Chapter Text
Hermione slid into a chair at the corner table of the Muggle pub she had found on the outskirts of Whitechurch. There weren’t many patrons around. Just a couple men, one younger, one middle-aged, sitting alone at the bar and two women who sat across from each other at a small table on the opposite side of the room. It had been a while since she was out in the open like this, but she was confident in the Glamor she’d applied to make her look older-- more wrinkled, more tired, grayer-- and with much darker hair and features than she typically had.
“Hey love, can I get you anything?” asked the barkeep. He was an older gentleman with graying hair that went past his ears and a scraggly beard that looked like it hadn’t been looked after in some time. He carefully rubbed a glass he was holding with the towel he’d thrown over his shoulder.
“Right, sorry…” said Hermione. She tried to pitch her voice lower than her natural cadence. She could hear her great-grandmother in her own voice. She ignored the twisting feeling in her chest. “What have you got on tap?”
Hermione chose the first ale the man mentioned to her, paid him, and returned to her chair. She checked the time with the clock on the wall. If they followed through, they’d be here very soon. She hadn’t seen any Death Eaters in the area, so there shouldn’t be any delays.
Ten minutes later, a tall man with a hood pulled over his head entered, stomping the snow off his feet on the front mat. He said something in a low voice to the barkeep and then made his way over to Hermione, glancing up at her from the floor. She caught sight of his red hair poking out from beneath his hood. The same one he’d left wearing that night.
“Ron, you came,” she said with a sigh and a smile.
“‘Mione, I’m… I’m so sorry… I screwed up, I should never have left…” said Ron, sinking into the chair across from her, taking her hands in his. “I was so stupid…”
“Are you okay? Are you alright?” she asked him in a hushed voice. “We’ve been worried sick about you…”
“Where’s Harry?”
A silence hung between them as they took in each of the questions and sentiments the other had said.
“We… have a lot to catch up on…” said Hermione. “Where have you been all this time?”
“I’ve… kind of been all over…” said Ron. “I wanted to come back as soon as I left. So I wandered through forests, from one pub to the next, sleeping on benches if I thought I could get away with it… wherever I thought you might wander. When your Patronus found me, I was sitting near a parking garage outside of Sheffield. In hindsight, I don’t know why I thought you might be there, but anyway… I apparated here and stayed in an unlocked car just to keep out of the cold for a bit.”
“You must be freezing…” said Hermione.
“I’m alright now,” said Ron. “Your turn then.”
Hermione explained her and Harry’s decision to travel to Godric’s Hollow and about seeing Bathilda Bagshot.
“We thought she might have information that could help us, but… Ron, it was awful… next thing I know, there’s a loud sound coming from upstairs and Harry is screaming, telling me to run. I didn’t know what else to do! But I heard people apparating outside the house and I panicked-- I left as fast as I could. I figured Harry would be right behind me, but when I apparated back to the last campsite, I waited… even left the wards down so I’d be easier for him to find… but he never came back,” said Hermione. She clasped her hands together, trying to cover up their trembling. “I didn’t see anyone’s faces, but I’m pretty sure the Death Eaters got to him…”
For a moment, Ron forgot to breathe.
“Do you know where they took him?”
“No, no… but… have you…? Have you maybe heard anything while you were moving from place to place?” asked Hermione.
“I… generally tried to stick to Muggle areas, mostly… you know, fewer snatchers around… but I did have a close call once. I was caught while wandering around some forest. They had a group of us. Some dark-haired bloke was there and one of the snatchers was absolutely convinced he was Harry. He kept saying, ‘Is it him? Did we catch him?? Should we go to the Malfoys?!’ before someone shut him up. Guess they don’t want that getting thrown around. Too many false alarms, otherwise, I suppose…” said Ron.
“Malfoys? So… they would have taken him to Malfoy Manor?” asked Hermione.
“Yeah, where else?”
“For once, I hate that I’m right… but in light of that news, it’s a good thing I invited someone else here,” said Hermione.
“How do you mean?” asked Ron, looking her in the eye.
A beat passed.
Two.
Three.
“You can’t mean…?”
“I do… he should be here in about five minutes.”
“Hermione, have you lost your mind?!”
“Stop, keep it down…” said Hermione. She silently and subtly renewed the privacy barriers around them. “No, I haven’t lost my mind, but… well, you have to admit, we have very few options. It doesn’t feel right to sit and wait for something to happen. They’re not going to let him go-- Harry’s Undesireable Number One.”
“By the way, why am I considered Undesirable Number Three?”
A bell rang over the door. Ron and Hermione’s heads whipped over towards the sound. A tall man in a black hooded cloak come in. The barkeep nodded at him, he nodded back, and he crossed the room towards Hermione and Ron.
“ Malfoy… ”
“Surprise, Weasel,” quipped the blonde.
“Very subtle,” said Hermione, indicating the cloak as she once again cast a silencing charm around the three of them.
