Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tonight Harry kills his parents. Again.

They fell one after the other, screaming and begging but not even for their own life. No, they both implored him to spare the baby. Well, he won’t. He’s here for him.

Harry looks at the green-eyed infant, and the infant looks back at him. He now seems to understand this is no game, that his parents will not get up, as he starts to cry. This sound greatly upsets Harry. He has never killed a child before, but is there not a first for everything? He points his wand at the child and says the words, the familiar all-powerful feeling fills him entirely as the green light fills the room…

Then Harry feels the curse hit him — him, the most powerful wizard of all times, traversed by his own spell, ache irradiating his whole body. But it is nothing compared to the agony of Harry’s very soul tearing apart. The greatest pain possible, beyond imagination, beyond description, beyond anything bearable…

Harry wakes up screaming. His head is burning, his fucking scar feels like it’s being split in two, someone is touching him…

“Harry! Harry, it’s me!”

Oh, right. Right, it’s Ron. The pain decreases and Harry is able to remember where he is. His bed, his room, his house. Technically, 12 Grimmauld Place is his house now, and with this thought fresh pain takes over him, different but terrible too.

Every time Harry wakes up, his brain has to remind him. Hey, Sirius is dead. Your life is shit. Have a great day.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Harry gets up, goes to the bathroom next door and washes his face with cold water. He doesn’t look in the mirror but instead keeps his eyes focused on a crack in the emerald green sink. His dream flashes before his eyes. He splashes some more water, trying to forget. He doesn’t need that, really doesn’t. As if he hasn’t seen enough people die already.

“Since we’re up, I’m gonna get breakfast. You’re coming?”

“Yeah, be there in a minute…”

Harry can hear the concern in Ron’s voice, but ignores it. They’re all talking to him like he’s a fragile little thing, these days. Or a grenade with the pin pulled. He has had a few meltdowns, that’s true. Maybe hitting that Ministry guy wasn’t very smart on his part, but asking Harry if he was glad Sirius was dead wasn’t very smart either.

Breakfast, as usual, is tense. Ron apparently told Hermione about the incident, or she heard him scream, because she’s looking at Harry with this sorry, pitiful face again. Ginny knows better and mostly ignores him, talking with Ron about Quidditch, or school, or some other insignificant shit — Harry isn’t really listening. Mrs Weasley, on the other hand, hasn’t given up on pretending everything is normal.

“We’re having an Order meeting tonight. Dumbledore said you could all participate, children, so I thought we could do it over dinner. It’d be nicer, don’t you think? Is there anything in particular you'd like to eat?”

She shoots a look at Harry.

“Harry, dear, any food that would cheer you up?”

“I don’t care,” Harry says.

He knows he should be nicer to Mrs Weasley but he’s not sure he can. It’s already an effort not to tell her that to cheer up, he’d need Sirius to be alive. She does her best, Harry reminds himself. He leaves the table without a word. No one tries to hold him back.

The day passes like every other day. Slow, empty, mostly spent staring at the ceiling. From the outside Harry seems apathetic, but from the inside he’s boiling. He’s thinking about Sirius, about Voldemort, about the war, about his parents and these messed up dreams, about everything in his stupid life he can’t do anything about.

Harry has spent the first few weeks blaming himself. He should have been better at Occulmency, he should not have fallen into Voldemort’s trap, he should have looked for a teacher, he should have, should have… Then he moved on to blaming the adults. Who the fuck lets a fifteen years-old deal with this kind of shit on his own? Why did the Order let Sirius out? And the Ministry, calling him a liar all year long, letting Umbrige torture students. How is that normal? What was Dumbledore thinking? Harry hasn’t seen the Headmaster since that talk in his office, not since he’s told Harry about the prophecy, letting him deal with this shit on his own, again. Because the only adult that always listened to him, never treated him like a child, nerve lied, is dead.

Now, Harry is back to blaming himself. Okay, maybe he couldn’t have avoided falling into the trap. Maybe the adults couldn’t either. After all, Voldemort is the evilest, darkest, probably smartest wizard alive. How do they even stand a chance?

That’s the thing, Harry thinks for the hundredth time. He doesn’t stand a chance. It will happen again. People will die again. Harry is too weak, Voldemort too powerful, and everyone in the wizarding community is a bloody coward. How can they even win the war? How can he protect his friends?

“Harry? Harry, what do you think about it?”

“Huh?”

Harry suddenly comes back to the present. Dinner. Right. The meeting. 12 Grimmaud Place’s kitchen seems smaller than usual with so many people crowded around the table. Half the Order is there, Ron and Hermione each sitting on Harry’s side, and everyone is looking at him.

“The house is yours by Sirius’ will,” says Lupin with a careful tone. “You have to agree to this before the decision is official.”

“Uh… Sure, I mean, that’s great,” Harry mumbles. “Sorry, agree to what?”

“Shelter Snape here,” Hermione says softly. Harry hates how much concern leaks from her voice. “Only until the school year starts.”

Harry realises he should have listened to the conversation, but the Order’s debates are usually about recent losses or the Ministry of Magic’s failures, and Harry has heard enough about that for a lifetime.

“Isn’t Voldemort supposed to trust him?” he asks.

“He does,” Arthur Weasley says. “But not all Death Eaters do. Snape has access to crucial Order information, so it’s safer for him to stay here at the moment. Just in case.”

Harry hates the idea of spending his holidays in the same house as his loathed Potion teacher, but the situation is above his personnel preferences.

“Sure, he can stay here,” Harry shrugs. “You can hide whoever you want, I don’t care.”

“Thank you, Harry,” says Mrs Weasley, “but Dumbledore says it’s better to ask you each time anyway. After all, this is now your house, by Sir—”

“Yeah,” Harry cuts her, “I know.”

Every time someone says Sirius’ name he feels a void expanding in his stomach. He also suspects that Dumbledore only makes them ask him so he feels included in the Order’s business, which is as irritating as it is conter-productive.

“With everything happening right now, I sure wish we could hide everyone here,” Mr Weasley says. “But we have to trust that the Ministry will do the necessary.”

Most adults make a nod of approval, which annoys Harry even more. After last year he has trouble trusting the Ministry to do anything.

“Yeah, what are they doing by the way?” he asks in a provocative tone. “Did they arrest any Death Eaters recently, or are they still as useless as ever?”

A cold falls on the assembly. Harry bitterly thinks that they must like it better when he doesn’t speak, but now that he’s started he can’t stop.

“Didn’t Snape tell the Order that Voldemort is at the Malfoy’s? Why can't we just go there? Gather all of the Ministry’s force and just… Attack?”

Everyone starts speaking at the same time, but Harry gets the idea: too dangerous, Snape would be compromised, not enough power, it’s too soon… He lets out a deep, annoyed sigh.

“I don’t even know why you want me to participate in these meetings. You all know what I think. Each day they get stronger and we get more scared. Honestly, it’s ridiculous.”

“Harry,” says Mrs Weasley, “we know you’re still upset about… But please, watch your tone. These times are difficult for everyone.”

“That has nothing to do with Sirius,” Harry snaps. “I’m just saying that these meetings are useless, and I’m fucking useless too!”

“Harry, you’re not,” Hermione says, but he pays her no mind.

“What do you want to do?” Ron asks. “I think you’re right, Harry, we should be doing more, but I just don’t see what. You-Know-Who is the most powerful wizard in the world!”

“That’s why he has to be stopped!” Harry cries out.

“It’s not so easy, boy,” Moody says. “Even if the Ministry wanted to — and you’re right, they won’t ‘cause they’re cowards — even if we all marched on the Malfoy Manor we wouldn't be strong enough to defeat You-Know-Who. He and his goons are using Dark magic, and that’s much dirtier than the kind of magic we’re willing to use.”

“Then maybe we should use Dark magic too,” Harry says sharply.

Mrs Weasley lets out a gasp, while the other adults stare at Harry with grave looks.

“We won’t, Harry,” says Lupin softly, “because that is the difference between us and them.”

“Yeah, and that’s also why we’re all gonna end up dead.”

“Harry, we’re not—” Hermione says.

“I just wish I could do something!” Harry yells in exasperation. “I’d go there myself if I could, and fucking shoot Voldemort with a gun!”

“A what?” Ron asks.

“Hey, that’s actually a good idea,” Harry says. “We could all go there and shoot them. Or drop a bomb, or whatever works. They won’t expect Muggle weapons.”

“We have no proof that Voldemort stays at Malfoy Manor,” says Lupin, “apart from Severus’ information, and that’s not enough for the Ministry. Besides, we could be hurting innocents.”

“Anyway, Harry,” Mrs Weasley adds, “that’s not your responsibility. You’re young and very upset at the moment, you should let the adults handle that.”

Harry gets up so fast that his chair falls back with a loud noise. He can’t stand this conversation anymore.

“Right,” he says, “just like adults always tried to handle everything in my life. And where has this got me, huh? Have fun with your stupid useless meeting.”

Harry storms out of the kitchen and runs up to the green bathroom. It’s the only room with a functional lock, and right now all Harry wants is to be left alone. He hears Ron and Hermione passing in the hallway calling his name but he stays silent, sitting under the small window, bathed in the street lamp’s orange light. The marble floor is cold, a welcome sensation against Harry’s burning skin.

Harry should probably feel guilty about his outburst, but he doesn’t. He actually hopes that it will dissuade them from inviting him to these stupid meetings ever again. He knows very well that the Order is trying its best to protect him, to end the war, to fight Voldemort. But it just isn’t enough. Harry hates being locked in that house, that cold and cursed place, still haunted by Sirius’ memory. He just wishes he could get out and hunt down every single Death Eater, on his own if no one is willing to come along. If he could find Bellatrix and kill her, surely he’d feel just a little better.

Harry falls asleep there, laying on the cold tiles. His dreams are filled with bodies falling very slowly through veiled arches, and he wakes up screaming like every night. At least he won’t wake Ron up, this time. Harry moves from the floor to the bathtub, and only falls back asleep after imagining killing Bellatrix Lestrange in a hundred different ways.

“Harry. Hey, Harry…”

“Wake up, mate!”

Harry’s first thought is to grab his wand and point it at whoever is coming at him. It’s only when he recognises Ron and Hermione that he calms down.

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione sighs. “Did you sleep here all night?”

“Mmmh,” Harry answers. He slowly gets out of the bathtub and rinses his face. The dreams from the night slowly fade, letting him face reality. Almost as cold and desperate, he thinks while sadness tightens his throat.

“You’re gonna have to stop moping for today,” Ron says. “Do you even remember what day it is?”

Harry thinks for a moment. He’s lost track of time since he’s arrived here, but it couldn’t be  time to go back to school, not so soon, right? Or did something happen? Ron and Hermione look like they’re coming back from a funeral, even if they try to hide it with fake smiles.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Hermione finally says in a weak voice.

Harry blinks twice, unsure what to answer. His birthday. Right.

“Thanks. Yeah, great. Uh… Am I supposed to do something particular today?”

“Not really”, Ron says, clearly uneasy. “We just thought it’d be great if you could… You know. Get out of the house a little. Or at least out of your room.”

“I’m not in my room right now.”

“Yeah, well you fell asleep in a bathtub. I don’t think that’s a very good sign.”

Harry battles internally for a moment. Today would be a great day to spend alone, like every other day, but he can see how much his friends worry for him. He forces a fake smile on his face. It’s time to pretend he’s normal.

“Yeah, you’re right. I should stop moping. Give me a minute to change and I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Oh, Harry!”

Hermione gives him a hug, and Ron’s smile finally seems to get real. Harry maintains his happy face until they get out, then he closes the door behind them and sinks to the floor.

He stays like that for a moment before getting back up. He doesn’t want them to worry so much, but having to pretend he’s fine just because it’s his birthday, just so they won’t all be so concerned, is absurd. His godfather died and everyone keeps on acting like he should be over it. Harry finds his behavior more than normal. Well, he can play pretend, if it’s what it takes to make them happy. Just for today.

Harry’s never been the kind of person to take care of his appearance, but this last month he has been looking like he’s living in a trash can. Today he makes an effort to wash, change clothes and even tries to brush his hair, though this effort is quickly abandoned. When he steps into the living room, Mrs Weasley seems so happy that it annoys him even more. While she gives him an oppressive hug he wonders why they even care about how he is. Clearly, what everyone wants is to see him back to normal so they don’t have to worry anymore.

So that’s what Harry does. All day, he plays pretend. He eats and talks and even laughs a little. He plays a set of wizarding chess with Ron, and listens to Hermione rant about her OWLs results. In a way, it is easier.

But the more Harry pretends to be okay, the worse he feels. Something grows inside his throat, making it hard to breathe. Guilt.

Harry sits in front of his gifts, an artificial smile slapped on his face, and all he can think about is how wrong it feels. To have a normal day, a normal life, when a war is happening outside. When the Ministry does nothing and Voldemort keeps on killing people. When Bellatrix is free and Sirius is dead.

Harry just wishes he could do something. Anything that would make a difference, a real one. Instead, he opens his gifts.

Nothing really makes him happy, though he’s touched by the attention. Hermione gives him too many hugs and even Ron pats him on the shoulder. Harry doesn’t snap at them, no matter how much he wants everyone to stop touching him. When he has opened the last gift he feels relieved. Maybe now he can go lock himself up for a little while, before enduring dinner.

“There’s a last gift for you, Harry.”

First, he doesn’t understand why Hermione’s voice is so shaky. Then he sees the package in her hand, and written directly on the brown paper, two words that break him into small, sharp pieces.

From Sirius.

Harry takes the gift out of Hermione’s hand a little too harshly and looks at it for a moment.

“I think… I think I’ll open this in my room.”

“As you want, mate,” Ron says. “We’ll be here if you need us.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

Harry runs, not to his room but to the green bathroom. He locks the door and sits on the cold marble, under the small window. He looks at the package. His heart is pounding strongly in his chest and his breath is short, as if he just ran for an hour.

It’s a book. With this shape, what else could it be? Harry didn’t expect Sirius to give him a book, of all things. He didn’t expect Sirius to give him anything. The idea that his godfather chose and wrapped Harry’s gift months before his birthday makes him feel weak, both lonely and loved. It’s painful. It’s warm. Harry waits a long moment before opening the gift.

Well, it’s a book, as expected. A small but thick volume, covered in black leather, with no inscription at all. Harry opens it and discovers the title on the first page, handwritten in elegant calligraphy.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓸𝓯 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴

A shiver of excitement runs down Harry’s spine. He flips through the first pages and discovers that they’re covered in the same refined handwriting. It’s instructions, he soon understands, instructions for spells. As he studies the next pages, margins filled with notes or drawings, Harry’s heart starts beating faster. Not just spells, he realizes. Dark spells. Dark magic.

He starts reading the first page, which explains how to use the Blasting Curse. Harry mouthes the incantation a few times, Confringo, then skips to the next page, too eager to concentrate on one thing. He skims through the book, discovering that the author also took note of potions, charms and various rituals. All are Dark magic, using rare ingredients, requiring dangerous capacities or even sacrifices. Thank Merlin he didn’t open it in the living room.

Harry feels an aching pain as he reads. Even after his death, Sirius is more helpful to him than anyone alive. Sirius knew that Harry would need more than light magic to face his future, and wasn’t afraid to give Harry exactly what he needed. Sirius didn’t treat him as a kid.

When he arrives at the last page of the book, Harry freezes. It’s not instructions. Just a short paragraph in the same elegant, ancient script.

This book has been written by Regulus Black. If you find it, I beg of you, use it for good. It is the last thing I bring to this world and I know it will be seen as powerful by many, cursed by some. For me it has been a source of hope, which is what I wish to leave behind me. Read carefully. What you need might hide in plain sight.

And right under it, another paragraph, written in a much messier, much more familiar script that immediately makes Harry cry.

Harry, this is the only thing my brother left me. It’s the only thing that makes me believe that maybe he was not as dark and lost as I thought. I loved him very much, no matter what he became. I think you two would have been good friends if you met him at 16. You don’t like playing by the rules either. That’s good. I love that about you. You’re bold and kind. You’re also much stronger than you think. Like he said, use this book for good. I know you’ll find a way. Love, Sirius.

Harry cries for a long time. He reads the note again and again, imagining Sirius write it, still alive, a long time ago. When he gets out of the bathroom, his head hurts, but something in his eyes shifted.

They’re right. Harry has mourned for enough time. Sirius is dead, murdered by a crazy bitch, and he cannot do anything about it. Even vengeance won’t bring his godfather back.

What Harry can do, though, is stop more deaths from happening. He can fight, and he will. He knows just from reading a few pages that the curses hidden in the book are much more powerful than most of the spells they teach him at school. He knows, too, that this is a precious insight on Death Eaters' means and strategy. From what he remembers, Sirius told him Reggulus was a follower of Voldemort. Could he have been a spy? Harry’s not sure of anything, but he carefully hides the book in his trunk, under a pile of others, then walks down to dinner.

The whole Weasley family is already there and greet him kindly. Nobody asks about the gift. It’s better this way, because Harry knows he would have had to lie to keep it.

He spends the dinner pretty silent, not in a foul mood but rather pensive. He even endures the singing and the cake, thanking everyone almost warmly. When everyone gets up and starts shattering through the house, Harry follows the Weasley twins.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” answers Fred. “It’s a rare sight to spot you outside of your room, mother says.”

“We must be lucky,” continues Georges. “But we wouldn’t want to push our luck by having a full conversation.”

Harry manages a weak smile.

“Look, uh… I have something to ask.”

“Something perfectly innocent, I presume, by the way you’re watching behind your shoulder?”

“Yeah, hum, not really. I wanted to know if it’s possible to overcome the Ministry’s Trace over underage magic.”

Both twins raise an eyebrow, look at each other, then back at Harry.

“Mister Potter,” Georges says, “please come into our office.”

They push Harry into the room where they’re staying for the night. Even though they now live in Diagon Alley, just above their shop, they still use the room from time to time, explaining the mess. Harry sits on a bed while the twins sit on the other, watching him with a smile.

“We thought you’d never ask,” says Fred.

“One year before the Trace is lifted, that’s a shame,” adds George.

“But we figured you needed to go at your own pace.”

“Besides, you would have told Ron about it, and taken away one of our advantages over him.”

“Right,” says Harry, a bit confused. “So there is a way, and you know it?”

“Yes,” say both twins in one voice.

“Do you have any idea how useful that would have— anyway, nevermind. How do I do it?”

Harry spends the next hour watching the twins tamper his wand. At some point Ron tries to get in, but he renounces when greeted with the Bat Bogey Hex. When Harry gets his wand back he sees no change at all, but the twins look extremely satisfied.

“Happy birthday, Harry.”

“Hope you’re gonna make good use of this one.”

“I will,” Harry promises.

He doesn’t say that he plans on training for the Dark Arts. He’s not sure the twins would disapprove, but it feels safer to keep the entire matter a secret. He thanks them profusely, then goes looking for Ron and Hermione. They spend a nice evening together, the best in a very long time. Harry says nothing about Sirius or the twins’ gifts. Maybe he’ll tell them tomorrow.

Late that night, when everyone goes to sleep, Harry gets out of bed and locks himself up in the green bathroom, a small but thick black book in his hand. Harry reads once more Sirius’ note, then flips through the pages.

That night, he learns his first Dark curse.

Over the next few days Harry’s mood improves drastically. If he’s almost as silent as before, he’s less snappy and overall much better company. That is, when he’s to be found at all.

Harry now spends most of his time locked up in the bathroom, the only place in the house where he feels safe enough to take out the Book of Dark and study it. He starts slowly, still worried that the Ministry will find out about him doing underage magic. But as nothing happens, Harry gets bolder.

He learns easily how to cast Marbellus, a curse turning any matter into stone. Harry can only guess what it could do if cast on a living being. He spends merely half an hour on Reptilium Invocatio before managing to apparate an black snake, that does not answer when he speaks Parseltongue but apparently understands, since it gets out of the window when Harry politely asks it to leave. Hologamus is a success from the first try, and Harry admires the thick smoke that surrounds him for a moment, imagining all the situations in which it could be useful. Harry quickly decides to try more difficult and aggressive curses, and spends a few days on Nullaqua, a curse turning water to ice so far below zero that a mere brush leaves a wound on Harry’s skin. Again, he can only imagine the effects on a human body. 

There’s something different about this kind of magic, Harry can sense it distinctly now. Not only is it much easier for him than most Charm lessons he had at school, but there’s also a warmth in the learning. Like a sensation that the magic is working with him, which is very pleasant after years feeling like he’s fighting with the magic to manage any new spell.

Every day Harry gets out of the bathroom exhausted, sometimes hurt, but content. He finally feels like he’s not wasting his time — on the contrary. Learning Dark spells makes him just a little more confident that next time he’ll face Death Eaters, he’ll be able to hurt them really badly, like they deserve. It also gives him a wide range of new fantasies on how he’ll kill Bellatrix Lestrange.

As the days go by Harry turns to darker and darker spells. There are many fascinating curses he can’t try in the tiny bathroom, like Insanire, Fiendfyre or Confringo, as they would likely damage the house. Harry still learns the incantations by heart, hoping that he’ll be able to remember them when the right time comes. He’s even starting to get excited about going back to Hogwarts, already planning to use the Room of Requirement to practice.

In the meantime, he works hard on Timornox, casting a darkness filled by terrifying noises and visions; then moves on to Sella Mordere, inflicting deep bites on himself. It hurts, of course, but Harry sees this as an occasion to perfectionate his Episkey. Harry’s sanity and health are more and more compromised as he gets deeper into the book, but he’s the only one available to test his discoveries.

He still hasn’t told anything to anyone, and when his friends or Mrs Weasley ask, Harry just says he’s reading, which is not entirely false.

Tonight, like every other as soon as Ron is asleep, Harry gets the book out of its hiding place to read by wandlight. He has started taking notes as well, in the little spaces still available in the margins. He has almost read the whole book front to back, and the magic described only gets darker as he approaches the end. He’s now reading about blood rituals, necromancy and various horrifying things that Harry is sure to never use. Compared to these pages, the ones about the Unforgivable Cruses seem almost innocent.

It’s nearly three in the morning when Harry reads the word Horcrux for the first time. At this point, Regulus Black’s handwriting is less clean, sometimes even shaky, like he wrote in a state of hurry. Harry’s eyes grow wider as he reads, and he has to refrain himself from screeching when he gets to the end of the page.

To create a Horcrux, one has to split their very soul. It can only be achieved by committing deliberate and conscious murder, without any remorse or compassion. The damaged soul can then be encased into an object, containing and protecting it. If the original body was to be destroyed, the soul fragment it held would continue to exist in the living world as a ghost-like form. As long as the object remains intact, the maker of the Horcrux cannot die, as their body is not any longer the sole carrier of their soul. 

