voldemort had for this very moment. But he needed Harry’s trust and comfort once more than gratification from this duel. He filed them away for another time. “Switch your wand hand. You are not going to use your right-hand your entire duel. Before you say anything, which I know you will, I am well aware you just practised dodging while right-armed, but I don’t particularly care. You will have to adapt or you will get hurt.”

—

Harry clenched his wand uncertainly, switching it from his right hand to the left. Voldemort’s gaze was steady, studying him like a predator sizing up its prey. He tried not to betray how nervous he was, but he knew there was nothing he could conceal from Voldemort, especially considering the link between their minds.

He took a deep breath. Duelling had never been a problem for him before. He didn’t know why he was making such a big deal about it now. 

Raising his hand, he held it vertical to him, assuming a duelling position that he knew any knowledgeable wizard would recognize as absolutely flawless. He had been told so many times. Relaxed, poised externally, but the slight tension in his shoulders showed he was ready to move at a moment’s notice. 

“Ready when you are, Harry.”

Harry immediately took the offensive, launching a jet of golden light. An attraction spell. Voldemort’s eyes widened in surprise as his body was dragged forward, his already outstretched wand arm being pulled so he couldn’t wave it to do a counterspell. 

He didn’t allow himself any concern as Voldemort muttered a spell under his breath anyway and, not even using his wand, gestured with his other hand to produce a massive fireball. Harry yelped in alarm, he hadn’t expected Voldemort to put that much into this duel of theirs and quickly cancelled his attraction spell. He whipped his wand up in a flash, forming a wave of water to douse the flames. Steam suddenly covered their surroundings. 

Out of nowhere, orange light began to cover the steam, turning it a blinding white. Harry realised a moment too late that Voldemort had sent another wave of fire at him. Fire seemed to be one of Voldemort’s many specialities then, judging by the skill with which he weaved it. 

Harry brought his wand up, protego on the brink of spilling from his lips before he paused. 

That was what Voldemort would want him to do. 

Quickly, Harry threw himself to the side, allowing the stream of flame to rush past him. At the same time, he flicked a shield behind his back, covering himself while he kept his vision forward in case he was wrong. 

A barrage of spells hit his shield, but none of them made contact with Harry. 

“Well done, Harry,” Voldemort called from behind him. Sure enough, Harry looked up and saw that the fire had just been a distraction for Voldemort to apparate behind him. He tilted his head around, not able to resist a grin. His blood was moving faster than it usually did, his senses high on alert. He felt incredible, like he could do anything at this moment. “You incorporated that into your skillset faster than I thought you would.”

Harry covered the corner of his mouth with his fist to push it down, not wanting Voldemort to see the smile growing there. He was still pissed as hell at Voldemort, at himself more so, but he had to admit that he had forgotten all about it ever since they started this lesson. 

“Do you want to continue?” Voldemort asked him. He must have been in a much better mood if he was willing to indulge Harry, however, he wanted to spend their remaining time today. Harry had felt his irritation at having his presence demanded yesterday. “We can stop now if you wish.”

“If I want?”

“Whatever you wish, Harry.”

“Keep going.”

Chapter Text

Pouring over ancient texts in the library, and sitting on the soft, warm threads of the rug was a mental war for Harry, fighting between dozing off with boredom and ingraining the invaluable information in his head Harry had never been a student who could learn by reading through material, through writing 12-foot long essays; he had to do it, he had to see it for himself. 

His mornings were spent in this manner, growing headaches from thousands of words and hoping to cure them with the biting taste of unsweetened coffee. Greeting the sky without a sun that had risen was becoming routine now, as well as stumbling to sleep under a dark sky, hitting the couch with all the grace of a pissed drunkard. 

It was the afternoons that Harry had grown to love. When Voldemort would drag him out onto the field of blood-red roses, lowering Harry’s guard with casual conversation or a boring lecture, before launching into a full attack. There had not been a single time where Harry had won, where he had gained even an inch of ground against Voldemort. 

He was… incredible. 

Voldemort was forcing Harry to rethink his entire definition of what comprised an excellent dueller. He had thought Crouch Jr. had been incredible, that Professor Lupin had been a force to be reckoned with. And while they certainly were… they did not hold a candle next to Voldemort. For Voldemort was in an entire league of his own, just behind Dumbledore. 

When Harry would fall, Voldemort would continue casting at him. When Harry stumbled, when he made a mistake, there was no mercy. And Harry would not have it any other way. There was a chance that Harry could make a fatal mistake, that he could actually die even though he knew Voldemort would never let that happen – but it was thrilling. There were times when Harry knew he must be grinning like a bloody maniac, the light in his eyes as he fought borderline insane, but he felt so alive. 

“Eyes up, Harry,” Voldemort ordered before casting a barrage of eight spells simultaneously at the shield Harry had been forced to pull up. It shattered immediately, a disarming charm rushing towards Harry’s right arm, where his wand was. 

Harry smirked and cut off the glamour he’d placed on his hand when Voldemort had summoned him out here, revealing that his wand was in his left hand instead. He didn’t give Voldemort time to register the trick of his, muttering a fitting eight spells in response, keeping his voice quiet. He couldn’t cast magic such as this completely wordless, but he could speak softly enough for his opponent not to hear the incantation. 

For the first time since they had begun these gruelling matches, Voldemort flicked up a shield. 

Harry felt like shouting at the sky in victory. 

Then he realised that Voldemort’s shield was moving – towards Harry. It grew in size, becoming an entire wall of shimmering glass, launching towards him. So expansive in size that Harry could not dodge. He tried putting up his own shield, but it cracked under the pressure of such a colossal opposing one. 

“Shit,” Harry bit out before it made contact with him, the pressure knocking him to the ground. His head hit the ground with a smack. The roses did little to cushion his fall, their petals letting him down and thorns scraping against his cheek in a single line that drew blood. 

He lay there with the leaves framing his face, panting heavily. His emotions were all over the place, from victory at catching Voldemort off guard to childish frustration that he had still lost. That he had thought himself so clever but he had not been good enough. 

Voldemort approached him, craning his head slightly to look down. 

Tom Riddle’s face truly had a timeless sort of beauty to it. 

The incoming light always fell on Voldemort’s face at the perfect angles, illuminating his features. Harry had always thought Draco had regal features, and that was the easiest comparison he could make when observing Riddle’s. The angled cheekbones and long-lashed eyes. The way his hair fell perfectly across his forehead as if he’d taken as much time as Malfoy surely did with his gel in the morning to perfect it, though Harry knew that was highly unlikely. 

The most significant change Harry noticed, however, was Riddle’s eyes. Still red. But on Voldemort, they had lent more to the image that he was inhuman – a monster of sorts. They didn’t give that impression on Riddle. Instead, it was… alluring, almost. An unusual feature but all the more enticing for it. 

Voldemort had not dropped the glamour ever since their first duel out in the field. He must have thought Harry was an idiot if he assumed he didn’t know why. 

The bastard was trying to make him disassociate, to put all of his grievances on the monstrous form of the Dark Lord instead of this one, especially after what he’d done a few days prior. To allow this one to get closer, to build up a new form of trust with Harry. 

Pathetic, honestly. 

But Harry hadn’t said anything yet. He didn’t feel a need to. Because as much as the constant vision of Tom Riddle made him feel things he didn’t want to feel, it was a reminder of what Harry was striving towards. This visage was the past self of Voldemort who had an intact soul, who was more human than monster. 

“You’re getting smarter, Harry,” Voldemort didn’t specify what he was referring to – Harry’s trick with the wand arm or his knowledge of what manipulation Voldemort was trying to pull this time. He would if Harry asked, but Harry was not in dire need of an answer. “Get up.”

Harry scoffed and took out his wand. “Did you not just see me hit my head?” But he was already casting the healing spells, knowing that Voldemort would not take that question seriously. Of course, he had seen Harry injure himself, but he just didn’t care that much since he knew it could be healed. 

Surprisingly, Voldemort allowed him a response. “You’ve suffered worse injuries, Potter.” Not a good reply, then. More mocking than anything. Harry scowled and decided he would let that comment go, even if it had been Voldemort himself who had been the culprit of those worse injuries. The man would not appreciate Harry pointing that little fact out. 

Harry finished his healing spells, the tissue mending itself back together and blood vanishing. Whatever residue there was blended in amongst the dark roses. 

“Heal me,” Voldemort said. He extended his hand, where slight burns from spell fire and a single cut along his palm shone stark against pale skin. Harry wasn’t naive enough to think that he had been the one to cause Voldemort to bleed. The mobile shield Voldemort had used must have been a work of blood magic. 

The first time Voldemort ordered Harry to heal him after a duel, Harry had started laughing so hard he had to bend over. As if he was going to willingly heal the Dark Lord. He had thought Voldemort was making a joke, however unlikely that was, because Harry Potter healing Lord Voldemort was even more unlikely. But Voldemort had patiently waited for him to calm down before repeating the instruction, softer than before. 

Voldemort’s reasoning was that Harry needed all the practice he could get with healing spells. He couldn’t just keep injuring himself and then healing it. Voldemort was a willing participant, so Harry should take advantage of it. Harry knew that reasoning was shit and Voldemort likely had an ulterior motive, probably to make Harry more willing to help him or something, but he’d eventually given in. He did need practice. 

Now, Harry rose to his feet, sliding his wand up the sleeves of his robes, unconsciously mirroring the way Voldemort disposed of his own wand. Only when Voldemort gave him a sharp smile did Harry notice. 

“You have the rest of the day to yourself,” Voldemort said. He must have thought that Harry would be relieved to hear this news. Harry had been pushed vigorously day to night for the past few days; his body was sore and his mind boggled – but Harry didn’t want anything else. He had actually been enjoying himself for a change, the Manor not seeming so much like a prison. “I am calling a meeting today. If you behave, I might bring you along next time.”

Harry laughed disbelievingly. “I have no desire to attend another one of your meetings, Voldemort. The last one was eventful enough.” And he’d rather like to keep his grand escapade as his overarching memory of what transpired during the Dark Lord’s meetings. It gave him a smug sense of satisfaction that little else could provide nowadays. 

“Let me guess,” Harry gasped when Voldemort continued to stare at him. “One day, I’ll be begging you to let me go. I’ll be such a willing participant, offering all of these brilliant ideas that will lead directly to the fall of the Order.” Harry shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. “Oh, I’m positively dying at the chance now, can’t you see?”

Voldemort shook his head and huffed something that Harry could almost describe as a laugh. A laugh. “If duelling put you in this light of a mood, I would have done it much earlier on. Now be silent and put your gloves back on.”

“How long will you be gone?” Harry asked as he reached into his pockets to withdraw the silky black cloth. He felt more than saw Voldemort’s annoyance at Harry so obviously not being quiet after being instructed to do so. As if he could expect Harry to be an obedient shell like his followers. 

Voldemort was already preoccupied with making his way back to the Manor, not throwing a glance in Harry’s direction. Harry still couldn’t get over how much more smoothly the Dark Lord moved now that he had glamoured himself. Perhaps it was an illusion or perhaps side-effects of the prolonged glamour, but nonetheless…

“Until dinner time. There is a stack of books waiting for you in the library. I expect you to have learned the pages I have bookmarked for you by my return.”

That sounded so boring. The only entertainment Harry ever got in the library was Voldemort’s small demonstrations whenever Harry showed him a concept or other piece of magic he did not understand. From altering the colour of flame to making certain pages of books invisible – it had spared Harry from the incessant monotony that was studying. 

He didn’t want to be stuck doing that for the rest of the day. 

Harry thought for a moment, wondering if he could get away from the Manor until Voldemort was done. There surely could be no harm in it. Voldemort already knew that Harry was continuing with the deal, and Harry had enough honour to not go back on his word. The only risk they would be taking was if the Order somehow found Harry, but that was incredibly unlikely. Especially if Harry went to a place outside of Britain. 

Voldemort had stalled but still had not looked at Harry. His hand was inches away from opening the door. “What is it now, Harry?”

Might as well try not posing it as a question. Maybe that would increase Harry’s chances of being allowed to go. Either that, or it would enrage Voldemort since he was technically having something demanded of him. Couldn’t hurt to try, though. 

“I want to spend the day away from the Manor.”

“And just where do you have in mind?” The underlying message was there. That Harry could not even think of going somewhere where there was a risk of being spotted. Voldemort would not allow even the slimmest possibility of Dumbledore recovering Harry. 

Harry bit his lip. “Paris was lovely. You have good taste in places from what I’ve seen so far. Maybe you can, I dunno, show me a different place?”

Voldemort, at last, glanced around, his red eyes written with really? That’s what you’re going with? “That was a pitiful attempt, Harry, you should be embarrassed. Perhaps if you come up with better reasoning, I will allow you outside. There is in fact one place I have in mind for you to visit.”

“Oh, definitely. Wherever it is, I’ll go,” Harry nodded, still reeling from the fact that Voldemort would allow him a taste of freedom. “Er… just so I’m not confused, where are we going? Because if you’re bringing me to some exotic library, I’ll actually pass. And if it’s another one of…”

Just like that, his good mood fell. The last time Voldemort had offered to bring him somewhere had been a little over two weeks ago. If this was to be anything like that, Harry had no interest in going or spending another second in Voldemort’s company. 

“I told you I would not force you into anything such as that,” Voldemort said quietly, keen eyes gauging the change in mood. “Never again.”

There was brutal honesty underlying his words. Harry wondered when he had begun to spot the difference when Voldemort was lying and telling the truth. “Then where would we go?” He didn’t want to think about what Voldemort had done to him; he had set a goal, and that was to save him, to piece together his soul. Nothing was going to stop him from doing that.”

“You wanted to give a letter to the Malfoy heir, did you not?”

Harry blinked.

Voldemort smirked knowingly. “Perhaps you would prefer to deliver it in person?”

“How did you…”

“I once told you that nothing happens without me knowing about it, without me allowing it to happen. Draco would not have given you that letter of apology without it first going through me.” Harry held back a sigh of relief, content with the knowledge that Voldemort did not know about the hidden message after all. He quickly vanished the thought, as he often did in Voldemort’s presence; he didn’t want the Dark Lord reading his mind about this. “Draco has recently… pleased me, as you have. This will be a fitting reward, don’t you think?”

A reward. That it might be, but Harry knew there was more to this than that. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re really doing this.”

Voldemort dipped his head. A nonverbal affirmation. It was a wonder the man could still stand with the number of secrets he carried.

“There is something I want you to do for me.”

“And there it is,” Harry sighed. “The catch.”

“Indeed,” Voldemort smirked. “I have always doubted where Draco’s true loyalties lie. It is plain to see that the boy would do anything for his family, as would every Malfoy. It is an honourable weakness to have. You and I, however, would not understand that, would we?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He liked to think that he would do anything to keep the Dursleys safe, even after everything they had done for him. But the truth was he did not know what lengths he would go to. He could see himself dying for them, as he would any innocent that got caught up in this war – and the Dursleys were innocent compared to Voldemort’s side of the wizarding world. But there were fates worse than death. 

For Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Lupin, any of the Weasleys – Harry would ruin himself. He would become something he did not even recognize if it meant they were safe. But if it were the Dursleys, if someone had used them to push Harry to the edge of the cliff, on the verge of falling in the way Voldemort so obviously wanted him to… he didn’t know if he would take that final step. 

Voldemort nodded slightly, reading everything that had gone through Harry’s head just then. “Now, Draco is devoted to his family. But if he is to be in my service, I cannot have that. I need every inch of his being devoted to me, willing to serve and act at my whim. However… he has expressed loyalties to you instead, Harry.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, not having expected that. 

“Draco has potential, I admit. He only needs to step out of the shadow of his family, but he is too committed to them to even think of doing so. I want you to determine how to encourage him to do that… no matter if his loyalties are to you or me. Without him suspecting anything, of course.”

“As if you would be okay with his loyalties being to me instead.” Which they definitely weren’t. Harry was only speaking hypothetically. 

“I do not blame you for thinking so critically.” Voldemort placed his hand on the door handle once more, making to reenter the Manor. “But loyalty to you means loyalty to me as well, Harry, as will become apparent in the future.”

“You’re quite delusional, aren’t you?”

Voldemort smirked and strode past the doorway, not even bothering to answer. Harry looked away, scoffing in disbelief when he heard Voldemort call from inside, “I’ll be departing in ten minutes, Potter. Perhaps you’ll have more luck convincing me to let you see Draco after I return.”

William Moore could not stop his fingers from shaking. 

His spells were sputtering uselessly as a result, the inky black lettering barely transcribing itself even as he poured in the necessary power. As noted by his superior multiple times this week alone, Will’s concentration was lacking, his mind completely elsewhere. 

Unfortunately, Will could not argue against that. It was true; his mind was elsewhere instead of on his job at the Daily Prophet. Next to that insufferable Skeeter woman, Will had published the most articles in the Prophet this year! Alas, that was all going downhill thanks to the interference of a man who Will did not even know the name of. 

A few weeks ago, Will had elected to travel to Paris. His reasoning had been enough to convince his superiors to approve of such a trip: tension was certainly brewing in Great Britain, even if the cause of it was heavily controversial nowadays. Readers of the Prophet would not want to read about the same thing over and over again - of the different viewpoints, the latest criticisms of Albus Dumbledore and Minister Fudge, etcetera etcetera - no, they would want something new. An outside perspective, perhaps. 

And that was where Will came in. 

His time in Paris had been spent well. Interviewing with the locals had been a fascinating endeavour. All of their opinions had differed, a whole melting pot of various ideas. Some believed that it was all a plot by the Ministry to protect the people from a threat they themselves had made up in order to secure their position over wizarding society. An interesting proposition, and one that Will had begun to give credit to more and more with each local he conversed with. 

Others claimed they knew for a fact that the Dark Lord had returned, that the world was on the brink of a great storm and these days were merely the calm before it. 

That, Will had no trouble believing. Even the air outside felt different nowadays, his back feeling like it was constantly being watched. But he couldn’t say that in his articles, no, he couldn’t show bias in the Prophet of all things. But he could showcase these people’s opinions and share his views with the world through that. 

Everything had been in order by his last day in Paris. He had decided to take the day off researching for the Prophet and had stumbled his way into a bar. He’d been way beyond the tipsy stage when he’d laid eyes on this beautiful, beautiful stranger. 

And then… Well, the rest of his day was a blur after that. Except for one thing. 

“I need you to put something in the Daily Prophet for me.”

To which he had replied, “Oh, I should have known this was about my job. Listen, I can’t just put something in the Wizarding World’s most well-known newspaper for some nobody that I met by chance-”

“Not even for Amelia?”

The information that this stranger, a different and far more intimidating man than the one Will had met in the bar, he’d known far more than he should have. Rattling off these facts about Amelia Davies like he had known here for years. 

Will had crumbled in the face of the threats the man had made. The intimidating look in those eyes, the unerring confidence that Will would eventually cave in - which he had… How could he have not given in at the end? 

The papers that he had been given after agreeing to the man’s terms rustled gently in his pockets. Will always kept them on his person nowadays. If he lost them, then that was as good as losing Amelia as well, and all his other loved ones the man had this uncanny knowledge of. He could take no chances. 

“They come out in the issue two months from tomorrow. Not before, not after. Do whatever you have to.”

“I will. You have my word.”

Oh, but Will could not stand this any longer! All of this waiting was setting his teeth on edge. And it was starting to affect everything in his life. He sucked at his job because of his fluctuating attention span, and sweet Amelia had started to express her concerns about how different he had been acting. 

Two months. 

Will tapped his fingers on his wand anxiously as he checked the large calendar on his desk, moving aside the stray papers to do so. 

August 21st. 

Twenty-two days since the stranger had threatened him. 

Surely the other man was tired of waiting, too? 

Yes. Two months. He had probably been expecting that Will would run into some difficulties in publishing the article. The man did not know what credibility and authority Will carried in the inner workings of the Daily Prophet. Perhaps if Will narrowed that time frame down to one month, the man would be pleased. 

Yes. 

One month. 

Will breathed a sigh of relief. The article would come out on September 1st. That way, he could quit worrying about all of this and get back to his job. He would improve his performance so much that he would no longer live in fear that he would be sacked the next day. Amelia would look at him without the now-familiar worry in her eyes. 

September 1st. 

The snakes were hissing again. 

Every so often, this happened. The architect of this Manor had apparently shared Slytherin’s affection for snakes; one or two appeared carved into the walls or doors wherever Harry looked. The twin serpents curling around the handles of the library doors were the largest and most detailed he’d seen so far. 

Usually, Voldemort left the doors to the library open, but when he left for the day, Harry was left to open them himself. It was an aggravating task that Harry hated doing. The serpents seemed to have formed a dislike for him and wanted to bar him from going inside unless Voldemort accompanied him. It could have been because Harry wasn’t the true Heir of Slytherin and Tom Riddle was, or it could just be because Harry was someone easy to dislike. 

“Let me in,” Harry hissed, rattling the doors violently. The first time he’d attempted that, he’d been horribly afraid that one of the serpents would suddenly spring to life and bite him. Thankfully, that hadn’t happened yet. “It’s not like I’m going to burn the books, I just want to fucking read.”

Apparently burning was the wrong thing to mention. The hissing grew louder and angrier, too quick and jumbled together for Harry to understand. 

Harry couldn’t stand it. He had no idea why everything had to be so difficult for him. How could an entire Manor be against him? 

“Open,” Harry ordered. 

Finally – finally – the doors swung open. The hissing didn’t stop, and Harry could hear it even as he entered the library. He would never be able to concentrate with it in the background. 

He shut the doors behind him moodily, hurling the nonverbal muffliato with little grace. The nerve-grating sounds cut off like a television switched off in the middle of an ongoing program. He breathed a slow sigh of relief as he made his way to the usual spot he worked on the rug. The notes he had made the previous day were still lying untouched. His pen, which was nearly out of ink, had a missing cap that Harry was too lazy to find. He detested quills, and Voldemort had been unusually acquiescent of his request for a pen. 