“I don’t exactly have Muggle attire in my wardrobe!” Draco hissed, pulling down his hood.
“Just try not to draw attention to yourself more than you already have, alright?” said Hermione.
“Tell me why you called me here, Granger,” said Draco.
“Not yet. We need to come to an agreement first,” said Hermione.
“Fine. I’m listening,” said Draco. “I assume you want to make an Unbreakable Vow.”
“I do. Our terms are as follows: you must promise you won’t say or write anything to the Dark Lord, any Death Eater, or anyone even remotely connected to the Dark Lord that you met with us, had this conversation, share what we asked about, or share any plans we may disclose to you,” said Hermione.
“What’s in it for me?” asked Draco.
Hermione let out a sigh. Ron looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Listen, we don’t have anything we can give you. That’s just the reality. But if you were to help us, we would be able to speak up on your behalf that you played a vital role in ending the war with You-Know-Who,” said Hermione. “It’s not much-- not tangibly, anyway-- but… Draco… I can’t help but feel that the facade you’re presenting to the world isn’t entirely you.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Draco.
“You’ve been putting on this persona that you were this Death Eater in training since we were kids. Hiding behind your father and what power he could throw around. But… you’ve just been a regular school bully. You’re not evil. And something changed about you after fifth year. I don’t think you’ve ever pushed for this war. Not at all,” said Hermione. “So… let us help you come out clean on the other side. Make that choice.”
Draco was quiet for a long time, just staring at his hands clasped on the table, his face not betraying the thoughts racing through his head.
“Alright. I’ll make the vow,” he finally said.
With that, Draco and Hermione clasped arms and Ron cast the spell.
“You’re looking for Potter, aren’t you?” asked Draco, though it was phrased as a statement more than anything.
Hermione nodded.
“Harry was taken by Death Eaters,” said Hermione. “We intend to free him… somehow… but we don’t know for sure where he is, so it’s hard to form a plan. We thought you might know.”
“As it happens, I do know,” said Draco. “I’ve been his guard a lot lately.”
“You have?!” exclaimed Ron and Hermione simultaneously.
“What’s happened to him?” asked Hermione.
“Is he alright?” asked Ron.
“He’s… as fine as can be expected,” said Draco. “I don’t know all of the details, but I know that once I started guarding him, there was a change in his living conditions. He’s no longer locked in the dungeons, but he is still a prisoner. Within my own house, actually…”
“So those snatchers weren’t lying then,” said Ron.
Draco shook his head.
“It doesn’t happen too much anymore, but for a short period, we had snatchers turning up with whichever poor sod with dark hair and glasses they dragged off the street claiming that they’d found Potter,” said Draco. “It doesn’t take many tortured snatchers to spread the word that anyone looking has to be more discerning. The Dark Lord is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”
“So then, we need to get into your home in order to get Harry back…” said Hermione. “That both simplifies and complicates things.”
“I trust that you won’t tell anyone we had this conversation either?” asked Draco.
“Who would we tell? We’re both wanted. We’d just be endangering ourselves,” said Ron.
“Right…” said Draco. “In that case, I can help you…”
***
Harry remembered the last time he had stayed up and watched the sunrise. It was shortly after his twelfth birthday. After Uncle Vernon had installed bars on his window, Harry had felt like a caged animal. It drove him half crazy to know that the door was right there and yet he couldn’t get out of the smallest bedroom, even for the simplest need. That first night, nightmares plagued him, chasing away any restful sleep he could have gotten. And that was before Voldemort returned… before Cedric died… before he started waking up from nightmares screaming…
The French book of forbidden magic lay open on the desk on the other side of the room, abandoned hours ago when he found himself getting too stuck in his head. His head ached and he realized that he had been reading and trying to understand this rather innocent-looking book of magic for hours. There wasn’t a clock anywhere, but by the time he’d decided to stop, it had been dark outside for what felt like hours. It would probably do him some good to get some sleep-- even just a little bit.
Sleeping in a bed again-- even one that was fairly hard and had bare bones amenities like a thin blanket and pillow-- had settled Harry’s mind enough to dream again. The nightmares returned with a vengeance after not dreaming at all while down in the dungeons. It wasn’t enough to just be living a nightmare.
Cedric’s vacant gaze.
The veil.
Wormtail taking his blood.
Dementors in Little Whinging.
Red eyes locked in on him.
He yelled himself awake and the feeling of terror clung to him like a second skin that would not shed.
The door to the room opened with a loud clatter, hitting the wall behind it, causing Harry to jump out of bed into something resembling a fighting stance in his panicked, half-asleep state. A Death Eater wearing a mask was standing in the doorway.
“ Stop that shouting ,” growled the Death Eater.
“‘M sorry…” mumbled Harry. “I usually put up a silencing barrier, but…”
Harry gestured outwards with his hands to show his lack of wand.
“Just make sure it doesn’t happen again,” glowered the Death Eater.