Harry has to stop there. He has to put down the book, turn off his wand and lay on his back for a long, long time.

He has no proof, no way to be sure of anything, but he knows. He just knows that Voldemort created a Horcrux, because how else could he have survived after years of hiding as a spectrum? How else could he be invincible, coming back to life by creating himself a new body from scratch?

When Harry resumes his reading, he discovers the whole process necessary to create a Horcrux. It is a sickening read, but the last doubts he had vanish instantly. Everything checks. It’s only when the sun starts rising, when daylight gets inside the room, that Harry notices, at the bottom of the page, a word that makes his heart skip a beat.

𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓁?

Harry gets up and sits under the window, to read the note again in better lighting. Several. It cannot mean what Harry thinks it means. Several?

Harry can’t wait any longer. He goes up to Ron’s bed and shakes him as softly as he can, which is rather violently.

“Hmmm. What d’you want…?”

“Ron, wake up. It’s important. Wake up!”

Harry finally manages to get Ron out of bed and drags him through the stairs up to Hermione’s room.

“What the hell, Harry?” asks a very sleepy Ron.

“Stay here and don’t fall back asleep.”

When Harry comes out of the room with Hermione, Ron is still standing but snoring softly. Hermione, who’s much more alert, wakes him up again. Harry is practically shaking from excitement as they follow him to the green bathroom.

“Harry, is everything alright?” Hermione asks.

“It’s brilliant, Hermione, just brilliant. I found Voldemort’s secret to immortality.”

“Ha, ha,” snorts Ron, rather unhappy to have been woken up.

“No, I’m serious!” Harry says. He gets the book out from underneath his shirt, immediately capturing Hermione’s attention. Ron only takes the matter seriously when he manages to fully open his eyes and see the look on Harry’s face.

“Here,” says Harry, the book opened on the Horcrux page. “Read that. Read that and tell me it’s not exactly what Voldemort did.”

Hermione finishes the reading first and looks at Harry with wide eyes. Ron lets out a loud gasp when he gets to the end of the page, and all three look at each other in silence for a moment.

“Harry,” says Hermione slowly, “I think you’re right. It matches perfectly. If it’s really true, then this is a great discovery. It could change everything!”

“That’s crazy,” Ron nods in approval. “Where the hell did you get that book?”

“It was Siruis’ gift,” Harry says. “His brother Regulus wrote it. He was a Death Eater, I think.”

“Merlin’s balls,” croaks Ron. “Harry, this is nuts. You could beat You-Know-Who with this information! Does the book say how to destroy a Horcrux?”

“No, it doesn’t, but there has to be a way.”

“Yeah. So if we found the Horcrux and how to destroy it, then we could kill Voldemort, right?”

“I think it might be a little more complicated than that,” Harry says slowly. He points his finger to the bottom of the page, showing the discreet one word note. This time it’s Hermione’s turn to gasp.

“Several? Oh god, that’s insane. Harry, do you really think…?”

“That would just make sense,” Harry answers with a somber tone. “We already know he’s killed multiple people. We know he’s ready to do anything to survive. Regulus clearly knew Voldemort, he could have found out.”

“But why would he even research that? Why would a Death Eater try to uncover Voldemort’s secret?”

Harry turns to the very last page and lets his friends read Regulus and Sirius’ notes. He doesn’t. He’s not sure he can read it without crying, and now is not the moment.

“Regulus wrote ‘use it for good’, and Sirius says the book made him believe his brother was not as dark as he thought. And look at that: ‘what you need might hide in plain sight’. It could be a hint. Maybe Regulus was trying to defeat Voldemort!”

“Maybe, Harry, maybe,” Hermione says with bright eyes.

“If only Sirius was here,” Harry says, his eyes welling up. ‘He would have known. Maybe he even knew about the Horcrux… Maybe Regulus told him something… And now they’re both dead.”

Hermione hugs him tightly but Harry holds back his tears. Ron is examining the book, when suddenly he looks at them with a grin on his face.

“Kreacher knew Regulus, right?”

Harry and Hermione look at him for a stunned second, then the three of them call in unison:

“Kreacher!”

The house-elf appears with a loud pop and a displeased look on his face.

“Master,” he says without a look for Harry.

“Kreacher, what do you know about Horcruxes?” Harry asks immediately.

“Kreacher does not know about such a thing.”

“Okay, huh… You knew Regulus, right?”

“My dear Master Regulus,” Kreacher says as his shoulders drop. “Poor, poor Master Regulus…”

“Kreacher, we really need your help,” Harry says as softly as he can, sensing the elf’s emotion. “Did Regulus ever talk about an object, a cursed object, or maybe something about Voldemort?”

The house-elf shudders hearing this name. “Kreacher cannot talk about it. Master Regulus told him to keep it secret, to hide it.”

“To hide what? Kreacher, to hide what?”

“Kreacher cannot say!”

“Listen,” Harry says with as much patience as he can. “This is important. We are trying to finish what Regulus started. He wanted to find this object, right? We need to find it too, because… Because that’s what Regulus would have wanted, wouldn’t he?”

“It must stay a secret… It must remain hidden, Kreacher should have destroyed it long ago, it should not be remembered!”

The three friends exchange a look. Hermione gets down to be at Kreacher’s height and speaks in a quiet voice.

“Kreatcher, I know this is very scary but… We are trying to destroy this object, too. We want to help you, and help Master Regulus. Would you tell us what object it is? Please?”

Kreacher has a little spasm toward Hermione, not forgetting she is Muggleborn, but her words clearly got to him. He seems to hold back for a moment, then suddenly the words he held back for years fall out of his mouth.

“Master Regulus d-drank all of the potion… Master Regulus did it so Kreatcher wouldn’t have to do it again… He took Kreatcher to the Dark Lord’s cave and he drank all of the potion… Master Regulus gave the locket to Kreacher to destroy it, then he… He… Master R-Regulus was dragged into the lake… And Kreacher went home but he could not destroy the locket, Kreacher couldn’t, he couldn’t!”

“A locket,” Harry repeats, his heart beating faster. “What did it look like? Where is it now?”

“Cannot say, Kreacher cannot say…”

“Guys,” Hermione says with an urging tone. “Remember when we cleaned the house last summer?”

“Merlin’s balls,” Ron says. “There was a locket. Nobody could open it. We threw it away… Kreacher, did you keep it? What did you know? Speak!”

“Master Regulus switched the lockets, he drank the potion and dropped another locket into the basin and he gave Kreatcher the real one… Dark, dark object, Kreacher could not destroy it…”

“Do you have it? Where is it?” Harry asks, physically restraining himself from shaking the house-elf like a bag.

Kreacher suddenly disappears with a loud ‘pop’. Harry groans in frustration and kicks the bathtub, only to let out a painful yell.

“Harry, calm down,” Hermione says. “We have learned so much already! Regulus was trying to defeat Voldemort, and he found this locket, which might be the same we saw here last summer…”

“Yeah, and right now we don’t know where it is! Anyone could have—”

Another loud ‘pop’ interrupts Harry. Kreacher’s back, his tiny fist gripping something. Something gold. The three friends look at him with wide eyes, then Harry puts an open hand in front of the elf.

“Kreacher,” he says with a shaking voice, “I promise that we’ll do everything we can to fulfill Regulus’ last wish. Can you please give me the locket?”

Slowly, Kreatcher opens his hand and puts the locket into Harry’s.

Harry feels it immediately. The power emanating from that tiny object, the darkness of it. It’s heavy in his hand, but not cold at all, like it’s infused with life. A serpentine ‘S’ ornates the front, encrusted with shiny green stones. Harry can almost imagine a real, tiny snake sleeping on the piece of jewellery to guard it.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry hears Hermione say, but he’s not present in the room anymore. The locket has his entire attention.

“Hey, can I see it?”

Harry hesitates for a little too long before giving the locket to Ron. He can see how Ron gets fascinated too, taking a closer and closer look almost as if it was a magnet; but he gives it to Hermione immediately when she asks. Harry finally gets it back and holds it tight in his fist.

“Kreacher,” Harry says in a low voice, “can you please tell us everything you know about it?”

And so Kreacher does. The three of them sit on the bathroom’s cold floor, listening closely to Kreacher and Regulus’ story. When the elf is done he is crying and shaking, but not afraid anymore. Towards the end, Harry even manages to make him smile, saying that Regulus would have been very proud of him.

The day has dawned when they get out of the bathroom. Harry puts the locket around his neck and hides it under his shirt, feeling its warm heaviness against his skin. It’s a strange feeling, knowing he has a tiny part of Voldemort’s soul so close to his heart.

Breakfast is quiet. Harry, Ron and Hermione are lost in their thoughts, answering Mrs Weasley’s questions from time to time but mostly exchanging silent looks. The food is unusually tasty, proof of Kreacher’s excellent mood. When Hermione starts debating with Ron about house-elf treatment, Harry stays silent.

He could swear the locket is beating against his skin, like a second heart.

Chapter Text

After discovering the locket Harry spends a lot more time with his friends. They mostly hang out in Harry and Ron’s room, talking about Horcruxes. Hermione looks for Dark magic books in the Black library but she finds no other mention of Horcruxes. When she tries to convince Harry to show Regulus’ book to adults he systematically refuses.

“I don’t even understand why you’re so defensive about that book.”

“That’s the last thing Sirius gave me, Hermione.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?”

“Can we not do this again?” mumbles Ron.

Hermione pays him no mind. It’s the third time this week that they’re having this argument, and each time Harry gets a little more aggressive. At the moment they’re sitting in the living room, pretending to clean. Well, they should be actually cleaning, but their whispered argument is getting too distracting to work.

“Showing it to someone could be a great way to find more information!” Hermione insists.

“Yeah, and a great way to get it confiscated.”

“Harry, I really don’t think it would be such a bad thing. That book is dangerous. You shouldn’t keep it hidden.”

“That book is currently my only hope to defeat Voldemort.”

“That’s not true! I’m sure Dumbledore…”

“Don’t start with Dumbledore again. Even if he knows about Horcruxes, he never cared to share. And if he doesn’t, then this book is my only clue. I’ve never seen any mention of Horcruxes anywhere else.”

“This is exactly why it’s dangerous! Horcruxes are very, very Dark magic, Harry…”

“I know that, but there are other things in the book, spells that could be useful.”

“They’re still Dark magic!”

“Why does everyone spits on Dark magic?” Harry snaps. “We’re in a war! We need to use every tool we have!”

They fall silent for a moment, Ron dusting distractedly, Harry scrubbing aggressively, and Hermione looking at him with squirting eyes.

“Have you actually… Harry, have you tried any of these spells?”

Ron stops dusting and slowly turns to Harry, who scrubs even more intensely.

“That would make a lot of sense,” Ron says. “So, did you?”

Harry stays silent for a moment, pretending to care about some spot on the table’s leg. Lying would be easy. It would be the best choice, the only way to ensure they’ll leave him alone. Without noticing, Harry clenches his free hand in a fist around the locket he’s now wearing night and day. Just a little lie won’t hurt. They’ll never understand anyway.

“Harry?”

“I didn’t do it, okay?” Harry finally snaps. “Why can’t you fucking leave me alone?”

It’s only when he turns to his friends that he realises they look… Scared. Harry suddenly wonders if he spoke louder than he meant to. He slowly gains awareness of his scattered breath. His fist is so tight around the locket it hurts.

“Harry… I think you should take it off.”

Harry looks at Ron with confusion. Why does his face seem so unfamiliar suddenly? Why does Harry feel the need to push Ron away, push him hard? For a second he sees himself doing it, but he resists the urge.

“Hey, it’s okay. Let me just… Let me just take it for a second, alright?”

In Harry’s mind everything is blurry. He shouldn’t let anyone take the locket, it’s his, only his! But Ron approaches Harry very slowly, with gentle movements, and Harry recognises his best friend. Ron opens his clutched hand and takes the locket off his neck.

Harry suddenly feels like he’s breathing again. He feels like he just took off a cloak made of lead, or that he’s getting pulled out of deep water. 

“Are you okay?” Hermione asks in a small voice.

Harry blinks, then nods. He now fully realises that he lied to his two best friends, the only people he could always tell everything to. Why did he do that? He doesn’t want to do that.

“I think Dark magic comes easily to me,” he says in a breath.

They all stay silent for a moment. Ron put the locket aside but Harry’s eyes are still drawn to it like a coin to a magnet.

“So, you did try,” Hermione says.

“Yes. I… I learned a few spells. Not really… I mean, they are dangerous, but I won’t use them in a bad way. I want to be able to defend myself, that’s all.”

“God, Harry,” Hermione says. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I knew you would try to stop me, and I don’t want to stop. You don’t understand, Hermione, it’s so easy! I just feel like… Knowing these curses, it feels natural. It feels safe.”

“Of course we’d try to stop you! Harry, do you hear yourself? You’re already under the influence! Just look at what this horrible locket does to you!”

“It’s not the same. The locket is wicked, but not all Dark magic is.”

“Of course it is! It’s illegal for a reason, Harry! Ron, tell him!”

Ron looks at Harry with a frown, then sighs.

“I don’t know, Hermione,” he says. “I don’t like it, but I think Harry’s right. We’re in a war, and well… He’s basically the main target. If I was him I’d turn to radical means too.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry says with a slight smile.

Hermione lets out a frustrated groan.

“You’re not helping, Ronald.”

“Just saying what I think.”

“Well, at least promise that you won’t wear the locket again,” Hermione says. “I really don’t like what it’s doing to you. We should destroy it as soon as we can.”

“Of course we should,” Harry says, “but we don’t know how.”

“I still think we should tell Dumbledore. I know you’re angry at him, but he’s always tried to help you, Harry.”

Harry groans, but he can’t deny she’s right. Dumbledore has always been on his side, even if it wasn’t always in the way Harry needed.

“Look, I’ll tell Dumbledore, I promise. As soon as we’re back to school, I’ll show him the book and the locket. And… I won’t wear it anymore.”

“Oh, Harry, thank you. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Yeah, if you say so.”

They quickly change the subject and focus back on cleaning, but Harry’s mind is elsewhere. He’s sure that Dumbledore won’t let him keep the book and it doesn’t seem fair. Using Dark magic hasn’t caused Harry any harm, on the contrary. It makes him feel better, stronger. Learning helps him think about something else than Sirius for a little while. Ron understands that, at least. And Hermione… Well, she's just worried, but she’s always been the kind of person who plays by the rules. Harry shouldn’t blame her, yet he does.

He might have taken the necklace off, but his anger isn’t completely gone.

The next morning, Snape arrives at 12 Grimmauld Place. Even though he avoids everyone in the house, except Order members when necessary, Harry spends less time with his friends and more in the green bathroom. He can make an effort to be nice to the Weasleys, but every time he sees Snapes in the hallways the urge to punch him in the face gets stronger, and Harry knows however tempting, he can’t do it.

So Harry focuses on training, finding a bit of comfort in the pleasant feeling Dark magic provides him. He is currently working on something called the Isolation Curse, a complex but powerful protection against any kind of magic. Harry has now read the entire book but he can cast no more than a dozen curses, and only the easiest ones. It doesn’t seem nearly enough. He wishes he could try them all, as well as some potions and rituals that keep catching his attention, but as long as he’s in the Order’s headquarters it’s just impossible.

To make matters worse, the darker his dreams are getting, the more real they feel. He doesn’t see Siruis’ death anymore, but himself, wand in hand, killing people. Tonight it’s a middle aged woman, mind damaged beyond repair, useless to Harry, alive at least. Once he’s killed her he’ll feed her to his snake, but before that he has to finish the ritual. Delicious, terrible ritual… When his soul is torn to yet another, smaller fragment, when the pain splits him from the inside, burning his mind blank, Harry wakes up screaming like his lungs are being torn out.

“It started again,” he tells Ron when he’s finally able to speak. “I dream through Voldemort’s eyes, just like last year.”

“Weren’t you seeing through the snake’s eyes last year?”

“It’s the same thing,” Harry says, and he’s as confused as Ron as these words fall from his mouth.

“We’ll get you a Sleeping Draught when we go to Diagon Alley, ‘kay?”

Harry nods, but the next night he wakes up screaming so loud that even Mrs Weasley comes into the room to see what’s happening.

Harry doesn’t tell her he saw himself killing the green-eyed baby again, a laugh that isn't really his coming out of his throat. He doesn’t tell anyone how much it hurts when he feels himself being torn apart.

“We’ll go to Diagon Alley today,” Mrs Weasley tells him with a worried smile on her face. “Try to sleep for another hour, dear.”

Harry doesn’t. He thinks about the locket, hidden in his trunk. He can almost sense it from the bed. He thinks about the night his parents died, and he thinks about the first time he spoke to a snake.

Later that morning, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Mrs Weasley leave for Diagon Alley. The Floo takes them directly to the Leaky Cauldron and they split ways from there, each going to shop for the upcoming school year.

The Alley is mostly empty and much bleaker than usual. People walk fast, looking over their shoulder, and only Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes brings a little joy to the street. But even in the twins’ colorful shop, Harry feels uneasy. One idea crawled in his mind the moment he set foot in the Alley, and he can’t seem to get rid of it.

“Hey, can we meet at the Cauldron? I have to go to Gringotts real quick,” Harry tells Ron and Hermione by the end of the morning.

“Of course, Harry.”

He doesn’t notice his friends’ suspicious looks as he walks out of the shop.

As soon as he’s sure nobody is looking, Harry gets under the Cloak of Invisibility and starts walking opposite to Gringotts. It doesn’t take long before he steps in a much shallower street, even emptier than Diagon Alley. Knockturn Alley looks murkier than usual, which Harry did not believe possible, but he’s not going to turn back now.

He enters the first bookshop he sees, holding his breath as the librarian inspects the door. After she decides it must have been the wind, the small mouse-faced woman goes back to reading at her desk.

Harry hesitates for a moment. There are way too many books to start looking at every one of them and it’s not like he can ask for advice. Luckily a customer comes in and distracts the librarian. Harry doesn’t let himself think for too long. He might not have another chance.

“Accio Horcrux books,” he says under his breath.

One book immediately falls out of the highest shelf and charges towards Harry. The librarian and the tall customer immediately turn around, their eyes following the seemingly flying book. Harry grabs it and runs to the door, not trying to be discreet anymore. On his way out he looks at the customer for a split second. His heart misses a beat when he recognises a man he last saw the night Sirius died. Nott Senior, notorious Voldemort follower and certified Death Eater.

A flash of black light misses Harry by very little right before he gets through the door. Even if he’s invisible, the book is still outside of the cape and in the second it takes Harry to hide it a second curse flies. This time, it hits him hard.

Harry falls on the ground, petrified but still invisible. Adrenaline rushes through his veins. He still has his wand in hand, he can’t move his lips, but if only he could… Harry’s mind goes empty, except for two words. Finite Incantatum. Finite Incantatum, Finite Incantatum…

Harry feels the curse dissipate right before Nott gets out of the shop. He gets back on his feets and runs towards Diagon Alley, but suddenly his feet appear. Harry turns around and sees Nott holding his Cloak in hand.

“Accio Cloak!” Harry screams and thankfully the shimmery fabric flies right to him.

He starts running again but a dark silhouette suddenly materializes in front of him, blocking the exit of Knockturn Alley. Pale blond hair, expensive clothing and the most despicable face Harry has seen all day — it’s Lucius Malfoy, a large grin on his face. Harry stops abruptly, caught between the two Death Eaters.

“Well, well, Potter. Did no one warn you not to wander alone in a place like this? In times like this? Good morning, Nott.”

“Good morning, Malfoy. That little cockroach was stealing, can you believe this?” says Nott behind Harry.

“I certainly can,” Lucius Malfoy answers.

Harry looks all around, but none of the rare passers-by seem determined to help. The two Death Eaters step closer and Harry’s hands tighten around his wand.

“Doing underage magic, Potter? Aren’t you afraid to be summoned by the Wizengamot, again?” spits Lucius Malfoy.

“Aren’t you scared to spend the rest of your life in Azkaban?” Harry spits back.

“You won’t be so insolent when the Dark Lord—”

“Get away from him!”

Harry lets out a strangled breath when two familiar faces appear behind Malfoy Senior. Ron and Hermione both have their wands out, pointed on the man’s back.

“Ah, the vermin’s never far,” Malfoy says with a grin. “What a perfect occasion to finish what I started at the Ministry.”

Before any of the teenagers can react, he breathes a curse and a flashing light flies, hitting Ron with full force, projecting him against the wall. Hermione runs to him with a scream. Harry watches Malfoy turn his wand to her and his brain goes blank again.

“Insanire!” he screams.

The curse hits Malfoy right in the head, and for a moment he seems to freeze. Then his eyes widen, his wand falls out of his hand and he crumbles to his knees. A muffled scream escapes his mouth, growing louder by the second. Harry quickly turns around and without missing a beat points his wand towards Nott.

“Sella Mordere!”

Nott lets out a painful yelp, a bitemark appearing on his face. He screams a curse that Harry doesn’t hear, covered by a Protego! screamed behind him. Nott’s curse ricochets right in front of Harry’s eyes.

“Protego!” Hermione shouts again as the Death Eater yells another incantation.

Harry runs to her and lifts Ron, who isn’t moving at all. Harry doesn’t look at Lucius Malfoy but hears his screams, now spine-chilling. They run out of the alley, Hermione shouting another Protego as Nott casts a curse in their direction again.

“Behind me! Now!”

Mrs Weasley seems to appear out of nowhere, but before she can intervene the two Death Eaters disapparate, Nott taking a still screaming Malfoy with him.

Both alleys fall back to silence and the last passers-by disappear in the shadows. Harry finally takes a full breath.

“Ron, are you okay?” he says anxiously as he lays his friend down. “Ron!”

But Ron does not answer. His eyes are open but apart from that he seems deeply asleep, not reacting even when Harry gives him gentle slaps.

“Oh, my boy, my little boy!” Mrs Weasley cries.

She hugs her son tightly, examines him, tries a few spells, but Ron does not move. When Mrs Weasley turns to Harry he suddenly understands why Ron can be so afraid of his mother. She seems so angry that for a moment, Harry thinks that facing a Death Eater would be easier.

“What happened? What were you thinking? Going to Knockturn Alley at a time like this? What happened, Harry? What did they do to my Ronnie?”

Familiar faces soon apparate to help, having to force Ron out of Mrs Weasley’s arms. The teenagers are put under Lupin’s responsibility while Mrs Weasley accompanies Ron to St Mungo along with a Healer. Harry, Hermione and Ginny are not allowed to come.

The next hour is mostly screams.

Harry is sitting in Grimmauld’s dusty sofa, half a dozen adults around him, yelling at each other at full volume. Ginny and Hermione are sitting on the opposite side of the room, whispering to each other with grave faces.