Harry settled down on the floor, tugging one of the soft cushions from a nearby chair to lean on. It would appear odd, he thought, the way he sank to the ground instead of sitting on the chair like a normal person. But he was in the library with Voldemort more times than not and had become accustomed to sitting on the rug. Now, it felt natural; chairs seemed too confined in comparison. 

His fingers tingled with energy. Harry glanced down at them, willing the sensation to go away. But the pleasant burning sensation continued to crawl up his arm. Magic yearning to be used. 

Well, might as well use it. Maybe practising a little would alleviate the growing heat. Harry picked up the last book he had been studying. A black volume with an obscure Latin title scrawled across the cover in silver. He flipped to a random page, eyes flitting over words but not registering any of them. Something clattered to the ground as he rummaged through the written spells. His wand. 

He winced, glad that Voldemort wasn’t here to chide Harry for using it as a bookmark. 

The holly wand was warm in his hands, thrumming as if alive. “Lumos,” he murmured, just to feel the familiar touch of magic flooding through the instrument. The warmth curling in his arm trailed down, like blood from an open wound, and the wand reached out. It was a bit like electricity. Harry was the source of energy that flowed down the wire that was his arm, allowing the wand to light. And light it did. A faint blue glow swirled at the tip, brightening the library further. The sensation of it was incredible, now that Harry knew what to look for. 

Accio pen cap. His wand hummed as if agreeing with his decision to find his lost item, and he felt a slight tug. A moment later, his lost pen cap hurled itself at him. Only his quick seeker reflexes saved him from getting hit by it in the eye. He shook his head faintly, amused for some reason, and set it down on the table. 

Now that the edge was taken off, he could focus on what was important. 

He scooted over and peeled the rug back. Rather than looking at the floor underneath, he paid attention to the underside of the rug. “Revelio.”

An invisible hand began to place ink on the fabric. Voldemort hadn’t noticed yet, and Harry thanked God every day that he hadn’t, otherwise he would probably be dead by now. Then again, Harry wondered if Voldemort would even be able to read it. 

Morse code. 

It was something he and Hermione had taught each other. Mostly so they could communicate without Ron knowing that they were, but Hermione had already known most of how to use it and had wanted a partner to practice with. What’s wrong with Ron? Hermione would tap out. Nightmares, bad night, Harry would respond, and Hermione clued in on how to comfort him. It became simple things, too, like Hermione silently chastising him for something rude he unintentionally said to another person, and he knew when to stop. Their little way of communication had somewhat died off this year though, with the strains in their group from the Triwizard Tournament. 

Harry had liked to keep up with it, though. It kept him company alone in his room during the summers. 

He looked at the dots and lines there. 

Diary. 

Cup (Hufflepuff?)

Harry sat back and thought carefully. He had a very clear memory of when Voldemort had forced him to drink from the golden cup back in Malfoy's dungeons. It was a Horcrux, he knew that. But Voldemort couldn’t have picked just any old cup; he had far too insufferably large an ego for that. It would have to mean something. 

Bored out of his mind, Harry had been surprised to find a copy of Hogwarts: A History in Slytherin’s library. He supposed it shouldn’t be that shocking, considering Slytherin was one of the original founders. He’d been flipping through the pages a couple of days ago, without much interest, until the section with the founders’ items caught his eye. 

And there it was. The exact fucking cup Voldemort had made into his Horcrux. 

Harry was willing to bet anything that if Voldemort had managed to get his hand on the cup, he had managed to procure the rest of the items, too. 

He fingered his wand and carefully coded:

Ravenclaw Diadem

Slytherin Locket

He hesitated. He had used the Sword of Gryffindor to kill the basilisk. When he touched it, he hadn’t felt any malicious presence like he had with the diary. Voldemort must not have managed to turn it into his Horcrux after all. 

Pity. It would have been somewhat poetic if the sword played into all of this somehow. Harry imagined if the sword was somehow the key to fixing Voldemort – the complete opposite of what Voldemort would have intended. The thought brought a smile to Harry’s lips. 

How many Horcruxes did Voldemort have? 

Diary. Cup. Diadem. Locket. That was four so far, not including Harry. Voldemort had made Harry a Horcrux unintentionally, though Harry wasn’t sure of the process required to form one to figure out how it had happened. 

Four. 

Voldemort could have made four Horcruxes for four Hogwarts founders, replacing his diary for the Sword. Harry wouldn’t put it past the bastard. He likely wanted his immortality to mean something, to have a sort of symbolism. 

Harry sighed, raking his hands through his hair. Somehow, he was going to have to find all of Voldemort’s Horcruxes without him knowing. And that wouldn’t even be the hard part. The hard part was finding a way to make Voldemort accept all the shards of his soul he had sealed away. 

It wouldn’t just be hard, it would be impossible. 

Horcruxes were sentient, Harry had gathered that much. He didn’t know why he couldn’t hear the piece of Voldemort in him but disregarded it as part of being the only human Horcrux that existed. Besides that, all of the objects Voldemort had chosen had a conscience. The diary. The cup. He wondered if Voldemort could communicate with them, see into their thoughts as he could with Harry…

Oh fuck. 

Harry huffed a disbelieving laugh. 

The snake. 

The fucking snake. 

When Harry had dreamt of Frank Bryce last summer, he'd seen a snake. The snake that had been so close to Voldemort, wrapping herself around whatever husk of a body he had been possessing at the time. There was no way Harry would have been able to see through Voldemort's eyes in that moment -- the Dark Lord would have either been too weak to maintain a connection like that or his mental barriers would have blocked Harry out. The only way Harry would have witnessed Frank's death was through the snake. Harry had no clue how to use Legilimency, and no wizard was capable of doing it over that a long distance and he had never even seen the snake before. It had to be a Horcrux link. 

It had to be. He refused to believe it was just his optimism talking. That snake meant something. It had to be a Horcrux! 

… What if he could connect with all the others? 

Harry stood up, pacing wildly. This was the biggest revelation he’d had in months! Voldemort utilized the link between his and Harry’s minds to see into Harry’s head. What if Harry could become skilled enough at that to see through the other Horcrux’s eyes? Then maybe he could find out what they were or at the very least where they were. 

“I’m a genius,” Harry mumbled, still dazed. He hadn’t even realized he had started grinning like a madman. “Holy shit, I’m brilliant!”

Provided his idea worked, he thought sourly. His grin faded away at that. 

If this was going to work, Harry would have to learn Legilimency. That was the only way he could learn to navigate a link between his conscience and another’s. But how the fuck was he going to get Voldemort to teach him something like that without coming across as suspicious? 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Harry was grinning again. 

Voldemort had handed him the perfect reason, and he’d done it without even realising it. 

Chapter Text

“September 1st is the start of the new Hogwarts term, is it not?” 

“Your mental capabilities do not cease to amaze, Lucius,” Voldemort drawled, twitching lips not immune to the quiet chuckling that blanketed the Malfoy’s dining hall. “Yes, it is. Perhaps when I am so graciously given the time to outline my plans, my choice of that date will seem acceptable to you?”

Lucius nodded hurriedly. 

“There are two plans I have for that night,” Voldemort announced, standing at the foot of the table. A general in command of an army of demons and, soon, a falling angel well on his way to joining their ranks. “One, the retrieval of the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. Second… It is time the world became aware of our strength, is it not?”

There was a murmur of approval and assent from those gathered. The individuals Voldemort had kept an eye on, wary of their uncertainties, were nodding along. It satisfied him. This was the power he carried in every room he walked into, to so thoroughly enthral his audience. 

Voldemort smiled coldly. “Yaxley. On September 1st, I want you to summon Severus here. Feel free to do so at your own leisure. Your mind would be valuable carrying out one of these missions, but it will be even more so keeping Severus distracted. For those who are not aware and curious about his absence today… I have lost my faith in Severus.”

Bella’s eyes lit up as she bounced on the balls of her feet. She had never liked the potions professor. To her, for Voldemort to speak of Severus Snape in such a way meant he had finally come to an unspoken agreement with her. 

“There will be no opportunity for him to warn Dumbledore of our plans to strike that night, am I understood?”

Yaxley nodded dutifully. “Yes, my Lord.”

“We will show the wizarding world just how ineffective the Ministry is,” Voldemort murmured, his eyes dancing with anticipation. It was the dream of his younger years. Now that his mind had returned to him, his cruel patience and glorious vision… He felt exhilarated with the possibility of finally achieving his goal. “We will make them grateful for our control once we have seized it. Bella… There is no one I trust more to helm this task. However, this time will be a little different.”

“Anything, my Lord,” Bella said, unperturbed. “Anything you command, I will be glad to carry out.”

Voldemort tilted his head with silent praise. “Dumbledore cannot be allowed possession of the prophecy under any circumstances if I am not to destroy his reputation. Its retrieval cannot fail. We will need a distraction. Pick a fight with the Aurors, but only one you have complete faith you can win. There can be no losses at such a critical time for us. Make certain it is a grand enough event to make it to the Prophet. Lastly… Lucius.”

Lucius looked mildly frightened at being the centre of the Dark Lord’s focus once again. He nodded shakily to show that he was listening. The grip he had on his cane tightened. 

“Don’t look so frightened,” Voldemort sneered. “I will give you a chance at redemption. You have influence over the Daily Prophet. The edition that comes out the day following September 1st should be enough to plant seeds of doubt in the public about the Ministry’s capabilities. I am sure you are clever enough to understand why…?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then do not disappoint me.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Voldemort mocked. “While we are here, Lucius… I need Draco’s assistance in certain future tasks. They are of great importance, and Draco has already impressed me with his skill. You should be proud.”

Lucius paled. “My lord – Draco is a child –”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you are under the impression that I was asking for permission. I was not. Telling you anything at all is merely a courtesy I am extending to you out of appreciation for your long-standing allegiance.”

“Who will be getting the prophecy then, my Lord?” Rookwood asked. 

“Harry Potter will be retrieving it for me.”

Voldemort didn’t wait to see what the reaction of his other followers was. He looked immediately to Bella, who had blinked in surprise. It was understandable. For him to entrust such an important task to Potter of all people, the boy destined to destroy him…

But he saw the clarity entering Bella’s mind. The click. Potter would have a similar interest in retrieving the prophecy. The boy had been rather upset when Bella had informed him of its existence at Voldemort's command. Of course, he was as curious to hear its full contents as Voldemort himself. And, she undoubtedly remembered being told that prophecies could only be taken from their place by the people whom they were about. 

And that was the reason Voldemort had been so careful with handling the boy. For this task and this task alone. There was no other reason. 

None that Voldemort cared to share. 

What mattered was Bella agreeing with his plan. If he had her support, he had the majority of his ranks, who would be easily influenced by her devotion to her Lord. When she expressed her agreement, others would follow suit, unconsciously mirroring her – Voldemort’s best and brightest, his right hand. 

“Dumbledore will be there,” Bella frowned. “The Ministry is holding one of their annual charity balls in dedication to the wizarding schools of Britain. Dumbledore always makes an appearance before returning to Hogwarts for the Welcome Feast.”

Voldemort raised his eyebrows. “I do not remember asking you to keep tabs on Albus Dumbledore, Bella.”

“I like to be thorough, my Lord.”

An approving smile. “The Ministry will be hosting a ball,” Voldemort repeated. He gave a soft laugh. “The rich and powerful dance to music while our ranks mark their reemergence… It does not look good, does it, Lucius?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Dumbledore will not be a concern, Bella, though I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. The most the old man can do is delay Potter’s departure. He will not destroy the entire operation.”

Yet Voldemort was not so sure about this. He wanted to have faith that Harry would complete this mission. He did not doubt Harry’s determination to see this task through, as it had a benefit to himself as well, but Dumbledore was dangerous. With honeyed words and a silver tongue, perhaps Dumbledore would be able to dissuade Harry from bringing the Prophecy to Voldemort and convince the boy to give it to Dumbledore instead for safekeeping. 

He needed to do something about that. Putting a front of full surety to his Death Eaters was one thing. Deceiving himself and therefore hindering the progress of his plan was another. He would have to do something to make sure Harry would not entertain Dumbleodre’s pleas no matter what was said. 

However, Voldemort also needed to tread carefully. He knew he had done many things to upset the boy. He could not risk upsetting him further, not when he was so carefully rebuilding Harry’s trust in him. The image of Tom Riddle, which he had forsaken only for this meeting but would continue once he returned to the Manor, had helped immensely with that. Harry undoubtedly knew what Voldemort was doing, but he was still susceptible to the effects. 

Voldemort needed to find a way to make sure Harry wanted to stay with him over Dumbledore. And it had to be of his own free will, or it would never work. Harry was far too stubborn for anything else to work. 

“Tell Draco that he will be seeing Potter at a place of my choosing tomorrow,” he told Lucius. “I have some instructions for him on how to proceed, which I will give him prior to their meeting. Bella, you are free to coordinate the attack on September 1st for the remainder of this meeting. Those who sit at this table and their subordinates are at your disposal.”

Bella dipped her head, her smirk evident. She was excited. 

“I expect your report tonight,” Voldemort said before he was gone with the sun. 

The most significant change Voldemort noticed these past few weeks were in Harry’s eyes. They held their vibrant shade of green; nothing physical about them had changed. It was in the way that Harry chose to look at Voldemort now. 

He would not do Potter a disservice and claim that the boy had ever feared him. Whether it was pure cowardice or sheer bravery, Harry had been one of the few to never back down from the Dark Lord’s presence. But there had been traces of wariness, of apprehension when Harry used to look at him. Waiting for Voldemort to lose his temper and lash out, perhaps not at Harry but at the people he cared about. 

Now, however, as they sat in the laboratory after dinner, Voldemort could feel Harry’s gaze burning into his neck. He had felt it more frequently these days after he had donned a different appearance, but he knew that was not the entire reason why Harry chose to stare. Harry was beginning to adopt that look of Bella, Severus, and Lucius – his gaze was penetrating now instead of careful, analysing instead of cautious. 

Voldemort wondered what he would do with the information he gathered. 

Nevertheless, while he certainly enjoyed Potter’s attention, he wished the boy would pay attention to the lesson he was teaching instead. Voldemort had quickly identified Harry’s dreadful skills in potion-making and promptly set about rectifying it. At first, Harry had complained that the atmosphere of the place reminded him of Snape, instantly souring his mood. His attitude wasn’t much better. 

Chopping was about the only thing Harry got right when making potions. Voldemort had his suspicions about where that talent had come from, but he chose not to bring it up. Harry was likely sensitive about his past, as was Voldemort, and he would let Harry bring it up to him on his own time. 

Simple things like stirring and measuring were skills that Harry had never bothered to hone. Perhaps he could have become a proficient brewer, but his dislike of Snape had prevented that from happening so far. Voldemort had merely rolled his eyes when Harry confessed this much, but his amusement was plain. 

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Voldemort said, deciding to address Harry’s rapt attention. 

The boy flicked his eyes up, raising an eyebrow at the order. Voldemort paused in his stirring, the steam billowing upwards before scattering in the large area. It was an incredibly spacious place, yet Voldemort and Harry had somehow picked a tiny table near the corner and stayed there. 

“I’m watching the potion.”

“Then tell me what potion I’m in the process of brewing.”

Harry stilled his dangling feet and slid off the desk, peering down at the potion. Beyond all the smoke issuing from it, it was clear, with little bubbles collecting on the surface. “Veritaserum.”

Voldemort didn’t bother to hide his surprise. 

“I only know it because of Snape,” Harry shrugged, destroying Voldemort’s impression that he was suddenly adept at identifying potions. “He threatened to give me some when gillyweed went missing from his stores. I didn’t steal anything that time, though. And then again when he brought some so they could interrogate Crouch.”

“Hm,” Voldemort murmured, turning back to the potion. “Well, you are correct. It’s almost finished, in fact. Good timing, too – I was planning to use it soon. Now, what were you actually doing? Your eyes weren’t on the potion.”

“I was trying to analyse your mood.”

Voldemort arched an eyebrow, abandoning the stirring rod. He stepped away from the potion altogether, leaning against the desk Harry had previously been sitting on and crossing his arms. “And what do you plan to do with that assessment?”

“Er–”

“Stop saying that, Potter.”

“Oh, it’s Potter now?” Harry gasped, widening his eyes mockingly. “My sincere apologies for whatever I did to offend you.”

“No child who hopes to gain respect and attention stutters like you do,” Voldemort ignored him. The hint of irritation in his eyes was enough to make Harry back off. “You believe anyone will take you seriously when you blunder like that? For that matter, straighten your back and stop dropping your shoulders.”

Harry did as he was told. He looked away, face burning. It reminded Voldemort oddly of Lucius’s cowardice back in the meeting, and suddenly his anger flared. 

“Tell me what you did wrong just now.”

Harry didn’t have a clue.

“You lowered your head and averted your eyes. That is an action I expect from my Death Eaters. It demonstrates their submission. Is that who you are, Potter – is that what you want?”

“Merlin, no.”

“Then stop yourself from doing that with anyone from now on. Even me. That gives them the upper hand and therefore power over you. Power over you leads to control, and soon you’re just another pet on a leash before you realise the collar’s round your neck.”

Harry tilted his head, gaze assessing. Voldemort realised his mistake. It wasn’t the first lesson Voldemort had given him along these lines, but his delivery of this one made it seem more… personal. Like Voldemort had experienced the same thing in his younger years. It didn’t matter that he had; Potter would never learn of it. 

“Every time you stammer or mumble is a day of duelling out of our schedule.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, outraged. You can’t take that away from me. 

Voldemort picked up on the thought easily. “Yes, I can,” he said, not missing a beat. “Best not to make a mistake, don’t you think?” He smiled sharply before flicking his fingers. The fire under the cauldron winked out. “I’m surprised you don’t care more about what people think of you. You are a figure always at the centre of attention, after all.”

Harry snorted. 

Voldemort felt Potter’s irritation at the statement. But it was necessary. Starting from Paris, each conversation Voldemort had initiated with Potter was designed to make Potter question the way the world worked around him. If he was going to convince Potter to go against the Ministry, he had to make Potter aware of how precisely it worked. He needed to highlight its flaws, the corruption seeping into it. Then it would be the simple matter of convincing Potter he was doing the right thing by “saving” the Wizarding World from the useless institution the Ministry had become. 

“I never wanted anyone’s attention,” Harry muttered. Voldemort’s gaze moved to him. Harry bit his lip, wanting desperately to point out that it was Voldemort who had forced all this attention on him. It was Voldemort who had given Harry everything he had never wanted, who had taken away everything he had. Voldemort heard all of this but remained silent. “They all have their expectations of me that I’m supposed to meet and that just… it makes me feel not in control of my own life.”

“You only feel that way because you have let them control you,” Voldemort waved off. “The Prophet smears you without your response, you have let immature classmates like the young Malfoy leak preposterous stories about you, and that shows the negative sides of what the public can do to you. You have never fully realised that you can alter how they perceive you. You can make them love and revere you, or you can simply be an exhibit for them to watch from a distance and criticise at their whim.”

“I really don’t care.”

Voldemort resisted a sigh of frustration. Therein lay the problem. He switched tactics. “What do you think inspires loyalty and dedication? What is it about figures that have power ordinary people cannot hope to obtain that draws them in?”

“Admiration?” Harry guessed after a beat of silence. “They can represent something someone would want for themselves, and they would follow them to achieve it, too, I suppose. Respect. And before you say something like fear… Fear of a leader implies that the leader will turn on them at any minute, so why shouldn’t the follower when they see that it’s worth it? If you ask me, it’s just a way to guarantee betrayal in the end and nothing more.”

“And if you gain so much power compared to what they have, compared to your opponents that they wouldn’t dare betray you?” 

Harry frowned. “So you’re saying someone should just get so far ahead of everyone else that they can ensure their followers remain where they are?”

Voldemort grinned sharply. He always did enjoy these talks with Potter. Harry and his perspectives were just so interesting. “Precisely.”

“Seems rather boring there, doesn’t it?” Harry asked. “All alone at the top.”

Voldemort chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “Of course, you would think that. If we don’t go that deep, however, what do you think is the basis of a follower’s devotion to a leader?” Harry shrugged. “The leader has something they want. Everyone wants something. The want is something you can learn to use if you desire.”

“Seems rather shallow, doesn’t it?”

“Really? So you haven’t identified my desire for you to stay by my side? You aren’t using that fact to endear yourself to me in the hopes of becoming so precious to me that one day you could use that remorse to fix my soul? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you ignoring what I made you do, Harry, with the Cruciatus Curse. You’re good at hiding what you’re thinking nowadays, but I can read your mind like an open book.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He was telling himself it didn’t matter that Voldemort suspected him. If there was one thing that Harry could compliment himself on, it was the fact that he was perseverent to a fault. If Voldemort tried to stop him, Harry would just make a plan B, and then a plan C, and then go to numbers if he ran out of letters. The point was that he would keep going. 

Voldemort admired that more than Harry would ever know. 

“Whatever,” Harry said abruptly. “Use something someone wants to get them to do something for you. How useful. Definitely something I couldn’t have figured out on my own. Now, instead of boring me to death, why not tell me why you’re brewing veritaserum? Planning on getting information out of another prisoner?”

“Why? Would you like to help again?” Voldemort smirked. 

“You’re a heartless son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Veritaserum will not be used in today’s lesson, seeing as it’s not quite finished. You would have known that had you paid attention to anything I said before we began our discussion. But when it is ready… I’m going to teach you how to resist it.”

“I didn’t even know you could do that,” Harry admitted. He stared down at the clear, unassuming potion. “But no. I absolutely refuse to drink that in your presence.”

“Perhaps it would make you more eager if I told you that resisting this is one step closer to keeping me out of your mind?” Voldemort guessed. He knew he was right. “Blocking out the effects of veritaserum requires a certain mental fortitude that is uncommon in the average wizard. If you can strengthen your mental shields, you can keep the average legilimens out.”

“But not you.”