The door slammed behind him and Harry was left in the dim room once again. He stumbled backwards onto the bed, his head falling into his hands. A quiet sob escaped his lips, very much against his will. He hated crying. Other people hated it when he cried. But he couldn’t help it. It felt like reality had hit him like a train.
There was no way he could even conceive of falling asleep again. So he stayed up, watching the stars fade into the earliest rays of light through the window that couldn’t help but remind him from one moment to the next that he was a prisoner and he’d never get to be anything else. A pink glow spread over the gardens of Malfoy Manor. Harry stood on his knees, leaning on his arms on the window sill to get a better view.
Behind him, he could hear the door opening again.
“Let’s go, Potter.”
Harry briefly looked over. It was the same Death Eater who had come bursting in in the middle of the night. The Death Eater came closer and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him off the bed.
“What for?” he asked, startled, working to get his feet under him.
“Don’t ask questions,” said the Death Eater.
“Let go of me,” said Harry warningly as they stumbled into the hallway. “Let go of me!”
“Shut up!”
The Death Eater pushed him into the wall face-first, crushing him and twisting his arms behind his back.
“Stop!” Anger rose up in his belly and he felt hot behind the eyes.
“Quit your fighting,” said the Death Eater.
Harry didn’t understand. Voldemort told him he would return three days from now. Where could this Death Eater possibly be taking him? Had the man changed his mind? Or was this all some great trick to keep him vulnerable?
The Death Eater grabbed his arms, keeping them behind his back and dragging him down the hallway. They stopped in front of a door, which the Death Eater turned the knob for and opened without fuss.
“Please, I don’t--”
“Calm down, Potter,” said the Death Eater. “Just get in there. You have ten minutes.”
The Death Eater pushed him into the room and quickly closed the door behind him, magically locking it.
Harry turned and took in the white-tiled bathroom around him and let out a small breath of relief. The room was simple-- a pedestal sink, a square-framed mirror, a white toilet, and a clawfoot bath. There was a pile of black clothing sitting on the lid of the toilet and a towel hung over the side of the tub.
With his senses suddenly coming to him, he plugged the drain and twisted the knob to run the water. The warmth was glorious . He couldn’t remember the last time he had properly bathed since going on the run. Harry peeled off his clothes, placed them in a pile on the floor, set his glasses on the sink, and stepped into the steaming water. On the side of the tub were a two small bottles with a cloudy liquid inside, a bar of soap, and a sponge. Harry lathered up the sponge and immediately began scrubbing everywhere he could reach. The dirt and grime ran off his body in streams. All that had stuck to him from those long nights in the tent, endless days of darkness in the dungeons, too long on the run… all of it would go down the drain at the end of this.
Harry finished scrubbing at his hair and rinsed. He glanced around at the grayish-brown water that surrounded him. He’d been through so much. He’d put Ron and Hermione and countless others through so much in his pursuit to fulfill this final mission Dumbledore set before him. A mission he had every intention of finishing, even now, but… obviously with the complications Voldemort had set before him, that was going to be more difficult than ever.
It was in this moment that he realized just how far he was from being done. Maybe… maybe he’d never…
No, he couldn’t think like that. There was too much at stake to give up now, no matter how impossible the odds appeared to be. If he gave up… where would that leave everyone else?
It was too much. How much pressure could one person realistically withstand before they drove themselves crazy? Harry wasn’t sure how much more he could take.
A sharp knock on the door brought him out his thoughts with a jolt.
“ Let’s go, Potter! ” yelled the Death Eater.
With his heart pounding, Harry quickly drained the tub, toweled off, and dressed in the new clothes that had been left for him-- a jumper, a simple t-shirt underneath, dark trousers, knit socks. He’d forgotten how good clean clothes could feel on his skin. He gathered up the damp towel and his filthy clothes in his arms and tried to open the door, only to be met with the lock.
“I’m finished,” said Harry, loud enough to be heard.
The Death Eater quickly unlocked the door.
“Leave those in there,” said the Death Eater, indicating the garments in Harry’s arms. “They’ll be dealt with accordingly.”
Leaving them on the mat by the sink, Harry walked out into the hallway ahead of the Death Eater and back to his door at the end of the corridor.
“The Dark Lord would like to remind you that you will meet with him in three days’ time. He suggests you be properly prepared for your meeting,” said the Death Eater.
“Right,” muttered Harry, watching the floor.
Without another word, the Death Eater backed out of the room and locked the door.
Harry turned to face the desk where Les Magies Interdites et Comment les Utiliser lay open and waiting. This time, there were a couple more books piled next to it. Which was a good thing, because once again, the French book was indeed only intelligible to those who could read French. He couldn’t have progressed any more in the book if he’d wanted to. Maybe Draco would visit again before Voldemort did and could renew the translation spell… again… it was never meant to be long-lasting. Draco had warned him.