“How could I have known that he’d go headfirst into Knockturn Alley? I was alone with them, Alastor, I couldn’t possibly watch all of them at the same, they were supposed to be responsible—”

“No one is blaming you, Molly, I’m just saying I won’t let it happen again.”

“I don’t know why I even let him out in the first place, he’s clearly not in his right mind these days! And now my little boy is in the hospital…”

“Well we can’t just let Harry rot in here!”

“What do you suggest, Remus, that we let him run his errands in Death Eaters territory?”

Harry listens to them speak about him like he’s not there. The Dark magic book he stole is open wide on the table, undeniable proof of his actions. Saying Harry feels awful would be an understatement. The little information the Healers could give them isn’t encouraging. Apparently Ron is placed in some kind of magical coma, but they haven’t identified the responsible curse yet.

Harry feels guilty, of course, at the idea that his friend got hurt because of him. But the anger is stronger.

He’s angry at himself. It’s not regret for his actions, not at all. He still thinks that getting the book was necessary. No, he’s angry at his weakness, at the fact that he did not attack Lucius Malfoy sooner, that he even let him point his wand at his friends. Hell, Harry could just have Stupefixed Nott and the librarian, and no one would have ever known.

“Headmaster, at last!”

Harry brusquely raises his head as all voices fade. Dumbledore walks through the door, the Order’s members stepping aside to let him through.

“Good evening.”

Dumbledore sounds exhausted. Then his eyes meet Harry’s and regain their usual sharpness. “I’d like to talk with Harry, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Headmaster,” Mr Weasley says with a sigh. “This conversation’s heading nowhere anyway.”

Dumbledore sees the book opened on the table and reaches for it with his left hand. Only then Harry notices that his right hand is dark and crumpled, looking like a rotting corpse. Dumbledore quickly gets back to the door and then stops there, obviously waiting. Harry stands up with a sigh and follows him out of the room. He can hear the conversation pick up right where it stopped a second after closing the door behind him.

“Let’s sit in the drawing room, shall we?”

Dumbledore settles down in an armchair next to the lifeless fireplace. Harry just stands several steps away, his whole body tense. Dumbledore’s good hand is still holding the book, and he looks at it for a moment before raising his eyes to Harry.

“How are you, Harry?”

“I’m okay.” Harry answers fast.

“I’m glad you weren’t injured.”

“Yeah. Ron is, though.”

“Yes, but I assure you St Mungo’s Healers are doing everything they can to wake him up.”

“Did you talk to them? Did they find the counter-curse?”

“Not yet, but do not worry, Ronald is in good hands.”

Harry hates the way Dumbledore is looking at him. The concern is annoying, but what Harry dislikes the most is that wary tone, so careful, so polite, so controlled. His worry turns to bitterness. Once again, no one is willing to tell him anything.

“Harry, I must ask. Why did you—”

“Do you know what a Horcrux is, sir?”

Harry spoke fast, in a cutting tone. Dumbledore looks at him for a moment, surprise flashing in his eyes.

“I do,” he finally answers.

“Do you know that Voldemort made Horcruxes?”

Dumbledore’s eyes widen again, in a barely noticeable way, but Harry is paying attention. He will not be lied to again.

“I do.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Harry, I—”

“Don’t you think it’s exactly the kind of information you shouldn’t hold back from me? Or did you hide it for my own good, like you did with the prophecy? Is this your fucked up way of protecting me? Keeping me in the dark, again? It worked so damn well last time!”

“I understand your anger, Harry—”

“Oh, you understand. That’s just great. That’s fucking great! If you understand me so well, WHY DO YOU KEEP LYING TO ME?”

Harry notices that he’s shaking. He notices that his hands are closed in thigh fists, ready to fight, begging to hit. He’s not sure how but he also senses the locket all the way from his room. Its warmth, its power, making his thoughts turn sour.

“Fucking say something!” Harry shouts.

“Voldemort had planned to create seven Horcruxes,” Dumbledore says in a quiet voice.

Harry lets out a breath, then takes in another one. He forces himself to calm down a little — just a little, because he is absolutely not ready to forgive Dumbledore — but this phrase has piqued his interest. He sits on the sofa, not too close to Dumbledore’s armchair, his fists still thigh.

“How do you know?” he asks.

“I have been studying this matter for a very long time now. I know you would have wished to hear about it sooner, and I indeed intended to tell you about it, Harry. It simply didn’t seem to be the right time, so soon after your loss.”

“You can skip the apology,” Harry says dryly. “Tell me more about the Horcruxes.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“Everything. I know how to make them, and I know that’s how Voldemort survived after he tried to kill me.”

Dumbledore looks at the book from Knockturn Alley with a strange sadness, then turns back to Harry.

“Then you surely know that it is one of the darkest forms of magic made by man. To create a Horcrux is a terrible thing to do, Harry, but to make seven… It is beyond madness. Voldemort has created a protection by dividing his soul, being almost immortal as long as the Horcruxes are intact. But he has also lost everything that made him human. No one can stay sane when one’s mind is so… shattered.”

“So… Does it weaken him?”

“In a way, it does. But not in a way he cares for.”

“Is he invincible, then?”

“He is not. The Horcruxes are nearly indestructible, but they can be destroyed nonetheless. In fact, you have already destroyed one.”

“What?” Harry says, astonished. “I have?”

“Tom Riddle’s journal was not an ordinary diary, Harry. There is no other book to my knowledge that holds the capacity to completely take over someone’s soul and body.”

“Holy shit,” Harry says.

The memories hit him like a wave. Tom Jedusor standing in the Chamber of Secrets, speaking to him like he was actually there. The faint memory slowly getting stronger, stealing Ginny’s essence. An image made out of ink commanding the Basilisk like only a powerful wizard could.

“Basilisk venom,” Harry suddenly exclaims. “That’s what destroyed the journal!”

“Yes. Horcruxes can be destroyed by basilisk venom.”

“And what else?”

Harry is devastated to see Dumbledore’s face drop a little.

“I know of no other way, Harry. But I am still studying the matter.”

Harry lets out an incredulous laugh.

“Are you serious? There’s no other way? Well, that’s just great, because I happen to have an unlimited supply of Basilisk venom! That’s going to be a lot easier than I thought!”

“Should I understand you have begun hunting for the Horcruxes, Harry?”

“Yeah, I mean, I just learned about them. I didn’t even know he made seven.”

“Would you mind telling me how you learned about this matter in the first place?”

Harry thinks fast. He hasn’t forgotten his situation, and knows that Dumbledore is here primarily because of the Knockturn incident. Having stolen a Dark Arts book is bad enough, but using Dark Arts surely isn’t something the Headmaster would approve. Harry is grateful that Hermione didn’t tell anyone about the curses he used against the Death Eaters, but he can’t be sure she won’t speak if asked. What he’s sure of, on the other hand, is that he is not ready to give up Regulus’ Book of Dark.

“There was a book in the Black library,” Harry lies with a steady voice, “that described the creation of a Horcrux. I immediately thought of Voldemort, because it said that even if the main body is killed, the creator keeps on existing in a spectral form. But the book had some kind of protection, and when I tried to read the next page it caught fire.”

“Is that so?” asks Dumbledore in a tone that isn’t exactly questioning. “And what was that book?”

“It didn’t have any title. It was just a big, black book. Nothing special about it, really.”

Harry expects Dumbledore to ask more questions about the fake book, but he doesn’t.

“Have you discovered anything else about Voldemort’s Horcruxes?” he asks instead.

“No. I told you, I just found out about this,” Harry says sharply.

A moment of silence grows between them. Harry tries his best to keep calm, hoping that Dumbledore believes him. For some reason lying about the locket seems like the obvious right choice to Harry. One thing still bothers him, though.

“Sir, there’s something else. I’m having dreams again.”

Dumbledore slightly leans forwards.

“Are you seeing through Nagini’s eyes?”

“No. I’m… I’m seeing through his eyes. I mean it’s my eyes, but… I am Voldemort.”

The silence gets thicker.

“In my dreams,” Harry adds. “I’m Voldemort in my dreams.”

He’s not sure why he feels obligated to give that precision.

“And what do you see?”

“Sometimes it’s Sirius. His— his death. But I think these are not the same kind of dreams. Lately, it’s been… I’m seeing the night my parents died. And other deaths, too.”

He can’t look in Dumbledore’s eye anymore. Like a white noise in the back of his mind, Harry senses the locket humming faintly.

“You see this through Voldemort’s eyes?”

“Yeah. I’m… I’m killing them. My parents. I’m laughing and I’m killing them, and then I try to kill that baby— I try to kill myself. But I don’t. The curse hits me back and I can feel— I can feel myself being torn apart. That’s when I wake up, not when they die, not when I die, I mean baby me, but when that fucking green light touches me. I feel like I’m exploding from the inside, not my body but my—”

Harry stops right there. Right before the truth, before it’s impossible to go back. But it’s too late, of course, because that thought has been here for days now, it made its way in his brain and he can’t push it away anymore.

“Could…”

Harry stops once again. The locket’s hum is louder and louder. Why can he still fucking hear it? Why doesn’t it leave him alone? It’s pushing him like he’s on the verge of a precipice.

“Could a human become an Horcrux?” Harry says in a breath.

He knows already. In a way, from the moment he’s read that word, written by Regulus’ shaking hand, gifted to him by Sirius through the veil of death, he knew.

“I don’t believe so, Harry.”

Harry raises his head so fast he feels a sharp pain in his neck. What?

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I mean, we can’t possibly know. Maybe no one has done it before, but it doesn’t mean that…”

“It doesn’t mean that it’s impossible, but it is highly improbable.” Dumbledore’s tone is calm but firm. He looks at Harry with caring eyes, and once again Harry feels a wave of displeasure spill all over his mind. That’s not what he was expecting.

“I mean… Making seven Horcruxes is already highly improbable. Wouldn’t a shattered soul, uh… Separate more easily, after being split in seven?”

“Why do you ask, Harry?”

“You know why I ask.”

“I do, but I’d like you to tell me anyway.”

Harry feels something burning inside his guts. He hears the humming louder than ever, like the locket is calling.

“Am I a Horcrux?”

The question is useless. He already knows the answer.

When Harry raises his wand, when he says the words, when his eyes meet the eyes of the infant lying in the dead woman’s arms, he can feel the shift. Time slows down. The green light hits the baby and Harry already knows it’s too late. He can feel his soul breaking, tearing through his very mind, the pain is unbearable…

“Harry?”

Harry blinks. Dumbledore is looking at him with barely hidden concern, his sane hand reaching towards Harry. The boy recoils mechanically.

“Harry, is everything quite alright?”

“No,” Harry says. “Nothing is. I’m a Horcrux, sir, am I not?”

“I don’t think you are, Harry. I understand this idea can be worrying, but—”

“I can feel it, you know. In my sleep. I felt it right now— My soul— His soul getting ripped apart.”

“Dreams are not reality. They often reflect our fears, or they can—”

“But they’re not dreams! That’s the thing, they’re not dreams. They’re memories, I know they are. Sir, think about it! It makes so much sense, it explains everything! Why the Sorting Hat wanted me in Slytherin, why I’m a Parseltongue, why I can feel what he feels!”

“Harry, these are not in any way proof that you could be a Horcrux. I have told you already that I suspect Voldemort gave you some of his… Characteristics, along with that scar. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything more. What happened to you is unique in history, so we can only make suppositions, but creating a Horcrux is a ritual solely designed for inanimate objects. If it was applied to a living being, the result would likely be too unstable to persist in time, let alone develop into a normal human being like you have.”

“I don’t feel very normal.”

“I know, Harry. Of course the Killing Curse has not left you unchanged, but believe me when I say you’re growing into a wonderful human being.”

“I don’t feel wonderful. Sometimes I don’t even feel human. Look, I know it’s not probable, but I just… It feels right, it feels like the missing part in my fucked up life, it just makes sense!”

“Would you want it to be true, Harry?”

“What?”

Harry looks at Dumbledore in disbelief. This is absurd. This whole conversation is unreal.

“Of course I don’t want it to be true. It would mean…”

Harry’s words die in his mouth. Realisation hits him like a green curse all over again. The last piece in his fucked up life’s puzzle falls into place.

“The prophecy,” Harry says in the calmest voice since he first came into the room. “Neither can live while the other survives.”

Dumbledore is very, very still. Harry looks at him and sees nothing but an old, tired man. Behind him, in the dark window, Harry sees a boy staring back at him, a boy who looks just like him. Alone, lost, broken into a million pieces.

“All the Horcruxes have to be destroyed before Voldemort can be killed,” Harry says. “I have to die so he can die.”

“Harry.”

“That’s what it means, right? That’s why I’m still here, that’s why I never died, no matter all the shit I’ve been through—”

“Harry.”

“How can you not see it? It’s so obvious, it’s all so fucking clear now! The boy who lived, what a fucking joke!”

“I understand why you would believe such a thing, but I beg you not to come to conclusions so fast.”

But Harry is already standing up, slowly walking away from Dumbledore, a prey animal look on his face.

“Did you ever think about this? Did you ever… Would you ask me to do it?”

“Harry, please, sit down.”

“Would you do it? Kill me, so he can die?”

“You know I am trying to protect you, to—”

“But you’ll have to, someone will have to, he has to die!”

“I will not let anything happen to you, I promise—”

“That’s not fair. That’s not fucking fair. I’m sixteen, I’m fucking SIXTEEN!”

“I know, Harry. You’re just a boy.”

Harry can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Everything is getting blurry, and the humming sound is just so loud. He can vaguely see Dumbledore getting up, causing a rash of panic in his chest.

“Oh my God. I have to die. I have to… That’s not fair, I never wanted that, I don’t want to, I just want to be normal, I…”

“Harry, everything’s fine—”

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!”

He’s pushed him. Harry just pushed Dumbledore with all of his strength, and the old man nearly fell to the ground, but Harry turns away. He can’t breathe, he can barely see, he can’t think at all. He rushes out of the drawing room and runs up the stairs, not stopping until he’s locked up in the green bathroom.

Harry tries to breathe for a very long time. He lays on the dark tiles, striking his face to the cold stone, tears blurring his vision. At some point the locket’s humming sound decreases, and Harry starts feeling a little better. He stays there for what seems to be hours, looking closely at the cracks in the tile. He doesn’t realise when he falls asleep.

He’s holding a little black book in his hand. It’s plain, it’s from a filthy Muggle shop, but that matters not. After what he’s about to do, this will be the most precious journal to have ever existed.

Delightful sounds sing to Harry’s ears. The metallic whistle of heavy scales rasping on the stone. A blood-curling scream, choking as life withdraws. A body falling on the floor in a wet sound. Harry says the words, Dark and Forgotten words, he stands above the girl’s body, holding the journal, chewing on his own flesh.

Then he feels it. His soul is cracking, shredding, attracted by the black rectangle in his hand, called by the blackest magic, torn apart and swallowed by the still dripping paper. It’s the greatest pain he’s ever known, his psyche burning alive, his mind imploding, his spirit lacerated, and he screams, he screams on the inside as his soul is forever destroyed, and forever protected.

“Harry! HARRY!”

Someone is screaming. Someone is shaking him. Harry hits hard, teeth and fingernails out, trying to get the thing away from him, but it doesn’t let go, and the scream doesn’t stop…

“Harry, wake up, please!”

He opens his eyes wide. The scream stops, the shaking stops, Hermione’s face is staring at him with a terrified look. Harry realises that the scream was his own.

“It’s okay,” she says in an anxious voice. “It was just a dream, you’re okay.”

It wasn’t just a dream, but Harry doesn’t say so. He stays there for a moment, catching his breath. He lets Hermione get him up on his feet, he can walk, it’s okay, She doesn’t need to hold him. She doesn’t have to touch him.

“Come here, sit down…”

“It’s fine, Hermione, I’m fine. Don’t touch me.”

Harry catches his reflection in the cracked mirror. For a split second, it seems like his eyes are glowing — but then it’s just a play of light. He manages to fake a smile that doesn’t seem to reassure his friend, and gets out of the bathroom.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hermione asks hesitantly.

“Huh… Not really. Do you know if Mrs Weasley bought Sleeping Draught? I forgot to get any.”

“I’ll ask her. Do you want to have breakfast?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Harry goes on with his day like nothing happened at all. Everyone treats him like a bomb ready to explode. At least the adults don’t seem to have any more scolding to do. Dumbledore is nowhere in sight, which was to be expected but nonetheless relieves Harry. After yesterday’s conversation, he’s not sure he ever wants to see him again.

There is still no news from St Mungo, apart from Ron being still alive, and still asleep. It takes the whole day before Harry fully untangles the mess in his mind. He feels ashamed, for a start. The whole house probably heard him scream and he just knows they talk about him as soon as he leaves a room. He feels guilty too, blaming himself for his friend’s fate. But then, behind the embarrassment and the guilt, there’s the anger. Always the same deep, cutting rage that’s been growing in his belly from the day Sirius died.

Everything is so still, and Harry can’t stand it.

They’re all here, hiding, scheming, afraid of getting out because a group of crazy people decided to murder everyone on sight. They pretend to fight, but they don’t. In the end, even Dumbledore is not doing much.

And he, Harry, is just standing there. Walking from a room to another, his mind loud, his body distant. Waiting.

It kind of makes him want to burn the whole house down.

In the evening Hermione eventually convinces him to talk. Harry summarizes his conversation with Dumbledore, answering her questions. For once, he doesn’t lie. She listens with caring ears.

“No wonder you’re feeling so bad… I’m so sorry, Harry. It’s terrible.”

“Yeah.”

“I think it would make a lot of sense if you… If you actually were a Horcrux. But we cannot be sure, right? Maybe there’s another explanation…”

“I just feel it, Hermione. During the whole conversation, I could hear the locket talking to me from another room. Well, not really talking, but… And the dreams, they feel so real. You have no idea.”

“Even if you really were a Horcrux,” Hermione says in her most academic voice, “it doesn’t mean you necessarily have to die. Maybe Voldemort could be sent to Azkaban.”

Harry heavily shakes his head.

“He’d find a way to get out, just like the Death Eaters did last year.”

“It will be okay, Harry. We’ll find a way.”

Harry tries to believe her, he really does. But it’s just not possible. The anxiety is taking over him completely, and he sees no light in his dark, doom future.

Late at night, trying to sleep, Harry remembers the Sleeping Draught. Mrs Weasley put it in his trunk, he thinks. Harry gets up and lits up his wand, but it’s not the dark purple vial that catches his eyes.

Harry’s sure he hid the locket in a pair of socks. Yet here it is, on top of his messy clothes, slightly shining by the magic light, humming very faintly.

Harry takes it and finds, with no surprise, that it is warm. Almost comforting. He weighs it in the palm of his hand for a short moment, then puts the chain around his neck. The locket immediately falls on his heart and Harry can feel it adjusting to his internal rhythm.

Harry goes back into bed. His mind is empty, calm. He rolls to the side and falls asleep immediately.

The next morning, he doesn’t wake up wailing. He had dreams, but pleasant ones. He was in a room full of people who listened to him, obeyed him, feared him. He was powerful. Harry spends the day with that power hidden underneath his shirt, vibrating against his skin, pulsating. His mind gets clearer and clearer, like the sky after a storm.

No one knows what they’re doing, he realizes when watching the member of the Order argue endlessly at dinner. No one has a real solution. They’re just not willing to do what’s necessary.

Well, he will.

Chapter Text

The plan matures slowly in Harry’s mind. First he tries to push it away — it’s too crazy, too dangerous. He’s not sure it would even work. No, he’s sure it wouldn’t work. They’re at war, alright, but he can’t just do anything.

But then the days go by, and there is no news from St Mungo except asleep, working on it, trust the professionals. Harry doesn’t trust the professionals. He suspects that such a dark curse can only be undone by another dark curse, and he knows no one is even willing to consider this option. And so his plan comes back to haunt his restless mind.

Yet Harry still tries to find another way. Something he can do to help, to fight, anything. He reads, he thinks, he talks for hours with Hermione, getting into endless arguments. He goes around in circles, physically and mentally. He locks himself up in the green bathroom, trains as much as he can, but soon he has tried every curse he could from the Book of Dark, the others being too dangerous or too complex.

And at night, he dreams.

Sometimes it’s just Sirius. These nights are fine, he’s used to it by now; he cries for some time, reading the note at the end of Regulus’ book, then goes back to sleep. Sometimes he dreams about Bellatrix, too, but again, these are the normal nightmares.

Most nights, he’s him. Voldemort.

Harry kills, usually his parents but sometimes others too, and he eats things, and he says words, and it always ends in the same excruciating pain when his soul is being ripped apart. He always wakes up screaming.

When he wears the locket, it’s a little easier. The world feels distant, numb, and the dreams are delightful. Harry is powerful and feared and nothing can defeat him. Then he wakes up feeling sick to his stomach, ashamed, weak. He tries to stay away from the Horcrux but it gets harder every time.

And the days go by, and the plan infiltrates his every thought. It becomes obsessive, more and more detailed. Harry doesn’t want it to but everything falls into place. The more he thinks about it, the more he feels like it is the only way. Everyone is talking about fighting and the war and the resistance and the usual bullshit, but Harry knows it’s not enough.

A few nights before the summer ends, feeling even more miserable than usual at the idea that Ron might not be back to school with him, Harry hears an argument in the kitchen.

He approaches silently and listens to Moody, Mr Weasley and Lupin fight for a moment before understanding what they talk about.

“I know it’s a priceless occasion, but it’s too dangerous. You wouldn’t get out of it alive!”

“Not if they don’t know I’m there. I’d apparate and disapparte immediately, just enough time to see all their filthy little faces.”

“It’s not worth it!”

“Maybe it is, Arthur! It could be the proof we need to convince the Ministry!”

“You know very well that even if we confirm that You-Know-Who is at Malfoy Manor with all of his Death Eaters, Scrimgeour won’t do anything about it!”

“We could at least inform them it’s happening, without going there ourselves. Severus, are you certain that he’ll be having a meeting tonight?”

“I am.”

Harry then understands Snape is there too. He listens a little longer but it only angers him more. The Order knows where Voldemort is right now, and they won’t do anything. They won’t even try.

“Do you have news about your son, Arthur?”

Harry presses his ear closer to the door, a lump in his throat.

“No. To be honest, they… They said at this point, they’ve tried everything…”

Harry’s heart drops when he hears Mr Weasley crying. He slowly walks away, unable to listen any longer.

That’s it, then. They have given up on Ron.

Something breaks inside of Harry. His last fragile string of trust towards adults, or maybe his own morals. Whatever was still holding him back, it’s not strong enough anymore.