“You will be closer to keeping me out. Doing it indefinitely will still require more practice and skill on your part, but it will no longer be impossible.”

Harry sighed loudly. “So this is what you meant by bringing up things people want.”

“You’re certainly getting smarter.”

“I told you not to condescend to me,” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“When will it be ready?” Harry asked. 

“In a few days.”

Voldemort finished setting everything aside, waving a stasis charm on the potion as an afterthought. He had intended for this to be a rigorous lesson, but Potter seemed to be in no mood for paying attention to anything but bantering today. Normally, when Harry was in these moods, Voldemort would tell the boy to meet him outside for duelling.

He turned away, not willing to deal with Harry’s temper. There was a sitting area at the front of the room, which he now made his way over to. Knowing that Harry was following his lead without bothering to check, he settled down into the armchair. He avoided the sofa on purpose. The armchair was in the corner of the room with everything else in the other. He waited for Harry to make his move. 

***

Harry rolled his shoulders and placed himself at the front of Voldemort’s chair, leaning against the leg. He didn’t know why Voldemort insisted on making a big deal about it every time Harry did so. It wasn’t like Harry had a choice. 

Voldemort smiled. 

“I’ve been thinking. About my promise to you last week. About the prophecy.”

“Good,” Voldemort said. “It’s about time you came to your senses about what must be done. Are you sure you’re ready to continue even with how you reacted last time?”

No, Harry would not ever continue what he had done last time. He gave Voldemort a sweet little smile that had the Dark Lord tilting his head in suspicion. “You misunderstand. I’m not torturing anyone, Voldemort. But I have another idea. Legilimency.”

“Ah,” Voldemort murmured, smiling faintly. He was definitely amused now. That told Harry that either Voldemort thought Harry’s newfound solution was completely ridiculous or he had expected Harry to find it from the start. Neither of those options pleased him. “Tell me, what makes you think you could learn how to infiltrate an individual’s mind as adeptly as I could?”

Harry scoffed. “I wouldn’t need to be up to your level–”

“Yes. You would.”

Harry paused. There was something in that tone that brokered no room for argument. So the target had strong mental shields. Far stronger than Harry had. 

“You can’t be good at everything, Harry,” Voldemort said. “Your strengths lie in a different area, and you have natural talent there. But legilimency requires more precision than you are able to achieve at the moment. Let’s say you managed to break past the shields in the target’s mind. With your power, I believe that is more than possible. What then? You wouldn’t know the first thing about how to retrieve the information, how to guide yourself through another’s mind. I am aware that you’re one to pick yourself up when you fall, but you wouldn’t even know when you’ve hit the ground.”

Harry bit his tongue and turned away. Such careful control had never been a strong point of his. Harry could barely keep a leash on his emotions half the time, much less his magic. But he needed Legilimency – He cut off that thought before it started. He focused on the fact that Voldemort had to understand that Harry needed Legilimency if Voldemort truly wanted Harry to cooperate. 

Harry needed to learn Legilimency. 

“Careful, Harry,” Voldemort said softly. “You made a promise. You already assured me of your cooperation in doing so. I don’t care what methods you think are immoral when I want the job done. It would do you well to learn that – the ends justify the means.”

Harry would not accept that. If he started thinking that way, he would be able to justify anything he did, so long as it served his own personal gain. Then he would be no better than Voldemort. He’d lose sight of what was really important other than himself. How was he going to convince Voldemort to teach him? 

Right now, it was looking like a lost cause. Voldemort didn’t think Harry was capable of it in the time they had. These past few months, Voldemort had told Harry so many times of the potential he had, of the power he wielded. If he was saying that Harry would not be able to master Legilimency, then Harry wouldn’t. 

Unless he wanted to push Harry to torture once again. Then there was nothing to hold him back from lying to Harry about his capabilities. Maybe Harry really was able to use Legilimency if he worked hard enough, but Voldemort didn’t want him to take that route. Voldemort wanted the one where Voldemort would end up with bloody hands, where there was no going back. It didn’t matter how broken Harry had been after the last time he’d done it. 

“If I could learn to navigate your mind, could I navigate someone else’s?”

He held his breath, waiting for the answer, dreading it. He knew what Voldemort had warned him of before – thirty seconds in his mind and Harry would be desperate to leave. Admittedly, Harry was terrified of getting a glimpse into Voldemort’s mind. But if Harry could trade that pain for the unfathomable amounts someone being tortured would feel, it was an easy decision. 

“Harry, letting someone into your mind is an incredibly intimate practice in this world. It conveys trust and openness. I have not opened my mind to anyone and I will never do so, especially with you. Not merely because of the ideas associated with it, but because there are things you would wish to unsee if I let you witness them.”

Harry snorted. 

“You would not be amused if you knew how many I have killed and tortured in the past week.”

Suppressing his wince, Harry said, “See, I think you’re only hesitant because I’m starting to become more comfortable around you, and you don’t want to ruin that by reminding me of what you really are.”

“Of what I really am?” Voldemort laughed quietly. “And what would that be, puzzle?”

Oh, Voldemort was good. Harry had been so ready to call him a monster purely because of his rejection of Harry’s idea. But – puzzle. Voldemort was reminding him of that night in Paris when Harry had resolved to find a way to fix him. Harry gritted his teeth, removing himself from the chair leg and angling his head around. 

“A riddle,” he decided. 

Voldemort’s eyebrows shot up. He looked positively delighted. “Is that so?” he said, smirking. 

“One that doesn’t make any sense,” Harry felt the need to add. 

“Is that why you want to get a glimpse into my head?” Voldemort crooned softly, leaning forward. “Want to solve me, Harry Potter? You don’t need to bother with all that – I can give you all the answers you want. All you have to do is ask.”

Ask.

Voldemort was goading him to. He knew that Harry didn’t know a single thing about him, about the person he had been before. How was Harry supposed to bring that person back without even knowing them in the first place? But he looked oh so eager for a victory at the moment, and Harry refused to give that to him. 

“No thanks,” Harry breathed. 

A flash of anger in Voldemort's eyes was all the indication Harry had that his answer had irritated him before the Dark Lord moved away, taking the tension away with him. Harry felt like he could breathe again for the first time since he had brought up the question. 

“Change the subject, Harry,” Voldemort said quietly. “And don’t ask me about legilimency again.”

Harry sneered at him. Voldemort was an idiot if he thought Harry was giving it up this early. 

“Tell me that to my face.” Voldemort’s voice was utterly soft. 

Fuck. Harry lost his anger as he remembered Voldemort was reading his thoughts.

He focused on the arm of the chair to his back, keeping his mind utterly blank. 

The ends justified the means. 

That wasn’t the only lesson Voldemort had given him. 

Harry looked up, waiting for Voldemort to meet his gaze before saying quietly but firmly, “I want you to teach me.”

Voldemort slowly blinked. His face had gone completely unreadable. “You want me to teach you? I recall telling you that when you want something, you need only ask. But this seems rather quick for the lesson to sink in. I expected more resistance, Harry Potter.”

Harry Potter. His full name reminded him of just what he was asking. Harry Potter was the Boy Who Lived. He was not someone who would be asking Voldemort for something and expecting to get it. He was better than that. It was an excellent manipulation, but Voldemort had taught Harry better than that by now. 

So he didn’t back down. He kept himself steady, his chin lifted up even from his place on the ground. Unyielding. 

He saw the spark of something in Voldemort’s eyes. His power rearing for a look into Harry’s mind –

“Are you going to deny me?”

Distract him. Harry needed to make Voldemort focus on him instead of his thoughts. On the here and now. 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. Two fingers reached to tilt Harry’s head up further. Harry let it happen but didn’t take his eyes off the man in front of him. He had to see this through. If nothing else, at least he would have tried his hardest. “I would never dream of denying you. I would have taught you Legilimency when we were allowed more time. Tell me why I should do so now instead of when I decide the moment is fitting.”

“I’ve never asked for something from you that you didn’t offer first,” Harry pointed out. It was true. He had asked for the safety of his friends but only after Voldemort told him he could. He had asked Voldemort to teach him a spell but only after Voldemort indicated he’d be willing. 

“True,” Voldemort said. “And I do rather enjoy seeing you want something and be willing to get it. You’ll have to put in a lot of work, understand? This will be the hardest thing you’ve had to learn in terms of magic. You might not master it in time for our visit to the Ministry.”

“I understand.”

Voldemort yanked Harry’s head closer, his fingers digging into the flesh of Harry’s neck. Harry froze at the sudden closeness but refused to be intimidated. He was so close to Voldemort agreeing. Just a little further. “Then ask me properly, Harry. Ask the Dark Lord to teach you.”

Oh, he was enjoying this. 

But Harry had come too far to give up now. It was a question of his own pride and saving the world from a Voldemort with no boundaries, no conscience, no vision. A rabid animal out of control, only able to see what was in front of him to keep moving forward. 

Voldemort tilted his head at the silence. Harry stilled, his mind screaming at him to keep Voldemort’s focus here, not on reading his thoughts. 

“Teach me, my Lord,” Harry said. “I want to learn from you. Please.”

A rush of air left Voldemort at the words. His eyes were wide and dark. 

“I never thought I’d hear that from you, Potter. I won’t lie and say it does not please me.” He let go of Harry’s chin, his arm falling back to his side. Harry sat back down, feeling oddly cold. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

He’d said it on a whim, wondering at what the reaction might be. He was happy to see that his suspicions were proven correct. Voldemort visibly twitched in surprise at the honorific, his eyes full of disbelief. He looked away from Harry, quickly assuming the facade of a cool and unbothered ruler. But the quick flash of something else had still been there, and Harry relished in it. 

He’d won this round. And he’d discovered a way to keep a small version of the upper hand over the Dark Lord. By pleasing him. 

Maybe the ends did justify the means. 

Chapter Text

The small restaurant Draco had chosen to meet Potter at was out of the way, secluded in its difference from the other places along the street. People walked by – muggles and wizards alike, for the outside of the establishment was completely ordinary – and glanced up. He saw the muggles squint as they tried to see in through the tinted windows and, as the charm placed upon the building convinced them, decided it was not worth their time and moved along. Magical folk flowed in and out through the doors. 

Draco nodded when the server asked him if he wanted a glass of water. As she walked away to fetch it for him, Draco leaned backwards and placed his clasped hands on the table. The Dark Lord’s request that Draco meet Harry for dinner was rather unexpected. The last Draco had seen of Harry was when he had made that genius plan to escape the Manor. Surely the Dark Lord must have been furious with Harry for that. But it didn’t seem like it if Harry was allowed to meet Draco. That was a mercy, and the Dark Lord was not known for those. 

He knew why the meeting had to happen on his part, however. The Dark Lord wanted Draco to get as much information about Potter’s friends as he could, without Harry realising that something was up. That should be easy. Potter was quite oblivious; Draco would have him singing before he noticed his mouth had opened. 

Part of him felt guilty. Harry had been his only companion all summer. Draco wouldn’t have risked asking the Dark Lord to deliver a letter to just anyone. He wondered what Harry had chosen to do with what Draco had shared. If the Dark Lord suspected anything. 

The server came back, Draco’s glass of water perched atop a silver tray. She set it down before him and left after being waved off. Draco was too deep in thought to bother with a thank you. At that moment, his gaze lifted, and he caught sight of the opening door. 

He stared. 

Harry spotted him immediately, probably going off of Draco’s unique shade of blond. He grinned and made his way over, saying something Draco couldn’t focus on and sliding into the seat opposite him. Draco continued to stare at the black silk coating Potter’s hands as they carefully separated the utensils from his napkin, setting them down without much thought. 

“Draco?” Harry asked with a tone that implied he’d been repeating his name for a while now. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Draco said faintly. He dragged his eyes away from the astounding neatness of Harry’s expensive robes, the black silk caressing his hands, and his more prominently handsome features after eating better than before. He swallowed with difficulty. “I should be asking about you, actually. I mean… you seem to be doing much better than I was expecting.”

Harry’s eyes dawned with understanding. “Oh. You’re wondering why I haven’t been locked in a cell again after what I pulled the last time I saw you.”

“Something like that, yes.”

Harry tapped his finger against the menu, his black gloves crinkling. “Well, turns out I… impressed him more than I upset him. My time since then hasn’t been without consequences, but they’re not as drastic as they could have been. How has everything been back at the Manor?”

“Quieter,” Draco admitted. He wondered if he should tell Harry about the assignment the Dark Lord had given him. The Dark Lord had not said anything to forbid such a thing, though it was likely implied. Draco had been ready to trick Harry into feeding him whatever information he so desired, but that had been easier to think when Harry wasn’t sitting right in front of him. 

Now, Draco was forced to remember that Harry was a person, too – one who would feel betrayed if he found out what Draco was doing. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Harry asked again, frowning. If he were more like the Dark Lord, he would have already figured out something was up, that Draco was keeping something from him. 

“Yes,’ Draco said. “Thank you for your concern, though it’s unnecessary. Actually… is it alright for you to be in public like this? What if someone sees you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Voldemort put some kind of spell on me so that only you can see me. I had to drink this potion with a strand of your hair in it. It was disgusting.”

Draco did not want to know how the Dark Lord had acquired a strand of his hair. He shivered. “I assume you haven’t been here before?”

Harry snorted and looked around. “Can’t say I have. I probably wouldn’t be able to afford it from the looks of this place. But I take it you’ve come here often. It looks a little too…” He eyed the bar at the far back of the room, the whooping laughter of grown men as they messed around. “... immature for your parents’ tastes. Zabini?”

“Nott,” Draco corrected, but he was impressed. “Not bad, Potter. And I’m sure you could afford it – they’d let you have free meals in fact once they realise who you are. But I suspect you wouldn’t let them extend that particular courtesy.” Harry smiled bashfully. “Oh, you’re insufferable. Look at the menu for me, will you? And don’t order for yourself without asking me – I don’t want you ordering the hors d’œuvres without knowing what it is.”

“The what,” Harry asked. 

Draco rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. 

They fell into a comfortable silence, Harry scanning over his menu with forced intentness while Draco tried hard not to roll his eyes. He took the opportunity of the lapse in conversation to strategize how he was going to bring up Granger and Weasley. And more importantly, Dumbledore.

Although… he had been thinking about it, and Black didn’t seem like a bad place to start. They shared blood, after all. But from what Draco had heard from his mother, Sirius Black had always been sort of a rebel, especially when he was a teenager. Draco personally admired the courage or stupidity it had taken to break so cleanly from the Black family like Sirius had done. 

Harry ended up ordering a lamb chop. It was Draco’s recommendation after Potter confessed to having no idea what he wanted. Draco ordered soup for himself, craving something hot. The server nodded cheerfully, scribbling down their orders with a quill before skipping away. 

“How are things at the Manor? Everything okay with your aunt?” 

Draco scowled immediately at the thought. It had been better recently, now that Draco had gotten the hang of occlumency; he could successfully keep her out for hours on end. But separation from the Dark Lord was taking its toll on her. When Potter had been at the Manor, that meant the Dark Lord was too for the majority of the time, and Bellatrix had relished in that fact. Now, there was no outlet for her obsession. 

“That bad?”

“Have you met my aunt?” Draco asked dryly. “Actually, don’t answer that – she likes you.”

Harry made an offended noise. “That’s such a lie.”

“No, it’s not. Anyway, she’s just as you’re probably imagining, but not as bad as it was when you were at the Manor. She had someone to impress back then. Now, it’s like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She has Death Eaters over every other night to frantically plan out this mission the Dark Lord assigned her, and you can imagine her temper gets away from her often.” 

Harry sat back. His green eyes were pensive. Draco tilted his head and wondered at how Potter had grown over the summer. Taller, more filled out, healthier. Handsome, even. In another life, perhaps… He blinked and shook his head slightly to chase that thought away. That could never happen. 

“Is this alcohol?” Harry had picked up his glass and was eyeing it with a wrinkled nose. It was rather adorable, actually. 

“Don’t tell me your rowdy Gryffindor lot didn’t regularly sneak firewhiskey and such into the dorms,” Draco snorted derisively. “The Slytherins always entertained it, especially after the many times we beat you in Quidditch.”

Harry scoffed, setting the glass down. “Oh? Is that so? Because I can’t name a single time I saw you catch the snitch before me, Draco.”

“Yes, we have your pitiful eyesight to blame, don’t we.”

“I actually hate you,” Harry declared, but his eyes were bright with amusement. “And, for your information, my eyesight will be getting fixed in a few days. You won’t have any more jokes to crack about my vision anymore – what a pity. I almost feel sorry for you.”

“I feel sorry enough for the both of us, never fear,” Draco pouted. “Decided to buy one of those potions, have you? Well, I won’t pretend to praise you for your decision, but it was about time.”

Harry shrugged. “Actually, Voldemort and I are in the process of brewing one.”

He reached forward and took hold of his wine glass. Eyeing it warily, he allowed himself a few tentative sips, not noticing Draco’s shocked stare in the slightest. Harry licked his lips and hummed to himself, drinking a little more before setting it down and glancing up at Draco. 

“You make potions with the Dark Lord,” Draco said faintly. “I really have died and gone to the afterlife.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Harry sighed. “I thought the same, but it seems I’ve brought an afterlife with me. Hell on Earth is the expression I think?”

“Yes, that certainly describes your situation.”

“You know… it’s actually not that bad, all things considered. He’s not a bad teacher, in fact, I think he’s the best I’ve had.”

“I don’t believe you. No one bests Severus –”

“ Lockhart bests Snape.”

“You did not just say that.”

Harry paled and held up his hands in surrender, seeming to realise his mistake. “Oh, Merlin, I can’t believe I just said that. Erase that from your memory, Draco, I can’t stand myself!”

Draco snorted. 

“You can’t deny that Professor Lupin was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Harry said rather abruptly. His tone brokered no room for argument, yet Draco took it upon himself to argue at once. 

“That is simply untrue,” Draco sneered. He knew Harry was completely right, but there was something in his nature that refused to let himself concede a point easily. 

“Yeah?” Harry challenged. “Fine, I’ll go through the list for you. There was Quirell,” he began, counting on his fingers exaggeratedly. “Not a bad teacher except for the fact that he had Voldemort attached to the back of his skull, tried to kill me by knocking me off my broom, let a troll into castle grounds, and — actually, need I say more? And then,” he said loudly when Draco opened his mouth to interrupt, “there was Lockhart, though we’ve already established how horrid he was. But then in third year Professor Lupin came and we actually learned useful things that year. Then fourth we had…”

“Why did you stop?” Draco frowned. “You don’t seriously think Moody was a better teacher, do you? The man cursed me into a ferret!”

Harry snickered. 

Draco scoffed and drained his own glass of wine, letting it soothe his temper. How easily he lost control of it when it came to idiots like Potter. “Fine. Lupin might have been the most competent. Shame, that speaks to our low standards for Defence teachers nowadays. My father always told me how exemplary the faculty was when he went to school, and that it’s fallen into disarray with Dumbledore in charge.”

“Your father just loves to hate Dumbledore,” Harry said. “That tends to bias his opinions a little, don’t you think?”

“Which teacher do you actually like, then?”

“McGonagall,” Harry said immediately. The respect in his voice was plain. “Lupin. Hagrid.”

“Hagrid?” Draco exclaimed shrilly. “Oh, you’ve lost it. You’ve really gone and shrivelled up every last one of your brain cells. Admittedly there weren’t that many to begin with.”

“Don’t be so mean.”

“I think Severus is the best teacher,” Draco announced. 

“You would think that,” Harry muttered. “I still think Voldemort is more effective than him. I can actually brew a potion from start to finish now, did you know? Hold your applause, I know I’m full of surprises.”

“What applause?” Draco replied, bored. He grinned at Harry’s squawk of offence. “The funny thing is… my aunt has been my most effective instructor. Odd how it ends up being the people we were once afraid of that teach us the most.”

Harry hummed his agreement. “Odd indeed.”

She pulled up on the hood of her cloak, keeping her footsteps light and smooth. It was getting harder to do so as her frustration mounted with each passing hour. Bellatrix Lestrange was not one known for failure, and yet she seemed to be on the precipice of it at the moment. 

The train station was as dark as it was sparse. There were only a few distant lights on this late at night, and only a few muggles roaming about in comparison. She had no idea why she had been led to think she might find him here. In some ways, this place was oddly fitting. He had never been one for staying still. 

Bellatrix grimaced as a conductor called to her, asking if she wanted to get on the train. She immediately shook her head no. Her disgust was overflowing and she didn’t think she’d be able to contain herself if she found herself surrounded by these muggles. She longed for the future then, when she would be free to take out her wand no matter the place and have her fun without fear of consequence. But the Dark Lord had not revealed himself to the world just yet, so Bellatrix would bide her time. 

She wrapped her cloak around her body tighter, shivering slightly. Ever since Azkaban, she hadn’t been able to outrun the cold. It followed her as closely as her own shadow. 

“Where are you,” she murmured, letting her keen eyes scan the incoming trains. It was difficult to pinpoint any one individual with how fast they were moving, and there were still quite a few people on each one. Muggles returning from their meaningless work to go back to their meaningless little lives at home. 

She sniffed. 

“You hopping on?” 

Bellatrix whipped around to rebuke another conductor for asking her the same question when she stopped. The man the conductor was talking to had a baseball cap on, an oversized coat draping down to his knees, black and studded. Bellatrix eyed his horrid boots and wondered if she’d found her target at long last. 

“Well come on, then, sir,” the conductor motioned, getting out of the way so the man could climb on. Bellatrix quickly hurried after him, following her gut feeling that this was it. The conductor smiled at her, saying a quick greeting before sliding the doors to the train shut. 

The cart Bellatrix had made it onto was emptier than the rest. She shoved down her revulsion as she settled down onto a seat, still fingering her wand in her sleeve. Her jaw tightened. She had been so quick in following that man onto the train, yet he had disappeared from her sight. She was quite fed up with his elusiveness. 