The book at the top of the pile had its title emblazoned in fading gold across the top of the cover: Vitae Fragmenta . He lifted the cover and saw that while it was written in an older style of English, he could still read it.
“Better get started then…” Harry whispered to himself.
***
Learning about souls was proving to be more frustrating than Harry anticipated. The concept of the soul was fairly simple. The way he understood it, the soul was your sense of self. You can remain physically alive without your soul, but you would lack individuality and a sense of right and wrong. Without a soul, your focus becomes survival (oftentimes at the expense of, or at least without consideration for, other people) rather than living to find meaning and your place in the universe. The Vitae Fragmenta described this soulless existence as being only a step or two above being part of an army of inferi. Instead of being controlled by another, one simply became lost when not in possession of one's soul. The wizarding world knew this from witnessing the existence of Azkaban prisoners who were the victims of the Dementor’s Kiss. All of these things were observable. But once a soul was torn or no longer residing within a body, such as in the case of physical death, it was mostly speculation.
For all intents and purposes, the soul is thought to be immortal. So when wizards created horcruxes, they created a path to immortality. Yet, those fragments of soul can be destroyed. And in that case, what happens to those pieces of a soul? And what happened to your soul, whether intact or fragmented, when you experienced physical death but your soul had already been mostly removed from the body?
Harry resisted the urge to throw his copy of the Vitae Fragmenta against the wall. It made a lot of assumptions about the answers to these questions and Harry really needed to know some cold hard facts about the soul after experiencing a physical death.
What a useless book… Well, maybe something would come up towards the end of the book that he could research further…
Les Magies Interdites, at least as much as Harry could read before the translation spell wore off, was even more useless as it described the process of creating a Horcrux, which Harry already knew about (more or less). Although it might be useful to have the incantation one needed to invoke during the ritual for creating one. But that was the extent of its usefulness. What Harry really wanted to know was whether there was a limit to how many Horcruxes a single person could make. And what happened to the person in question with each subsequent Horcrux made? What if that person changed their mind? Could they merge their fragmented soul back into one?
Harry had too many questions swirling in his brain…
Suddenly, pain seared through Harry’s head as he sat at the desk, catching him by surprise. He leaned his head into his hands as hard as he could and almost missed the sound of the doorknob rattling and the door opening with an ominous creak.
“Potter,” Voldemort greeted frostily.
“Riddle,” retorted Harry.
Harry felt sharp, cold fingers on the back of his neck.
“I know you know not to call me that, Harry.”
“The name you created is under a taboo,” said Harry.
“You couldn’t be surrounded by more of my Death Eaters at the moment if you tried,” said Voldemort. “By all means, use the name. Try it.”
“ Voldemort .”
Harry paused, half-waiting for snatchers or Death Eaters to come swarming into the room for having invoked the taboo. But indeed, nothing happened.
“You see? You are perfectly safe,” said Voldemort.
“Somehow I doubt that…” muttered Harry.
He felt Voldemort’s fingers find their way up his neck and into his hair, sending shivers up his spine. He clenched his eyes closed. Every part of the touch felt wrong . Harry moved to get up from the desk.
“Come now, Harry…” said Voldemort, taking Harry by his shoulder and turning him around to look at him. “You can’t deny it. You have food, shelter… Occasional company… Something to occupy your mind and your time… you are not under attack. You have everything you could possibly need.”
Voldemort’s gaze held him in place. Harry jerked his arm out of his grasp and backed up. He hated that Voldemort stood between him and the door. If he intended to get out of here, he’d have to be extremely creative.
“You and I both know I can never be happy here…” said Harry.
He gasped. He hit the wall behind him sooner and with more force than he anticipated.
“I never promised your happiness,” said Voldemort, drawing closer. “Only that I would no longer leave you to rot in that dungeon and that you would remain alive. I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now… have you fulfilled yours?”
“N-not yet, no…” stammered Harry.
“Then what have you found out?” demanded Voldemort.
“Look, I haven’t been sitting here twiddling my thumbs. It’s just… the reading I’ve done hasn’t proven to be particularly useful yet…” said Harry.
“So you have been wasting your time,” said Voldemort.
“I-- no…” said Harry. “It’s helping me understand things as you do.”
“Explain.”
“If I understand how a soul works and if I understand the theories that exist around them, I can get a better idea of what sources I actually need to locate. I can know what sources to ask for if you won’t let me look myself,” explained Harry. “It’s just a step in the process.”
Voldemort paused, considering Harry.
“You never said when you demanded an answer. Only that I try and find the answer to whether soul pieces can be transferred from one vessel to another,” said Harry. “I don’t even know how much time is reasonable to suggest… it seems that a lot of what’s been written about souls and soul magic is speculative… what if I never find a definite answer?”
“Then your task changes, doesn’t it?” said Voldemort. “If you can’t find someone who will outright give you the answer that you’re seeking, then you must put two and two together and give a recommendation based on where the research is pointing.”