Harry runs to the Black library, frantically looking for anything about magical transportation. He grabs Floo, Flight and other Fascinating transports, then runs to the green bathroom. Harry opens the book to the Portkey section and starts following the instructions, using an old towel to place the charm. It turns out to be fairly difficult, but as adrenaline usually makes Harry much more efficient, he manages on the third try. Then he cast on himself the Isolation Curse, that he learned earlier in the summer. Then he’s ready, and there’s nothing left to do but go.

Harry takes a moment to think. The plan is dangerous. No, dangerous doesn’t even begin to express how risky it is. Stupid, mad, desperate barely scratch the surface. Well, Harry is all of this.

He thinks about Ron, laying in his hospital bed, eyes wide open. He seizes the towel.

The unpleasant feeling of being grabbed by the stomach and pulled at extreme speed doesn’t last long. Harry soon finds himself with his face in the grass. He crawls away from the towel, hoping that the charm is successful enough to bring him back later. Well, if he is able to come back at all.

The Malfoy Manor is unmistakable, even if Harry has never been here before. He gets up on his feets, still a little stunned that the Portkey worked perfectly. Harry lets it outside the property, not even bothering to hide it properly, and walks through the gates.

The sun is shining its last rays, the air is still warm and birds sing in the distance. Everything is beautiful, from the green and impeccable gardens to the elegant building Harry is walking up to. Yet he feels cold, febrile, and overall a little insane. Well, that’s not a feeling. Harry is insane, and what he’s about to do is undeniable proof. He notices with surprise that he’s not scared. Not yet, maybe. Or he’s definitely completely crazy. Either way it’s not unpleasant to walk toward a probable death and not feel scared at all.

He’s almost arrived at the manor when the doors open and let out a familiar silhouette. Harry scoffs from the dumbfounded look on Draco Malfoy’s face. The blond boy rushes down the stairs and runs to Harry.

"What the hell are you doing here, Potter?" Malfoy hisses.

Harry likes seeing him so confused. He even looks kind of scared, and that is just marvelous.

"Paying a visit. How are your holidays, Malfoy?"

Malfoy looks at him like he’s an alien, or a Boggart after a Ridiculous, or Voldemort dancing tango.

"You can’t go in here!" he says in a low, panicked voice.

"I can, and I will."

"No, you can’t just— There’s people who want you dead in that house!"

"I’m aware."

"No, you don’t understand. If you don’t go away right now, you will die."

Harry looks at Draco with curiosity.

"Are you trying to... warn me?"

"I— No, I... I’m trying to understand how one can be stupid enough to— Do you want to die, Potter?"

"I don’t, and I won’t."

Harry walks up the stairs of the Malfoy Manor, Draco following him in shock.

"Potter, he is here," Malfoy whispers, looking terrified.

Harry shoots him a strange look. Did his sworn enemy just give Voldemort away to warn him?

"I know, Malfoy. That’s why I’m here. Now, stop acting weird and take me to the meeting."

Malfoy, even paler than usual, walks Harry inside the manor, guiding him through the long and cold corridors. Harry’s hands are shaking a little, his heart beats fast, but still no fear. That’s probably not very good, yet Harry doesn’t care. It’s too late to regret. In his mind he goes over what he’s going to say, one last time, and even that doesn’t really make him realise where he is. The manor is less murky than he imagined it.

After too many corridors they stop in front of a large door. Harry can hear talking behind it, and stops for a moment, trying to feel fear. He can sense Malfoy’s eye on him, he can almost sense Voldemort’s presence in the next room. He can see distinctly the path of his life in front of his eyes, and the violent turn it’s about to take. But still no fear.

Harry opens the door.

Before anything else, without even looking for it, he finds Voldemort’s gaze. The red stare is already set on him and when their eyes lock a shudder runs down Harry’s spine. He doesn’t look at the rest of the room, doesn’t even acknowledge the Death Eaters sitting around the large table, but he’s aware that every single person is looking at him. A slim grin appears on his face.

"Good evening. I hope I’m interrupting."

Voldemort makes no move, but his eyes skint in what could be... surprise? The silence is loud, and Harry’s Muggle trainers make a delightful plastic sound on the marble floor. He walks slowly towards Voldemort, forcing himself to never look away, even when he passes Bellatrix Lestrange. As he continues, Lucius Malfoy suddenly rises from his seat next to Voldemort and points his wand at Harry.

"Do not approach the Dark Lord," he says in a threatening voice.

"Shut up," Harry answers without even looking at him.

One more step and the first curse flashes towards him. Harry knew this would happen so he forces himself to stay still as the ray of light explodes in his face. He blinks, holding back the reflex to protect himself or draw his wand, because he doesn’t need to. A shimmering purple field shines in front of his eyes, where the magic hit. Harry lets out a small breath. The Isolation Curse works. He wasn’t scared, but that's good to know anyway.

Harry doesn’t look away from Voldemort, as Voldemort hasn’t looked away either. The boy continues walking across the room and more curses flash towards him. Every Death Eater has suddenly drawn his wand, and soon Harry is entirely envelopped by the thin, cold purple light, separating him from deadly explosions of magic. He can feel his heart beat stronger every second, but he pushes the fear away. If he dies, he reminds himself, it won’t really be a bad thing.

But Harry doesn’t die, and the Isolation Curse holds up. Only when he is a few steps from the end of the table, Voldemort raises his hand.

"Enough," he says quietly.

The magic attacks stop and the Death Eaters sit back. Harry takes one final step, now standing right in front of Voldemort, at arms’ reach. They haven’t looked away for a second.

"It seems Dark magic has finally gotten into you, Harry Potter," Voldemort says slowly.

"Or maybe I’ve finally got into Dark magic, Tom Riddle," Harry answers fast.

He and Voldemort ignore the shocked murmurs that run around the table.

"The Isolation Curse is a powerful Dark spell, but surely you don’t imagine that it protects you from me," Voldemort says.

"Of course not," Harry answers, "but it’s enough to protect me from your brainless slaves for a moment. I also cast it as a proof of my intentions. I’m not here to attack you, and even if I wanted to defend myself, I’m incapable of magic as long as the Curse stands."

Voldemort stays silent for a moment. Of course he knows how the Isolation Curse works, but Harry is glad to see he’s able to express his thoughts clearly, even surrounded like he is.

"Did you come to surrender?" Voldemort finally asks.

"I came to talk."

Lucius Malfoy lets out a disgusted snort, but Voldermot’s eyes are squinting even more, and Harry decides to interpret this as a good sign. Well, maybe not good, but not disastrous either.

"Talk, then."

Harry takes a sharp breath. The room’s stone walls and high ceiling make his voice resonate in the heavy silence.

"Do you know what I am?" he asks.

"You are a variety of things, Harry Potter, one of them being an annoyance."

Harry can’t help a strangled laugh to escape his throat. Did Voldemort just make a joke?

"That’s mostly true. But I can also be precious. I could be useful, too. And I’m definitely capable of being more than annoying. I could be dangerous, if you wanted."

Voldemort raises his hairless eyebrow, surprised at Harry’s word choice.

"But right now," Harry continues, "that’s not my question. Do you know what I am, Tom?"

Voldemort doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, keeps staring at Harry. Slowly, with a little more dramatic tension than he’s planned to, Harry unbuttons his shirt collar. A smile grows on his face as he watches Voldemort’s expression become confused, then turn completely blank. Harry holds between his fingers a golden chain, still around his neck. At its end, the heavy locket twists and turns, only letting the engraved ‘S’ appear briefly.

Murmurs run around the table again. Voldemort finally stopped looking at Harry, his eyes now fixed on Slytherin’s locket. Something in his face seems more tense, or maybe Harry is imagining it.

"Did Dumbledore send you?" he finally asks.

Harry lets out a snort. That’s just plain insulting, even coming from Voldemort.

"Do you think I couldn’t find this on my own? That I can’t do anything on my own?"

"He did not, then."

"It took me long enough, but I finally undertood how fucking useless Dumbledore is."

He’s surprised how hateful his words sound. Here he is, calmly talking to Voldemort, the man who murdered his parents and many others, and yet it’s Dumbledore’s name that angers Harry the most. Once again, he realizes that he still feels no fear at all, but also no guilt. Maybe just a vague sense of shame, but not nearly enough to make him regret his words.

Having nothing to lose, or rather no fear to lose his own life, can be quite liberating it seems.

"How did you find the locket?"

"That’s not really any of your business right now. Right now, all you should worry about is the fact that I know. I know what it is, what I am, and if you’re as intelligent as you claim to be, you should know it too."

Harry relishes in the silence, in the weight of many stunned glares on him, on the slim line that Voldemort’s eyes have now become.

"So," Harry continues, "did you know?"

"I have suspected it for some time now," Voldemort answers slowly.

"Right. Let’s just agree that it's a fact, then. I don’t have any proof, I don’t even know how you could possibly prove this kind of shit, but I can sense it, and I’m sure you can too. There’s just too many similarities between us, Tom. It just explains so much. Does it not?"

Harry’s smile turns into a victorious grin when Voldemort nods. He fucking nods, and Harry can’t believe it. Lucius Malfoy is about to have a heart attack, from the muffled sounds he makes, sitting so stiff and pale on his chair he looks like a statue dressed in black silk.

Voldemort finally detaches his eyes from the locket and looks at Harry again. 

"You now know that you can’t kill me," he says, and his voice is abnormally soft. It takes a second before Harry understands why. He spoke to him in Parseltongue, and this language is so natural to Harry’s ears that even the deep voice of the darkest wizard alive sounds like singing. "And we now know that I won’t kill you either. Why are you here, Harry Potter?"

Harry takes a moment before answering.

He still has a choice. He still could lie, tell Voldemort that he knows his secret and that he’ll do anything to take him down, that he hates him so much he would rather die than to let him live. But it’s just not true. Harry knows that his decision was taken long ago, on the very day Ron got cursed, on the very night Dumbledore refused to acknowledge the truth.

"He lied to me, you know?" Harry answers in the same whistling, subtle language. "I’m sure Dumbledore knows about me, about what you turned me into. He knows that I’ll have to die if he wants to defeat you. But he lied to me, told me it’s not true, that he’d never let anything happen to me, that he’ll always protect me, that I’m just a boy."

And for the first time, Harry sees Voldemort smile. It’s a terrifying view, not because it’s monstrous and disgusting, on the contrary. It’s terrifying because it’s a genuine smile, almost human. Harry shudders.

"You believe he would kill you?" Voldemort asks.

"I’m sure of it," Harry says, his voice shakier than he intended it to be. "Don’t you believe he would?"

"I have no doubt that he would sacrifice you when needed, without any hesitation."

Harry lets out a shattered breath. He figured this out some time ago, but hearing it, actually hearing it, hurts. Of course, he shouldn’t believe Voldemort over Dumbledore or his friends. Of course it’s in his interest to confirm Harry’s doubts. But Harry already knew Dumbledore can’t ignore what he is, not an intelligent man like him, not after years hunting the Horcruxes. Still, hearing it aloud, no matter how much he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care, it hurts.

"My death would be a good thing," Harry says slowly. "You death would be a fucking celebration. But... I don’t want to die."

"Even if it means I get to live forever?"

"Yes," Harry answers sharply, and the word burns his mouth, because it’s true. "I should want to die just so you could, but I don’t. I really don’t."

"After all, we are more alike than I thought," says Voldemort in this soft tone that makes Harry shiver.

Suddenly Voldemort rises from his seat, and only then Harry remembers how tall he is, how powerful he is, how small Harry is. It takes everything he has to erase the impressed look from his face, replace it with contempt and raise his eyes to meet Voldemort’s.

"Why are you here, Harry Potter?" asks the dark wizard, and Harry barely notices that he’s back to human language.

"I have an offer," he blurts out, his head starting to hurt. The Isolation Curse is fading, Harry can feel it, and tiredness takes over his body and mind. He struggles to choose his words like he had managed to until now.

"Speak," says Voldemort almost eagerly.

"I want you to teach me."

A wave of shocked whispers echoes, but Harry doesn’t pay attention. It seems like the only thing he can focus on is this red light emanating from Voldemort’s eyes, and the pain pulsing through his head.

"Teach you?"

Voldemort sounds amused, which is the last thing Harry expected. He tries his best to stay focused.

"I want to become a Dark wizard," he says. "I want you to make me powerful, so I can defend myself, and thus, defend you."

"Lies!" screams Bellatrix, incapable of holding her tongue a second more. "The boy lies, my Lord, this is all a lie to get to you—"

She is silenced by one quick and icy look from Voldemort. He turns to Harry again, looking very serious. Looking fascinated, thinks Harry, if that’s even possible for a creature like him.

"How could I trust you?" Voldemort asks. "How could I believe that you truly wish to become loyal to me?"

"That’s the thing," Harry says. "I won’t ever be loyal to you. I hate you and all of your disgusting puppets, and if I could, I’d fucking kill you all. But I’m just a boy, right? What options do I have? Let Dumbledore play with me, or let the Ministry use me as their mascot? I can’t stand this shit anymore. I can’t stand to be useless, incapable, weak. I’m not even able to protect the people I love, I couldn’t even save—"

Harry stops abruptly. He can’t think about Sirius or Ron now, he can’t look emotional in front of a room full of Death Eaters. He takes a deep breath and when he speaks again, his voice is calm, somber.

"I want to become powerful. I want people to respect me, to fear me if it’s the only way. I want to make a difference, and make my own choices. I know that if I become your student, I’ll have to give you something in exchange, and I will, but we’ll have to come to an agreement on that because I won’t just do anything you ask like you slaves do."

"Are you bargaining with the Dark Lord?" asks Lucuis Malfoy, astonished.

"I am, and you will shut up," Harry says. "So, Tom, what do you think? We are similar, like you said, and I think we could learn a lot from one another. I think I could be very useful to you, as you’d be to me. I think you’d be stupid to refuse."

Well, that was maybe a bit much, Harry realizes. His head is now pumping with pain, not making this delicate situation easier. He pushes the fear far to the depth of his mind, reminding himself that if Voldemort hurts him now, at least it would be for a good cause. It’s not every day you can call the darkest wizard alive stupid.

But Voldemort doesn’t curse Harry. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t hit, and doesn’t menace. He laughs.

It’s the coldest laugh Harry ever heard, and by far the more unsettling too, but again, it’s not monstrous. It’s human, much more human than the roar of laughter he remembers from the graveyard in his fourth year. By the look on their faces, the Death Eaters are as lost as Harry. He notices Draco Malfoy still standing next to the door, completely still, a strange expression on his face.

"I have to admit," Voldemort says, "that you surprise me, Harry Potter. You show more potential than I would have thought. Well, I will teach you, if you accept my conditions."

Harry is a bit stunned for a second but answers fast enough to not show it.

"Yeah, your conditions, right. That’s the tricky part, huh? So what do you want?"

"You will obviously have to take a vow of silence concerning my situation and anyone involved. You will not disturb my plans or help Dumbledore in his, as you will not put in danger my servants or myself. You will have to obey my orders and take the missions I give you without protest."

"Yeah, no, I don’t think you get it," Harry says sharply. "I’m not interested in being your servant or whatever bullshit you call this. I’m not working for you. I won’t help Dumbledore, because he definitely lost my trust, but I don’t trust you either."

"Then I’ll have to keep you in the Malfoy’s dungeons for eternity," Voldemort says, and Harry could swear there is amusement in his voice.

"Or we could find an agreement," Harry says as calmly as he can. "I won’t betray you, I won’t tell anything about your evil little plans, and I’ll take a fucking vow if you insist. I won’t put you or any of your Death Eaters scum in danger, but if you try to harm the people I love, I’ll protect them by any means necessary. I’ll accept your missions as long as they don’t involve hurting innocents, or people I know in general. I’m not a spy, I don’t think I’d be a good one anyway, but I’ll give you information if I must. Again, as long as it doesn’t hurt my friends."

"You can’t have it all, Harry Potter. I will not teach you for free."

"It’s not for free. I’ll do things for you, things that I don’t want to do, too, but I have a limit. Like I said, I don’t want to be your toy any more than Dumbledore’s. I want to be my own person. And as my own person, I decide to serve you in ways that don’t harm my friends, because what I want above all is to be able to protect them. That’s my goal, that’s why I’m here in the first place."

"You are aware your friends would disapprove of your current actions?"

"Yeah, well, I love them but they’re cowards. I think Dark magic has more to offer me than Hogwarts will ever do."

Voldemort seems to ponder for a moment. Harry’s headache is growing by the minute, but still no fear. He must be crazy to still be here, to even have this conversation, yet when Voldemort looks at him again, Harry feels a rush of excitement run through him.

"Very well. Here are my terms, then. You will swear to secrecy, with no obligation to reveal any of your own secrets. You will not have to follow my orders, nor complete the missions I give you. However, for every charm, every spell, every curse or any form of power I will teach you, you will give me something back. I will decide what it is, and you will have the choice to refuse or accept every time. Nothing will be free, except for your will. Shall you find a way to harm me, my followers, defeat my plans or commit any kind of betrayal, you will be punished as I please. If needed, I will hurt or kill the people you care about. You are warned today and will not be again. Do you accept?"

Harry swallows. He’s very aware of the looks set on him, of the pain in his body, of the dryness in his mouth. He’s less aware of the question, the implications, and tries to force himself to think. He won’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, and that’s more than he could hope for. But at any mistake... His friends will pay for him. Harry doesn’t want such a responsibility, but he’s not sure he can escape it now.

"Would refusing to do what you ask in exchange for the learning... Would that be considered betrayal?"

"No. You will always be free of your choices, and never bound to my services."

There’s a trap, there has to be a trap.

"What could cause you to... Hurt my friends?"

"You attacking me, or my followers, without my approval," answers Voldemort with surprising patience. "Disclosing any kind of information, or taking any action that would go against my interests. Lying to me. I shall not ask you to be my spy, but you will have to lie to everyone you know to keep your vow, do you fully understand that, Harry Potter?"

"I do," Harry answers. His voice is weak, he tries to raise it. "So, if I did nothing, nothing at all, you wouldn’t consider it treason?"

"I suppose not."

"And... Talking? I mean, if I, huh... Let’s say if I try to convince you of something, if I express an opinion you disagree with. Would that be treason?"

"You can speak freely to me," Voldemort answers. "Your honesty will not be punished, as long as you tell the lies you need to in order to protect my secrets. In some ways, your honesty could even be rewarded."

"Right. Right, okay, I think I understand. The other option would be letting me rot in a dungeon forever, right?"

"That, or I might turn to more... creative options," Voldemort says with a sickening smile.

"Okay, let’s not think too long about that," Harry says with a shiver. "And if I agree to do what you ask... In exchange, you’ll teach me anything I ask?"

Harry must be turning mad from the headache, because Voldemort is smiling. Again.

"I could teach you arts you cannot imagine, Harry Potter. Anything you ask, and more. But of course, the more powerful the lesson, the higher the price."

"Yeah. Of course. Well, I guess..."

Harry feels like he’s burning. He should not be here, he should be terrified, he should feel so much guilt. He’s starting to be a little afraid, really, but not nearly as much as he should be. He thinks of Ron being hit by Malfoy’s curse; he thinks about Sirius and the ease with which Bellatrix took his life; he thinks about a full year training in the Dumbledore Army and how powerless he still feels after; he thinks of the lies of the adults in his life. Sirius was the only one who never lied to him, but, well, he’s dead.

"I agree to your terms," Harry says loud and clear.

Lucius Malfoy barely holds a choking sound which delights Harry. Voldemort’s smile hasn’t faded. If possible, it is even wider, but Harry’s not sure.

"One last thing," Voldemort says.

"Hey, it’s a done deal! Don’t start adding things now!"

"Well, you can have something in exchange," Voldemort snickers. "I would like to give you the Dark Mark."

Harry’s heart drops in his chest. Oh, fuck. He didn’t expect that. Guessing from the appalled whispers that run through the room, he’s not the only one.

"My Lord..." Lucius Malfoy starts.

"Silence," says Voldemort in a very low voice, and all whispers die.

"You know that if anyone sees the Mark on my arm," blurts Harry, "the secret will be compromised."

"Then you shouldn’t let anyone see it," Voldemort says calmly.

He wants him to fail, Harry realises. He wants him to betray so he can hurt his friends, and he wants him to be discovered so the whole world knows that Harry Potter has turned to the Dark side.

"Okay," says Harry sharply. "I will take the Mark, since you insist, even if it’s the ugliest fucking tattoo I’ve ever seen. Even the Muggles do better, but I guess it’s not about the aesthetic."

"How dare you!" screams someone, but Voldemort brings the rooms back to silence with only a slight hand move.

"Give me your arm."

"Wait, I want something in exchange," Harry says. "A promise."

"I cannot promise to spare your friends, as it is your greatest fear and must remain a guarantee of your obedience."

"I know. That’s not what I want."

Voldemort seems a little surprised.

"What then?"

"I want Bellatrix," says Harry as he turns to her. "I want to kill her."

Harry doesn’t look at Voldemort, his eye drilling into Bellatrix’s skull as she explodes in laughter. But he can almost feel the look on Voldemort’s face. He is pleased, Harry is sure of that. Voldemort loves violence, if he can love anything. And Harry did not ask for mercy, for protection or forgiveness. He asked for violence.

"I cannot grant you her death, as Bellatrix is one of my most loyal and powerful servants."

"Do you really think my Lord will choose you over me, baby Potter?" Bellatrix sneers. "You’ll have to keep thinking about me every day, little baby Potter, and every day you’ll have to remember that I killed your dear Sirius!"

Harry hesitates for a moment. He could try to kill her now, and then let Voldemort lock him up, or torture him. It’s tempting, really. But Harry turns his back to Bellatrix and faces Voldemort again. Like he guessed, he seems pleased with the situation.

"Then there’s no deal," Harry says as firmly as he can. "I want to kill her, or I agree to fucking nothing." Voldemort opens his mouth but Harry doesn’t let him time to remind him that he’s already agreed. "It doesn’t have to be now, though. I could wait. She’ll be useless to you when I’m powerful enough, and watching her fall in disgrace would please me. So I’ll wait, and when you’ll allow me, I’ll kill her."

"Very well," Voldemort says without hesitation. "Bellatrix will die by your hand, but only when I command it. If you fail to wait, your loved ones will pay."

"Agreed" Harry says. His voice seems distant to him. This is madness, reminds him the rational part of his brain. You’re mad. But Harry already knows he is, and truly, it doesn’t feel that mad. If anything, the situation feels right. Like a deal with the Devil he should have made long ago.

"My Lord will never allow you to kill me!" yells Bellatrix with maniacal laughter. "Your childish deal is worth nothing!"

"Shut up," Harry spits, forcing himself to keep looking at Voldemort. "Now, Tom, I should go back home soon if I don’t want to be discovered. Give me the fucking Mark now, and let’s end this."