She calmed down when she caught sight of him in the next cart over. Before she could get up and follow him, the train started moving. She let go of her wand and chose to cling tightly to the seats, sickened at how the ground underneath her seemed to move almost mechanically. The muggles’ pitiful attempts to recreate magic grew more abhorrent over time, it seemed. 

The train didn’t get to the next stop for the next fifteen minutes. Bellatrix spent that time shoving her arms deep into their sleeves to escape the cold, tracing the distinct outline of the Dark Mark on her forearm. She wondered at what age her Lord had perfected it. She wished she’d been there to see it. 

“Cold, miss?” 

Bellatrix looked up to see an older man staring up at her. “No, just… lost in thought.” And then she prayed he would stop talking to her which, thankfully, he did. 

The ground stopped moving, the train coming to a stop. Bellatrix immediately hopped up, gaze darting to the man in the other cart. He was getting off here, already speeding towards the station exit. She narrowed her eyes, refusing to lose sight of him again. She clambered off the train, ignoring the conductor’s farewell, and hurried after the man as fast as she could without seeming suspicious. 

It had taken her hours to find him. It would not take her a second more, she vowed. 

Luckily, the man never once looked over his shoulder, but Bellatrix still forced herself to remain careful. There was always the possibility that she had picked the wrong man to follow, but she didn’t think so. His outfit alone confirmed her suspicions. 

He was heading into what looked like a courtyard. Gardens surrounded it – dark trees and thorned roses – the whole area secluded. Bellatrix grinned. 

The man stopped. So he had noticed her following him after all. He turned around, his eyes as dark as she remembered. 

The curse came barreling towards her quicker than she expected. Her reflexes were still damaged from her prolonged time in Azkaban, but she managed to whip up a decent shield before it could hit her. Dark red exploded in her vision. She laughed in delight, breathing in the familiar scent of Dark Magic. 

As soon as the red disappeared, she whipped her wand in an arc, sending her own curse careening towards her target. Not enough to harm him, but it would hurt. Faster than she thought he would, he jerked up a shield as well, using it to push the curse back at her. She easily deflected it, watching the sparks of the remaining magic fade away into the night. 

Both of them had spent many long years in Azkaban, surrounded by the screams of inmates and the cold of dementors. And here they stood. Free and better than most wizards. It made them strong. Bellatrix smiled as she looked up at her cousin, who had trained an unreadable stare upon her. 

“Hello, Bella.”

She smirked. “Hello, Sirius.” 

“Bloody hell, I’m so full,” Harry groaned. 

“Because you ate that whole dish without even swallowing,” Draco scolded him. “Next time try to actually enjoy your meal instead of inhaling it.”

“Will do, Draco,” Harry said breezily. He leaned on Draco for support as they walked out of the restaurant. Draco graciously opened the door for him while Harry wasted precious seconds turning over his shoulder to shout a thank you to the person who’d waited on them for the night. 

“That lamb was so good,” Harry told Draco as if he didn’t already know that. He made a sound of deep appreciation. “I think that’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Can we come back here again one day, Draco?”

“If you insist.”

Harry grinned brightly, patting Draco on the back. He was slightly tipsy after drinking the wine, but nothing that shouldn’t wear off after an hour or so. It helped that they’d eaten, too. Draco didn’t want to return a drunk Potter to the Dark Lord. The thought alone made him shudder. 

“Cold?”

“Hmm? No. Just… thinking about something.”

“Hey, Draco… your aunt isn’t hurting you or anything, is she?” 

Draco blinked. “Not anymore, and it was never serious. She thought that pain would be a good motivator, and as it turns out, it was in the end. As I said, she was effective. I can keep her out completely, and if she’s to be believed, I could keep out the Dark Lord himself if I tried, though she assured me he would find out if I was keeping something from him anyway through… other means.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco shrugged. “My aunt loves to be melodramatic. She probably gets a kick out of threatening other people with what her Lord could do to them. Showing off his power.”

Harry grabbed his hand and yanked him down onto a bench by the street. It must have been later, around 10:30 Draco guessed, as there were significantly fewer people milling about than earlier. He glanced at Harry, allowing himself to be tugged onto the seat, reclining his back to get comfortable. 

“Occlumency,” Harry mused. “That’s what it’s called, right?”

“I’m surprised you can pronounce the word.”

“Funny,” Harry said, giving him a dry look. “I’d like to see you pronounce electricity.” Draco was very grateful Potter didn’t decide to test that theory, because he was completely right. He couldn’t even sound out the word in his head. “Is it really that difficult to learn? I mean… to conceal your thoughts from someone like him?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

“Like the contents of your letter.”

Harry was a wonderful liar. Another time, that would have given Draco great satisfaction. But the spike of fear that shot through Draco eliminated all chances of that. He had not thought of the possibility of the Dark Lord searching Harry’s mind for what Draco had written about. 

“That’s not really what you intend to hide the most, Potter,” Draco said. “But well done for giving me personal motivation in helping you.”

“So help me.”

“You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who could teach you Occlumency quickly enough to pull what you’re hoping for off,” Draco said slowly. “But there are other ways of concealing your thoughts. There’s the iceberg method, at least that’s what I like to call it. Give him something else to pay attention to when he goes looking in your mind, keep what you’re really thinking below the water, deep enough so that he can see it. Thing is, you have to make your iceberg worthwhile to pay attention to as well. Get what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “So distract him, basically.”

“Basically.” Trust Potter to turn Draco’s whole thought-out analogy into a simple verb. It was infuriating. 

“That’s good to hear,” Harry sighed. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark robes. “I think I know a good way to distract Voldemort now. Thanks for the help.”

“My pleasure,” Draco drawled. 

Harry rolled his eyes and nudged him with his elbow. He looked so relaxed in this moment, the most at ease he had been since Hogwarts last year. Before Diggory’s death, that is. “If you could be anywhere in the world, where would you be?”

Draco didn’t even have to think about it. “France,” he murmured immediately. He gazed wistfully up at the sky, disappointed that the stars weren’t visible from all the light pollution. 

“Paris?” Harry assumed like everyone else did. But Draco didn’t want to go to France to flaunt his riches, to taste finer foods and admire expensive clothing. He yearned for the peace he felt there. One summer, his family had gone to France, using a beautiful villa they’d bought years ago for residence. And what a summer that had been… Draco’s mother would set the table every night, Dobby making all of Draco’s favourite meals. Lucius would sit at the head of the table as always but not remain separate from the conversation. That must have been the last time Draco heard his father laugh and saw a smile that didn’t have a trace of ice in it. 

“That good, huh?” Harry asked softly. 

Draco smiled and nodded. Yeah, it was that good. And now France remained a dream he could no longer obtain, that he couldn’t force himself to fall asleep and conjure. Now he walked the waking world, where the Dark Lord lived in his home, where his parents followed him out of both loyalty and fear. No, France would not be reached ever again. Shame. He longed to look up at that sky and see the stars again. 

“And you?” Draco asked, feeling strangely emotional. He coughed slightly to not sound quite so strangled. “Where would you go?”

“The Burrow.” Like Draco’s response, Harry’s didn’t require any thought process at all. Draco glanced over at Harry and, sure enough, the same wistful smile he had been sporting earlier was present on Harry’s lips. It took a moment for Draco to truly register what Harry had answered. 

“The Weasleys?” Draco exclaimed. “You could go anywhere in the world and you choose that family of—” He bit his tongue after Harry gave him an extremely dry look. “Why?”

Harry shrugged, as if it was that simple. “Because I associate it with warmth and kindness. They’re the first real family, or the closest thing I have to it, I’ve had. Doesn’t matter that we don’t share blood — they welcomed me into their lives with open arms. And that’s all that matters.” Harry looked at him knowingly. “I feel at peace there. And I haven’t felt that in so, so long…”

Draco opened his mouth, hesitating to ask. This was a perfect segue into getting information from Potter about his friends. But some sentimental part of him that had emerged from this conversation screamed at him not to. It felt too much like betrayal. And yet, it could also be partly a kindness, could it not? Let Potter relish in memories of a tranquil past for a little while longer. 

“Tell me about them,” Draco whispered. 

And Harry talked, grinning all the while, not realising how Draco suddenly started paying more attention. 

Her cousin had a wand in his hand, and she couldn’t be more delighted. 

“It’s dangerous to point a wand at me, Sirius darling,” Bellatrix crooned. “If you were anyone else, you would be dead right now.” She took a step forward. Sirius was forced to back up, or else he would’ve been close enough for the tips of their shoes to brush. 

“Funny,” Sirius said flatly. “It’s because it’s you that I want you dead right now.”

Bellatrix laughed. 

Her cousin did not. He only stared at her, his dark eyes burning with so much hatred she could not help but smile. She desperately wanted him to act on it, to have a go at her. It had been so long since she had been able to fight freely, and Sirius had always offered her that. When they were younger, when he had still been under Walburga’s thumb, they had been limited to bruises and screams. Now, Bellatrix wanted to dig under her darling Sirius’s skin to see if his blood was still the same as hers. Toujours purs. 

“You were always my favourite, saving Cissy of course,” Bellatrix purred, stalking forward with the grace and danger of a panther. Sirius once again took a step back, and some childish part of her preened at the small victories. “So much more fun than that little brother of yours. Makes me glad that he’s the one dead and you’re the one left to pick up the pieces.”

“I’ll impale your head on a fucking stick, Bella,” Sirius murmured, “if you bring him up ever again. Be grateful that I have an interest in keeping you able to talk.”

Bellatrix’s interest was piqued. “Oh? So poor Regulus is a sore subject for you, then. Pity, I was looking forward to bringing him up, but if it makes you uncomfortable…” She grinned widely. “No, I don’t really care about that, do I? Because I can use him to knock some sense into you, Sirius. He, at least, had the good sense to choose the right side.”

Sirius laughed without humour. “Look where that got him.”

“Because he wasn’t good enough,” Bellatrix explained, as if it were obvious. Sirius’s glower deepened. “But you are. You have the stomach for it, thanks to your doll of a mother. Who knows, if you joined up early enough, if you became as important as me, you could have bartered for your best friend’s life.”

“There’s no bartering with the devil,” Sirius said. “He doesn’t make deals he intends to keep.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Bellatrix said smoothly. “But as a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I’m offering you another chance to make a choice. That’s more than Dumbledore ever offered you, isn’t it? A choice.”

“I’m not interested in what you believe is charity.”

“Want to know a secret?” Bellatrix whispered. “It’s not me. It’s the Dark Lord himself who wants you on his side.”

Sirius blanched, his wand nearly slipping from his fingers. “What?” 

“I don’t see why you’re so appalled, Sirius. It is a great honour. The Dark Lord has seen potential in you. And, putting aside my personal dislike of your current person, I’ll offer you my professional opinion.” Sirius’s lip curled with disgust. “You’d be a wonderful asset. I am the Dark Lord’s best duelist, but I know I would have trouble taking you down at your best. Don’t get any ideas, I can still do it, but I will admit that you are quite adept.”

“Forgive me if that’s not exactly a compliment,” Sirius snapped. “Is this why you’ve been following me for three hours, Bella? Because that’s just pathetic.”

Bellatrix pouted. “You’re so overdramatic. And that hurt my feelings.”

“That was intentional,” Sirius growled through gritted teeth. “Tell Voldemort that if he wants my allegiance, he’ll bring back my best friend from the dead. But as that’s never happening, it looks like he’ll just have to go empty-handed.”

“You dare speak his name?”

Sirius’s only answer was a sneer. 

“I only have to wait you out, I suppose,” Bellatrix conceded. “The Dark Lord’s time is coming soon, and there is no stopping it. This world will cave to his rule, and you will not be left with any choice but to follow it. Then you’ll see that I’m right. There will be no limitations, no restrictions, and no one to tell you what to do. Aren’t you sick and tired of how Dumbledore keeps you locked away in that house? Does he know what happened behind its doors?”

There. Finally, she had hit a weakness. Sirius flicked his eyes to the side, but Bellatrix could still see the pain burning through them. He was angry, even if he didn't want to admit it. Dumbledore had complete control over the Order of the Phoenix, and Sirius had never been one to give up his free will. Bellatrix just had to stand by and watch as he reached his breaking point. 

“You think you have your freedom?” Sirius asked quietly. “You’re nothing but his dog; he throws a bone and you wait for him to say fetch. You preen when he praises you and when he says to do a trick you ask which one.” 

“Either I wait for you that long,” Bellatrix ignored him, “or you’ll lose your mind as much as you think I have sooner or later. And then you’ll go seeking for your peace yourself.”

“No.”

“Oh, we’ve all got it, Sirius darling,” Bellatrix grinned, enjoying the unease she was putting Sirius at. After hours and days and weeks of organising her Lord’s followers for his big plan, this was exactly what she needed. “The Black Family madness – it’s just not just me. It’s you, too. If only your Order could see what I’ve seen, hm? Do you think Dumbledore would allow you back into your own home if he saw you use half the curses you’ve been taught? You were always the most talented one in our family with Dark Magic. It still makes me jealous.”

“I will never fall to it as you have.”

“Poor thing,” Bellatrix simpered. She lifted a hand and traced it along Sirius’s jawline, feeling the tightness to his features. His skin was porcelain, smooth, perfect – just like hers. Even their eyes carried the same darkness, but only she was able to see it. For now. “You’re not above it. None of us are. Even little Draco will feel it eventually. What do you think? Maybe Potter can be the Lord, and he can be me.”

Her words had their intended effect. Sirius’s glare immediately faltered, light bursting into his eyes. “Harry?” he breathed. 

“Unless you know another Potter,” Bellatrix smirked. “Which would be surprising, considering they’re all dead.”

“How I wish it was you instead.”

“You flatter me,” Bellatrix smiled pleasantly. “That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it? You don’t care about seeing me again, you just want to be reunited with your godson. I’d say that’s adorable if it didn’t make me sick.”

Sirius ignored this. 

To Bellatrix’s surprise, he lowered his wand. She wondered if he had assumed she would follow too, in which case she was sorry to disappoint. Sirius exhaled raggedly and stared at her, his face perfectly blank once again. “Tell me where he is, Bella.” His voice was cold as ice, the underlying threats of what would happen if she didn’t talk crystal clear. He may have pointed his wand away from her, but she was under no delusions that he wasn’t dangerous. 

“He’s with the Dark Lord.”

Sirius clenched his jaw in annoyance. So he already knew that Potter was with her Lord. That surprised her; she thought Dumbledore would keep the truth from him a little while longer. 

“Don’t look so angry,” Bellatrix snorted. “You’ll be glad to know that he’s perfectly safe. I spent nearly a month in the same place as him, you know. He was… a brilliant student.” She cackled as Sirius’s face slackened disbelievingly. “Granted, he wasn’t by choice at first, but he warmed up to it eventually. The Dark Lord was certainly pleased with his performance. I suspect he’s taken the chance to fully exploit Potter’s potential by now. Potter should be honoured – the last person the Dark Lord personally mentored was me.”

“You don’t know where he is.”

“No idea. The only person who has full access to him is the Dark Lord.”

Sirius grunted. He would just have to go empty-handed for now as well. 

“But I’ll make you a deal, dear cousin,” Bellatrix said, remembering what her Lord had instructed her to say. “Think about the Dark Lord’s offer. He does not require an answer yet, but at least take it into serious consideration. In exchange, he is willing to offer you an audience with Harry.”

“I’m not falling for his tricks,” Sirius retorted. 

“It’s not a trick. I swear on our family.”

Sirius went quiet, anger clearing off his face. Just as Bellatrix knew he would, he was thinking about it. Considering it, even, which had been the goal of her meeting with him tonight. And just as she expected, he said, albeit with a hoarse, regretful tone, “Fine. You have a deal.”

Victory tasted sweet. 

“You would do anything for Potter, wouldn’t you?” Bellatrix asked curiously. 

“Yes, I would.”

That was so… pathetic. Bellatrix scoffed, rolling her eyes. “And you call me the mad one for doing anything for the one I chose. We’re not so different now, are we?”

For the first time in decades, the look Sirius gave Bellatrix was impossibly sad. 

He stared at her without really seeing her, peering into the past to some version of his cousin that no longer existed. Good riddance, Bellatrix thought viciously. She didn’t care what he wished she was – she had worked, sacrificed, and bled to make it this far. 

“Obsession is not the same thing as love, Bella,” Sirius said quietly. “I wish you could have learned that before it was too late.”

Bellatrix immediately shoved him back, digging her nails into his chest as she did so. She didn't know when her breathing had gotten so harsh and ragged. The rage that swept through her was unrelenting and merciless. “You have no place to judge me,” she sneered. “I have achieved things you could only dream of. And I am offering you a chance to share that dream. Yet you deny me. For what? If you could see the Dark Lord now, you would know the same as I do that Dumbledore has little chance at winning.”

Sirius smiled slightly. “But still a chance.”

Bellatrix laughed with no small amount of scorn. “Delusional as always. I’ll be in contact, Sirius.”

“You know, a small part of me was excited when I caught sight of you,” Sirius said. “Because, after so long, I wanted to see you again. But all I feel is disappointment. Good night, Bella.”

The bench creaked as Harry sat up. Draco grimaced and peeked one eye open. Green eyes were staring at him, glowing like a cat’s in the dark. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already.” He had that tone of voice he got whenever he had something mischievous in mind. How Granger and Weasley kept getting roped into Potter’s exploits when the warning signs were so obvious, Draco would never know. 

“What do you want, Potter?”

“You called me Harry so many times tonight,” Harry complained. “I call you Draco, wouldn’t that be a fair exchange if you called me by my first name?”

Draco sat up, sliding his back up the back of the bench. “No. Because calling you Potter efficiently annoys you, so I think I’ll stay with it. Now tell me what you have in mind. Given your track record, forgive me if I’m a little nervous for my well-being.”

Harry grinned, which didn’t make Draco feel better at all. “I bet you’ve never been to muggle London. Or rode around on trains.”

“Why in the world would I want to ride a muggle contraption?”

Harry snickered as if Draco had just made a very funny joke. Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

“Then let me take you ice skating,” Harry offered. 

“What is the appeal of walking on frozen water in the middle of summer?”

“You get to watch me fall on my backside over and over again?”

Draco didn’t even need to think about it. “Let’s go.”

They proceeded to make several detours. First, they went to break into a mall and try on all the most ridiculous clothes that Draco was told were Halloween costumes. Harry taught Draco a spell to blind all the cameras, though they both suspected the security people weren’t looking away. It blew Draco’s mind every time Harry paused to tell him about muggle teknologee (he was fairly sure that was what Harry called it). Harry had laughed himself hoarse when Draco donned a goofy costume. A Goofy costume, Harry had reiterated, laying emphasis on Goofy. Draco didn’t know why he was so insistent on the adjective, but he let it slide. He in turn had nearly teared up when Harry emerged from a dressing room in a blonde wig and blue gown. He had flat-out refused to wear the clear plastic heels that came with it. 

They rode a train, which was simultaneously the most exhilarating and revolting thing Draco had ever done. Harry had told him that they had to stand so the older people could sit instead. Once they got off, Harry bought them both ice cream and they made their way to the lake. There weren’t any people around, so Harry and Draco had the area all to themselves. 

Harry drew out his wand, waving it with a flourish without putting any magic in yet. Draco caught hold of his hand. It startled the other boy but he allowed his arm to go limp in Draco’s grasp. 

“Don’t use the wand,” Draco said. 

“Then how are we going to ice skate?” Harry frowned, gesturing wildly at the vast basin of water in front of them. He pocketed his wand though, so that was something. 

“I want to see you do it wandless.” 

Harry licked his lips and glanced around. He almost seemed nervous. For a moment, Draco wasn’t sure whether he would acquiesce or not. But then he nodded and knelt down by the lake, holding out his hand. Draco’s first indication of the magic being used wasn’t the muttered incantation, because Harry didn’t even say anything. He felt it. 

It was like a gentle caress, a light ray of sunlight beaming down on him but not too warm to be uncomfortable. 

Harry lowered his fingers into the lake. The water gained a silvery hue, lapping against the ground where they stood as if Harry had transfigured it into mercury. All the silver drifted towards the surface and with it, a sheet of ice covering what they could see of the lake formed before Draco’s very eyes. 

He turned to look at Harry, mouth ajar. Green eyes sparkled at him and he waved two pairs of ice skates that he must have summoned while Draco was busy gawking. 

They spent nearly an hour on the ice. Draco, much to his satisfaction, got the hang of it right away. He gracefully twirled and spun on the ice, chuckling quietly to himself as Harry beat his record of three seconds before promptly falling on his arse. 

“Shut up, Draco,” Harry complained. 

“You weren’t lying when you said you were miserable at this,” Draco commented. He skidded to a halt, balancing on the thin sheets of metal below his feet as if he’d been doing it all his life. Harry pouted and tried to get up, only to comically fall to the ground once again. 

“And you’re miserable at hiding things from me.”

Just like that, the air between them changed, becoming charged with tension. Draco dug his ice skates deeper into the ice to stop, turning to look at Harry cautiously. Harry had given up trying to continue skating, laying down languidly on the ice now, his hands on the surface to spell the ice beneath him thicker. 

“What?” Draco asked hoarsely. 

Harry cocked his head, eyeing him amusedly. “Come on, Draco, you’re not as subtle as you seem. You honestly think I believe you would want to talk this much about Hermione and Ron and Sirius if you weren’t up to something?”

Draco feels strangely offended by this. “What, so I can’t talk about your interests? I thought you said we were friends, Potter.”

“Oh, we can talk about my interests,” Harry agreed. “I’m interested in what Voldemort told you to do if you have to get this much information out of me.”

“Why did you give it in the first place?”

“Well, at first so I could pinpoint what you were going after. Then because I want you to know that they’re people, Draco. They’re not objectives in a mission – they are people I care about, and you need to be aware of that before you sign up for something I’ll make you end up regretting.”