“Oh… right… that makes sense…”
“You do have a brain in that head of yours, don’t you, Potter?”
Voldemort drew impossibly closer again. Harry sank slightly lower down the wall.
“Then… I have a request,” said Harry.
“Do you now?” mocked Voldemort.
“I want free access to the library,” said Harry. “With or without Draco. I don’t care which.”
“Go on.”
“I just… if I’m going to do this properly, it’s going to be easier if I pull the books based on the question I’m currently trying to answer,” said Harry. “Theoretically, that question could change from one moment to the next, depending on what I’m finding. It would be much easier if I could decide what to read rather than relying on you or whoever chose books for me last time.”
“Interesting proposition… I see your point,” said Voldemort. “You may not have free access to the library. And Draco can’t spend every spare moment with you. However, there is an alternative arrangement.”
“What’s that?” asked Harry.
“I will accompany you to the Malfoy library every two days. That should be sufficient time to read anything new you take from the shelves and be ready to find new books to continue your research,” explained Voldemort. “That also allows me to keep up with your progress.”
“Draco can take me if--”
“This isn’t a discussion, Potter. It’s this arrangement or we continue as things currently are. And clearly the current arrangement isn’t acceptable to you,” said Voldemort.
“Fine… I accept,” said Harry.
“Come then. We’ll go now,” said Voldemort.
With a wave of his hand, the door to Harry’s room unlocked and swung open. Voldemort led the way. Harry followed at as great a distance as he dared. Voldemort never once glanced back at him. They passed through several lavishly decorated rooms that felt stuck in time and down hallways that were lined with portrait after portrait of one prominent Malfoy family member or another. Several of them sneered down at Harry and bowed their heads to Voldemort as they passed.
“Keep up, Harry,” said Voldemort, his robes trailing behind him.
An unseen force pushed him from behind and he would have stumbled into Voldemort’s back if he hadn’t caught himself at the last moment. Suddenly, Voldemort threw open the doors in front of them, revealing the Malfoy library. Harry carefully breathed in the scent of the place. It smelled of aged parchment and a little like incense, although Harry couldn’t see the source, so he might have imagined it. Voldemort shoved Harry forward, into the library.
“Where do I find books on soul magic?”
Voldemort waved his hand and several books from multiple places around the library came soaring in their direction. Harry did his best to catch all of them, putting them in a pile near the two armchairs.
“You have ten minutes,” said Voldemort. “I do have work of my own to do.”
Harry nodded and started sifting through the rather large pile of books sitting before him. He read their titles, flipped to the back index (at least for the books that had one), read the chapters listed in the table of contents, looking for anything that seemed like it might align with his questions. He found a book that looked like it might be a journal or a book of notes. He set that on his pile to take with him. There were several books that were in other languages. He could randomly pick one and hope for the best, but that would probably slow down any progress he’d be able to make.
“Umm… excuse me?” said Harry hesitantly.
Voldemort’s eyes met his.
“It’s just… er-- some of these aren’t in English… I can’t understand them,” said Harry.
“Have you not been taught other languages? Or done any self-study?” asked Voldemort.
“Well… they did teach us a little German in primary school…” said Harry.
“There are German books in that selection,” said Voldemort.
“They didn’t teach us enough to be able to read books like this,” said Harry. “Please… there’s a translation spell…”
“And you want me to apply it for you,” said Voldemort.
“Yes. Draco cast it a couple times before, but seeing as he isn’t here and I’m not allowed a wand…”
“Very well,” sighed Voldemort exasperatedly. “Come here, Potter.”
His heartbeat picked up slightly, but he moved closer to Voldemort until he was standing a couple feet in front of him. Voldemort stood up and closed the gap even further, touching his wand-- the same wand that he had used to kill his parents-- to Harry’s temple. Harry flinched before he could stop himself.
“Relax,” said Voldemort. “I would have killed you by now, if I intended to do just that.”
“Great, that makes me feel loads better,” said Harry.
“Enough of your cheek. Hold still,” said Voldemort.
Voldemort put a stabilizing hand on the other side of Harry’s face and murmured the incantation under his breath. Harry could feel heat and pressure that felt like it was radiating from inside his skull. There was a throbbing sensation originating in the leftside center of his head and Harry closed his eyes against the ache.
Finally it was all over, though the ache remained.
“What did you do?” demanded Harry. “That didn’t feel like when Draco cast it…”
“No, what I cast on you is the improved version of what young Draco performed on you. The effects of the spell are now permanent,” said Voldemort. “Permanent effects have a more significant impact on the body as there is more to adjust to.”
Harry took a step back, rubbing his head with the heel of his hand.
“One moment…” said Voldemort, once again closing the gap between the two of them. He touched his forehead to Harry’s, holding Harry’s face in both of his hands with a surprisingly gentle touch. Harry tried to pull back. Voldemort wouldn’t let him.