"Your arm," says Voldemort with a slim smile.

Harry raises his left arm towards Voldemort, who seizes it with his long fingers. Again, a shiver runs down Harry’s spine. The fingers are cold, but they’re just fingers. Like a cold person would have, a cold human. But Harry refuses to think about this. Voldemort lifts his sleeve and puts the tip of his wand on the bronze naked skin.

Harry doesn’t hear the words that fall out of Voldemort’s mouth. He only feels his whole arm burn as he watches black ink flow from the wand. It moves under his skin but soon propagates everywhere else like dark flames, turning Harry’s vision to complete obscurity.

Then the pain recedes, and Harry can see again. There’s no flames. No ashes. The world is just as it was before, except for the black skull on his arm, spitting a snake out of its jaw. Harry looks at it for a moment, incapable of thinking. He’s done it. He’s fucking done it.

Then cold fingers touch his shin to raise his head and his eyes meet Voldemort’s red gaze. Harry has never seen him so delighted. It’s disgusting.

"You and I will make great things happen, Harry Potter," Voldemort whispers.

Harry finally catches his breath. His arm still hurts but now he feels something else, something he did not expect. Power. Raw power is running in his blood, all over his body, making his heart pump stronger than ever.

"We will," Harry says. "My Lord."

They look at each other for what seems to be an extremely long second, then Voldemort releases Harry.

"Go now," he says. "I will call you when it’s time for your first lesson. Until then, stay out of trouble, if you can manage."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, "I’ll try. But trouble usually finds me."

"Then you better hide."

Did Voldemort really tell him to be careful? To fucking take care? Wait, that’s the least of Harry’s problems. He now has the fucking Dark Mark on his arm. Fuck.

"Draco, see our guest back to the door," Voldemort says.

Harry walks away in a dream-like silence. His Muggle shoes sound like tiny screams on the marble. Harry’s breath sounds like very, very faint cries. He looks at the Death Eaters without seeing them, and he only realises he’s at the door when his eyes meet a familiar face.

Draco Malfoy looks at Harry with the most terrified expression he’s ever seen on him. Without a word he opens the door and Harry follows him outside. They walk in complete silence for a moment, until the room full of Death Eaters is far behind them. Then Harry stops.

"Fuck."

Everything is spinning. Harry kind of wants to throw up, because his brain is functioning again. And what he’s just done finally hits him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK."

"Potter," says a familiar voice, but the tone is unusual, almost worried. "Potter, keep walking."

"Oh my God. Oh my fucking God, what did I... What... Oooh, fucking hell. Fuck."

Harry falls, but someone holds him. Harry raises his head and sees Malfoy, holding his arm, looking at him with concern. Yeah, plain concern. That doesn’t help Harry’s brain to calm down.

"Don’t touch me," he hisses. But Malfoy doesn’t let him go, and it’s probably for the best because Harry’s not sure he can stand right now.

"Let’s sit down," Malfoy says very carefully. "Taking the Mark usually leaves you in a far worse state. I don’t even know how you’re walking right now."

"Well I’m not going to stay here for supper, am I?" Harry mumbles absently.

He lets Malfoy hold him and walk him through the manor. He doesn’t really see anything, doesn’t pay attention to the whispering portraits on their way. His mind is roaring, each thought echoing a hundred times, louder than the outside world.

He came here. He came here on his own, by choice, and walked up to Voldemort, and he made a deal with him. A fucking deal with fucking Voldemort. And he took the... Oh God, he took the Mark, it’s on his arm, he can still feel it burn a little. He took the Mark and called Voldemort my Lord. Holy shit.

But the worst, Harry realises again and again, is the absence of guilt. He’s ashamed, that he is. He’s scared and disgusted, he feels sick, he feels angry, sad, and hurt. But he doesn’t feel guilty. Because, deep inside him, Harry knows he did the right thing, the only thing that makes sense. And yes, it makes sense. Harry’s even surprised that none of this happened before, knowing what he is — an Horcrux. It’s like his whole life led him to this decision. And this, this has to be the worst of it all.

He absently sits when Malfoy makes him, his hands gripping the sofa tightly, his breath short. Malfoy disappears and Harry stays alone with his screaming mind. He called him my Lord. The man who killed his parents. And it felt right.

Malfoy comes back with a glass of something a little too viscous to be water. "That’s a regenerating potion," he says. "I know you don’t trust me, but you really should dr—"

Harry takes the glass from his hands and empties it in one sip, without a look for Malfoy, his eyes lost somewhere in front of him. The beverage is cold, in a nice way. Harry can feel it propagate in his body, soothing his burning arm and his headache at the same time. He blinks several times, slowly coming back to his senses.

Harry finally looks at Malfoy, standing in front of him, watching with an indecipherable expression. Something between worry, fear and... respect? That seems out of place on his face, but Harry supposes that everything will seem out of its place from now on. He’s now Voldemort‘s student, after all. That makes him way, way more powerful than Malfoy. 

"Right," Harry says after a moment. "I should go back home."

"Where are you staying?"

"Like that’s any of your business."

Malfoy frowns, looking at Harry without a word as he gets up. They exit the small living room and this time, Harry pays attention to the corridors they go through. The Malfoy Manor is huge and grim but also beautiful, in a strange way. Harry follows Malfoy until he stops in front of the main door. Before opening, he turns to Harry. It seems like he wants to speak but the words are stuck in his throat.

"Be very careful, Potter," Malfoy finally says.

"Shut up, Malfoy. I don’t need your pity."

"It’s not pity. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but... I hope you know what you’re doing. That was..."

"What? That was what?" Harry barks.

Malfoy shakes his head and lets out a sharp breath.

"That was impressive," he finally says in the faintest voice.

Harry looks at him with disbelief. Did Draco Malfoy just give him a fucking compliment? That’s the final stroke. Harry scoffs, turns away and walks fast to the door. Before opening he can’t help himself and turns to Malfoy again.

"Don’t think for a second that we’re on the same side now. You still disgust me, almost as much as I disgust myself."

Harry can only see Malfoy’s face turn cold as stone before he gets out. He lets the door slam behind him and runs down the stairs, runs down the alley, runs to get far away from this wicked house.

It’s only when the Portkey has brought him back to the green bathroom, the skies turning dark through the window, that Harry lays down and realises there’s a new pinch of guilt in his throat. But it’s not about the Mark, still throbbing on his arm. It’s not the insanity of everything that just happened, or even the fact that from now on, he’ll have to lie to his friends everyday. No, all of this feels awful, but also entirely right.

Harry looks at the clouds passing for a long time. The guilt comes from somewhere else. It takes him a long moment before he understands that it’s his last lie that got stuck in his throat. What he said to Draco Malfoy does not feel right.

Chapter Text

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters is filled with smoke, laughter and joyful conversations between reunited friends. Coming back to Hogwarts is usually a happy moment for Harry, but not this year.

He and Hermione stand next to each other without a word, looking at the scarlet train through the mist. They both need a moment before climbing up. For the first time in six years, Ron is not by their side. And on Harry’s arm, a black skull is spitting a snake.

Even second year’s back to school was less scary, Harry thinks bitterly. He doesn’t answer any friendly wave and ignores Hermione’s side stares. When Dean Thomas comes in their direction Harry prepares to quickly get up the train; but an unexpected distraction cuts short any conversation attempt from Dean.

“I did hear the weasel was dead… Guess it’s true, then.”

It takes every willpower Harry has to keep his fist out of Draco Malfoy’s pale face. The snarky Slytherin wears his usual overpriced clothes and cocky smile, platinum hair slicked back. He looks completely different from last time Harry saw him, scared, silent, a shadow in his own house.

“He’s not dead, but your father will soon be,” Harry says with hate dripping in his voice.

“Leave my father out of this, Potter.”

Harry now notices that Malfoy’s smile isn’t so bright. He seems tense, his confidence fake. Of course only Harry sees these discreet details. Hermione takes his arm and drags him away.

“Don’t waste your energy on him, Harry.”

“Enjoy sitting in the back with your filthy friends,” Malfoy says behind them, “while I sit in the Prefects’ compartment!”

Harry doesn’t react but these words immediately arise his suspicion. Was this supposed to mean something? Is Malfoy trying to tell him that they have to meet?

Harry sits with Ginny, Luna and Neville, trying to listen to their discussion; but his mind keeps slipping to Ron, laying in St Mungo’s impersonal bed, then to Draco Malfoy and his stupid, fake smile. He refrains with difficulty from clutching the locket hidden underneath his shirt, or scratching his left forearm. When the loud whistle announces the departure, Harry keeps his eyes on the window. London’s streets pass by rapidly, blurry like the conversation around him.

“So was it really… I mean, you did see Malfoy at Knockturn Alley, right Harry?”

Harry hears Neville’s voice from afar and comes back to the present moment with an effort.

“Huh, yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“I don’t understand how he can even show his face in public. Shouldn’t he be in Azkaban?”

“I guess.”

“He’s on the run but they haven’t caught him yet,” Ginny says. “Dad tried to organise a search in Malfoy Manor, but apparently there was pressure from above, so they couldn’t do it. It’s crazy that this piece of shit is still so influent.”

Harry suspects that Voldemort has spies at the Ministry and this confirms his doubts. His mind instantly wanders back to Malfoy. Neville opens his mouth to ask him something but Harry gets up before he can speak.

“I’ll go check on Hermione. Be right back.”

He quickly walks up the Hogwarts Express, ignoring the multiple looks on his passage. The train is now flashing through the countryside under a grey and heavy sky. This beautiful sight only makes Harry more melancholic.

He stops a little before the prefects’ compartment. Right in front of him, Draco Malfoy is smiling at someone Harry can’t see. This, Harry somehow knows, is a genuine smile.

He hesitates. He doesn’t actually want to talk to Hermione — it’s mere curiosity at Malfoy’s words on the platform that led him here. If she was there Malfoy probably wouldn’t look so relaxed, but if Harry’s wrong and Hermione is actually here, he won’t be able to talk with Malfoy. Not that he wants to talk to him — he’s curious, that’s all.

Harry is still hesitating in the corridor when Malfoy’s eyes meet his. The smile fades on the pale face, and after saying something Harry can’t read on his lips, the Slytherin gets out of the compartment. He casts a silent spell and mist invades the corridor for a moment, like someone opened a window and let the train’s steam in.

“Follow me,” he says in a low voice, “quickly.”

They walk past the prefects compartment and get into the next one, filled with luggages but empty of students. Malfoy locks the door and casts another illusion charm to prevent them from unwanted looks, followed by a silencing one. Harry tries not to be impressed by his nonverbal spellwork, but he is.

They sit on opposite sides, as far apart from each other as the piles of suitcases permit, Malfoy avoiding Harry’s eyes. So, he was right, it was indeed a coded message. Harry is pretty satisfied that he figured it out so easily.

“Well, what do you want?” he asks bluntly.

“The Dark Lord asked me to give you some… Practical instructions.”

“No joke. And I thought you wanted us to meet for tea.”

Malfoy shoots him an annoyed look.

“I’m not enjoying this any more than you are,” he says dryly.

“Take your sweet time to tell me about the ‘practical instructions’, then,” Harry ironises.

“Lift your sleeve.”

Harry’s cocky expression fades as he slowly lifts his sleeve. The Dark Mark has healed in a matter of days, but he’s not yet used to seeing it on his skin. A disgusted shiver shakes him up. Malfoy gives him a quick nod and Harry puts his sleeve back on with relief.

“Now that it’s healed, you can use it,” Malfoy says. His voice is tense — openly tense, not like his pretended confidence back on the platform. “Putting the tip of your wand on it will alert the Dark Lord and all of the Mark bearers. Only do this in case of extreme emergencies. I mean it. He has punished people for much less.”

“Do you have the Mark?” Harry asks eagerly.

Malfoy ignores him. “When you feel the Mark burn, it means you are being summoned. You will have to come to the Manor or any previously determined place, as quickly as you can without being noticed. You can Apparate, right?”

“No. Like you can!” 

“Of course I can.”

“Good for you,” Harry answers aggressively, his pride a little hurt, “but no one taught me how to. And I’m not seventeen anyway.” 

“That didn’t stop you from casting an Insanire on my father,” Malfoy replies without missing a beat.

They stare at each other for a moment. The air between them is so tense it could be cut with a knife.

“I will teach you how to Apparate,” Malfoy says reluctantly. “In the meantime, you will have to use Floo. I’ll make sure the Manor connection is open for you when the Dark Lord summons. Don’t use Hogwarts’ fireplaces, though. You will have to go to Hogsmades.”

“Brilliant,” grinds Harry between his teeth. “Wait, could I use the Room of Requirement? I’m sure it can create a Floo connection.”

Malfoy thinks for a moment.

“It might work. I will check.”

“Don’t. I can manage.”

“The Dark Lord has been very clear,” Malfoy says with a displeased frown. “I have to help you with any upcoming issue, especially concerning your discretion at Hogwarts.”

“Great, so now I have a babysitter…”

Malfoy seems unusually upset at these words.

“You should not take this matter lightly, Potter,” he says. “Do you realise that both your life and mine are deeply compromised? I know you’d prefer me dead, but I didn’t think you cared so little for your and your friends’ safety.”

“Of course I realise that!” Harry snaps. “What do you think, that I’m doing this for fun? That I’m siding with the man who killed my parents because I woke up one morning and thought hey, let’s become a fascist? You know I hate him, right? You know I fucking hate all of them? And that includes you, Malfoy, because even if you won’t show it to me I know you have that Mark on your arm!”

Malfoy stares back at Harry with a tightening jaw and twitching eyes.

“Your problem, Potter," he says slowly, “is that you think you know everything. You think you can spit on my family, judge me, reject my help… But the truth is you can’t. You need me to survive. You made the choice to walk into the Dark Lord’s arms, yet you accuse him of opening them. You accepted to take the Mark, yet you despise me at the idea I could wear it too. You say you want to protect your friends, but you’re now the slave of their mortal enemy, and if you think for a second you can prevent him from hurting them, you are sorely mistaken. I won’t let you die, though, because if I do he’ll kill me, and if he kills me my mother will try to kill him, and then he’ll kill her too. My whole family is in greater danger than ever because of you. So I won’t let you die, Potter, and I certainly won’t let you fuck my life up.”

Harry stays stunned and silent. He has never seen Malfoy like this before, eyes glowing with fear, determination, and what seems to be a deep sadness. Entirely and completely genuine. The war has changed him too, Harry realises.

“I won’t fuck up,” he finally says in a breath.

“You better not.”

“Is that everything?” Harry asks sharply, refraining from touching the locket hidden under his shirt.

“For now, yes. We should meet tomorrow for Appearing lessons. Meet me on the fourth floor after dinner, next to the Amoria mirror. Do not be late.”

Harry hates that Malfoy is giving him orders, but he can’t really argue. They get up at the same time and nearly bump into each other, then Malfoy gets out after casting the mist again. He goes back to his compartment without another look for Harry, who’s left alone in the corridor.

He doesn’t go back to Ginny, Neville and Luna. Instead he finds a quiet, empty corner at the end of the train and stays there, alone, looking through the window, his thoughts blurry and dark.

The banquet seems abnormally long without Ron by his side. Harry can feel Hermione and Ginny’s sadness as well as his own, and the overall atmosphere is heavy. Dumbledore makes a short speech about Voldemort’s return and encourages the students to stay careful, especially outside of the school.

“Voldemort will use fear and intimidation,” the Headmaster says. “I urge you to fight in the best way you can, by keeping hope and goodness in your heart. Do not succumb to despair but instead choose, again and again, to show the world and yourself that darkness has not won yet. This will be the most important lesson you will learn this year.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Harry mumbles.

“Harry!” Hermione says in shock. “The first years are very impressionable!”

“Fuck them.”

“Is there any particular reason why you’re being an ass?” Ginny asks. “Or is this just your personality now?”

Harry feels a strong urge to tell her to shut up, but Ginny is his friend and he knows she too is affected by Ron’s absence.

“I just think love and happiness won’t be enough to defeat Voldemort. Just a personal opinion.”

“Of course it won’t,” Hermione says, “but it’s still important.”

“I find that anger is a better fuel,” Harry answers. “It actually gets things done.”

Both Hermione and Ginny start talking back, but the applause for Dumbledore’s speech covers their voices. Harry manages to avoid conversation for the rest of the feast. He finishes eating as fast as he can and gets out of the Great Hall before the dessert is even served.

Once he’s in front of the Fat Lady, he realises that he doesn’t know the new password yet. He greets the portrait politely and stands there for a moment, unsure what to do.

“Can you visit portraits outside of Hogwarts?” he asks to make conversation.

“I can’t,” the Lady answers, “but some can.”

“Would you know anyone who can go to, uh… To the Ministry, maybe?”

“Some of the Headmasters can, but they rarely leave the office. Though Elizabeth Burke has several portraits in the castle, that lucky bitch.” The Fat Lady notices Harry’s surprise at her words and adds with disdain: “It’s okay to call her that, she is a Pureblood fanatic. Her ugly face is even hanging at the Malfoys. Never trust a Slytherin, I say!”

“Never,” Harry repeats absently, already wondering how he could get information out of Elizabeth Burke’s portrait.

The first Gryffindors start to arrive at that moment, letting Harry in, and he rushes to his dorm before any actual human tries to engage in a conversation. The familiar round room seems colder than usual. Maybe because there is no trunk next to Ron’s bed.

That night, Harry dreams of Sirius falling through the veil. He wakes up crying silently, though he can’t help but feel that the pain is much more bearable than the nightmares where he sees through Voldemort’s eyes.

The first day of class isn’t exactly torture, but close. Harry finds himself much more agitated than usual, having trouble focusing and often rolling his eyes at students and teachers alike. As the day goes by so does the invasive feeling that he shouldn't be there. It feels ridiculous sitting behind a desk, learning how to turn vinegar to wine, when a war is happening outside the castle’s walls. 

He is also annoyed to find most subjects difficult, which is not unusual for him but very frustrating after his summer secret training. Harry misses the ease that he felt with the Dark Arts. He misses the adrenaline and that fluid feeling, like the magic was encouraging him, gently taking his hand.

Harry discovers soon that the new Potions teacher, Horace Slughorn, is not incompetent but rather annoying; and his fascination with Harry, or rather Harry’s fame, quickly gets embarrassing. Then comes the Defense against the Dark Arts class. Snape spends the entire hour ignoring Harry, which somehow feels almost worse than their usual clashes. Harry wonders if Voldemort told Snape about him. It would explain the teacher’s refusal to go anywhere near Harry. Harry still doesn’t know on which side Snape really is, but one thing’s sure, it’s not his.

When the day finally ends, Harry feels adrenaline rising. He spends the whole dinner shooting looks at Malfoy, who is watching back more often than Harry would expect. Each time their eyes meet they both immediately turn away and pretend to not have looked at all. When Malfoy leaves the Slytherin table, Harry jumps like a spring and gets out as well, careful not to look at him this time.

“I told you to meet me there,” Malfoy says as soon as they’re alone in a corridor. “We shouldn't be seen together.”

“Oh no, are you ashamed of me?” Harry asks with a biting grin.

“Don’t make me laugh, Potter,” Malfoy says coldly, walking faster.

They shortly arrive at the fourth floor mirror and after ensuring no one is near, Malfoy says a spell that turns the surface into a shimmer.

“After you.”

Harry shoots him a suspicious look and Malfoy sighs.

“I’m not trying to trick you, Scarface.”

They step in at the same time, going through the mirror like it’s water. On the other side, Harry lights up his wand and discovers a large tunnel carved into stone. They walk for a moment without a word.

Malfoy breaks the silence first.

“How can you even use magic outside of school?”

“I’m just different,” Harry says, knowing it will greatly annoy his rival.

It does.

“Oh, Merlin’s arse. Did you pay someone?”

“I just happen to be extremely well connected.”

“No, you’re not. I can’t believe the Ministry would let you… Did you alter your wand or something?”

“Look, I’ll tell you but you have to swear you’ll keep it secret.”

“Whatever.”

“Swear, Malfoy.”

“Ugh! I swear, Potter! Just tell me already.”

Harry gets a little closer to Malfoy to whisper in his ear.

“I had to give Scrimgeour a handjob.”

Malfoy practically jumps away and Harry explodes in laughter. It makes a strange sound under the stone ceiling.

“That is hardly amusing,” Malfoy says furiously. “You’re mental, Potter.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Harry answers, still laughing. Malfoy lets out a loud sneer that only makes Harry laugh harder. “Oh, come on, why are you always so serious?”

“The situation is serious, Potter.”

“No, the situation is fucking nuts. We’re in the middle of a war and Dumbledore is going on about ‘goodness of heart’. My best friend is in the hospital and my only hope to heal him is a snake-faced murderer. My first tattoo is the wizard equivalent to a svastika, and now I’m being tutored by Draco bloody Malfoy. I swear I’m trying, but I just can’t take this all seriously.”

Malfoy stays silent for a moment.

“What’s a svastika?”

Harry looks at him with surprise. Actually, he’s always been frustrated to not be able to call Malfoy a Nazi, so maybe there’s the occasion.

“Do you know about World War Two?”

“No.”

“Really? Holy fuck, what do they teach you in wizard primary school?”

“Is it a Muggle war?”

“It’s one of the worst wars in history. I always thought the magical world was involved in a way or another, but I guess not… It happened in the forties. Almost the whole world was involved, mostly Europe but also America and Japan. You know what Japan is, right?”

“I’m not completely daft,” Malfoy answers with indignation.

“Not knowing about World War Two is pretty daft, but coming from you I shouldn’t be surprised. For your information, over sixty million people were killed. The current war is kind of a joke compared to this.”

“What?” Malfoy exclaims in shock.

“I’m not saying that this war is not horrible, but it’s mostly happening in England, so in terms of scale it’s—”

“No, I mean… Sixty million?”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

He’s surprised that Malfoy even listens to him talk about this subject. Pleasantly surprised, to be honest.

“That’s more than England’s whole population,” Malfoy says slowly.

“Yes. It was a very violent war, too. It started because of the Nazis.”

He lets the word float for a moment. When he turns to Malfoy he sees him looking back at him with intrigued eyes.

“There was a man, a dictator. His name was Hitler. He, uh… He was a kind of Voldemort, you know? I don’t think you can really compare, each war is horrible in a different way, but he was definitely insane. And he killed millions of people because of their religion. You know what a religion is?”

“No.”

“Wow. Okay, uh… You know about God?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, hum… It’s a belief, basically. A group of people believing in the same thing, practicing rituals and stuff. So there are different religions, and… To really simplify it, this man, Hitler, he believed some were better than others.”

“Well, were they?”