Draco swallowed at that. He realised that everything Harry had told him tonight had been useless facts. Granger’s favourite colour, her study habits; the Quidditch team Weasley would rather die than stop supporting; Molly Weasley’s cooking; Arthur’s love for all things Muggle. Seemingly harmless facts but Draco knew them now. It humanised them.“You’ll make me regret something, Potter? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Harry frowned. “I care for you, Draco. You’re half the reason I survived this summer. But if you harm one hair on either of their heads, all my trust in you will disappear like that–” He snapped his fingers, the crack loud enough in the crisp air to make Draco flinch back. 

“It’s not just that,” Draco said slowly. “The Dark Lord–”

His throat seized suddenly. Clawing at his neck, he struggled for breath, trying to get out words that wouldn’t come. Realising what it was, he quickly banished any thoughts of revealing what the Dark Lord had assigned Draco to do. He had made an Unbreakable Vow, after all, and this was his punishment for nearly revealing a key piece of information. 

Harry didn’t say anything as Draco let out a series of painful coughs. The look on his face alone told Draco everything he needed to know – Potter had guessed the mission the Dark Lord had assigned him. But Draco hadn’t intentionally led him to that conclusion, so his life had not been taken away. 

Draco swallowed and rasped, “You also want me to succeed in getting close to them so I can tell you everything, too. So you can get in contact with them through me if you need to. But how can you know that the Dark Lord won’t be successful too and exploit what he learns before it’s too late?”

“He will not lay a hand on any of the people I’ve told him about,” Harry said offhandedly. He was tracing patterns in the sheet of ice with his pointer finger, studying it like he didn’t care for this conversation. 

But Draco knew better than that. In a way, Potter’s choice of environment was perfect for this conversation. He glanced down, wondering if the fact that he was on thin ice was funny to Potter, if he had planned it that way. From how much Harry had changed recently, Draco wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that was the case. 

“You act as if you have some control over him,” Draco said softly. 

Harry watched him carefully. “Don’t I?” 

And Draco didn’t know how to respond to that. All he knew was something that he should have taken into consideration before. 

Harry Potter was dangerous. Perhaps he had always been, and it was the Dark Lord’s recent influence over him that was bringing it out. The boy that Draco had known just a year ago would never have thought of something like this. Draco didn’t know whether to admire it or fear it. More than that, he wanted to see just how far Harry would go now that his moral standpoints seemed to have shifted. Maybe this was just the tip of the iceberg, Draco mused, thinking back to the analogy he’d used with Potter. And there was an entire ocean of possibilities further down. 

“You do,” Draco said at last, quietly. “I’m just dreading the day you find your limit, Harry.” 

Harry’s gaze softened. He stood up, dusting the stray ice shards off his clothes and skating closer to Draco. He had no problem keeping himself steady now, Draco noticed. “'I'm asking you to do this for me.”

“Do I have a choice?” Draco asked bitterly. 

“Yes,” Harry said, so firmly and confident that Draco couldn’t help but believe him. “I’ve given you the tools you need to get them to trust you. You know that Hermione likes going after projects she thinks she can improve, that Ron will be tempted to follow her lead even though he’ll form his own opinions, that Sirius will be your way in because he understands the freedom you’re looking for even though you don’t know it yet – but if you want to ignore all of that and pretend to fail the Dark Lord’s plan for fear of getting caught, so be it.”

Freedom. Is that what Harry was trying to give him with this choice? 

“I will not let him hurt you,” Harry breathed. “You’re one of mine, okay? One of the people I care about, I mean. I won’t let him touch you.”

Draco wondered if he was a fool for believing him. 

“He wants me to be yours, you know?” Draco laughed wryly. Harry looked at him curiously. “That’s why he hasn’t marked me yet. He wants you to know what it’s like to have someone under your power. He knows I would be loyal to you.”

“Good thing that loyalty goes both ways,” Harry said. “He’s an idiot if he thinks I’d use you the way he uses his Death Eaters, Bellatrix even.”

Bellatrix. For some reason, Draco couldn’t get her name out of his head just then. 

Perhaps that’s why he didn’t notice the sudden drop in temperature, or that could have been because it was already cold from the ice. His breath came out fog-like, becoming harder to see as the light dimmed with the arrival of the Dark Lord. 

Draco immediately dropped to one knee, hearing the ice crack beneath him. He stared down, unable to stop trembling. Wondering how Harry was still standing in the presence of the man before them. 

“Hello, Harry,” the Dark Lord murmured. “Having fun, are we?”

“We certainly were before you got here.”

Draco winced, glancing up to gauge the Dark Lord’s reaction. There was only a small glint in those awful red eyes, a slow smirk crawling its way lazily across his face. Draco jerked when he noticed what was different. 

The Dark Lord’s gaze flicked over to him knowingly. He no longer looked like a monster now. But Draco knew well enough that everything on the inside still did. That wouldn’t change, no matter what Potter thought he could do. It was why Draco had risked sending him that letter – remorse. Remorse could heal the Dark Lord’s soul, but that was impossible. Harry needed to know that so he would give up trying to fix him. 

Watching Harry’s easy posture, his relaxed stance, made Draco wonder if he already had. Standing in front of him was not a boy who had learned to fear the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord had dressed him, had fed him, had kept him under close watch – Harry Potter looked like he belonged at the Dark Lord’s side now. 

Draco felt something inside of him break. Because if that was true… if Potter was falling… there was no hope that the Dark Lord would lose. The world would be his. 

The Dark Lord smiled then, almost kindly. His eyes were sharp, as if he had been walking Draco’s thought process alongside him. Draco felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

Whatever the Dark Lord was looking for, he obviously approved. He turned away from Draco, giving him back his oxygen and ease of mind in doing so, and reaching a hand out to Harry. Potter raised his eyebrows but didn’t make a motion to move away as the Dark Lord hooked a finger under his skin to force eye contact. 

Draco only watched, slowly learning just how important Harry was now. 

Harry only smiled. “It’s an hour early, Voldemort. You weren’t supposed to come and get me until midnight. Did you get lonely?”

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to answer that. “We’re leaving, Potter. Say goodbye to your Malfoy.”

“Say goodbye?” Harry echoed incredulously. “Well, I can’t just leave him out here, can I? I’ve got to take him home.”

“Narcissa is coming to retrieve him. Do not make me repeat myself. We’re leaving.” The Dark Lord offered his arm much like he was escorting Potter to some ball, just the two of them. After a long minute of glaring, Harry sighed dramatically and met Draco’s unreadable stare. 

He dug into his pockets and offered Draco a letter. “In exchange for yours. It was a pleasant surprise, by the way.”

Draco took the letter in shaking hands. 

“Thanks for tonight, Draco,” Harry said. “You’ll find your way back okay?”

Getting home was the least of Draco’s concerns. “Bringing me here. All of this… why?”

Harry’s eyes softened. He knew what Draco was asking. If Harry had been intending to confront Draco about the Dark Lord’s plans all along, why entertain his company for so long? Why put up with an entire night with him, why fall on his backside over and over so Draco could feel good about himself? This seemed pointless, a waste of time, and yet somehow Draco knew that Harry would never dream of seeing it as such. 

It was just Harry being kind, as simple as that. And it made the image of Harry standing next to the Dark Lord, side by side, all the more impossible to imagine. They were similar, yes, but so different in the ways that mattered. Harry was kind, he was forgiving, and he was good. Maybe he would commit some atrocious acts in the future, maybe there was a chance the Dark Lord could influence him even further – but the core of Harry Potter was unrelenting. The Dark Lord wanted Draco to follow that loyalty to Potter, and he was succeeding. Yes, perhaps the part of Draco that cared for self-preservation saw value in endearing and devoting himself to someone who had obvious value over the Dark Lord, and some modicum of control for that matter. But the rest was only happy to do so, because of who he would be following. 

“Because, after so long, I wanted to see you smile,” Harry said simply. “Good night, Draco.”

Chapter Text

Harry’s feet hit the ground in his own room, the Dark Lord materialising next to him. He exhaled, turning around to find the little sitting area – two small armchairs and a mahogany table – and sunk down onto one of the seat cushions. Without looking at Voldemort once, he buried his face in his hands. 

He heard the soft footsteps as Voldemort moved to assume the other seat, the muffled tap as the Dark Lord placed his hands on the raised table between them and leaned forward. A burning gaze fixed itself upon Harry, making the hair on his neck stand on end as if his body sensed he would be receiving yet another lightning bolt. 

Voldemort wanted to ask, but he was holding back until Harry was ready. It was strangely decent of him. But Harry realised he wanted to get this over with sooner rather than later. Prolonging things never did any good. 

“As you wish,” Voldemort said. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Harry lifted his head. “You didn’t tell me about Draco.”

“Should I have?” 

“Yes.”

Voldemort tilted his head. “Tell me why.”

Harry narrowed his eyes but said nothing. 

“Are you starting to get it?” Voldemort murmured, leaning forward further. “You lack power, Harry. Everything you have at this very moment has been given to you by me. You have not earned anything. It is by my will. Do you under—“

“I get it,” Harry snapped. 

He shouldn’t have raised his voice. Especially around Voldemort. Not because he was scared, but because ruining Voldemort’s temper would make Harry’s future plans that much more difficult. He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. 

Voldemort had to believe he had control over him. That Harry wanted to endear himself to him. 

Harry easily banished that thought from his mind, replacing it with the anger stirring within him. Because he was angry — he was furious. 

“I have upset you,” Voldemort observed. 

Harry scoffed. “Funny you should notice.”

“You are upset that you did not have enough leverage over me,” Voldemort said. “Otherwise I would have told you. More than that, you thought you had enough power over Draco. But he didn’t confide in you — you had to discover the deceptions he was planning all on your own.” 

A cold hand grasped Harry’s chin and turned it until Harry had no choice but to meet Voldemort’s eyes. Harry glared with the full force of the fire burning through him. 

Voldemort smiled. “Perhaps I should anger you more often, Potter. You’re beautiful like this.”

“I’m not in the mood for games, Voldemort,” Harry said shortly. 

“That’s what makes this more fun,” Voldemort smirked. “Answer this honestly and I’ll consider giving you a reward. You have been such a good boy lately.”

Bold. Voldemort had never been this forward before. Had Harry’s stunt with calling him “My Lord” encouraged him to be more… playful? If so, that had been a grave mistake. “Careful.”

“You don’t like to be told that you’re doing well?” Voldemort asked. “You surprise me, Potter. I would have thought, judging from how you grew up, you would have been starved for praise. And we both know I have no trouble giving that to you. But I am curious… What are you threatening me with? Why should I stop?”

Harry felt suffocated. 

“There we go,” Voldemort hummed. “You can’t really do anything to me right now, can you? That makes you feel helpless. You’ve been training for so long with me, and you’ve improved so much that I am sincerely proud — but at the end of the day, you cannot hope to match me. Whatever you’re feeling right now, I want you to feel, because there’s a lesson I want to teach you.”

“What’s the reward?”

Voldemort tutted. “That would ruin the surprise. Ready for my question?”

Reluctantly, Harry nodded. 

“When I win this war,” Voldemort said, “and you know I will, I have decided to spare your friends any harm. I made this promise to you. But I’ve also shown Draco no harm, yet I control the roof above his head, the words he speaks to you, the air he breathes. I am the puppeteer guiding him. Meanwhile, you jump, thinking you can reach so high, but you cannot even catch the strings.”

“And your point?”

“My point is that there is nothing preventing your friends from having the same fate. I am capable of mercy, Potter, but only when I want to. And having power over your friends presents me with many opportunities, and opens many doors — some of those pertaining to you. And there would be nothing you could do to stop it. But you could if you were willing to be more like me.”

“More like you,” Harry echoed incredulously. 

“I’ve controlled every breath around me from the day I first took mine,” Voldemort said quietly. “When I teach you, I tell you that you have so much potential. And you do. But you’re only going to be able to match me if you’re willing to seek power the same way I am. So my question is — if it came down to it, to have enough power and control to protect your friends, to have things the way you want them — how far would you go?”

Harry looked away. 

It hadn’t been easy to conceal his anger at Draco. It hadn’t even been Draco that he had been angry with in the first place — it was always Voldemort. Harry had expected Draco to tell him if something like this came up, but instead, he had bowed down to Voldemort’s will. The only reason Harry hadn’t lost it right then and there was because of the opportunity he saw. The chance that Draco could tell Harry about his friends, could serve as a link between them so Harry could feed information, and thereby gain an upper hand over Voldemort. 

But there was a slight flaw in that plan. 

He didn’t even know if Draco would report back to him… or if he would report back to Voldemort. 

Harry hated this feeling. 

“I know,” Voldemort said with convincing sympathy. “Let me show you how to make sure you never feel this way again.”

“You planned this meeting with me and Draco because you knew this would happen,” Harry said bitterly. “What is this — a teaching moment for you? You’re a lousy teacher. Good thing you can’t even step a foot inside Hogwarts.”

Something close to true rage flashed in Voldemort’s eyes, but it was gone before Harry could pinpoint what it had been about. “Careful.” 

The same word Harry had used. But the difference was, Harry knew this was a warning. Voldemort could carry out no small number of threats if Harry decided to refuse him. And what could Harry have done? 

Nothing. 

This was… so entirely clever. Because Harry wanted to say yes. He wanted to take up Voldemort’s offer to not feel helpless again. Voldemort was so talented at manipulating Harry’s mental state and emotions, slowly tearing down his morals over the course of their time together — not enough to change Harry, but enough to make him consider other options. And Harry hadn’t even noticed. 

“You’re cruel,” Harry whispered. That was enough of an answer. 

Voldemort shook his head. “I’m helping you, Harry. And I’m hoping you’re at the point where you see that. As for your reward… Say the word and Draco is yours.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up. “I’m sorry?”

“Tell me you want Draco,” Voldemort said, “and he will belong to you from now on. I won’t touch him or even speak to him if you so choose. He will have no obligations to anyone but you.”

“I don’t understand.”

He wants me to be yours, you know? That’s why he hasn’t marked me yet. 

Voldemort smiled softly. “I’m giving you a taste.”

He wants you to know what it’s like to have someone under your power.  

“Of what?”

“Of what it could be like.”

He knows I would be loyal to you.

Harry stared at him. “Okay. I want Draco.”

Voldemort nodded. “Then he’s yours. Use him well, Harry.”

Good thing that loyalty goes both ways.

“He’s not a toy to be used.”

“No?” Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “This whole evening, you’ve been winding him up, feeding him information. And I’m not blind, Potter — I know that you held back your temper because you planned to use him. Once he’d been winded up, you would set him down on the path you chose for him. Do not play the moral high ground with me. I have never set foot on that plane.”

“I have,” Harry said.

“Have you, or did people place you there and expect you not to look down?” Voldemort mused. “Perhaps they failed to realise that no one can stare into the sun forever.”

The words were simple, but for Harry, it was anything but. He could only stare, baffled at how Voldemort had managed to put something Harry had been struggling to comprehend into a mere question and answer. Baffled at how Voldemort had taken the time to notice, that he knew Harry well enough to. 

He felt… 

Seen. 

“Trying to save me from the light, are you?” Harry asked, unable to help a wry smile. After all, there was a double meaning – one he could allow himself to appreciate in good humour. 

Voldemort shrugged. “More like keep you from burning. You shine far too brightly – I wouldn’t recognize you dull.” As if he hadn’t left Harry gawking at him with that last bit, he rose from his seat, quiet and cool as the breeze. He clearly intended to leave the conversation at that and retire for the night. 

Harry opened his mouth and caught himself. What was he even playing to say? There was nothing left to say – they had entered this room and he had been angry at the Dark Lord. And it had been deserved. But as Harry cast that figuratively introspective eye toward himself, he didn’t know where all that heat had gone. It was just… 

Burnt out. It was dull. 

How could Voldemort just say things like that? That he thought Harry shined, the tone of voice with which he spoke the words as if he had full conviction. A couple months ago, he had been trying to kill Harry in a graveyard, that cold, harsh laugh ringing in Harry’s ears as he ran like a coward. Completely helpless to save anyone – not Cedric, not even himself. 

So why didn’t he want Voldemort to go? 

I would have thought, judging from how you grew up, you would have been starved for praise. And we both know I have no trouble giving that to you.

Was that it? It couldn’t be. Harry would never have come up with that explanation on his own. Voldemort was just planting that suggestion there, leaving it hanging for Harry to reach up and grab – the tantalising, low-hanging fruit. Oh, it would be so satisfying to take hold of, because Harry would have an answer to the question scorching its way through his mind right now. 

But that’s what Voldemort wanted him to assume. That it wasn’t Voldemort doing anything, manipulating anything. It was all Harry. Harry who needed to be recognized, who needed to be taught, nurtured, and kept from burning. 

Burning. 

Voldemort hadn’t left the room yet. He was standing two steps from the doorway, his back turned to Harry. Waiting for him to make a decision. He had likely sensed Harry’s conflict from the moment the first thought sprang into being. It was like he was sensitive and aware of every little thing about Harry. 

What was Harry supposed to do? 

For once, he didn’t want a decision. He wanted Voldemort to be the one to leave or stay. 

But Voldemort knew that, which was why he was silent, not saying anything. 

So Harry stood up and walked up to Voldemort. Slowly. Carefully, like approaching the lion at the heart of its den. Funny – Harry was supposed to be the Gryffindor here. But he felt anything but brave at the moment. He still felt like a coward. 

There was a slight flicker of something in the back of his mind. Through that connection between the two of them, dipped in shimmering red and gold, Harry hadn’t let himself feel for so long. But it was there now, and Harry knew that he would never lose sight of it again. And it whispered no. Harry wasn’t a coward. 

Harry reached his hands up and removed his gloves. The black silk slid off his fingertips like gossamer, dark as midnight as he put them into his pockets. Voldemort turned around, watching him with a raised eyebrow. Curious about where Harry was going with this. 

All his attention was on Harry. It stayed that way as Harry reached outward and took hold of Voldemort’s hand, exhaling shakily. Voldemort’s hands had always felt icy to the touch. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Voldemort said softly. 

“They’re cold,” Harry murmured. 

And Harry was burning. 

Voldemort stared at him knowingly. There was a hint of a smile on his lips. Edged with something dark, and sinister, but also real. “So it is.”

It was an indescribable feeling, this. For the longest time, Voldemort had always felt untouchable. He had been a monster, a myth that Harry had been terrified to see made real at eleven years old, and then every year after that. In his waking moments, in the depths of his dreams. Death Eaters feared the Dark Lord, the world cowered before him. 

But Harry could argue with him, take one of his playthings away from him, walk up to him, take hold of his hand… And–

Nothing. 

“No one else, Harry,” Voldemort whispered. “Only you.”

There was some deeper meaning to that. Harry didn’t know if Voldemort allowed him these liberties because he carried a part of his soul or if there was a different reason. All he knew was that he just… didn’t understand. And right now, he was too tired to. 

Maybe he would in the morning. 

“Do you want to know what the Malfoy heir was thinking back there?” Voldemort asked. “He thought that you were a boy who never learned to fear me. That you look like you belong at my side now.”

“I don’t have to tell you he couldn’t be more wrong.”

Voldemort laughed softly. “So stubborn, Harry. You should have seen what you looked like through his eyes. By next time, I’ll make sure you can.”

“Legilimency?”

“Starting tomorrow. Sleep in if you need. You’ll need all your strength for tomorrow.”

Harry nodded and backed away. Strangely enough, he felt colder now. His own fingertips were icy. He wondered if Voldemort’s were warm. 

The Dark Lord smiled. “Good night, Harry.”

“Good night,” Harry echoed back. 

Once the door was shut, Harry turned out of habit towards the couch. He was already halfway into lying down before he paused. Then turned around, considering. 

He ended up falling asleep in the bed. 

In the morning, something was off. 

He felt calm, peaceful even. It surprised him – the immediate difference between sleeping in a bed instead of a couch. The blankets were so warm. He shifted in them, turning over, and realised they moved with him. 

“Wait,” he said aloud. 

There was a fucking snake in his bed. 

If Voldemort asked, Harry wasn’t the one who let out the loudest shriek of his life upon tumbling out of bed. It wasn’t that Harry was afraid of snakes. Quite the contrary, he thought they were cool, and had for the longest time. But waking up to a snake wrapped around you was an entirely different matter. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Harry wheezed, raking desperate hands through his hair. “Oh Merlin, please tell me I’m hallucinating. What the actual hell – there can’t be a snake in my bed, and it’s… oh, it’s still asleep, fuck me—”

The alarming situation ended with Harry fleeing his room and locking his door behind him. He thudded his forehead against the doorway, panting wildly. He felt insane and probably would look insane to spectators if there were any. But a snake?

Nagini. 

Harry hit his head against the door. Of course it was Voldemort’s snake. 

But this was good, wasn’t it? This was Harry’s entire plan — learn to connect with Nagini so he could connect with the other Horcruxes as well and find them. The only issue was that he had been fully prepared to work his arse off on convincing Voldemort to see Nagini. But here she was. In Harry’s room. 

The amount of trust in Harry that Voldemort displayed with that one decision was… unfathomable. 

This was most likely Voldemort’s way of teaching Harry Legilimency. That, or it could be a subtle hint that he knew what Harry was up to and a reminder that everything was under his control. Just like he’d told Harry last night. 

Last night. 

Harry bit his lip. What on earth had he been thinking? Reaching for the Dark Lord’s hand like that, longing for his continued presence. Voldemort hadn’t even offered his hand this time — Harry had been the one to seek it out. 

What wasn’t going wrong? 

“Breathe,” Harry commanded himself. One thing at a time. Last night, he had succeeded in guaranteeing Draco’s safety from Voldemort and preparing him to be Harry’s spy. Today, Harry could focus on something different. Legilimency. Nothing more to it. 

Except that he’d have to fight through both his profound embarrassment around Voldemort as a result of last night and his panic at having a snake in his bed. 

He could always open the door. Get it over with now. But Harry liked the idea of ignoring the problem and only readdressing it when there was no other choice. Hermione liked to call that procrastination, a term she used in a most appalling manner. Ron would clap Harry on the back. 