“What are you…?” started Harry, scrabbling to unlock Voldemort’s grip.
“Allow me,” said Voldemort.
Not knowing what he could mean or what else to do, Harry stilled, hoping whatever was happening would be over with sooner if he did so. Voldemort’s hands were cool to the touch and softer than he expected a Dark Lord’s hands to be. He calmed.
But soon, Harry couldn’t focus on the touch anymore. In that moment, his world was turned on its head. An intoxicating warmth felt like it was growing in the core of his being. His eyes fluttered shut as he was overtaken by memories that moved like a film strip before his eyes.
He was in a yellow room filled with sunlight. He didn’t recognize where he was, but it felt familiar somehow.
“Harry!”
The voice was familiar-- a woman’s voice. Someone who sounded younger. He couldn’t place it…
And then there she was-- Lily. His mother. She looked like she had in the Mirror, like when she and his father had come to his defense in the graveyard. She smiled widely at him and bent down to pick him up.
“What are you doing over here? Come on, let’s get you ready for the day,” she said.
She held him on her hip, cradling him in one arm as they walked to the stairs that were near the front door.
“Oh, sorry, love. Come through.”
Harry glanced up and saw his father standing at the top of the stairs, a wicker basket of laundry resting near the railing. He stepped to one side so Lily and Harry could come up the stairs. Lily leaned over and planted a kiss on James’ cheek and he leaned over and kissed Harry on the top of his head.
“Be good for your mother, will you?” smiled James.
The next moment, the scene changed.
Harry was in a dimly lit, wood-paneled room. He didn’t recognize this place. Had he been here before or was he imagining this? There were several cribs standing in a long row along the wall. Harry could tell that he was in one of them at one end of the room.
A pain rippled through his middle and he felt a cry leave his throat, but the voice didn’t sound like his-- it sounded like a much smaller child’s voice. It was angry. Demanding. An older woman in a long gray dress walked by and didn’t even glance his way. Why did she do that? Couldn’t she see that he needed something? Food. He needed food. He was hungry. Couldn’t she even look at him to tell him she’d be there in a moment?
His cry got louder and harsher. She would notice him. Somehow, some way. He stood up, holding onto the side of the crib to steady himself on that hard mattress.
“THOMAS! That’s quite enough!” yelled the woman, slamming her fist down on the nearest piece of furniture in frustration. “Go to sleep-- you’re disturbing the other children.”
Harry felt the frustration growing within him. Sleep didn’t fill empty bellies.
Another woman walked up beside his crib-- she was older than the other woman but wore a similar gray dress. She picked him up and held him at arm’s length.
“Hush up! That’s NOT how you get what you want,” said the older woman severely and with a slight shake. She laid him down on his back in the crib. “To bed. And that’s enough out of you.”
The scene changed and Harry was in darkness.
There was a sharp knock that startled him to attention. A door opened and Harry realized he was in his cupboard. Aunt Petunia was standing in the doorway.
“Get up!” she demanded angrily. “Get to the kitchen and don’t burn anything.”
Harry made to get up, scooting out of the cupboard to the best of his ability. He hadn’t yet reached his same height, so he knew he was younger. Old enough to have moved from the small portable crib in the guest room at the back of the house to the cupboard under the stairs.
Harry walked into the kitchen. Dudley was sitting at the table already, violently stirring his cereal with a spoon. Harry walked up to the stove where Aunt Petunia had already set the bacon and sausage to sizzling in the frying pan. Harry stepped up on the step stool so he could see properly. Grease popped and landed in flecks on his face, causing him to flinch a little. Harry focused on the cooking meats as best as he could, but was distracted by Dudley dropping his bowl on the floor and throwing a fit that his food had fallen. Aunt Petunia fawned over her son. While Harry had no desire to throw a tantrum like that, he couldn’t help the small pang of jealousy of seeing his cousin be fussed over. If Harry had done the same thing, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would make him clean up the mess, tell him it was all his fault, and then send him to his cupboard without breakfast.
“BOY! The breakfast is burning! Get your head out of the clouds!” yelled Uncle Vernon.
Sure enough, in the time Harry had looked away, the bacon had turned black and began to smoke while the sausages were getting rather dry and hard. There was no saving this meal and he knew it.
He felt a sharp whack! on the back of his head and he cowered, yelling and knocking into the hot pan with his arm. He cried out again at the burn he received.
“That’s it-- out with you. Just get OUT!” yelled Aunt Petunia. “Ungrateful child… we don’t ask much of you and yet you can’t seem to do a simple task. Absolutely worthless…”
The scene faded and Harry opened his eyes in a daze. It took him a moment to place where he was. It took him a beat longer than that to learn that he was slumped forward in the arms of the Dark Lord. He startled.
“What… what happened?” asked Harry, coming to. “Did you feel that too?”
“Yes… most peculiar…”
Voldemort moved slowly away, pushing Harry away and dropping him on the floor of the Malfoy library. Harry landed with a grunt and got shakily to his hands and knees.