“No! Absolutely not. You can be any religion and be a good person, or a terrible one. It doesn’t define who you are.” Harry lets a second of silence pass before adding: “Just like being born with magic or not.”

Malfoy and him exchange a strange look.

“You think the Dark Lord… You really think that Muggles shouldn’t be considered lesser than us?”

“Of course they shouldn't," Harry says angrily. “They’re human beings, exactly like you and me. Have you ever talked to a Muggle?”

“Once,” Malfoy says.

Harry wants to ask more but they arrive at the end of the tunnel. They exit in a small alley somewhere in Hogsmade, and walk without another word until they reach the edge of the woods. The night is dark but not too cold; Harry actually feels better here, outside of the castle walls. The quiet is more than welcome after the busy day.

They spend the next hour covering the basics of Apparition. Harry is once again impressed by Malfoy’s abilities, but he tries his best to not show it. He, on the other hand, is not doing so great. Harry fails repetitively for the first half hour and first blames his teacher, but to his great surprise Malfoy stays calm and only calls him a cavern troll once. When Harry splinches one of his fingers, Malfoy reattaches it to the rest of his body before Harry can even feel the pain. By the end of the hour he has made some light progress, though still very far from being able to appear where instructed.

“How come the Ministry doesn’t know we’re doing this?” Harry asks as they walk back to the tunnel.

“It’s not like spells. You’re not directly using your wand, so they have no way of knowing when someone apparates. The license only exists to ensure people actually know what they’re doing. Splinching can be pretty dangerous.”

They’re halfway into the tunnel, Harry lost deep in his thoughts, when Malfoy speaks again.

“So what’s a satika ?”

“Svastika,” Harry corrects him. “It’s the Nazi’s symbol. They actually stole it from another culture, but now most people associate it with fascism. You know what fascism is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you could say a svastika is the Muggle equivalent to what the Dark Mark is in the wizarding world.”

Harry takes a look at Malfoy and almost giggles when he sees his face. The mental effort it takes him to associate the Dark Mark and Muggles seems to be overheating his blond head.

“It’s just that this symbol is associated with so much hate and violence in the Muggle world, that wearing it would be like… I don’t know. Openly declaring you’re a terrible person, basically.”

“So all Nazis were terrible people, but not all people with a religion were? How is that different?”

Harry takes a moment to think. Each of Malfoy’s questions surprises him a little more. Here he is, walking in the darkness with a Death Eater’s son, having a civil conversation about racism and Muggle history.

“Nazis are horrible because they choose to hurt others for their identity. Don’t get me wrong, some religious people do this too, but not all of them. It’s not what defines a religion. Fascism, though, is defined by imposing your beliefs to others in a violent way. Like Voldemort does.”

“The Dark Lord doesn’t impose his beliefs.”

“He— Well, I guess not exactly. He can’t make everyone believe that all Muggles should die, but he kills everyone who disagrees with him.”

“That’s just not true!” Malfoy exclaims. “He is trying to bring Purebloods back to power, it’s different!”

“Okay, but he still imposes his views through violence. There wouldn’t be a war if he wasn’t trying to take power and become the leader of the wizarding world without asking anyone.”

“I think you know as little about Pureblood society as I know about Muggles,” Malfoy says. “It’s much more complicated than that.”

“I’m not saying it’s not complicated. I’m saying it’s wrong.”

They stop. They’re back at the mirror and can see the fourth floor on the other side. But they don’t get out. Harry and Malfoy look at each other in perfect silence, and for the hundredth time that day, Harry wonders how his life became so bizarre.

“When can you meet again?” finally Malfoy asks. “For lessons,” he adds.

“Friday should be good.”

“Don’t you have Quidditch practice?”

Harry wonders for a second how Malfoy knows about his schedule, then shrugs.

“I’m not playing.”

“What?” Malfoy sounds positively aghast.

“I thought you’d be glad,” Harry sneers. “I’m not saying Slytherin has any chance of winning the cup, but maybe you could catch at least one snitch, huh?”

“Shut up, we have every chance of winning.”

“Yeah, sure. Just like you have the last five years.”

“Shut up, Potter, or I’ll have to hex you.”

“Oh, I’m just terrified.”

“Why are you not playing?”

Harry looks at Malfoy with confusion.

“Why do you care?”

“Just tell me, you Nazi.”

“... What did you just call me?”

Harry cannot believe his ears. He’s been dreaming of calling Malfoy a Nazi for years, and now Malfoy does it first? Un-fucking-believable. He’s not sure if he should be offended, amused or impressed.

“You motherfucker,” he simply says. Malfoy looks at him with wide eyes. It is not a common wizarding insult, but he apparently got the spirit. Malfoy opens his mouth, certainly to spit some insult back, but Harry cuts him.

“I won’t play because I don’t think the Gryffindors will react well when they see my Mark in the changing room.”

“Oh.”

Malfoy looks at him with a very strange look, and a wave of sadness falls on Harry. He suddenly remembers where he is, who he is, who he’s talking to. The enemy. A blood purist, son of a murderer. He shakes his head in disbelief, disappointed at himself that he got distracted for a moment by Malfoy’s angelic face. That can’t happen again. Harry has one foot in each side now, but he won’t ever forget where his loyalties truly lie.

“I have to go.”

Malfoy looks at him with a deep frown but waves his wand worldlessly. Harry walks through the mirror without another look.

That night, he dreams of a clean but cold room, with grey walls and many beds. Harry’s sitting on his own, not listening but still hearing the other kids playing together. They sound happy, childish, normal, and he wishes they were all dead.

Chapter Text

“Confringo!”

The blast projects Harry to the ground. His ears ring for a moment, the painted ceiling above him is blurry, but the boy has a smile on his face.

First try. Harry succeeded at the first try.

He sits up with caution and looks around. The Room of Requirement doesn’t seem damaged at all. Like Harry hoped, it’s the perfect place for training. He’s been here for the last hour, practicing all the spells he already learned, feeling better than in any of his classes of the week. He enjoys being alone more and more these days.

Harry knows he should be doing something about the huge pile of homework that’s been accumulating in that first week of school. The problem is, he doesn’t give a shit anymore. It feels so much more important to be here, to train for actually useful spells, spells that could save his life one day. He decides that every Saturday morning will now be dedicated to learning the Dark Arts.

Harry is reading Regulus’ Book of Dark, looking for the next curse he will learn, when two things simultaneously appear in the Room of Requirement. The first is a large fireplace with a roaring fire. The other one is a blond boy who simply walks through the door. Malfoy lets out a cry when he sees Harry.

“Oh thank Merlin, finally!”

“What are you doing here, Malfoy? How did you get in?”

The Slytherin walks to Harry and pulls him by the arm towards the fireplace.

“I know how the Room works so it lets me get in,” he says in a hurried tone. “I should have looked for you here earlier, I can’t believe I didn’t think about it…”

“What’s happening?”

“The Dark Lord asked me to bring you to him, and that was forty minutes ago. I can’t even imagine what state he’s in right now… Hurry up!”

Harry gets tense at these words, but he follows Malfoy to the fireplace. He was starting to wonder if Voldemort was ever going to summon him. He’s not exactly pleased, but he’s certainly curious.

“Malfoy Manor,” says the blond boy while throwing Floo powder into the fire.

They walk into the green flames and step out a moment later into a large study room. Three silhouettes turn to them and Harry feels his scar sting.

“At last.”

Voldemort does indeed not seem pleased. The tall wizard quickly walks to Harry, armchairs and ornamental tables moving away like even inanimate objects know they better not get in his way. Harry notes that Lucius Malfoy, standing under a large window, seems extremely tense; Bellatrix on the other hand shoots a sickening smile at Harry.

“I am so very sorry, my Lord,” Malfoy says in a weak voice.

Voldemort doesn’t even look at him. “Do not worry, for I have the perfect punishment for you.”

He grabs Harry by the shoulder and moves him to the center of the room. Harry feels his scar burning lightly, as well as the locket vibrating against his chest.

“It wasn’t his fault,” he says to his own surprise. “I was hiding.”

“Why? Did you not wish to come?”

“No, I was… I’m training for the Dark Arts.”

Voldemort looks at him with an undecipherable expression, then points at Harry’s wand.

“I assume you found a way to use magic outside of Hogwarts.”

“I did.”

“Let us not waste any more time, then. Today I will teach you two curses of my choice, and one of yours.”

“What did you choose?” Harry asks tensely.

“We will begin with the Imperius Curse.”

Harry isn’t really surprised, but nonetheless anxious.

“What will you ask in exchange?”

“I wish to hear the prophecy.”

Harry expected this, of course, but still tries to find a way to avoid it.

“Why would you think I’ve heard it?”

“I believe Dumbledore has shared it with you, and that it is the reason he has lost your trust.”

The fucker is perceptive, Harry deplores. Can he really hide the prophecy from Voldemort? He has no doubt that the Dark wizard will find a way to make Harry tell him at some point. And if he refuses now, what will happen? Will Voldemort simply cancel the lesson, or will he ask something else from Harry, something worse?

It’s a game, Harry knows it. Voldemort will try to lure him into giving more and more away, and he, Harry, will do his best to survive. No, not just survive. This is not only about the learning, it’s about information, it’s about getting closer to Voldemort. Defeating him from the inside. For this, he’ll have to make sacrifices.

"You know the beginning,” Harry says. “Born as the seventh month dies. That’s me.”

“Yes. Tell me what comes next.”

Harry takes a deep breath. The words are engraved in his memory; Trelawney’s otherworldly voice still resonates inside his brain.

“And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.”

Voldemort looks at him with an eager expression Harry’s never seen on him before.

“Continue.”

“Oh, that’s it.”

“This… Is all?”

“Yeah. I promise, that’s it, you can Veritaserum me or whatever. It’s only this.”

Everyone in the room jumps when Voldemort bursts out laughing. It’s a loud, long, joyless laugh that leaves Harry quite confused.

“So this is the prophecy Dumbledore tried to hide from me? This is all I lured you in for, this is why your dear Black died?”

Harry clenches his fists. Actually Sirius died because of the crazy bitch standing a few steps from him. Harry wishes he could kill them all right here, right now. But of course, he can’t.

“All this for nothing,” Voldemort says with a smile.

Harry hates to admit it, but he’s kind of right. The prophecy doesn’t bring anything new to the table, not now they know about Harry being an Horcrux. Harry feels a flash of anger towards Dumbledore but he pushes it to the back of his mind.

“Well, I thank you, Harry,” Voldemort says. “It is at least good to know I have nothing more to seek. Let’s begin your lesson, shall we?”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles. “Let’s do it.”

Voldemort smiles and Harry hates it even more than his cold anger.

“Draco, approach.”

Harry looks at Malfoy stepping closer, obvious terror on his face despite a noble attempt to hide it. Of course Voldemort was going to ask Harry to train on him. He did say he had a punishment for Malfoy after all.

“You know the incantation,” Voldemort tells Harry. “Simply say the words with firm intention to take control of Draco’s mind.”

Harry feels deeply uneasy. He has dreamed of cursing Malfoy many times before, but this is an Unforgivable Curse. Besides, Malfoy has no possibility to defend himself. Harry senses all the eyes fixed on him, except Malfoy’s, which are set on the ground.

“Isn’t it dangerous if not casted correctly?" Harry asks.

“It is.”

Harry hesitates a moment longer, then turns to Bellatrix.

“Does she have to be there?”

Voldemort lets out an annoyed sound.

“Bellatrix, approach. Step closer. You shall work on your concentration, Harry. Now do what I ask.”

And so Harry does.

He concentrates, despite Voldemort’s sharp gaze, despite Bellatrix’s cackles, despite Lucius Malfoy trying to murder him with his eyes. He concentrates only on Draco Malfoy — his thin face, slightly trembling hands, tense jaw.

“Imperio.”

Nothing happens. Harry knows how it is to be on the other side of the wand, under the curse’s influence, but he has no idea how he’s supposed to feel when casting it.

“Again.”

“Imperio.”

Malfoy flinches, but nothing more.

“Imperio. Imperio. Imperio!”

“You have to be intentional, Harry,” Voldemort says. “The Unforgivables only work when the caster is entirely determined.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not. It would be easier to do it on Bellatrix.”

“How disappointing. Do you not wish to prove your superiority on Draco? To make him submit entirely to all of your desires? Is he not the boy who has mocked you, bullied you for years? I am offering you an opportunity, Harry. You should seize it.”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. In his mind he replays all of his worst memories of Malfoy. Spitting on Ron’s family, calling Hermione terrible names, trying to get Buckbear executed, mocking Cedric’s death, working for Umbridge… Before he gets to their last conversation in the tunnel, before he can think too hard about what he’s doing, Harry opens his eyes.

“Imperio.”

He feels it immediately. It’s the same feeling as being under the curse, but distant, manageable. An intoxicating feeling of power fills Harry’s mind. He sees Malfoy relax completely, a faint smile even forming on his face. He feels Malfoy’s thoughts slowing down, unable to remember why he was so scared a moment before. Harry knows can talk to him, in his mind.

Walk.

Malfoy walks toward Harry and the almighty feeling gets stronger.

Turn around.

Malfoy turns around. Harry feels excited at the idea he can make him do anything. Voldemort’s right, this is his occasion to get revenge.

Slap your father. As hard as you can.

In a fluid motion Malfoy walks to his father and hits him with impressive strength. Malfoy Senior loses balance but he doesn’t make a move against his son, only standing there, his cheek red, his eyes murderous.

Harry slowly withdraws himself from Malfoy’s mind. The powerful feeling fades and he finds himself back in the middle of the room, back in his own body and mind. Malfoy falls to his knees, his breath short, trembling harder than before.

When Harry dares to look at Voldemort, he sees him smile.

“Very well. Try it again.”

“I think I’ve got it.”

“You asked me to teach you,” Voldemort says cooly. “You will follow my instructions.”

Harry catches Malfoy’s glance for a second before the boy turns away, standing up slowly. He has to lean on a close table to stand. Harry doesn’t feel powerful anymore, just a little sick to his stomach. Malfoy is clearly distraught but it doesn’t make Harry feel so good anymore.

“Now,” Voldemort says.

Harry doesn’t think when he turns his wand at Lucius Malfoy. The words fall out of his mouth with ease.

“Imperio.”

The effect is immediate. The pleasing warmth infuses Harry’s brain with the intimate knowledge that the man in front of him, face going blank, is entirely his.

Dance.

The sight of Malfoy Senior breaking into a waltz alone, a dull smile on his face, should delight Harry. It doesn’t, not so much. It mostly angers him. He thinks about Ron, wishing he could see this. Ron would have laughed.

“Tell me what’s the spell you cast on Ron.”

“Amarsomnun.”

“Tell me how to undo it.”

“To break the Bitter Sleep curse, one has to come to the verge of death and be woken up a moment before trespass. It can only be done using a Resurrection ritual.”

Harry releases Lucius’ mind with less delicacy than he did for Malfoy. The man loses balance and his son runs to him, helping him sit down. Bellatrix lets out a scornful sound but Voldemort seems pleased.

“You have used the curse to your own benefit, Harry. I believe you now master it.”

Harry doesn’t answer. Malfoy is standing next to his father, more worry than fear in his eyes. He looks up at Harry for a second and there it is — the familiar hatred. The contempt. Like he wants to hurt Harry very badly — and then he lowers his eyes again.

“The next curse you will learn today will be the Cruciatus.” Voldemort says. “I believe you have tried to cast it on Bellatrix before, with no success."

“The little boy has tried indeed, master, but he does not have what it takes,’ Bellatrix snickers.

“We will see that.”

“And what do you ask in exchange for this one?” Harry asks.

“Your loyalty.”

“What? No, I already told you I—”

“I am not asking for moral loyalty. You can keep on hating me and my cause, but I cannot allow you to talk freely to Dumbledore. You will take an Unbreakable Vow to guarantee your silence.”

“What’s that?” Harry asks with a cautious voice.

“A powerful magical contract. If broken, it will result in the betrayer’s death.”

Harry stares at Voldemort in silent horror for a moment. He should have expected nothing less coming from this creature, but he didn’t know such a thing even existed. Death is a pretty radical price to pay for trust.

“An objection?” Voldemort asks.

Harry hates this, but he sees no other option. Of course Voldemort is going to ensure he stays silent. He warned Harry the day he gave him the Mark.

“I’ll take the vow, but I want to discuss the terms before I do it.”

“Of course you do. Let us first complete your lesson, then we will agree on the Vow’s terms. Do you agree?”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“Very well. Now, the Cruciatus. Draco, come forth.”

Malfoy steps forwards and once again, fear replacing anger again on his face. Harry feels another wave of discomfort in his stomach.

“No, I can’t do it on him.”

“Maybe not on the first try, but I’m certain you will manage.”

“No, I… I can’t. I don’t hate him enough. I don’t want to do it. I could do it on Bellatrix, though. That would be easy!”

Voldemort shoots Harry an annoyed look.

“Do you intend to bargain every single time I give an instruction?”

“If I need to, yeah!”

“This is only the first lesson, Harry. You might believe the Unforgivables are the worst thing I will teach you, but they are not. You will need to overcome your morals in order to gain power.”

“I know that, but I told you I have limits. I can’t just… I can’t torture him!”

“You will!” Voldemort exclaims.

“No! He’s my age! He’s just a kid!” Harry yells.

He and Voldemort stare for each other for a moment. Harry knows that the Dark wizard wants him to break, to submit and become just like him. Cruel. Merciless. He won’t. He has to stay human, to stay kind… Well, now he sounds like Dumbledore.

“You said I wouldn’t have to do anything if I didn’t want to. You said I’d always have a choice.”

“... I did.”

Harry can see Voldemort is annoyed, but he won’t surrender. He knows without a doubt that casting the Cruciatus on Malfoy is wrong, that he’d never forgive himself, no matter what the boy has done to him in the past.

“Very well,” Voldemort snaps. “Bellatrix, call Narcissia.”

“No, my Lord, please!” Malfoy immediately cries out.

“Silence!”

Malfoy turns to Harry, begging. “Potter, do it on me. Please.”

“Silence, Draco!” Voldemort thunders. “Or I will Cruciate you and your mother myself!”

Malfoy shuts up but his eyes are imploring. Harry can’t stand to look at him.

“I’ll do it on Lucius,” he says. “If you’ll allow it… My Lord.”

Voldemort sighs, clearly irritated but also flattered by Harry’s submissiveness.

“Proceed before I change my mind.”

Harry avoids Malfoy’s gaze and turns to Malfoy Senior. This is the man who has cursed Ron, the man who gave a cursed journal to a little girl, the man who tortured Muggles. The man who taught Draco Malfoy to hate Muggles, too, and made him serve Voldemort before he was even of age. Harry looks at him with no pity.

“Not even trying to protect your son…” he tells Lucius Malfoy quietly. “What kind of father are you? Even mine’s better, and he’s dead.”

Malfoy Senior says nothing but his expression speaks loud enough. If Voldemort wasn’t in the room, Harry’s pretty sure Lucius Malfoy would have killed him already.

“Crucio.”

It only takes a few tries before Lucius’s proud mask is torn out. The man falls to his knees with a cry, and Harry feels the curse fill his mind. It is not warm like Imperium but glacial, heavy, yet pleasant. The same sensation of power flows in Harry’s veins as he watches Lucius yell. Harry fights against the satisfaction it gives him. When Lucius’ screams get louder, Harry stops abruptly.

He feels dirty. He feels terrible and puissant, capable, and he wants more. It is addictive, he finds, to have so much power over another being. Lucius pants but quickly gets up, his eyes stuck on the ground.

“That was an acceptable start,” Voldemort says. “Again.”

“I did it,” Harry protests. “Just like you asked. I don’t think I need to—”

“Again.”

Harry feels desperate at the idea of casting the curse once more. It’s not for Lucius’ sake, on the contrary. It’s the fact that he liked it. Harry doesn’t want to be like that, he doesn’t want to be the kind of person who enjoys torturing others.

“Do you think this is enough, Harry?” Voldemort says. “That is nothing. Merely better than what you did to Bellatrix in your pathetic attempt this summer. Your hatred is the source of the pain. Feel it and relish in it! You will only be allowed to stop once you lean entirely into it. Now do it again.”

Harry does. He says the words, feels the power intoxicate him, watches Lucius Malfoy fall and roll on the ground, screaming, and Harry pushes farther.

When Lucius starts shaking on the ground, his eyes almost white, foaming at the mouth, Harry understands. There is a limit within himself that he crosses with ease, walking into pure hate, pure delight at the other’s suffering. Harry continues a bit longer than he has too. When he stops, the locket is burning hot against his skin.

Lucius Malfoy does not move. Harry does not move. He looks at what he’s done; the anger decreases until there is only nausea left.

“Good boy,” Voldemort says in a disgustingly sweet voice.

Harry can’t resist any longer. He gets the locket out of his jumper and clutches it with all of his strength. The low humming, resonating inside his head, takes over the disgust and the sickness. Little by little, it grounds Harry. He turns away when Malfoy kneels next to his father, facing Voldemort. The son of a bitch is smiling wide.

“We shall proceed to the Vow, now. Harry, Bellatrix, approach.”

They both step closer to Voldemort. Harry feels very tired. He feels small and weak. The whole thing is mad, the world he lives in doesn’t make any sense, but there is no way back. Harry created that, he walked into this situation. He holds onto the locket and forces himself to take one more step toward the madman in front of him.

“You will not reveal any information about me, my followers, my intentions or actions to any person who is not already aware of them,” Voldemort declares. “You will not be able to harm me or them in any way without my authorization. You will not assist anyone in the process of the war against me. These are my terms. Let’s proceed.”

“Wait,” Harry says weakly. “I won’t spill your secrets, I won’t try to hurt you or your goons, but… You can’t ask me to choose a side. I have to stay neutral.”

Voldemort scoffs. “Do you wish to offer Dumbledore your assistance? Do you wish to help his little organisation in their pathetic attempts of slowing my plans? I cannot allow this, Harry. You shall indeed not take a side, by vowing to never help your miserable friends.”

“Why? What does it change? Are you scared of them?”

A flash shines in Voldemort’s eyes. Harry holds his gaze, ignoring Bellatrix’s furious shriek.

“How dare you, vermin?” she spits.

“Shut up,” Harry says.

He can’t walk out, he can’t regret now, it’s too late, he’s in too deep, he made his choice and will stand by it. But he won’t let himself become a puppet. If someone, anyone, has a chance of standing against Voldemort, it has to be him.

After all, he carries two parts of his soul, while Voldemort only has one.

“They are nothing,” Voldemort says in a low, ominous voice. “I have nothing to fear from them.”

“So what? Do you fear me?”

The next moment, Harry can’t breathe. His feet are above the ground, spasms running through his muscles. He feels a pressure around his throat but when he tries to grasp it, there’s nothing. Harry wrestles against the void, struggling to get any air into his lungs, choking until the invisible hand releases him. He falls to the ground.