Harry reached over and clapped himself on the back. Then, realising he was an idiot, he made his way downstairs. 

True to his word, Voldemort had allowed Harry to sleep in. It was around noon, so they’d be skipping breakfast together. Voldemort was usually out around lunchtime, tending to one of his unnamed matters. Harry had asked many times what he’d been up to, but Voldemort always responded with a teasing lift of his brows. That, or an invitation to come with, and Harry knew better than to accept those. 

Today, however, Harry could sense his presence. Allowing himself to feel the connection between them yesterday had almost… brought it back into being. He followed it until he found himself waiting at the door to the library. Somehow, he knew Voldemort was inside. 

He lifted a hand to knock. 

The doors swung open right as he was about to make contact with the door. Harry cleared his throat, lowering his hand hastily as Voldemort met his gaze. “Good afternoon.”

“Where is Nagini?”

Harry didn’t think mentioning he had locked said snake in his room would have a good result. “Still in my room,” he said instead. 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow but evidently decided to drop the matter. If any harm had come to Nagini, he would have probably sensed it. Harry wondered if Voldemort would be able to tell if Harry was hurt. And if he’d even care. “No matter. You’ll get enough time with Nagini once you’ve mastered the basics. Now would you like to continue your teenage pondering or sit down and begin?”

Harry immediately sat down on the floor, right beside Voldemort’s feet. “Begin.”

“Good,” Voldemort said. 

Two hours later, Harry wanted to rip his brain out of his own skull. 

On the library table sat a white rabbit – the stereotypical one that Harry pictured muggle magicians pulling out of their hats. He didn’t think Voldemort would appreciate the comparison. 

His palms were flattened against the table, pressing hard enough that he was surprised there weren’t any dents. Much like with the lesson Voldemort had given him about controlling fire, the Dark Lord was sitting in his chair and patiently waiting for Harry to find something close to success. 

And just like last time, Harry wished Voldemort would get up and leave. These repeated failures were becoming increasingly frustrating, and having Voldemort witness them made Harry feel oddly embarrassed. 

The task was simple. Make the rabbit hop. 

Easier said than done. Right now, Harry wanted to hop off a cliff. 

“You’re distracted,” Voldemort chided. He flipped a page in his book. 

Harry angled his head. From his position on the floor, the book Voldemort was holding obscured his expression. But when he caught a glimpse of Tom Riddle’s face, he realised Voldemort wasn’t even looking at him. Wasn’t even giving Harry a shred of his attention. 

Not like he had yesterday. 

Biting his cheek, Harry returned to the table, which was low enough for him to lean over if he sat back on folded legs. The rabbit continued to taunt him with a stare and quivering nose. 

“This is stupid,” Harry announced. 

Voldemort slowly lowered his book. “Are you calling my efforts to teach you,” he began, “stupid?”

“No,” Harry said, panicked. “It’s…”

He gestured helplessly at the rabbit. 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s the rabbit,” Harry said intelligently. “You picked a faulty rabbit.”

“I picked a faulty rabbit.”

“Yes.”

“Duly noted. Now get back to it.” The Dark Lord picked up his book. Once again depriving Harry of his attention. 

Harry didn’t even want to do this anymore. 

For once, he was willing to admit that Voldemort was right. Legilimency was the hardest form of magic Harry had yet to attempt. Convince the rabbit that it needed to jump, Voldemort said. It should be simple, he said. Harry was coming to a realisation that Voldemort spoke a language that Harry couldn’t hope to understand: 

Complete bullshit. 

Voldemort let out a quiet tut of disapproval. 

“When you conjured the rabbit, you told me that when you were a child, you could make animals do what you wanted without training them.”

“I do recall that.”

Harry glared at him balefully. “Well, I don’t believe you.”

“I have learned something new about you today, Potter,” Voldemort drawled. “Frustration makes you petulant. Now show me that you’re not a child and perform some magic.”

“Excuse me?”

Voldemort went back to ignoring him. 

Harry wasn’t sure what was worse – his repeated failures or the repeated lack of Voldemort’s acknowledgment. When he had been learning about fire, Voldemort had paid rapt attention despite the long hours Harry had kept at it. Where was that eagerness to see Harry learn now? 

“What happens if I don’t get this today?” Harry asked curiously. 

“Hmm? I feed it to Nagini, of course.”

Merlin. 

Now panicked about the well-being of the rabbit, Harry scooted back over to the table and continued his attempts. However futile they were most likely going to be. 

When he’d first been given the task, Harry had thought it would be similar to how he had controlled fire. It should have been simple, considering Harry was quite adept with that particular skill now, after painstaking practice. Shape his magic how he wanted it, mould it to the magical signature of the fire, and make the fire a part of himself. 

He couldn’t even feel the rabbit’s magic. So how was he supposed to go about controlling it? 

Harry thudded his head on the table. He heard the rabbit jump at the loud sound and snorted. There was a hop. 

“Something new to add, Potter?” Voldemort asked dryly. “You certainly have no shortage of what you would deem witty comments today.”

“Why didn’t we start with Occlumency?”

Harry couldn’t help but smile when he heard Voldemort set his book down again. Lifting his head, he turned around and awaited his response. 

Voldemort regarded him for a few moments in silence. Then, “You raise a good question, Harry. I had considered that – starting you on fortifying your mind. With anyone else, perhaps I would have done so. But you are a different case, as I’ve discovered you often tend to be. You will not master Occlumency until you have first mastered Legilimency. Ask me why.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you do not have control over yourself,” Voldemort said quietly. “You are too impulsive, too irrational, too impatient. You are someone who stumbles into the dark with no idea of what terrible things lie within its depths.”

“I had an idea about you, actually.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched. “Fortunately you are able to think quickly on your feet. And you have demonstrated that particular skill set in all of our encounters, not just recently. It’s an innate skill that you have – a rare one. Legilimency will be easier for you to grasp because once inside a person’s mind, you are in their world. You do not control your environment; your target does. While infiltrating a mind, you have to adapt to their thoughts, their mental barriers, and any magically-placed traps. I believe you will show incredible promise.”

“Then why did you tell me it was so difficult?”

“I told you that you are too impatient. Occlumency requires a calm mind and absolute control over oneself. I mentioned earlier that you do not possess either of those qualities. And it’s the reason you’re having so much trouble with Legilimency now. You want the rabbit to hop, but wanting is not enough. Exercise patience.”

Harry thought he possessed a lot of patience to be dealing with this man at the moment. 

“You’re also too emotional,” Voldemort said with a pointed look. “If you keep letting what you feel guide you, you’ll stumble into a situation, look for a way out, and realise you’ve built up the walls trapping you brick by brick. Do not be the architect of your own failure.”

“How philosophical.”

“The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison,” Voldemort said quietly. A quote, Harry guessed from his lecturing tone of voice, but he had no clue what from. “Grasp the bars to yours, Harry, because I’m giving you the key, expecting you to use it. Control yourself,” he nodded at the rabbit, “and you’ll be able to control others.”

Controlling others had never been Harry’s objective. 

Voldemort allowed him a small smile. “Yet.” 

“And you were in full control of yourself when you were a child?”

“I had to be.”

There was something bitter about the way Voldemort said it that persuaded Harry not to pry further. He had learned plenty about Voldemort today – he could continue to do so on a different one. 

“So you want me to…” Harry hesitated, not sure how to put it, “clear my mind, I suppose?”

Voldemort immediately shook his head. “No. Once again, while that works for many others, it will not work for you.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether to be offended by that or not. 

“Don’t banish every thought,” Voldemort told him. “I want you to focus on one objective. You’re focusing on making the rabbit hop – but your impatience is distracting you and disrupting the patience required for you to succeed. I don’t care if you don’t make the rabbit move an inch today. If you can improve your patience and begin to form the handle of the leash I want you to have on your emotions, I will be pleased.”

As if Harry cared if Voldemort was pleased. 

Voldemort smiled indulgently. 

Harry rolled his eyes and returned to the rabbit. 

Control yourself. 

Control himself. 

What did that even mean? Harry didn’t have the faintest idea. 

Until a figurative lightbulb went off in his head. 

At the beginning of Harry's fourth year, Professor Moody – or Crouch Jr, Harry supposed – had demonstrated the Unforgivable Curses in class. The Cruciatus, Imperius, and the Killing Curse. What was important to Harry right now was the Imperius. He remembered how it had felt to be under that spell. Everything had seemed so simple, so calm. Almost dream-like. He’d felt so compliant, wanting to follow the instructions in his head. 

Maybe… Harry’s eyes slid over to the rabbit thoughtfully. People had always made Legilimency seem like forcing yourself into someone’s mind. Taking hold of it as your own. 

The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison. 

Voldemort shifted in his chair. Going back to his book or perhaps leaning forward. 

Like with the fire, Harry conjured his magic and inched it toward the rabbit. But instead of commanding it to hop, he took a gentler approach. Here, let me help you. The rabbit perked up, at attention. Harry breathed out slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. Control yourself. Control others. The rabbit relaxed, not sensing any danger. 

A soft, wondering chuckle came from behind him. 

Harry didn’t let it distract him. He had to be patient, he couldn’t rush this. Hop for me, he thought. It’s so easy. 

The rabbit crouched down, making as if to leap into the air. 

There you go… 

A hop. 

No way. 

Harry sprang to his feet, his hands pulling on his hair in disbelief. He’d actually done it. 

He spun around, a broad smile widening his lips as he waited for Voldemort to say something. To acknowledge that after hours of trying – after hours of trying to be patient – he had succeeded. He watched as Voldemort slowly rose, vanishing the book into some place for future retrieval with a flick of his wrist. Effortless. 

“Well done, Harry,” Voldemort murmured. “Congratulations on learning the meaning of patience.”

Harry grinned. 

Voldemort moved closer, leaning down. “You’ve impressed me. Does this please you?”

“No.”

Harry lied through his teeth, and Voldemort knew it. 

The Dark Lord smiled cruelly – though on Tom Riddle’s face, it could be mistaken for beauty. Harry struggled to breathe, not sure when he had started to hold his breath. “You have mastered how to amuse me, it seems. But I have one last lesson for you today.”

“And that is?” Harry breathed. 

Voldemort’s gaze slid further down Harry’s face. “You have an attachment.”

Harry’s heart stopped beating. 

“Avada Kedavra.” 

The rabbit rolled onto the ground – the room now contained another being as cold as ice. 

As death. 

Only to be snatched up quickly. Nagini curled at the Dark Lord’s feet, apparently having escaped Harry’s room. She brought the rabbit behind the Dark Lord, hissing as she devoured her meal. 

Harry stared on in horror. His jaw worked to say something, but nothing was coming out – he felt like collapsing onto the ground from the weight of the words he was leaving unsaid. So he did. His knees hit the ground with a painful thud that he didn’t notice. 

His mind ceased to buzz, the added life from the rabbit dissipating as if it was never there. An attachment. Harry had connected himself to the rabbit in order to enter its mind. How could that be wrong? Harry couldn’t understand it – Voldemort was just being cruel. He was…

The Dark Lord was…

“Tomorrow there will be another rabbit waiting for you,” Voldemort said. “Once you have enough control to keep it away from Nagini, you will have succeeded. Until then, she will remain with you. She does need to eat, after all.”

It was so silent he could hear the raggedness of his breath. 

“You’ve controlled your patience,” the Dark Lord said. “Now control your emotions.”

Harry didn’t notice the Dark Lord had left until the door to the library slammed shut. 

Chapter Text

Control your emotions. 

It was times like these that Harry wished he couldn’t feel at all. 

He knew he was angry. So angry that he wasn’t sure if the chairs shaking slightly were from his imagination or from his rising magic needing to be expelled. He didn’t even notice Nagini, who had distracted herself by devouring the rabbit –- and Harry was partially grateful for that, wanting as much distance between himself and the snake as possible. 

He thought he had some understanding of what Voldemort’s plan was here. 

Then again, he could never be quite sure. He’d spent months in the company of the Dark Lord, but he still couldn’t seem to get inside his head. And yet, at every turn, Voldemort seemed to know exactly what Harry was thinking. 

Almost every turn. 

Unable to help it, Harry’s gaze snagged on the rug. All his plans regarding Voldemort’s Horcruxes were right at his feet. Literally. And there was a Horcrux right there, within arm’s reach. Voldemort wasn’t here to stop him if he decided to make a move. 

With two well-planned moves, Harry could take out two pieces of the Dark Lord’s soul. Nagini and himself. 

He could-

No. 

He couldn’t do that. He had to find all of them first. But now, he was unclear about what he wanted to do once he found them all. Use them to destroy Voldemort… or make him whole again. 

Did it make sense to make Voldemort whole? The Dark Lord was cunning, thinking several steps ahead of everyone, possibly even Dumbledore. Would bringing him closer to sanity really fix anything? Or was it just better to…

Harry swallowed. 

To kill him. 

The thought seemed dramatic at first. Detaching himself from the situation slightly, Harry knew that all Voldemort had done was kill a rabbit to feed his pet. But the implications of it were larger. 

Harry had thought he wielded some sort of influence over Voldemort. He’d thought that he could steer Voldemort in the right direction. But in reality, Voldemort was still willing to do whatever it took. He would alienate Harry and countless others to achieve his goal. 

Somehow, that realisation hurt. And Harry didn’t even know when he had come to expect anything different. 

“You are distressed.” 

Harry’s head snapped around to stare at the massive snake slithering towards him. The Dark Lord’s pet. Before this, Harry had only seen her in dreams. She was all the more terrifying in person. 

“Nagini,” Harry said. Somehow, that made her more real. 

Her hiss was soft. Voldemort’s parseltongue had always seemed… seductive in a way. Smooth like velvet. Harry still thought that, but it was nothing compared to Nagini. Unwillingly, he felt himself take a step forward, honed in on her. 

“A speaker,” Nagini hissed, raising her head to cock it slightly. Harry unconsciously found himself mirroring the gesture. He wondered what his parseltongue sounded like to others. What Voldemort thought of it. “You are like me.”

No. 

Sufficiently snapped out of his daze, Harry took a step back, eyebrows drawn together in a glare. Was that why Voldemort had left Harry in a room with Nagini? So he could feel some semblance of kinship with the Dark Lord’s pet? 

Harry scoffed out a laugh. 

That was just pathetic. 

Nagini tilted her head further. Her eyes were dark and penetrating. In another world, Harry might have felt admiration when regarding her. Objectively, she was quite a beautiful creature. 

But in this world, she contained a part of the Dark Lord’s soul. 

“Leave, Nagini,” Harry said finally. He didn’t need a reminder of Voldemort when he was trying to calm down. This wasn’t like before, when he could just rush blindly into a well of anger –- he needed to think about this strategically. Voldemort was testing him, and Harry refused to pass in a way that met all of the Dark Lord’s expectations. 

Voldemort expected Harry to shut down. Just like Harry had when Voldemort killed that innocent person in front of him, a person Harry didn’t even know the name of. 

But what would Voldemort gain from that? 

“Master has instructed me to stay until you are ready to see him.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be here for a while, then.” 

She was different from the other snakes he’d spoken to. Far more sentient in a humanoid way, capable of sensical phrases. 

Nagini tilted her head, not seeming to understand. And why would she? She was so devoted to the Dark Lord that any resistance to his commands must be unfathomable in her mind. 

And that’s why she and Harry were different. 

With that small, comforting thought, Harry turned to face her once more. He took in a deep, steadying breath. Anger would bring him nothing. Deviating from Voldemort’s expectations of him, however, would bring him immense satisfaction. 

It was just a rabbit. 

Nagini would have hunted it down and killed it anyway. Harry just happened to be there. 

Just a rabbit. 

Predator and prey. The natural life cycle. 

The rabbit would have died sooner or later anyway. 

Perhaps sensing Harry’s slight change of heart, Nagini narrowed her eyes. Suddenly, Harry had to laugh. “You don’t want to be near me as much as I don’t want to be near you, is that right?” He couldn’t explain how he knew. But as he spoke the words aloud, he realised he could almost taste Nagini’s discontent. 

“No.” 

Lie. 

Harry smiled humorlessly to himself. The last Horcrux he had encountered other than himself was the golden cup, back when he had been imprisoned in the Malfoys’ dungeons. And the pull towards it, the longing to be as close to it as possible, to merge with it, nearly… 

It had consumed every conscious thought Harry had. 

Yet with Nagini, his head was clear. He could think. And he was capable of staying away from her. 

Feeling a little silly, Harry tried taking a step back. He watched Nagini carefully for any sign of a reaction, but found none. Victory flared in his chest, and he took another step back. 

Only for his knees to stagger. 

Nagini hissed in annoyance. 

“If you knew that would happen, why didn’t you say anything?” Harry snapped. 

The noise Nagini made was almost akin to a snort, taking him aback slightly. It wasn’t that she sounded like a human to him, she… had certain human-like qualities. 

“You would not have listened.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. He didn’t even know why he was bothering to argue with a snake. A murderous snake that could quite possibly kill him and then get rid of his body in the amount of time it took him to cast a single spell. 

How did he even get to this point? 

“Fine,” he said. “Take me to Voldemort.” 

“No.” 

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.” 

“You are not ready.” 

Harry was about to prove Voldemort right and become a killer because he was going to murder Nagini. And he would feel no remorse –- none. 

A stab of pain seared through his head, causing him to flinch back. Right. Voldemort could still sense Harry’s thoughts, all because Harry wasn’t strong enough to block him out just yet.

In a way, Harry was welcome for the reminder. He still hated Voldemort for the stunt he had tried pulling, but he could suffer the man’s presence if it meant getting what he wanted. It was the closest he could come to severing the connection between him and the Dark Lord. 

Voldemort, and all of his other Horcruxes. Harry eyed Nagini uneasily, recalling just how connected their minds were. 

It was a weapon he intended to exploit, it was essential to his entire plan for finding the rest of Voldemort’s Horcruxes. And now, Voldemort had brought Nagini right to him, just as Harry had hoped for. 

But this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought it would be. 

“Tell me one thing, Nagini,” he spoke. “Did you feel anything when you helped Voldemort kill Frank Bryce?”

“Who?” 

Right. “The muggle. The gardener at the Riddle House.” 

“Oh. Why should I have felt anything?” 

Harry looked away, feeling slightly sick. He didn’t know why he’d hoped for a different answer. But it seemed everyone Voldemort surrounded himself with possessed the same moral values. Nagini, Bellatrix, Pettigrew, Crouch Jr… 

How did people even get to that point? How could an individual fall so far?

Granted, Nagini was technically a snake. But Harry couldn’t help getting thrown off by how anthropomorphic she seemed. 

“Forget I asked,” Harry murmured. He looked away, comfortable with the silence that now blanketed the space between them. There wasn’t anything more he could say. Nothing more Nagini could say. Except –

“Sirius Black.” 

Harry blinked at the name, meeting Nagini’s dark, intelligent gaze. 

“If he killed, would you betray him, yes or no?”

“What?”

“Your speech is flawed, but your understanding is even more so.”

“Who knew the big bad snake had a sense of humour?” Harry muttered under his breath, hating himself for the slight smile that brought to his lips. “Sirius wouldn’t kill anyone without a reason.”

“Yes or no?”

Harry couldn’t answer. Because he knew, deep down, he would never even think of betraying Sirius. 

“Master always has his reasons.”

“Those reasons got my parents killed. Just thought I’d tell you in case you weren’t aware.”

Nagini didn’t react to his sarcasm. “You do not miss your parents.”

Harry’s smile fell away. “Funnily enough, I think I’d know.” 

Forgetting about the strengthened connection between them, he tried to move away. But his feet could not carry him another step further from her. Harry let out a strangled scream, frustrated beyond belief. 

Of course the Dark Lord’s pet would be as irritating as the Dark Lord himself. 

Harry narrowed his eyes at said pet. She apparently had all the answers, right? “Why is this happening, Nagini?”

“You are distressed.”

Well, no shit. 

And then he thought about it. About what he knew of Horcruxes. 

They were a manifestation of dark magic, that was one of the first things he’d come to know of them. And from his lessons with Bellatrix, however torturous they were, he’d learned that anger was a powerful emotion used to fuel dark magic. Harry was certainly angry at the moment. All he was doing was fueling the Horcrux. 

The Horcrux that tied him to Nagini. 

If he wanted to get away from Nagini, he’d have to let go of his anger. 

Nagini eyed him for another moment before hissing, “I am another creature’s offspring. Yet I do not know whose. We are born to be away from them, we become hunters and leave the nest. I do not miss the others within, but I did miss the comfort of my nest. You do not miss your parents. You associate them with the comfort of your nest.” 

Screw letting go of his anger. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You are still distressed.”

“I’m actually going to strangle you.” 

“What do you miss?”

Harry hated himself, his eyes burning. Because he couldn’t answer that, either. 

“Let it go. Then you are free to become a hunter. And you won’t need anyone.” 

“You need Voldemort,” Harry pointed out somewhat childishly.

“With Master is my nest.”

And did Voldemort care for Nagini as much as she obviously cared for him? Or was Nagini just as foolish as Harry? 

“How do I get out of here?” Harry asked finally. He didn’t know why he asked -- he already knew the answer. Because Voldemort had already given it to him. 

Control his emotions. 

Bringing Harry in contact with Nagini was just another lesson. Harry had to give Voldemort credit. He certainly was efficient with his methods. 

It made him want to displease the Dark Lord even more. Harry wanted to show Voldemort that not everything would go according to his plans. 

Control his emotions? 

Harry exhaled slowly. He let everything else fall away, focusing on his breathing. That, and the look on Voldemort’s face when he realised he couldn’t predict every one of Harry’s actions after all. 

Breathe. 

He closed his eyes. 

Voldemort’s eyes slid open as he sensed her presence. 

She was silent, the shadows in the room growing as she walked towards him. The energy in the air seemed to shift, and he couldn’t help but smile at the product of his efforts. 

“Bella,” Voldemort murmured. 

He didn’t turn around, but he knew Bellatrix had dropped to a knee, lowering her head. There was no one else in the room, no one to see – and yet she readily exhibited her devotion. 