“But… why did that happen? What did you find before?” asked Harry.
“Get your books. We’re leaving,” snapped Voldemort, not looking at Harry.
“No, I want to know what happened,” demanded Harry, clenching his fists to prevent his hands shaking.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Voldemort grabbed whatever armful of books happened to be within reach, grasped Harry’s shoulder, and disaparated back into Harry’s tiny room. Almost as soon as they arrived there, Voldemort dropped the books unceremoniously on the desk and turned to leave.
“ Stop! You haven’t told me what’s going on!” shouted Harry, clutching at Voldemort’s sleeve. “You activate some weird-ass connection and you don’t think that’s worth at least commenting on?!”
“I could comment on it, but you would be just as frustrated as you are now,” said Voldemort. “There is much that I don’t understand about this… connection… we will discuss it when I return.”
He turned again to leave. Harry suddenly felt desperate to keep Voldemort there longer. Of all the things…
“When are you coming back?” asked Harry quietly.
“When I have found the answers I seek,” said Voldemort.
“That could be weeks,” said Harry.
“It could,” said Voldemort.
A moment of tense silence passed between the two.
“I’m going to lose my mind in here,” said Harry.
“You have things to occupy you. A task to complete. You will be fine, Potter,” said Voldemort.
Once more, he turned to leave. Harry moved to follow, reaching out for the wood of the door.
“Please, you can’t just leave…” said Harry, his voice breaking slightly. “Don’t do this…”
Immense pain seared through his head and gritted his teeth against the sensation, grasping his head in his hands, steadying himself against the bedpost. Voldemort slammed the door behind him with finality. The pain dissipated as quickly as it had come.
When would he see the outside of this room again? Harry feared it wouldn’t be soon enough.
***
Two weeks had passed. The Dark Lord had been away the whole time and Malfoy Manor was in a tentative state of peace. No one new was brought to the Manor and the usual Death Eaters came and went at regular intervals. A quiet routine fell into place and no one complained. As devoted of a man as his father was, even Draco noticed the tension leave his father’s shoulders during this time.
And then a message arrived at the breakfast table. A message directly from the Dark Lord demanding a report on Potter. He wanted Draco to fulfill this task. Lucius led him there.
It had been a while since Draco had been asked to check on Potter, ever since a permanent translation spell had been cast on the boy; he hadn’t needed to come at regular intervals in order to renew the spell. So he had stayed away.
“Remember, Draco: you are Potter’s guard. You are not to give him any information he asks for and you are not to converse with him beyond what is necessary,” said Lucius.
“I understand, father,” said Draco.
“You will report to me how Potter fares after your time is up,” said Lucius. “The Dark Lord wants assurance that he is alive and well.”
Draco nodded slightly. Lucius stopped his progress down the hall and turned sharply toward his son.
“Do not let the boy take your wand, under any circumstances.”
“Yes, father,” said Draco.
Did Potter try something stupid? Why all the extra precaution?
As if reading his mind, Lucius said, “Other Death Eaters have reported concern that Potter is becoming increasingly desperate. He spends most of his time alone and the meals he receives return minimally touched. His mental state must be monitored. We don’t know what the boy is capable of.”
They stopped in front of the last door at the end of the hall. Lucius wordlessly tapped the doorknob once and the door swung open. At first, Draco, didn’t see anyone. That is, until the bed came into view. Potter-- no, Harry-- was curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, facing the wall.
“You have company, Potter,” said Lucius loudly and sharply.
He flinched where he lay, but otherwise didn’t move
“I’ll return in three hours’ time, Draco,” said Lucius quietly.
Draco nodded and stepped into the room, the door closing behind him. The silence hung in the air.
Draco stepped over to the desk, hesitating before pulling the chair out. He glanced over the books that were piled there, deciding not to disturb whatever order they were in, if there was any kind of organization to them. He glanced back at the bed.
“... Potter?” said Draco, tentatively.
Harry sighed on the bed, his back still facing the desk.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” he asked in a gravelly voice.
“How-- how are you?”
The words felt weird rolling around his mouth. They’d never spoken like this before. Not really. Harry jerked his head to look directly into Malfoy’s face.
“Spectacular,” he deadpanned.
“I mean… given the circumstances…” said Draco.
Harry twisted his body so he was sitting on his bed with his feet on the floor. He didn’t have shoes, only socks. Draco wondered if his shoes were taken from him or if they were just out of sight.
“I’ve been locked in a room by myself for… I don’t even know how long. And a dungeon before that,” said Harry. “It… I mean… it’s not great.”
Draco nodded. He hadn’t expected much better. He looked over at the desk again.
“Your pile of books has grown,” he commented.
“Yeah… more just appeared the other day. I don’t know if there’s a hint I’m supposed to get,” said Harry. “‘Read faster’? ‘You’re looking in the wrong places’? I don’t know…”
“What are you researching?” asked Draco.