Harry takes in deep breaths, his hands clutched around his throat. Voldemort leans over him, his shadow devouring Harry.

“You, Harry Potter, do not fear me enough. I shall correct this.”

“I saw you,” Harry spits. The words come out muffled but he forces them out. “When you were a boy, in the orphanage. I can’t fear you! I feel sorry for—”

The pain takes over Harry in a second. He crumbles to the floor screaming his lungs out. It’s like a giant hand is grinding his bones, squashing his flesh, crushing him from the inside. Harry screams and screams but the pain doesn’t stop, he should be reduced to dust now, he should be dead but he’s not and he’s feeling it all very, very sharply, and he wishes it would just stop but it goes on and on and on and he can’t even scream anymore.

When the pain recedes, Harry is left breathless, in tears, crumbled on the hardwood floors.

“You shall never, never speak of this again,” he hears Voldemort say. The wizard’s voice is distant but distinct, loaded with wrath.

Harry sobs on the ground for a moment, then he is lifted up with strength. Voldemort forces him to stand, to face his burning carmine eyes.

“You shall never speak about it again, ever. Do you understand?”

Harry nods, unable to speak. Voldemort lets him go and Harry barely manages to stay on his feet.

“Now, the Vow.”

Harry lets Voldemort take his right hand in his. Once again he’s surprised to feel a human touch, skin cold but not as much as he remembered. Harry is still shaking but he makes himself look up, meeting Voldemort’s eyes. Bellatrix places the tip of her wand on their linked hands and Harry feels a warmness run between his fingers.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort says, “will you keep silent any knowledge you gain about me, my followers, my plans and my actions, unless I order otherwise?”

“I will,” Harry says in a breath.

A string of light like a thin flame erupts from Bellatrix’s wand and wraps around their joined hands.

“Will you not harm me or my followers, unless I order otherwise?”

“I will not.”

Another string of light twists around their hands.

“Will you refuse to assist those who attempt to defeat me, unless I order otherwise?”

Harry holds his breath for a moment too long and Voldemort’s fingers squeeze strongly around his.

“I will,” Harry says.

The last flame swirls with the others, shines for a moment, then the light fades. Voldemort offers Harry a glacial smile and lets go of his hand.

“Now, Harry, do you fear me?”

“I do,” Harry says.

It is a lie. He doesn’t fear Voldemort — he’s seen the worst he is capable of, and knows he can’t kill him. No, Harry is afraid of himself. Today he has seen what he is capable of, yet he knows it is not the worst.

“I will now teach you a curse of your choice,” Voldemort says. “What do you wish to learn?”

“A Resurrection ritual.” 

Voldemort looks at him in amusement. “Of course. Always eager to help others.”

“He’s my best friend,” Harry murmurs.

“Disgusting traitor to his blood,” Bellatrix cackles. “You should have killed him, Lucius.”

Harry looks over his shoulder and sees the two Malfoys standing close, the father leaning on his son. Both stay silent.

“I will teach it to you. In exchange, I would like a memory.”

“Which one?”

“Your first encounter with young Weasley.”

Harry looks at him with confusion.

“Huh… Okay.”

“I shall make clear that this memory will not be accessible to you once I have retrieved it.”

“Oh.”

Harry feels more and more tired. He thinks about the moment he first met Ron, in front of platform Nine and Three Quarters, his kind smile and clumsy attitude. Their talk in the Hogwarts express. Ron’s immediate goodness to a little boy who never had friends before. Harry’s throat feels tight. Taking this moment from him will not be of any help to Voldemort, but it will change Harry forever. And that, he knows, is exactly what Voldemort wants.

Still, if it’s the price he has to pay to save Ron, he’ll do it a hundred times.

“Alright,” Harry says quietly.

“Very well. We will conclude the lesson first, then I will take the payment.

“Alright.”

It takes a little less than an hour for Harry to master the Resurrection ritual. It is a complex and strict process, involving multiple incantations, both the practicant and the victim’s blood, as well as perfect timing. When Voldemort declares Harry ready, the boy is positively exhausted.

“Now the memory, and then you may go.”

Harry thinks about eleven-years-old Ron as hard as he can, as if he could engrave the memory in his mind. The happy, freckled face, the genuine joy in his smile… Voldemort approaches him with a vial, placing his wand on Harry’s temple. Sharing candies, trying that silly spell… That’s when they met Hermione as well, Harry realises just before the memory slips from his mind. It materializes, a silver and dancing smoke attracted by Voldemort’s wand. When he places it in the vial, Harry feels emptier than ever.

“You have been a good student,” Voldemort says. “I doubt you will, but I encourage you to practice these curses again. With discretion, of course.”

Harry says nothing. He and Malfoy walk back to the fireplace without a look for each other. Malfoy is clenching his fists so tight they’re shaking.

“We will see each other soon, Harry,” Voldemort’s cold voice resonates behind him. “Next time, do not be late.”

Harry steps into the green flames first. An instant later he falls out of the Room of Requirement’s fireplace, rolling to the ground. Malfoy comes out a moment after with perfect balance. He stands above Harry, finally looking him in the eyes.

“Are you fucking crazy?” he yells.

Harry gets up heavily. He’s so tired. He’s so empty.

“You said you wouldn’t fuck up! You said you wouldn’t— You— Fuck you!”

Malfoy takes a step back, and presses his hands on his eyes, clearly making a huge effort not to hit Harry.

“You don’t argue with the Dark Lord. Ever. Ever! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry says.

He’s so fucking tired. He wishes it would all stop, he wishes they would all leave him alone.

“Never do that again,” Malfoy says. “If he tells you to hurt me, you hurt me. You don’t touch my father, and you certainly don’t drag my mother into it!”

“Oh, so I should just have tortured you? That’s what you’re saying?”

“YES!”

Harry watches Malfoy walk in circles in the room, kicking various walls and furniture. Finally he faces Harry again.

“I hate you. I wish you were dead! Next time I hope he kills you!”

Before Harry can answer Malfoy runs to the exit and gets out, slamming the door behind him.

The Room of Requirement falls back into silence.

Harry lays on the floor. He cries silently for a long time. He thinks of Ron. He thinks of their first dinner in the great hall, of their calamity of a trip back to school in second year, of everything they’ve got through together. But when he tries to remember how they met, what they spoke about before the first evening, he just can’t.

When Harry gets back up and out of the room, eyes finally dry, he sees that he missed lunch. It doesn’t really matter. He’s not even hungry. Harry carries himself to the Gryffindor tower, looking for the only person he wants to talk to right now. As he hoped, Hermione is sitting there, studying.

“Hey…”

Hermione looks up and gasps loudly when she sees Harry.

“Oh God, Harry, you look terrible!”

“Thanks.”

“Sorry. Is everything alright?”

Harry sits next to her, resisting the urge to bury his face into Hermione’s neck. Her familiar, worried look is so comforting that Harry almost cries again.

“I was training,” he whispers.

“You mean…”

“Yeah. Dark Arts. Hermione, I know you disapprove, but… I’ve found a way to wake Ron up. And I need your help. I know you don’t want to have anything to do with this kind of magic, but it’s the only way to undo the curse. Please. I… I can’t do it alone. Not this.”

Hermione looks at Harry with a grave face, then she nods.

“Of course I’ll help you, Harry.”

Harry lets out a deep sigh of relief. They find a quiet corner and quickly get to work. Hermione asks Harry once how he learned about the Resurrection ritual, but seeing his somber face she doesn’t insist. Harry is dying to tell his friend everything that happened, tell her about Voldemort’s sadism, about his own cruelty, about his stolen memory, but he can’t. One sentence and he’d fall dead right here and now.

It was worth it, Harry tells himself again and again. It will always be worth it. It’s the only way he can protect them. He has no other choice.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall is loud with chatter and laughter and cutlery noise, and Harry’s head is about to burst. 

Three days. It’s been three days and this morning again, no letter. No news, no nothing.

Harry knows he saw Ron wake up. He saw him take a huge breath when Hermione said the last word of the ritual, they both saw the Healers run to his room as they hid under the Cloak. He and Hermione stayed for a minute, looking at Ron from afar to make sure the ritual worked before they had to hurry back to Hogwarts through the Room of Requirement’s fireplace. They saw him breathing, moving, talking to the Healers. Ron was all right, Harry knows he saw him. He was okay. 

So why the hell is he not back?

“That’s it,” he says, suddenly getting up. “I’m going to write to Mrs Weasley.”

“Harry, hush!” Hermione tells him with severe eyes.

She pulls him by the sleeve to make him sit back next to her.

“No one can know we were there,” she whispers. “I know you’re anxious, I am too, but…”

“It’s just that… I don’t understand, Hermione! Why did no one even write? Could something have happened?”

“I don’t know, Harry, I really don’t know…”

Harry gets up again and this time Hermione lets him leave the table. He’s halfway through the Great Hall when the doors open.

A man is standing there, looking at Harry with a warm crooked smile, his face constellated with freckles. 

“Hey, mate.”

Harry runs so fast that he almost knocks Ron over. He wraps his best friend in a tight hug and laughs in shock and relief, not even able to speak. Harry has barely realised Ron is here, really here, when a second and then a third person hit them like Buldgers. Harry, Hermione and Ginny crush Ron with the most loving, aggressive hug in history. Ron laughs.

“It’s really good to see you guys, but I can’t breathe.”

They eventually let him go. Ginny gives her big brother one more hug and the four of them get out of the Hall, followed by many stares none of them cares about.

“How are you feeling? Are you okay? You’re back for good?”

“Don’t ever do that again, Ronald, I thought you were dead, mum was going completely crazy, don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

“When did you wake up? What did the Healers say? You’re good, right?”

Ron laughs again. He seems completely normal, except the large grey circles under his eyes.

“I’m good, I swear. I actually woke up several days ago, but they wouldn’t tell anyone before the Aurors made a full investigation. ‘Said there was a break-in or something.”

Harry and Hermione exchange a look, and Ron’s smile immediately turns into a suspicious stare.

“Oh, Merlin’s hairy arse. Was it you two?”

Ginny looks at them with surprise. Harry lowers his voice.

“You cannot tell anyone. I mean it. We used, uh… You know.”

Ron nods and Ginny shoots them confused looks.

“What? You used what? What happened?”

“Harry and I snuck into St Mungo and we… We just got Ron a little help.”

“The Healers said it was Dar—”

“Let’s talk about it later,” Harry cuts Ron. “You’re back for good, right? No complications?”

“No. I’m feeling great. Well, still tired, but I’ll be fine.”

That day is by far the best Harry has had since they came back to school. Spending every minute with Ron and Hermione, the three of them reunited like in good old times, makes the whole world feel more bright. Ron is eager to catch up, asking questions about everything and laughing hard at every joke. Harry has a blast hearing him criticize Slughorn after his first Potion class, and they of course have a heated talk about Snape being the new Defense teacher.

It’s a beautiful day, one of these September days that still feel like summer, so they take their lunch outside on the grass. Harry and Hermione tell Ron about the Resurrection Ritual and his eyes progressively get wider.

“You’re telling me I almost died?”

“We had to get you on the verge of death to then wake you up,” Hermione explains. “Honestly, it’s one of the most complicated magic acts I’ve ever performed.”

“How did you even know what to do?” Ron asks incredulously.

Hermione turns to Harry, who avoids his friends’ eyes.

“Please don’t ask,” he says. “I… I promised to keep it a secret.”

“It’s Dark magic, right?” Ron asks.

“Yeah.”

They all fall silent for a moment.

“I stand by what I said this summer,” Ron finally says. “I hate this kind of thing, it’s creepy and spooky, but hey, it saved my life. Thank you, guys.”

“Don’t mention it,” Harry says with a pinch of guilt.

By the evening, everything seems to be back to usual. Harry almost feels like a normal teenager, which he hasn’t in months. They’re getting out of their last class of the day when Ron unknowingly ruins everything.

“So Harry, you’re going to be the team captain, right?”

Harry’s eyes flinch with sadness but he quickly collects himself.

“No.”

“Why? You’re the oldest player in our team now.”

Harry sighs.

“I’m… I’m not playing Quidditch this year, Ron.”

Ron looks at him for a moment, too stunned to talk, or maybe trying to understand if Harry is joking. Hermione lifts her eyes from her class notes and looks at Harry too.

“Are you serious?” Ron finally asks.

“Yeah.”

“What the hell, Harry! Why wouldn’t you play?”

“I just feel like I have… Other priorities.”

“What? Like what? What could be more important than Quidditch?”

“We’re at war, Ron. I can’t focus on Quidditch in a time like this.”

“Dumbledore said we should keep—” Hermione starts.

“Don’t, Hermione,” Harry cuts her dryly.

“Harry, you can’t just stop playing Quidditch!” Ron insists. “That’s ridiculous!”

“So the rumors are true. Giving up the broom, Potter?”

The trio turns around and Harry has the great displeasure of discovering Malfoy, backed up with his usual green and silver gang. Nott, Zabini, Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle stare at them with contempt.

“Oh, great, here’s ferret face,” Ron scoffs. “Can’t say I’ve missed you and your squad of trolls.”

Malfoy ignores him. He is entirely focused on Harry, his glare icy, his stance tense. For a second Harry sees him on his knees, his whole body shaking, and he knows Malfoy sees him pointing his wand at him, the Imperius on his lips. Then they’re back to reality, standing in the middle of the hallway, far from Malfoy Manor, but their hatred is still intact.

“So what is it, Potter? Are you scared to go into the changing room? Worried that everyone will see you have a small one?”

The Slytherins laugh and Harry takes a step towards Malfoy, his whole body tensing up.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says in a threatening voice.

“Or what? Are you going to Crucio me?”

Harry feels his face get hotter, his jaw clench tighter. That bastard.

“I don’t need that to beat you up. I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Malfoy’s smoke fades.

“Bring it, Potter.”

Harry takes one more step forward. There’s a faint ringing in his ears, a familiar humming against his chest.

“I hope your beloved Voldemort kills both your parents,” Harry spits, “so you know what it’s like.”

A split second later, Malfoy’s fist is in his face.

Harry is projected against Ron but immediately jumps back on his feet. With a groan he darts toward Malfoy and punches him right in the face, but the Slytherin takes the hit without budging. He hits Harry back with a strong knock in the stomach, then promptly kicks him in the legs, throwing him on the ground. Harry falls and Malfoy jumps on him; the two boys roll on the floor as everyone starts yelling around them. 

Harry defends himself furiously but every hit he gives is given back twice as hard. He vaguely sees Ron hitting Zabini as the ringing in his ears intensifies. He tries to push Malfoy away but he’s too heavy, too furious, smacking his face repeatedly with full force. Harry strikes Malfoy in the head and the blond’s nose drips red, then Malfoy punches Harry and his glasses crack, and so they keep hitting and scratching and screaming until they’re torn apart.

Harry is pulled back by several hands but manages to free himself and jumps back at Malfoy, fist first. They fall back to the ground and this time Harry is pinning the blond on the floor. Malfoy bites him, Harry punches, Malfoy slaps, Harry puts his knee on the boy’s plexus and presses as hard as he can but then he’s grabbed by the collar and dragged away again.

“By Merlin! Potter, Malfoy!”

An absolutely rabid McGonagall steps between them before they get a chance to jump back at each other. A mass of students has gathered around, pointing fingers and talking excitedly, but Harry and Malfoy don’t take their eyes off each other.

“You’re pathetic!” Harry shouts.

“You’re as good as dead!” Malfoy shouts back. “If you ever talk about my family again, I will kill you!”

“Silence!” vociferates McGonagall. “Both of you!”

Harry finally stops battling against the arms holding him. Half of the world is blurry, and when he looks down he sees that he’s covered in blood. He’s not sure if it’s his or Malfoy’s.

“Absolutely inadmissible! Appalling behavior! You will both explain yourselves to the Headmaster at once!”

Snape appears at this moment and grabs Malfoy by the arm. He seems enraged, well, more than usual which is saying a lot. Him and MacGonagall quickly scatter the students, letting only their close friends stay.

“I hope you are aware you’re both facing a month of detentions,” Snape articulates. “Your father will be very disappointed, Draco.”

“I don’t think he will,” Malfoy spits.

“You did fight like a Muggle,” Zabini says calmly, not impressed by his friend’s murderous look.

“You will both go to the infirmary,” McGonagall says, “then you’ll be called into Dumbledore’s office. I urge you to prepare a solid apology.”

She and Snape accompany them to the infirmary, the group walking in a heavy silence. McGonagall eventually lets go of Harry's arm and looks at him with a slightly softer look, though still cold. With a wave of her wand she repairs Harry’s glasses, making the world sharp again. 

Madam Pomfrey sighs when she sees the students arrive. She sits Harry and Draco on opposite beds, the two boys still shooting dirty looks at each other. Ron and Hermione sit next to Harry, while Zabini, Nott and Parkinson stand around Malfoy like guard dogs.

“Don’t you know how to duel, Potter?” Parkinson snickers.

“If I used my wand I would have killed him,” Harry answers.

“Spare us your bullshit,” Zabini says. “You’re not nearly as good as you pretend to be.”

“Sure,” Ron ironises, “like y’all would ever survive a duel against Voldemort. Oh, right, you actually would, because your parents are bloody Death Eaters!”

“You talk a lot for someone who just spent three weeks in St Mungo,” Nott says quietly.

“Is this a menace?” Ron shouts, his face turning red.

“Enough quarrelling," Madam Pomfrey says, coming back into the room with medical supplies. “Your teenage drama is out of place here.”

“Teenage drama?” Harry repeats, incredulous. “Madam Pomfrey, are you aware we’re in the middle of a war? Do you think because we’re sixteen we are not in mortal danger? Do you think that these people—”

Harry stops himself before saying something he’d regret. Possibly something that would kill him on the spot. Zabini shoots him a mocking smile and Harry wonders how much he knows.

“Harry Potter, you’re free to go,” Madam Pomfrey announces after casting a few Episkey on him. “Granger, Weasley, as prefects I'm counting on you to escort him directly to the Headmaster.

“Of course,” Hermione says.

Harry mumbles a vague ‘thank you’ to Madam Pomfrey and gets up. Before stepping out of the infirmary, he looks back one more time at Malfoy. The weirdest, absolutely craziest thought crosses his mind when he sees the blond boy with messed up hair and blood all over his face.

He’s kinda hot like this.

Harry quickly walks away, wondering if he hasn’t got some sort of concussion Madam Pomfrey forgot to take care of.

“As a prefect I’m not supposed to tell you that,” Ron says, “but… That was bloody brilliant, Harry!”

“Ron!” Hermione exclaims.

“What? He destroyed him! My only regret is that I haven’t had a go a the fucker, too.”

“Ronald!”

They arrive at the stairs going up to Dumbledore’s office, and Harry offers his friends a weak smile.

“Thanks for being here, guys. I guess I kinda… I had to let out steam at some point.”

“Malfoy got what he deserved.”

“Yeah. Don’t wait for me, knowing Dumbledore it might be a long talk.”

“Will you be okay?”

Harry sigs.

“I still don’t want to talk to him, but… I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

His friends give him sympathetic looks then walk away, leaving Harry alone at the bottom of the stairs. The Gargoyle opens the passage for Harry, apparently informed that he is expected.

The circular room is dimly lit, only a few candles floating above the desk. Dumbledore is sitting with eyes closed like he’s asleep. Harry hesitates.

“Please come in, Harry.”

The old wizard opens his eyes and several more candles and lamps light up. Harry sits cautiously, looking at Dumbledore, Dumbledore looking at him.

“Professor McGonagall informed me you got into a fight.”

“I did.”

“A wandless fight.”

“I beat up Malfoy by hand, yes.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Other than his personality? Well, let me think. His father is a Death Eater who tried to kill Ron, he’s a blood purist, Voldemort probably lives in his house. Oh, and he hit me first, by the way.”

“I see.”

They stay silent for a bit. Harry hopes he can leave soon. For some reason the locket is humming much louder than usual. It’s the second time it happens when he’s with Dumbledore, Harry notes.

“So, I’m punished?”

“Yes, Harry, you are. Physical violence is not allowed in this school.”

“Great. Next time, I’ll hex him.”

“You know very well that it is forbidden too.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but I have a lot of homework to do, so if we could just speed this up a little… Give me my punishment and I will repent.”

“I see you’re still angry at me.”

“That’s not the subject.”

Dumbledore and Harry stare at each other, then the Headmaster sighs.

“Since your mistake did not involve magic, so will the retribution. You will help the house-elfs with different tasks, by hand.”

“Okay,” Harry says. He expected worse.

“You will do so in the company of Draco Malfoy, so the two of you can learn to cooperate.”

Ah. It was all going a little too smoothly to be true.

“We haven’t learned to cooperate in five years, sir. I don’t see how detention will make it better, especially now that… Well, given the current situation.”

“Nonetheless, this is the punishment you have to face. If there was to be another… incident between you, hours will be added.”

“So creative. And how many hours to begin with?”

“One a week until the holidays.”

Dumbledore doesn’t seem so pleased to have to punish Harry, but he keeps a professional, composed distance. Harry rolls his eyes so far back it hurts.

“Amazing. Have a good night then, sir.”

Dumbledore gets up to walk Harry back to the door, and that’s when Harry sees it. On the Headmaster’s black, crumpled hand, there is a golden ring incrusted with a dark stone. Harry feels the humming intensify, not only coming from the locket under his clothes but as well emanating from the ring itself. He stops.

“The ring,” he says. “It’s a Horcrux.”

Shock flashes through Dumbledore’s face for a second, then he displays his composed expression again.

“What makes you believe that, Harry?”

“I can feel it.”

Dumbledore looks at him with piercing eyes.

“You are right,” he says. “It is a Horcrux. Have you ever seen it before?”

“No, but I… When you were there, at Grimmauld Place, I could feel something. I thought… I didn’t know what it was, but it was strong, and I felt it again when I came in tonight.”

“That is very peculiar, Harry.”

“Yeah. You know what would be crazy? If I was a Horcrux and could sense other Horcruxes. Just a thought, you know.”

Dumbledore doesn’t answer, but Harry is not looking at him to pry on his expression for once. The ring attracts his eyes like gold attracts a dragon. He wants to snatch it from Dumbledore’s finger, take it for himself, kill the old wizard if he needs to… Harry takes a deep breath and steps back.

“How long have you had it, sir?”

“A few months, now.”

“And you haven’t destroyed it yet?”

“I will soon, when I have finished studying it.”

“What is there to study?”

Dumbledore stays silent for a moment.

“It is a powerful object,” he simply says.

Harry realizes that Dumbledore doesn't trust him any more than Harry does. He feels a sudden and violent urge to scratch his left forearm but refrains from doing so.