“My Lord.”

“I expect it went well.”

“You knew he’d do anything for him.”

Voldemort hummed thoughtfully. Yes, he had guessed at the depths of Sirius Black’s loyalty to Potter. That, or he had assumed the guilt of not being there during Potter’s formative years would be enough to drive Black to extremes. But to hear verbal confirmation of his speculations… 

What was it? 

What was it about Potter that inspired such devotion? Potter was powerful, yes, but Voldemort could name dozens of wizards who were more so. Compared to Bella, for example, in terms of magical prowess Potter was nothing. Not yet. 

It wasn’t power. It wasn’t fear. 

No, it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know the origins of the tool presented at his feet so long as he could use it. And Sirius Black was someone he could use. 

“You delivered the message?” he asked. 

“Yes, my Lord. He’s waiting outside.”

Voldemort nodded slowly. He didn’t feel it necessary to ask if Bella had taken the necessary precautions in bringing Black here. She was too smart for that. 

“Bring him in.” 

He waited patiently. And when he sensed the presence of another, so similar to Bella’s in surprising ways, he turned to face it. 

Sirius Black was so unlike his brother. 

One look at him and Voldemort understood why the Sorting Hat had placed him in Gryffindor despite his Slytherin lineage. He didn’t have to look further than the woman standing beside him. Bella, like the rest of the Blacks the Dark Lord had encountered, possessed a certain sharpness. One could see it in their eyes – their cunningness, the gears that made up their clever minds always in motion. 

The Noble House of Blacks was made of cool intellect. 

Sirius Black was made of fire. 

This was a man who could not be broken. Thanks to Pettigrew, Voldemort knew all about Sirius Black’s sentence to Azkaban. 12 years. Surviving that was no small feat. 

He thought of Barty Crouch Jr., then. A valuable asset before Voldemort’s downfall and also after. A man Voldemort had respect for. But he had seen the changes time in Azkaban had wrought on Crouch Jr. There had been a certain edge to his gaze, that tiny sliver of insanity. 

A valuable asset, but an unpredictable one. Undoubtedly loyal, however, which was why Voldemort had been disappointed to hear of his disposal. 

“Voldemort,” Black said quietly. 

There. 

That was the difference. There was no deference built into Sirius Black’s character – it was not in his nature. He had that intellect Voldemort had grown to appreciate from Bella, but he was also so… spirited. Unafraid. Perhaps there was that sliver of insanity within him too, but the boldness that gleamed in his eyes outshone it. 

How Voldemort wished he had gotten his hands on him sooner. 

“Leave us, Bella.”

Bella shifted with surprise, hesitating slightly. But ultimately she bowed her head in acknowledgement, her footsteps undisturbing of the silence blanketing the air. Voldemort did not watch her go, and neither did Sirius Black. 

For someone with such dark eyes, such a dark past, who stunk of dark magic despite prolonged abstinence, Sirius Black shone so brightly. 

The Dark Lord wanted him. Badly. He always had. Just as he had wanted James and Lily Potter once upon a time. 

“How did you know where to give me a message?” 

“Bella.”

Black looked away, his jaw tightening. No doubt wondering that if Bellatrix was able to get a message to him at Grimmauld Place, what else could she do? 

Voldemort resisted a smile. Dumbledore’s Order wasn’t as safe as they thought they were. But let them plan, let them gather and fantasise of a future where they would succeed against the great Lord Voldemort. Because that was all it would be – a fantasy. 

For all of Black’s attributes accredited to Gryffindor stereotypes, he composed himself with a remarkable amount of ease. And then he asked the question Voldemort had expected him to start with: “Where’s Harry?” 

“Did you expect an audience with him right here and now?” Voldemort asked, amused. “Use that mind of yours, Black. You know what I ask in return.”

Black remained silent. Fury moved his hands to shake. 

“Why?” Black gritted out, finally. 

“Why do I recruit anyone?” Voldemort murmured. “Because I find you useful.” 

“You killed James.”

The emotion underlying that statement was something the Dark Lord would never be able to understand. How an individual could feel so strongly… Even now, when he was unable to block the strength of Harry’s emotions, he wondered how Harry had not fallen apart yet. How he could still be left standing after that storm? 

Sirius Black was not a man who could be broken. But that didn’t mean there weren’t cracks. You killed James. 

“I did.”

“You expect me to follow the one person who took everything away from me?”

How could one person be everything to another? 

Even the thought was so… weak. 

“I expect you to follow the one person who can give you your godson back.”

Black scoffed. “I don’t believe you. How do I know Harry’s even alive?”

Voldemort raised his eyebrows. “If he was dead, I would ensure the whole world knew about it. Do you see even a mention of it in the Prophet?”

“Then why kidnap him in the first place?”

Why indeed. 

“Dumbledore meant to use Potter against me,” Voldemort acknowledged. “Potter was his sword. Sharpened over the years to perfection. So I stole it from him. And I dulled it.”

Black laughed suddenly. “Even you couldn’t accomplish that, my Lord.” 

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. Not at the mocking manner in which Black said his title – he would remedy that at another time – but how confident Black was in saying that. He knew Harry. 

This time, Voldemort couldn’t help but smile. Because that was exactly what he needed. 

“I believe you are misunderstanding my request, Black,” Voldemort said. “I do not require a spy in the Order of the Phoenix. That would imply it is a threat to me, and I assure you it is not. No, what I ask of you is simple. The day I sit there,” he motioned behind him, allowing the glamours to fall away, “you will take my mark.”

Black’s eyes widened disbelieving. He craned his head to see what was behind the Dark Lord. “Where exactly are we?”

Voldemort did not answer, merely studying how the man reacted. He knew very well what was behind him. A single seat. Simple yet elegant, dark enough to blend in with the shadows of the room. Black’s guess at what this room would become was no doubt accurate. 

When his reign became absolute, he needed a location to consolidate his power. Not Hogwarts — he had other plans for that, and not the Ministry, for he intended to raze that place to the ground. 

Black’s response was curious: “It’s not raised.”

True. It was on the ground, not set upon a pedestal with stairs leading up to it as was expected. But there was a purpose in that. Lord Voldemort did not need a pedestal to prove that he was above others. He wanted them to know that even though his feet were placed on the same ground, they would never be able to reach him. 

No one could. 

Seems rather boring there, doesn’t it? All alone at the top. 

Voldemort’s eyes shuttered with annoyance. It hadn’t mattered to him when Potter said those words – it shouldn’t matter now. He didn’t need anyone. He never had. 

He had learned that a long, long time ago. 

“Well-spotted,” he drawled, careful not to reveal anything in his tone. “No wonder Dumbledore recruited you.”

Black’s glare shot at him with impressive ferocity. 

“I need an answer, Black,” Voldemort reminded him. 

“What if you just sit on it right now?”

“I will not allow myself to sit there until I have won. Until I have deserved my victory.”

“If I say no?” 

Voldemort tilted his head. “I have been civil since you walked through those doors. I will continue to be civil should you accept this trade. I will not continue to do so should you deny me.”

“What, so I don’t leave this room alive if I refuse?”

“There are many other places I can kill you. In your ancient family home, as you spend your late nights talking with poor Remus Lupin.” He watched Black’s face show its first glimpse of horror with a sneer. “On a battlefield, when I seek you out, because believe me – I will if you refuse my generosity.”

“I’m not afraid of dying. I’m not like Peter .” Black practically spat out his name. “I would have died rather than betray my friends. There is nothing you could have offered me.”

That loyalty was remarkable. Voldemort wanted it for himself. 

“And now I’m offering you the chance to save your godson,” Voldemort smiled. “Poor Harry Potter has been all alone with no one but me for some time. I do not like to boast, but… I am quite charming when I need to be. I can turn people into something they are not, push them just over the edge.”

Black’s face paled. 

“Save him, Sirius,” Voldemort crooned, tauntingly. “Save him from me. Maybe then you’ll be forgiven for letting your best friend die.” 

Ever since entering the room, Black had shown a remarkable amount of self-restraint. He had wanted to put an end to Voldemort’s life the moment his eyes laid upon him. But this moment – this was the closest he had seen Black to acting on that. Black’s fingers twitched, reaching for his wand, reaching to do something with all of that anger. 

Only to realise that there was nothing he could do. 

Everyone would realise it eventually. There was no beating Voldemort. Not this time. 

He would not lose. 

Not even to death. 

What do you think is the basis of a follower’s devotion to a leader? 

Harry had shrugged at this question. 

The leader has something they want, Voldemort had answered for him. Everyone wants something. The want is something you can learn to use if you desire.

Sirius Black wanted redemption. 

Even now, he wanted to escape from the shadow of his family. He wanted to repent for his sins. The answer to how he would accomplish that was simple. By saving the person who had replaced James Potter as his everything. James’ son. 

And what was more noble than self-sacrifice? 

Sirius Black had something to prove. 

All Voldemort was doing was offering him the chance to do so. “I am being gracious, Sirius Black. Do not take this lightly.”

“I need time,” Black gritted out. 

Voldemort considered it. Time would not be a concern. He knew what the answer would be. No amount of pondering on this decision would change its outcome. And when Black accepted his offer, Voldemort would welcome him. “You have seven days.” 

Black nodded, not looking at him. 

If he did, Voldemort suspected he would still see that fire in his eyes. A fire that would soon burn for his purposes. 

For Harry was getting exactly where Voldemort wanted him to be. He was almost there. He just required a little push. 

The same push Sirius Black needed. 

Harry Potter would get Black for Sirius. And Black would give him Harry Potter. Both in their entirety. 

He would use one to get the other. 

“Bella will see you out.” 

Harry did not know how many days he sat in that library. 

All he knew was that Nagini was not going to let him out until he succeeded. She had told him that when he had, according to her, spectacularly failed to control his emotions. He had asked what on earth he was supposed to succeed at. Right as the words left his mouth, the rabbit appeared. 

Every two hours, according to the clock on the far wall that chimed for each one, a rabbit would be summoned into the room. How Voldemort was able to achieve that despite not being at the Manor, Harry did not know. He didn’t want to admit his envy at that level of magical prowess, not even to himself. 

Nagini had snatched up the first rabbit that appeared before Harry could say anything. Then he had realised what Voldemort wanted him to do before he could escape the library. 

Successfully keep the rabbit away from Nagini. 

There was just one problem with that. 

There was no way out of the library. 

“Aren’t you sick of eating rabbits yet?” Harry demanded furiously when Nagini finished devouring her latest one. Harry had tried making the rabbit jump out of the window, running over to open it himself, only to realise that it was magically locked. He tried not to look at the blood splattering the clear pane now, feeling sick to his stomach. 

Nagini’s hiss was scarily close to a laugh. “No.” 

“Why can’t you just give up so we both can get out of here?” 

Honestly. She could at least be considerate. 

“It is warm here.” 

For the love of Merlin. 

“It’s even warmer outside,” Harry complained. “Look outside. I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a fucking sun, Nagini.” He looked towards the window so he could point at it only to be reminded of the rabbit that had died there. With a groan, he let himself fall to the floor, muttering curses under his breath at his situation. 

“Master did this on his first try.” 

Harry’s jaw dropped when Nagini snickered. 

He couldn’t believe this. He had asked Voldemort to teach him Legilimency, only to end up being made fun of by his pet snake. 

“I am not his pet.”

Sure. 

Of course Voldemort would have gotten this on his first try. Of fucking course. For all the Dark Lord spoke about Harry’s supposed potential, Harry had yet to find proof of it. 

This was impossible. 

But he had to do it. All of his plans relied on it. Finding the Horcruxes, getting the prophecy without harming anyone, keeping Voldemort out of his head eventually – he needed to learn Legilimency. 

For the next two hours, Harry lay there, thinking of all the ways he could kill Nagini. Theoretically, of course, but it made him feel loads better. 

The clock chimed. 

Rabbit. 

Harry sat up and immediately felt for the rabbit’s magical signature, grasping onto it almost immediately. Getting into its mind was not a problem anymore, it was helping it get away from Nagini. 

Fuck Nagini. 

On the table, Harry thought hurriedly, not paying attention as it followed his command. He was busy watching Nagini, wincing at her speed. For Merlin’s sake, it was like she was on constant steroids – she never ran out of energy once food appeared. 

Harry would have thought she’d get a lot slower with how many rabbits she’d consumed so far. But no. 

Up to the bookshelf. Hurry, faster – Jump! Shit. 

Nagini’s jaw clamped around the poor thing, and Harry collapsed back onto the rug, not wanting to watch the rest. He was averaging a good twenty seconds before Nagini caught up to her prey. It wasn’t an issue with his control anymore, that was fine. 

The problem was Nagini. 

“Tasty,” Nagini provided, helpfully. 

“I hate you,” Harry hissed. 

He lifted his head and hit it against the ground, enjoying the flash of pain it gave him. It helped steady him, not let his thoughts get too out of control. 

That was a common occurrence now, what with Nagini keeping him company. 

Perhaps he should take the route Hermione normally would. Acknowledge the fact that he was in a library and crack open a book. He could think of nothing less entertaining to do, but at this point he was desperate. And he could hardly imagine Hermione struggling to learn Legilimency. She was brilliant. 

If Ron were here, he’d probably be telling Harry the same thing. That he should just do it Hermione’s way, but of course not let her know about it, because that would just make her full of herself. He could hear it clearly in Ron’s voice and smiled to himself. 

He wondered at their reactions if they saw him now. Laying on the rug of Salazar Slytherin’s personal library, surrounded by books on the darkest of magics with the Dark Lord’s precious pet snake curled up nearby. 

Wait. 

He paused, eyes widening. 

Nagini had never heard him call her a pet. Not out loud, anyway. 

So how did she…

Oh, Harry was so incredibly stupid. 

He turned around, lying on his stomach instead of back, so he could look at the snake. She was still busy chewing on her latest meal. 

In other words, she was distracted. Her defences were lowered. 

So Harry narrowed his eyes and focused on her. Not the rabbit. 

Immediately, he hit a wall. 

He sneered. Of course Voldemort wouldn’t have made it too easy for him. He kept his concentration up and felt along the mental barriers around Nagini. Barriers that she herself had not placed there. The Dark Lord had. So she wouldn’t sense it at all when they just… broke. 

No need to be clean about it, then. 

He was good at this now – at entering another being’s mind and bending it to his whim. The countless rabbits had ensured that. This was easy now. 

Harry readied his magic, feeling its energy spreading to his fingertips, and released it. Immediately, the wall fell, and Nagini continued to eat as if nothing had happened. She couldn’t tell in the slightest. 

The answer had never been the rabbit. The rabbit was just there for practice and motivation. The goal was being skilled enough to get past those mental barriers. The answer was Nagini. 

He just had to wait. 

After an eternity, the clock announced two hours had gone by. 

Into existence popped the rabbit. 

Harry didn’t even look at it. 

Instead, he reached out and took hold of Nagini. Effortlessly. Stop. 

Taking hold of a mind was one thing. Maintaining control was a different matter. 

Immediately, Harry flailed, not expecting the strong resistance she put up. It was like trying to hold a fish underwater. Everything dragged on around him, pressing in on him, and throughout all of it, he could feel her wriggling away. 

But he was so close. 

Harry ignored his growing headache, even as if pounded against him with unbearable force. He was only going to get one shot at this. After that, Nagini would be more prepared against what he was trying to pull. So he focused, dug his heels in, and pushed. 

Stop. 

Nagini hissed indignantly at him. He took that as a sign that it wasn’t working. Shit. 

Control your emotions. 

Harry bit his lip. Then he relaxed and slowly blew out a breath. Calming himself down. Controlling his emotions. He knew he could do this – he had done it countless times before with the rabbit. He didn’t need to feel panic.

He didn’t need to feel anything at all. 

Stop. 

Nagini stopped. 

She was still on top of the bookshelf, where she had eaten the last rabbit. The newest addition to the room still sat on the table, blissfully unaware of how close it had come to being eaten. Harry slowly approached it and took it in its arms. Its nose quivering was the only sign of fear he saw in it. 

What if… 

Harry approached the window and placed his hand upon it. All the while, he kept that hold over Nagini, thinking stop. Don’t move. Stay there. You’re okay right where you are. 

He could do this. 

“Alohomora,” Harry said, motioning with his gloved hand. 

The window opened. 

So far so good. He reached out and gently placed the rabbit on the ground. It promptly ran off, disappearing into the dense grass outside. Only once it had vanished from his vision did Harry allow himself to close the window. 

He was so… tired. 

Without intending to, he dropped his mental hold. 

Shit. 

Nagini immediately hissed at him. He could feel her anger, even sense fragments of her thoughts – attackdefendkilleatattack–

She was almost over to him. Harry stumbled, eyes widening, back against the window. Shit shit shit, she was angry, she was so angry at what he had done, he had to protect himself or he could die –

He reached out and frantically took hold of her again.

“Holy shit,” Harry gasped out, trembling. There she was, only seconds away from him, her jaw unhinged so he could see her fangs. They glinted dangerously against the incoming sunlight, reflecting the murderous intent in her eyes. 

He blinked, hardly believing it. 

And then he wasn’t in the library anymore. 

He had looked up at the man in the driver’s seat wearing his Uncle’s face. They had made eye contact… The trees, the sky, everything Harry had in eyesight was consumed with an eerie red. 

He was in a dark chamber made of shadows. 

The same one… the same one he had found himself in before. 

Harry fell down to his knees, half-expecting to see Cedric’s dead body again. To see Mrs. Figg’s join it, that poor man Harry had seen murdered weeks ago – 

It wasn’t there. 

The darkness grew, growing into tendrils that tickled at his body. He knew what this place was. He had been here before, but he had never even thought about it… Voldemort himself had been the one disguised as Uncle Vernon that day. The day that Harry had been kidnapped on the way between King’s Cross Station and the Dursleys’ house. 

This place was a void. He couldn’t see the beginning or end. He didn’t know if there was one. 

Voldemort had known what he was, even then. 

Was this what it looked like? The bridge between Horcruxes? It was so… desolate. 

And then it hit him. 

A flash, nothing more, and he didn’t know if his eyes were opened or closed because it was so dark, but he knew what he saw. A woman screaming, a flash of green light, a cradle –-

His mom. 

Harry staggered back and forced his eyes open only to see a mirror. To see himself staring back at him, his gaze dark and penetrating, his eyes a burning crimson. No, but this couldn’t make any sense – He turned his attention upwards and realised he knew this mirror. 

The Mirror of Erised. 

No –- 

It was supposed to show him what he desired – how did it even get here, where was he –-

Harry screamed but didn’t hear it. There was only silence. Emotions overwhelmed him and he reached out and slammed his fist out, shattering the mirror in front of him. It broke off beautifully into little shards that lay suspended as if there was no gravity. And Harry saw it. 

Or rather, saw them. 

Each shard – seven shards – had a different reflection. 

Harry’s breath caught as he looked.

A diary. 

A ring. 

A locket.

A cup. 

A diadem. 

A snake. 

And the last shard had no reflection. Not until Harry reached out and plucked it out of the air. As he did so, he brought it towards himself and looked more closely, only to see his own green eyes staring back at him. 

A boy.

Seven. 

An indescribable amount of horror filled him. 

Seven Horcruxes. 

His mind had conjured the Mirror of Erised to show him what he desired. To cope with the overwhelming feeling of being submerged in another being’s mind. It was familiar to him, after all. 

Nagini’s thoughts were so close to him, muffled as they were. He could feel memories flowing into him, background noise except for the ones the conjured Mirror of Erised funnelled to him in this manner. 

He had wanted to find Voldemort’s Horcruxes. 

But seven. 

He looked down and saw that same blackness that coated the walls and the ceiling and wanted nothing more than to fall down into it. To escape the horror that threatened to crush him. It was someone’s soul. How could… How could anyone tear it apart into seven Horcruxes. What did that even leave for the Dark Lord? 

Why? 

And then Harry felt it. The hand on his shoulder. 

He turned around and didn’t make it all the way, but he thought he saw–

He fell. Down into the abyss at his feet. All the way down until his feet solid ground. 

The library floor. 

Sweat licked his forehead, dripping down from his hair. He was panting, and it didn’t feel like he’d ever be able to breathe. 

Someone was knocking on the door. 

No, not now…. Harry cursed in panic and stood up shakily, fighting to calm himself down. Last minute, he remembered Nagini was there, but she wasn’t moving anymore. Entirely of her own accord this time. She watched him carefully, hissing too quietly for Harry to hear. 

He stumbled his way over to the library doors and threw them open. He already knew who it was from the prickling in his scar. 

Voldemort was back. 

Chapter Text

Stealing him from the muggles was almost frighteningly easy. Neither man nor woman nor child suspected anything amiss when the Dark Lord stalked his way toward them. Neither felt the shift as something so dark tainted the air. 

The muggles were picking up their son from boarding school. An institution called Smeltings. Voldemort grimaced in disgust. It was hard to believe people such as mundane as these could produce offspring with magical blood. Merely watching the muggles’ faces as they received their son with open eyes told him everything he needed to know about them. 

Thick-headed. Arrogant. Ignorant. 

Placing Harry Potter with these people, the closest living relatives to Lily Potter, was a stroke of genius on Dumbledore’s part. So Voldemort couldn’t understand why he had expected them to be something… more. 

“You must be Vernon Dursley…” Voldemort smiled pleasantly. He knew he radiated confidence and charm – enough to make Petunia Dursley blink twice. Their child glared up at him balefully. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. Harry told me wonderful things about you all.”

He watched as confusion in those words made Voldemort stare. “Why yes, sir. I’m one of Harry’s school friends.” 

Vernon Dursley spluttered and looked around wildly, as if worried someone would notice who he was talking to. “Then you listen to me – I don’t want any of your freakishness near me or my family, you stay the bloody hell away from us, do you hear?”

“Of course,” Voldemort replied smoothly. “I’m just here to let you know that Harry’s spending the summer with my family.”