Harry hesitated.
“I… don’t know if I’m supposed to talk about it,” he said. “He angers rather easily, the Dark Lord.”
Draco suppressed a smirk.
Understatement of the age…
“Soul magic?” asked Draco. “Why on earth would he want you to research that?”
Harry looked down at the floor and shrugged.
“Well, whatever the reason… why haven’t you begun?”
“I have begun,” said Harry. “I’ve been working at it for a while.”
“It looks like only two or three of these have been disturbed,” said Draco.
“I guess I just haven’t felt like it…” muttered Harry.
“Well, there’s time now,” said Draco.
“Did you come in here just to tell me what to do?” asked Harry.
“It seems like you need a kick up the arse. At the rate you were going, you would have spent the entire day sulking in bed,” said Draco. “Actually it looks like you’ve been doing that for a while any way…”
There was a pause.
“Potter?”
“What?”
“Have you… given up?”
Harry shrugged.
“I don’t know anything anymore…” said Harry.
“How do you mean?” asked Draco.
Harry took in a breath, letting it out slowly.
“It’s complicated,” he finally said.
“I don’t mind complicated,” said Draco.
“I… I think he’s actually hopeful I’ll find an answer to this… problem we’re having. But I’m worried I won’t find the answer. Or worse, I will and that won’t make any difference. What if I’m just doomed to hold onto both of our secrets and suffer this… whatever it is that’s between us? What if he never lets me go?”
Draco froze, feeling his heart sink.
“Listen, it’s false hope…” said Draco. “The Dark Lord doesn’t exactly just… let people walk free, even if you do a service for him.”
“I know, I just… I don’t have a choice… If I don’t do anything, then things will only get worse, won’t they?” said Harry. “Although… maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just losing my mind and hanging my hat on false hopes. He’ll probably never let me go, no matter what I do.”
Without knowing the details, it was hard for Draco to answer. But he wasn’t optimistic.
“Sounds like you know what you need to do then, Potter,” said Draco. He stood up from the chair next to the desk. “Switch with me.”
Harry did, standing up slowly and sitting in the desk chair while Draco perched on the edge of the bed.
“So… you’re just going to sit there while I read then?” asked Harry. “Isn’t that boring for you?”
“I have a lot to think about. I’ll be plenty occupied,” said Draco.
“Oh?”
“Don’t ask questions when you know very well I can’t answer them,” said Draco. “Go learn about soul magic or something.”
Harry turned to face the desk, cracking open on top of the large pile. He didn’t have that much left.
Before he knew it, he reached the end.
“That didn’t clarify much…” he muttered.
Draco wanted to ask so many things. Soul magic wasn’t something one saw just anyone researching in their spare time. What did the Dark Lord want Potter to figure out? Surely nothing good if the answer could only be found in the dustiest and most ancient tomes. Ones that had been hidden in the darkest libraries away from prying eyes. Draco had certainly never seen these books before Potter had access to them.
“You want to ask me something,” said Harry. It was a statement, not a question. “I can see it in your face.”
“I know my place, Potter. If you want to survive past your eighteenth birthday, you’ll learn yours in a hurry,” said Draco.
Harry turned back to face the wall again, but Draco noticed his attention did not return to the books on the table.
“You want to say something,” said Draco.
“I just… I don’t understand something…”
Draco waited. His silence would be prompting enough for Potter.
“That night on the astronomy tower…”
“Not this again…”
“No, please… something…. I don’t know… shifted in you. I don’t know how to think of it any other way. What happened to Dumbledore—“
“What happened was I was a coward. I regret it every day that I didn’t fulfill the Dark Lord’s orders. He gave me a chance and I failed,” said Draco. “You don’t need to analyze it further.”
“Can I say something?” asked Harry.
“I suspect you’re going to say something whether I wish you to or not,” said Draco.
“I don’t think you acted cowardly,” said Harry.
That made Draco pause. What was Potter playing at? There was surely a hidden agenda behind him saying this…
There was a knock on the door to the tiny room causing both of them to start. The door swung open to reveal Lucius.
“Come, Draco. We are expected elsewhere,” said Lucius. “I can’t allow my only son to waste away here all day.”
“Yes, father,” said Draco. He stood and crossed the room.
“Sir?” asked Harry. “Do you know when the Dark Lord is due back?”
“The Dark Lord is very busy. He will return exactly when he intends to,” said Lucius.
Harry glanced at the floor, nodding slightly at the non-answer. The door closed and locked behind the Malfoys and once again Harry was alone. Not wanting to read anymore, he moved over to his bed. It was then that he saw it-- he’d almost missed it. A tiny scroll of scrap parchment. He took it and unraveled it carefully.
Two days
Two days for what? Did Draco write this? He must have… It wouldn’t be Voldemort, would it? What could it mean? Whatever it was, he’d have to be ready.