Strangely, Petunia stepped forward, an air of suspicion about her. Voldemort had the feeling she knew far more than she suspected. “Harry has always spent the summer with us. If he was going to be elsewhere, Dumbledore would have written.”

“Dumbledore is the one who sent me,” Voldemort said, keeping his voice calm as he slipped into her mind effortlessly, projecting feelings of belief and security. He watched as Vernon and Petunia Dursley’s eyes gained a hazy look, lie after lie swimming in them wherever Voldemort placed them. “I assure you I will take personal responsibility for… keeping an eye on Harry.”

Vernon nodded slowly. His movements were jerky yet sluggish – as if he were drunk. “Yes, yes, that will do – good riddance, I say, what about you, Petunia?” And his wife was quick to voice her agreement. 

Perhaps Voldemort should have known, then. A little dip further into one of their minds, even the mind of their son, and the knowledge would have been there. All power came from knowledge, after all. So why had he not tried? 

Because he thought muggles were so far beneath him, he realised. He had thought any further interaction with them was not worth the time. That, and he could not risk being tempted towards harming them. That was a surefire way of drawing attention to him, and that was the last thing he needed at the moment. 

Now, however… he wondered at what he had missed. Because the truth was – Harry Potter was extraordinary. Somehow, the Dursleys had ensured he appeared anything but. And they had succeeded at that for a very long time. It was slowly starting to wear off now, thank Merlin. Voldemort eyed Potter shrewdly as he took in his properly straightened back, the confidence with which he met the Dark Lord’s gaze despite shaking all over. Harry Potter was powerful. 

And he had not eaten for four days. 

Voldemort knew this because he had specifically set charms in place to ensure meals would appear for Potter – if he so desired. It didn’t matter if it was a passing thought or a sudden urge to hunger; food would appear. Yet every single one of those charms was still in place upon his return. 

He knew logically this was not as important as the fact that Potter had just taught himself Legilimency. Legilimency without an incantation. The idiotic boy could have found the words to utter anywhere in this library, but instead, he had decided to just… 

It was incredible how much Harry could accomplish when he wanted it badly enough. 

But Voldemort didn’t see any of that power when he looked at him right then. He saw a boy who was starved in more than one way. Some part of him stirred at that. At how similar Harry was to…

“You’ve learned Legilimency,” Voldemort said. “Well…” He stopped, not able to give Potter the praise he deserved. Not when there were more pressing matters. He had always known the boy was suicidal, but he hadn’t considered that someone besides Dumbledore might account for that. The Dursleys were a type of people not unfamiliar to Voldemort, and now he was beginning to understand just what had shaped Harry into the self-sacrificing martyr he was today. 

If he detached himself, he knew it was an easy way to manipulate the boy. It was a tool he could use, a leash he could tighten and use to lead. 

But this… It was far too similar to another boy’s situation. An orphan stranded in a strange place full of strange people who did not understand him. That hadn’t even tried. Not that he had wanted them to. How he had longed for someone to just get it. To get that Voldemort was extraordinary in a world of people who defined ordinary. 

Eventually, he came to the conclusion that he had to make them understand. 

Harry had not reached that yet. He didn’t share the same hatred of muggles Voldemort possessed. And it made him weak. It still made him susceptible to Dumbledore’s manipulations. And Voldemort fully intended for Harry and Dumbledore to meet – he wanted Dumbledore to see what he was turning Harry into. But he couldn’t facilitate that without being absolutely certain that Dumbledore stood no chance of swaying Harry back to the light. 

“What’s the matter?” Harry rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets. The picture of nonchalance. It would have been flawless if not for the sweat trickling down his forehead. Potter was nervous. He was scared. He was better at concealing it, but Voldemort knew many things about Harry now. What made him tick, what set him off… “I didn’t do it well enough for you?”

He was such a delight when he was spiteful. 

“You could never disappoint me,” Voldemort tilted his head. Yes, Harry had definitely grown more into his frame this past month, but he still remained thin for his age. He had always been skinny, Voldemort realised, thinking back to their past encounters. 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” 

“Like you…” Harry flushed suddenly and averted his eyes, muttering something under his breath. Voldemort realised he had been studying Harry’s figure quite intently. He smiled, slowly and surely. 

“Do I make you nervous, Harry?” Voldemort asked innocently. 

“Why are you back so soon?”

“It’s been three days, Potter.”

“You could’ve made it longer,” Harry shrugged. 

“Because I make you nervous?” 

Harry glared at him. But there was something different there now, hidden behind those glasses. He… Voldemort frowned lightly. Potter knew something. And it was making him nervous. Scared. 

There were times when Harry’s eyes were soft, other times when they burned with righteous fire. It made him… appealing. Compelling. And after so long, Voldemort had forgotten what fear looked like on Harry Potter. 

It was not compelling in the slightest. 

He reached out with his mind, wondering what exactly had Potter so carefully guarded. The golden cord connecting their minds gleamed faintly in the darkness. It made Voldemort frown – it had never been so dull before. He tried following it, connecting his mind to Harry’s. But he couldn’t. 

It was too unstable. Like crossing a shaky bridge between two cliffs, never knowing when the wood might start to crack, and if Voldemort tried to make it across, he might end up falling into a void no mind could withstand. There was always a danger of bridging the gap between minds – and Potter had just made it incredibly more precarious. 

But how…?

He felt again for the luminescent bond connecting him to Nagini, finding its comforting warmth almost immediately. Just as he had in the graveyard. And just as he had in the graveyard, he felt further within his mental crevices, casting his shadowed touch around, searching for the connection between him and Harry Potter. 

It was completely gone. 

His first thought was anger. Oh, it would be only too easy to let it consume him. To rage against Potter. Because no matter the extent of his control over the boy’s situation, he could never have complete power over the boy himself. 

And yet, Voldemort felt a sense of pride. 

It wasn’t every day he met someone who could learn to flawlessly Occlude through pure spite. But Harry Potter hated proving Voldemort right so much that he had learned a skill with no prior knowledge and no idea of its composition – a skill incredibly few could accomplish. Of course Harry would learn to fuel a mental barrier through feeling too much rather than too little. 

What a shame. He would’ve loved to know what was going on in Harry’s pretty head when he delved into Nagini’s mind so eagerly. Even now Voldemort could feel the remnants of Harry’s magic tainting Nagini’s connection to him. He supposed he’d have to reason it out himself now. 

“Legilimency requires extreme control over oneself,” Voldemort said carefully. Perhaps his methods had spooked Potter this time. “You needed to learn to regulate your stronger feelings.”

“My stronger feelings,” Potter echoed. 

“Yes. And your anger towards me has been the most powerful emotion I’ve encountered from you thus far.”

“I’d argue it would be grief.”

“All your grief stems from one person, Harry. Me. That’s when your grief turns into anger.”

Potter scoffed. “You know, I might start to respect you more once you quit manipulating me every chance you get.”

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow, returning his gaze to Harry. He resisted a catch in his breath, but barely so. The sight of Harry caught in the midst of rage was always so… breathtaking, for lack of a better word. 

“And you think I care for your respect?” Voldemort questioned softly. 

“Yes. I certainly care for yours.”

Oh? “Tell me why.”

“Your respect means I have a chance at rivalling you. A chance at least above no chance at all.”

The Dark Lord stared at Harry. He felt slightly… disappointed. Even now Harry could only think of challenging Lord Voldemort. No image existed in the boy’s mind of them ever standing side by side. 

Voldemort tapped his long fingers against the arm of a nearby chair. Harry’s gaze followed his hand, completely blank. “I want you to understand. You asked me to teach you. You said it before yourself – I am not kind, Harry. I am not nice, and I certainly will not wait for you to get over yourself each time and play catch up. I offer my guidance to those who have proven themselves capable, but if you disappoint me, I will have no trouble refusing your request.”

Harry said nothing. 

“You envisioned our lesson being similar to that with controlling flame,” Voldemort granted. “Like any of our other lessons. That was logical. But Legilimency requires you to push yourself. Strong wizards take years to master it, and you do not have years if this is the path you insist on taking. My methods are cruel in your mind, but to me they are necessary. Can you understand that?”

“Yes.” It was forced out with no small amount of frustration. 

“I do respect you, Potter. That is why I offered to teach you at all. I would not have wasted my time with a lesser individual.” He had not anticipated the time it would take to mould Harry into what he needed, however. Valuable moments, yes, and Voldemort knew the necessity of proceeding with the utmost caution every step of the way… but for anyone else, it would have taken far less time for them to crack. 

And now it would be much, much harder. Because he couldn’t tell what Harry was thinking anymore. 

“I have given you an answer,” Voldemort said. “Now give me one. When was the last time you ate?”

Harry blinked. “Er…”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “Spell work was put into place ensuring that if you desired food badly enough, it would appear. That casting is still perfectly intact.”

“Oh…” Harry scratched the back of his head. It made him look so young. “Really?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but then he did a curious thing. He seemed to halt, as if he couldn’t get the words out. Voldemort furrowed his brow. He must have been asked this same question on multiple occasions, mostly from muggles or perhaps even that squib he had killed. Then again… the muggle relatives would’ve made sure no one knew, and they’d enforce it through some sort of punishment. 

Voldemort took a step forward. Harry winced, likely feeling a slight burning sensation in his scar. But Voldemort barely noticed. He wanted to know exactly what those muggle filth had done. “I’ll make it simple. Have you eaten since I left – yes or no?”

Harry looked at him reproachfully. Wondering why Voldemort would care. “No.”

“Potter, if this is stemming from your martyrdom, I will not tolerate it. It is important that you learn Legilimency, but not at the cost of your own efficiency.”

“It’s not,” Harry scoffed. “I just honestly didn’t think about it, I swear. Look, I’ll go up to the kitchen and cook something up for myself right now if you care that much.”

“You are hiding something from me, Harry.”

“I just told you that I haven’t eaten. I answered your question – I can’t read your mind.”

Voldemort abruptly took hold of Harry’s chin. The boy’s eyes widened and he tried to flinch back, but Voldemort’s grip was firm and unyielding. He could do nothing as Voldemort stared at him for long moments, his scarlet eyes coolly assessing. 

“Why so defensive, I wonder,” Voldemort murmured. “There’s no point in concealing anything. I always find out eventually. So make it easy for yourself.”

Harry glared at him and slapped his hand away but didn’t move back. “Aren’t you more interested in me mastering Legilimency?”

“You do realise that entering the mind of a human being is very different from that of an animal? And you certainly took more time to accomplish this task than I expected.”

“Then maybe you should have fucking been here.” 

Voldemort paused, glancing at Harry. Curiosity shed light in his eyes, and he saw Harry’s sudden urge to shrink back. The boy thought he had somehow said the wrong thing. 

Then Voldemort smiled. “Did you get lonely, Potter?”

“Your overwhelming ego could be felt all the way from here,” Harry hissed. “Between that and Nagini, I had too much company.”

That’s not at all what it sounded like. Potter had sounded almost… hurt. If not that, then upset at the very least. Voldemort eyed him curiously. Just what was the boy feeling right then? He had always been an enigma – his little puzzle – but he thought he’d come close to solving it. Now, he was coming to understand he might just be beginning to see the picture. 

“I’ll meet you at the kitchen in an hour.”

“Why the kitchen?”

“You need to eat. And while you’re at it…” Voldemort drew out a single vial from the pocket of his robes, knowing that Harry recognized it. It would be a surprise if he didn’t – after all, they’d been brewing it together for so long. “We’ll work on resisting veritaserum.”

*

Remus Lupin appeared to have a perpetually endless amount of awful clothing. Draco’s mother would scoff and sneer at such a man before leaning over to tell her son never to present himself that way. Not unless he wanted to lose the respect of those surrounding him almost immediately. 

Harry would tell Draco that not everyone was like the Malfoys. Not everyone could afford what they could, and the large percentage of those who couldn’t became more apparent to Draco daily. Not everyone is as well-off as you, Harry would say. 

Well-off. Lucky. Once upon a time, Draco might have gladly agreed with such terms. He was well-off. He was lucky. He was better. But now… Now the Dark Lord controlled the Malfoys’ state of being. He controlled their luck. And Draco’s would fail him if he didn’t manage to convince Remus Lupin that he was in need of refuge from the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. 

Harry had said Sirius Black would be Draco’s way in. something about how Black would be understanding or more sympathetic towards Draco’s situation. Unfortunately, in the day Draco had spent sneaking around London, he had yet to see Harry’s famed godfather once. 

Today was a miracle in itself. Lupin was the first Order member Draco had laid eyes on since being assigned this mission. A mission he could not fail under any circumstances. 

Lupin sat on a bench, the Daily Prophet propped up in his lap. His brows were drawn in a light frown. It was most likely the usual bullshit Fudge spewed to the news – Dumbledore: Is He Daft or Is He Dangerous? This world was caving in, and the Dark Lord had barely had to lift a finger. Draco didn’t want to be on the wrong side when he finally did. 

“You can come out now, Mr. Malfoy,” Lupin drawled, his gaze still intent on the Prophet. “There’s no one watching us, don’t you worry.”

Draco stood there, paralyzed. He shouldn’t have been recognizable in his horrid muggle trench coat and ghastly large sunglasses. Not to mention the hat covering his distinguishable hair. 

“It’s summer, Malfoy,” Lupin chuckled. “No muggle is going to be wearing all of that. You’d better take care to pay more attention to their habits if you intend to pawn yourself off as one of them. Especially if you’re… hiding from someone.”

Here goes nothing. Draco straightened his back and walked over to Lupin, pretending to mind his own business. He sat down comfortably on the bench, throwing one arm over the back and leaning back. Casual. Not in danger at all. 

Lupin grinned. “Now that’s more like it.”

“How long have you known I was around?” Draco asked carefully. 

“Four days.”

Four days. That was too long. Not that Draco was worried about Remus Lupin of all people watching him for that amount of time. He was more concerned that he hadn’t noticed the man at all. 

Draco shifted closer, faking a stretch and a yawn. Then he leaned slightly towards the other man. His voice as low as possible, he whispered, praying to Merlin that he could pull this off, “I need your help.” Words that his father had told him to never utter. Especially not to some werewolf. 

“Mine specifically?” Lupin asked, amused. “I’d be flattered, Draco, if I didn’t remember the low regard you held for me while I was your professor. Instead, I’m just confused.”

“He’s going to kill my family.”

Lupin paused, his chipper mood dropping. He stared at Draco, eyes unreadable but now completely serious. “Your father has been loyal to his cause since before the last Wizarding War, not to mention the rest of your family.”

And here was Draco’s gambit. This could make or break it. He blew out a breath, hands trembling in his lap. “He doesn’t need my family. Not anymore. He’s too strong, not to mention he was my deranged aunt–”

“Sirius was never fond of Bellatrix, I remember,” Lupin murmured. 

“--and…” Draco hesitated, looking away nervously. The sweat currently coating his palms had to have helped with the image he was trying to convey. He wiped them off hastily on his slacks, trying not to think too hard as Lupin studied him curiously. 

“And who?” Lupin pushed. His voice had gained a new edge. 

Draco swallowed and forced himself to meet the werewolf’s gaze. He allowed his fear to show through, his panic that he had kept bottled up from the last few weeks. He let himself remember what it had been like to see him all alone, rotting in the dungeons his ancestors had constructed for the purpose of torture. “You… Professor, you know who.”

Lupin’s expression went carefully blank. “If you are trying to sell yourself to me, it’s not working. I’m not even fully convinced that you are in any danger.”

“No?” Draco laughed nervously. “I know that after the dementor attack on the train, you gave Potter chocolate. The first creature he saw in your office was a grindylow.” Lupin’s face went very pale indeed. Sadly, it did not bring Draco any satisfaction anymore. He was long past that. “You’re Moony, and you used the map you helped to create to find Pettigrew when he was Weasley’s rat.”

“How exactly do you think you know this?”

“You and I both know Potter would never say any of this to the Dark Lord,” Draco snorted. “Not even if he was under torture. And the Dark Lord has no interest in extracting trivial facts like these.” Even when Harry had been down in the dungeons, he had never seemed broken. Never letting a single edge show where his secrets might be written. 

“Then how?”

“Potter told me.” 

“You’re lying.”

“Tell me what I’m lying about.”

Lupin didn’t answer. Because he couldn’t. There was no reason to refute any of what Draco had just revealed. Especially not when it gave Lupin valuable information. When hearing out Draco’s request could potentially offer the Order of the Phoenix even more. They wanted Potter? Draco had never had a problem rattling his tongue off about the Boy Who Lived. 

“What do you need?” Lupin asked. 

“The Order,” Draco said immediately. “I need safety. He…” He looked down, knowing that he looked cowardly. Then again, he had never denied that he was a coward. “I can’t,” he landed on. “The things he’s making me do. I need help.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before bowing down to him.”

Draco looked up sharply. “You think I had a choice? You think I asked for this?”

“No.”

“They’re my family,” Draco stressed. “You’d do anything for yours, wouldn’t you?”

“Would you spy on us to keep them alive?”

“You think the Dark Lord would send me for such an important task?” Draco laughed incredulously. “No. I’m here for Harry.”

Not Potter. 

Harry. 

Lupin regarded him the same as he had when he’d first beckoned Draco over. But now there was a flicker of interest in those unnerving eyes. That… and sympathy. Exactly what Draco had hoped to achieve. 

“It’s not up to me,” Lupin said at last. “So… I can give you a chance to talk to the people who it is up to. You’d better hope that you’re telling the truth, Malfoy.” 

Draco nodded quickly, knowing that lies wouldn’t cut it this time. Not unless they were woven with truth. 

*

Being in the kitchen had started as another forced task for Harry to do. Where’s my breakfast, boy? You won’t be eating out with us, of course – you need to learn to cook, anyway. But eventually, it had grown therapeutic. Start to finish, Harry didn’t have to think about anything else besides what his hands were occupied with. 

He didn't have to think about what he had just learned about Voldemort. That was for another time, when he was far out of the Dark Lord's presence. 

He tried some of the soup currently on the stove, wincing slightly at the heat. Humming to himself, he switched off the flame. He could have used his wand to make his food faster, of course, but there was something satisfying about doing things the muggle way in Salazar Slytherin’s Manor. 

The Dark Lord had seated himself down at the nearby table, hands pushed together under his chin, his gaze unfocused. Harry stared at him curiously before spooning some of the soup into a bowl. Then he walked over and set it on the table along with a cup of tea. 

Voldemort blinked, coming back to himself and eyeing the bowl. “Well, sit down so we can start.”

“Er – that’s for you.”

“What?”

“The soup. That one’s yours.”

It really wasn’t a difficult concept. But Voldemort stared down at the offered food as if it was something alien. Gingerly, he reached over and dragged it closer to him. “It’s good,” he said slowly after tasting it. “Now go get yours.”

“Do you ever have a conversation without giving orders?” Harry rolled his eyes. But he obeyed and retrieved his bowl and cup of tea before settling down across from the other man. The Dark Lord wasted no time in uncorking the vial of veritaserum, studying it carefully to make sure it was correct. It was… odd. Voldemort had always been somewhat patient with Harry; his eagerness at this moment was worrying. 

He watched carefully as Voldemort poured some out, sure that Voldemort was going to sneak something in there to make this even more difficult than it already was. But Voldemort merely collected a small amount in the teacup before offering it to Harry. 

Harry gaped, automatically curling his fingers around the cool glass. Voldemort wasn’t even going to teach Harry about Occlumency before making him drink the potion? “Now wait a minute. I never agreed to… You don’t get to know everything about me. That… that isn’t fair,” he decided for lack of a better reason. Not to mention the intrusion into his privacy, though Voldemort hardly seemed bothered by that considering he read Harry’s mind every other second. So really, Harry shouldn’t have been that surprised. 

“I didn’t think you were a coward.”

“There’s no way that’s working.”

“Would you believe me that if I hadn’t taught you otherwise, it would have?”

Harry held back a shout of frustration. Yeah, he did believe that, which only made things worse. He crossed his arms, tapping his foot against the ground moodily. He didn’t even want to do this – he hadn’t even known they would he would be taking veritaserum until only a few minutes ago!

“I get to write down a list of questions,” Harry demanded. “And you only get to ask those.”

“If you write the questions, then you will both expect me to ask them and they will not be personal enough for my intentions,” Voldemort waved off. “Personal questions give you an incentive. You don’t want to answer them, especially not in front of me, so your mind will work harder to resist the effects of the potion.”

Harry plopped down onto one of the emerald sofas. The cup in his hand didn’t seem so innocent anymore, he thought as he lifted his arm to study it. Not to mention how deceptive veritaserum was. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was just plain old water. “Okay. Your reasoning makes sense, but I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t like me, Potter, but that doesn’t stop me from forcing my presence on you.”

“At least you’re aware of it.”

Voldemort smirked and leaned forward, his eyes beautiful and dangerous and deceptive all at once. He studied Harry’s face long enough for him to flush, forgetting to breathe all of a sudden. “Just drink it, Harry. You know I would not allow harm to come to you.”

“Except at your hand, right?” 

“Of course,” Voldemort murmured. “You are mine, after all.”

Harry still hadn’t found air. “You… You say that like it’s so… simple .”

“It can be that simple.”

He didn’t know if he just wanted to stop talking about this or if Voldemort had somehow mentally tricked him into it, but Harry found himself raising the cup to his lips and taking a sip. He took three more just to be sure. If he resisted veritaserum, he wanted to know that he beat its effects even when under its stronger influence. 

After a few moments, he realised that Voldemort had been waiting for him to confirm he was ready. Harry sighed. All things considered, he felt surprisingly normal. He would have thought there would be a jarring effect once the veritaserum was in his body, but it was as if he just had plain old water. 

“That’s it,” Voldemort cooed, leaning back. “Try to relax and focus on my questions. That’s all you have to pay attention to, Harry.”

“Right,” Harry murmured, straightening his back against the sofa. Now that he was looking at Voldemort, it was frighteningly easy to make eye contact. “Let’s get started.”