“Did you find anything in the book I got in Knockturn Alley, sir?” Harry asks instead.

“I have.”

Silence again. The son of a bitch isn’t giving much. Harry imagines himself punching Dumbledore hard in the face, just like he did with Malfoy. This thought makes him smile lightly, and Harry masks this as politeness.

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Harry.”

As he walks down the stairs Harry can feel the humming fading. Soon there is only the locket’s warmth left, and his own body boiling from the inside. Harry needs that ring. And the book, on the same occasion.

Harry tells nothing of his discovery to Ron and Hermione. He’s not sure if it would count as breaking his vow, but he’s not taking the risk.

The week goes by eventlessly, dragging and boring. Harry’s joy of having Ron back is soon faded by everything else going wrong in the world. They get news of a Death Eaters attack in London, causing the death of one wizard and one Muggle, as well as several people injured. Harry can’t help but blame himself, imagining for hours that night how he could have learned about it and warned someone.

He dreams of killing his parents again and wakes up yelling again. It’s good to find Ron by his side, patient and comforting, but Harry notices the other boys in the dorm are starting to seem less understanding and more annoyed. He can’t blame them. From that night, Harry casts a silencing spell on his bed before falling asleep, waking up alone but able to scream as much as he needs.

When Friday comes, Harry is particularly snappy, sleep-deprived and generally bad company. He is dragging himself through his last class of the day, vaguely trying to cast a Knitting Charm, when a knock on the door distracts him from his torment. Well, only to discover another torment standing by the entrance. Draco Malfoy, looking on edge.

“Excuse me for interrupting, Professor Flitwick, but Professor Snape needs to see Potter in his office.”

Harry gets up immediately, not even waiting for Flitwick’s answer. By the look on Malfoy’s face, he doubts Snape actually needs to talk to him. As he guessed, they do not walk towards the dungeons.

“Is it—” Harry starts.

“Yes. Silence.”

They don’t exchange a word until they step into the Room of Requirement, where Malfoy immediately throws Floo in the fireplace.

“Hurry. And… Do not fuck up.”

“Wait,” Harry says with one foot already in the green flames, “you’re not coming?”

“I wasn’t invited,” Malfoy says.

Harry isn’t sure if his tone is relieved or anxious. He shoots him one last look, then steps entirely into the flames. “Malfoy Manor,” he says loudly, and soon he is stepping out into a dark living room.

There is no one but Voldemort, sitting in a large chair, watching Harry with a cold smile.

“You are almost on time. I shall only punish Draco a little, then.”

Harry stays near the fireplace, uneasy and tense.

“The school is big,” he says. “If you summoned me directly, it’d be faster. I was in class, by the way.”

“What class?”

“Charms.”

“Insignificant. And Draco Malfoy will keep on warning you, because it pleases me, and because I can warn him much more discreetly than I can warn you.”

“How? I could—”

“Let’s start your lesson, Harry.”

Harry reluctantly approaches Voldemort, sitting at the table the wizard indicates to him. There is a single quill waiting on the desk.

“Today I will teach you how to curse an object to make it deadly. Then, in exchange, we will have dinner.”

Harry blinks several times. He must have heard him wrong.

“Dinner?” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“You’re asking me for dinner?” Are you shitting me?”

“I am not.”

A lot of thoughts flash in Harry’s mind, but of course he has to express the less intelligent one.

“I’m flattered, but you’re not my type. And I’m way too young for you anyway.”

Voldemort looks immensely unamused.

“Do not be ridiculous,” he says scornfully. “There is something I wish to question you about, this will merely be an attempt to make it more… Pleasant for you.”

“Ah, I see. Won’t they worry at school?”

“As far as they are concerned, you will be having a tutoring session with Severus for the rest of the night.”

“He knows, then.”

“Indeed.”

Snape’s attitude towards Harry is making more sense now. He must be furious not to be able to tell Dumbledore anything. Unless he’s truly on Voldemort's side, in which case he must be furious to have to work with Harry. Either way, enraging Snape is always pleasant.

“Shall we begin?”

“We shall begin,” Harry answers, imitating Voldemort’s pompous tone.

He’s not sure why he has this urge to defy him at every sentence, but mocking Voldemort feels almost like an instinct. If Malfoy was here he’d have a heart attack.

“First you will have to prepare the object to support the curse. As it is a very destructive magic, you will have to be thorough, to ensure the object stays unaltered until it has reached its final recipient.”

“Are you going to use this on someone?”

“It would be a shame to let your efforts go to waste, would it not?”

“So… This quill I’m about to curse is going to hurt someone.”

“Not hurt. Kill.”

Harry looks at Voldemort with dread.

“I told you I don’t want to do this kind of thing! I don’t want to hurt people! And— And— How is this even going to be useful to me?”

Voldemort seems more amused than annoyed at Harry’s resistance.

“How you can be so full of contradictions, I do not know,” he says. “You wish to become powerful, yet you do not wish to dominate. You wish to defeat me, yet you seek my help. You seek my help, yet you refuse it. Make up your mind, child.”

“I told you I have limits!”

“And so do I. Do you think I am a vulgar Charm professor, Harry? I deal in the Dark Arts, and the Dark Arts are deadly.”

“Who are you going to give this to?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Except it is, because I’ll be responsible for this person’s death.”

“If you do not curse it, I will, and the person will die anyway. Do you wish to seize this opportunity to learn? To unravel my secrets, to learn my methods?”

Harry looks at the innocent, white quill. Of course he has to get his hands dirty. Voldemort won’t let him learn only the cute, easily curable curses.

“Is it someone I know?”

“Give me your answer first and I shall tell you. Will you cast the curse or not?”

Harry lets his head fall on the desk and lightly hits it several times. Charm class was a nightmare, but this is much, much worse. He clutches the locket through his shirt and forces himself to focus. He can’t regret his decision every time he’s facing Voldemort. He made a choice and has to stand by it. Never forget why he’s here. He needs to get stronger, so he can defeat the Dark wizard once and for all.

When he looks up, Voldemort is looking at him with attention and patience. It is disturbing but Harry knows he better get used to these red shining eyes.

“I’ll curse you bloody thing,” he mumbles.

“I am glad to hear this. For your information, it will be used on someone you know.”

Harry lets out a groan but doesn’t argue any more. He follows Voldemort’s instructions carefully, first casting a protection spell on the quill, then going through the complex incantations a first time without his wand. He feels disgusted and guilty when Voldemort hands him a vial of the intended victim’s blood, but goes on with the lesson nonetheless.

Voldemort turns out to be an excellent teacher. He is patient, precise, and does not shame Harry when he fails. It feels strange to Harry, but he almost enjoys learning. The complexity of the curse excites him, as well as Voldemort’s exigence. He feels an innate understanding of what he’s doing and the words sound natural in his mouth. Voldemort seems relaxed in his armchair, instructing Harry in an even tone, and soon Harry is so focused that he forgets where he is, who he is obeying to.

When they start over the curse, this time wand in hand, Harry truly feels the Dark for the first time.

She expands around him, like an almost physical presence, guiding his gestures, caring and attentive. It does not feel evil at all. It feels like what a mother’s love would feel like, Harry imagines. As he says the final words and the quill shivers then falls still on the desk, he is filled by a deep emotion. When he looks up at Voldemort, the Dark wizard seems proud.

“You have a strong predisposition for Dark Arts,” he says quietly. “It was a pleasure teaching you.”

Harry can’t find anything to answer. He didn’t even know Voldemort could feel pleasure for anything else than torture. The man gets up and carefully wraps the quill in a thick cloth, that Harry guesses to be enchanted as well.

“You will bring back your work to school and hand it to Draco Malfoy,” Voldemort says. “He will know what to do. Be very careful that none of you touch it directly. The curse is designed to kill only one person, but it would still be extremely dangerous and possibly fatal to anyone. I have to say, you did an excellent job.”

Harry should be feeling bad about this. Not only is it someone he knows, but also very likely someone at school. Harry wonders if it could be Dumbledore, but he doubts Voldemort has access to the Headmaster’s blood. It could be anyone, really, anyone Harry knows. Still, he doesn’t feel as guilty as he should. Voldemort’s praise flatters him, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise.

“So… Now we’re having dinner, uh?”

“Yes, we are. Follow me.”

Harry walks behind Voldemort through the bleak, empty manor. The wizard is walking fast and Harry almost has to run to stay at the same pace, deploring his short legs, or Voldemort’s long ones. He still stops in front of a vaguely familiar portrait, making Voldemort stop as well.

“Are you Elizabeth Burke?” Harry asks with curiosity.

“Herself,” the portrait answers. “And you are?”

“Harry Potter, ma’am.”

The portrait gives him a grin.

“I have heard a great deal about you, young man. It’s an indignity we have not been introduced sooner.”

“All pleasure is mine,” Harry lies, remembering the Fat Lady’s word about Burke being a pureblood fanatic. Still, she is a useful card to have in his sleeve.

When they arrive at the dining room, Harry feels like he just stepped into the past. The elegant furniture, the rich tapestries on the wall and the decadent feast on the table are worthy of a king, or rather of an entire royal family. Voldemort casually sits at the table’s end, gesturing to Harry to sit near. The boy walks to him slowly, looking all around, admiring the portraits and the artwork-like meals.

“Do you like what you see, Harry?”

Harry is not sure. He feels out of place, but also fascinated. The food looks absolutely delicious, though. He sits, leaving one seat empty between him and Voldemort. The wizard doesn’t touch the food, and Harry wonders if they’re waiting for someone. Apparently not, since they spend a minute in complete silence.

“Eat, Harry,” Voldemort eventually says. “This is all for you.”

“Oh, uh… I can’t possibly eat all of this. Don’t you… You don’t need to eat?”

“I don’t.”

“Do you sleep?”

“I do not.”

“Wow. Are you never tired?”

“I am sometimes tired of your questions.”

Harry must be hallucinating. Judging by Voldemort’s smile, that might have been a joke.

“Was that a joke?” he still asks to clarify.

“Part of it is true. Do you imagine me to be incapable of humor?”

“Huh… Yes?”

“Eat.”

Harry obeys. From the very first bite he decides that it is, without any doubt, the most delicious food he has ever tasted. Every flavor is perfectly balanced with the others, and every dish marries the others in a succulent symphony. There is wine, too, but Harry prefers drinking water, still cautious. This is a dinner with the evil itself, he can’t forget this.

“You are having dreams,” Voldemort says calmly. It is not a question.

“So many,” Harry answers, his mouth full.

“And you are seeing through my eyes.”

“I am. How do you know?”

“What do you see?”

“Mostly you — well, myself in a way — killing people. My parents, usually.”

“Is that all?”

“I told you about the other dream already, but you got upset.”

Voldemort stays silent for a moment. Harry is trying not to get too distracted by the food, but it’s hard. He worries for a moment that it could be enchanted, then has to admit that it’s just very tasty, and that he’s very hungry.

“Tell me about the other dream,” Voldemort says. “I will not punish you.”

Harry looks up at Voldemort? Once again, he seems extremely attentive.

“I was in the orphanage,” Harry says slowly. “The other kids were playing together, and they were loud, and I wanted them to die. I was very lonely.”

Voldemort’s face stays still as stone.

“You were lonely,” Harry adds after a beat.

They stare at each other, Harry trying to read the wizard’s expression, in vain.

“I have had dreams too,” Voldemort then says. “Well, visions, as I do not sleep.”

“Visions about me?”

“Yes. I have been seeing your life, through your eyes. I blocked these images at first, finding them quite bothersome, then it occurred to me that I could gain knowledge about you.”

“Well, did you?”

“I have grasped a better understanding of you, yes.”

“What did you see?”

“A little, lonely boy, laying eyes open in a cupboard under the stairs.”

Harry puts his fork down. His stomach is suddenly heavy as a rock. He looks at the excessive amount of food, at the extravagance all around him, at the space under the ceilings, high enough to store the whole house of Privet Drive. He remembers how it was to sleep in that dark and dusty place. He kind of wants to cry but he can’t, not now.

“I saw you walk to your aunt, showing her a drawing, only to be pushed aside.”

Harry avoids Voldemort’s eyes.

“I saw you sitting on your own at school, hiding purple marks under clothes that didn’t fit.”

Harry feels weak and small and angry and sad. He wishes Voldemort would stop speaking. At the same time, he doesn’t. He’s never talked about these things with anyone.

“I could find your Muggle cousin and kill him, you know,” Voldemort says with an abnormally soft voice.

“I know.”

“You could do it yourself, if you wanted to.”

“I know.”

“Do you wish for us to do it tonight?”

Harry isn’t so hungry anymore. He pushes his plate away and puts his head in his hands.

“No. Not tonight and not ever. I’m not like you. I’ve forgiven them…”

“Have you, really?”

Harry can’t cry now, he won’t, not in front of him. It’s all his fault, after all.

“It wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t kill my parents,” Harry says. His voice is shaky. His throat tight. “It’s you I should kill.”

“Yet you cannot.”

Harry is shaking. He takes the locket out and holds it, eyes closed, forcing himself to breathe slowly. The humming propagates through his hand and into his arm, shoulder, chest, until his whole body is vibrating to the faint, calming frequency.

“I see you find comfort in the presence of the locket.”

“Yeah. In the beginning it was making me feel worse, but… I think we got used to each other.”

“How interesting.”

Voldemort makes a sound, not meaning anything in particular but Harry still recognizes it as Parseltongue. Almost instantly, a huge and sleek snake comes into the room.

Nagini.

“Master,” she hisses.

“Nagini, please meet Harry Potter. I’d like you two to make a proper acquaintance. Do not be afraid, Harry.”

Harry is not afraid. The snake meanders towards him and a moment later she is around Harry, wrapping her thick body over his chair, facing him closer than she ever has. But Harry is not afraid. The humming emanating from Nagini is different, much quieter, much rougher than the locket’s, and even more comforting.

“Good evening, Harry Potter,” she hisses.

“Hi, Nagini,” Harry says back.

They look closely at each other, his green eyes staring into her elliptical pupil. She tightens her rings around him, not squeezing Harry too hard but on the contrary, shielding him, giving him a sense of security he has not felt in a long time. Harry closes his eyes and they all stay silent for a moment.

He feels at rest.

“How does it feel,” Harry says in Parseltongue, “to have three parts of your soul so close?”

He keeps his eyes closed and listens to the singing, fluid answers Voldemort whistles.

“It gives me strength. It gives me a sense of fullness, as well as great power.”

“Does it make you happy?”

Only silence answers. Harry opens his eyes and looks at Voldemort, watching him back with a strange expression.

“I cannot feel happiness,” the wizard finally says.

“I wish you could,” Harry says. “Maybe then you wouldn’t have killed my parents.”

Voldemort does not answer, but Nagini makes a noise that sounds a little like a laugh. She rubs her scaly head against Harry’s cheek with affection, then unfolds herself and slides to her master. Voldemort pets her absently, his eyes lost in the distance. He seems to be thinking about something fascinating, but Harry doesn’t dare to ask what.

“It is time that you go back to Hogwarts,” Voldemort finally says, getting up.

The snake curls around his legs, reluctant to let her Master stop petting her.

“Nagini, cease,” Voldemort says, but Harry is surprised to hear… Is it affection in his voice? Is it possible?

“Master, do not let Harry Potter go,” the snake says.

“He will visit again.”

“Will you, Harry Potter?” the snake hisses.

“I, uh… Yeah. I’ll be back,” Harry says. “I promise,” he adds, sensing Nagini’s disappointment though he’s not sure how.

“She likes you,” Voldemort says. “It has never happened before.”

“Have two living Horcruxes even existed before?”

“No, they haven’t.”

Voldemort seems pleased at this idea. He walks Harry to the dining room’s fireplace, still petting the snake. Harry is feeling exhausted but in a soft, warm way, like he’s on the verge of falling asleep in a comfortable bed, with someone he loves watching over him. Nagini gives him a last headrub and he strokes her scales with a soft smile.

Then the flames turn green, Harry steps into the fire, and he falls into the dark Room of Requirement, rolling to the ground.

He does not get up immediately. The exhaustion of the evening is suddenly hitting him hard. He doesn’t notice Malfoy until the boy walks to him, helping him up. Harry is so tired he can barely walk.

“What happened?” Malfoy asks in a pressing tone.

“I have this for you,” Harry says, getting the wrapped quill out of his pocket. “Don’t touch it, it’s very cursed.”

“By Merlin, Potter, did you curse it?”

“Yeah. Do you… You know who it’s for?”

“Obviously. Sit down. You’re shaking. What happened, Potter?”

“It’s fine. It’s Nagini.”

“The snake? What did she do? Are you alright?”

Harry is so out of phase he doesn’t even question Malfoy’s concern, doesn’t remember that the last time he touched him, he was trying to break his nose. Harry sits on the cold floor, his eyes almost closed.

“I’m fine. She gave me a hug. I feel good.”

“Holy spectrum, you’re high.”

“Mmh.”

Harry doesn’t realise Malfoy invokes a cushion under his head right before he falls. When Malfoy materialises a blanket, Harry is already asleep.

That night, he dreams he’s chasing mice in long corridors, and his dreams are full of strong scents, strange colors and delicious small animals. It’s the most pleasant dream he has had in months.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes up without screaming.

He feels warm. He can hear a fire cracking near, as well as a slow, steady breath right next to him. Harry doesn’t open his eyes immediately. A smile lights up his face when he remembers his dreams. He chased rodents all night, and even caught a bird. It doesn’t make any sense but it felt good.

When he finally opens his eyes, the world is blurry. He sees indistinct shadows dancing, transformed each second by the fire’s light. Steady in this game of colors, there is a pale form next to Harry. This is where the breathing comes from.

Still sleepy, Harry reaches for the shape with the tip of his fingers. It’s soft. Warm. It makes a nice noise when he touches it. Then Harry gets a little closer and he recognises the shape. It is a face, a very familiar face, only Harry has never seen it from so close.

Wait. Why is he in the same bed as Draco Malfoy?

Harry tries to sit up but he is under the cover and Malfoy is above, so his chaotic movements wake the other boy. Malfoy groans for a second, then he becomes very silent and finally jumps out of bed. Harry still only sees vague and blurry shapes, but his mind is starting to get a little sharper.

“What…” he starts.

“Potter.” Malfoy’s voice is still rough from the night, a little deeper than usual, a little panicked too. “You fell asleep here and I didn’t… I thought it would be better not to wake you up. The Room made you a bed and you were in a very weird state and I didn’t want to leave you alone because something could have happened and then it would have been my fault and I—”

Malfoy gets silent for a second, suddenly gets closer, hands Harry something and then steps back quickly. Harry puts his glasses on and finally, the world makes a little more sense.

Except it doesn’t.

Malfoy is a mess. His tie is loose, his shirt partially unbuttoned, his hair just all over the place. Cheeks pink and eyes bright. He looks at Harry with something between apprehension and defiance, and Harry feels a strange weakness in his stomach.

“Are you fine?” Malfoy asks anxiously.

“I’m alright,” Harry says. “I’m… I’m feeling great, actually.”

He forces himself to take his eyes off of Malfoy. He forces his thoughts to fall back into place. The Room of Requirement. Dreams, but no screams. Nagini wrapping all over him and that sense of peace he hasn’t felt in so long.

“Oh.”

“What? What happened?”

“It’s okay, it was… It was fine. It was weird. But I’m fine.”

“Did he…”

Malfoy inhales sharply. Harry can’t help but look back at him, noting his concerned eyes, the sheet mark still pressed into his skin, his lips he’s kind of biting in worry. There it is again, that knot in Harry’s belly, that tightness in his chest.

“Did he poison you or something?”

“No,” Harry says. “Nagini, she has… She’s calming me. I can’t explain why, but she does.”

Malfoy seems confused. Harry gets up and stretches. He feels more rested than he has been in weeks, if not months. When he looks at Malfoy again the boy turns away. His face is a lot more colorful than usual.

“Well,” Malfoy says with a composed voice, but Harry can hear its very light shakiness, “then I had nothing to worry about. I just thought that if something happened to you I’d be in trouble, but since you’re good… I’ll leave now. You should go too, I’m sure your little friends are worried to death.”

Harry remembers the rest of the world — school, friends, war, secrets, all that.

“Oh, shit. Yeah, they probably are.”

He fixes his uniform, crumpled from the night, thinking about the excuse he will give to Ron and Hermione. Malfoy is already at the door but doesn’t get out, waiting for Harry.

“Do not tell anyone about this,” he says when Harry joins him.

“Of course not.”

They get out. Before splitting ways, their eyes meet one more time. It lasts one second, and for one second Harry kind of feels like he’s falling very fast, right into Malfoy’s iris. Then the blond walks away, Harry walks away, and there is no more time to think about this feeling because he is back to the loud, real world.

“Harry! Oh God, I was so worried!”

“Shit, mate, you look like you just woke up. Where were you?”

Harry calms down Ron and Hermione, getting them into a quieter corner of the common room. Curious eyes and intrusive ears follow them.

“I was in the Room of Requirement,” Harry whispers. “I was training for the you-know-what, and I fell asleep there.”

“But you were gone since Snape got you out of Charms!”

“Yeah, I got tutoring. Apparently he had no other availability, but if you want my opinion, he’s trying to make me fail my year. A bit useless considering I’m already behind in every subject… But anyway, I went straight to the Room after that, and I guess I fell asleep before dinner. I’m really sorry I worried you, guys. I was just… Exhausted.”

Ron sighs but he gives Harry a nod.

“Not gonna lie, for a moment I thought you got kidnapped or something. Don’t do that again, ‘kay?”

“I don’t know if I can promise that. I might be there a lot, you know. It’s important. The training, I mean.”

Ron makes a bitter face, but Hermione is straight up furious.

“No, Harry, no!”

“Hermione—”

“No, I can’t let you do that! Do you realise that you’re going to fail your year? You said it yourself, you’re behind in every class, and now Snape has to tutor you? If he accepted to do this, it means you are doing really, really bad in Potions. And all this for— For— You-know-what! No, Harry, I can’t watch you do this to yourself! I won’t!”

Harry and Ron look at her with stupor, and Hermione holds their gaze with determination. Finally Harry lets out a small laugh, surprising the two others.

“I’ve missed this, you know,” Harrys says. “The three of us together. You’re right, Hermione, you’re completely right. I have to get my shit together.”

And so Harry does. Well, at least he tries.

He spends the week-end doing homework, and as exasperating as it can be, there’s something nice about just sitting in the common room with his two best friends, his mind filled to the brim with nothing but classes. Harry focuses on being just Harry, a teenager with schoolwork to do. No war, no Voldemort, no Horcrux.

When Harry goes to bed he asks Ron to stay with him a little, and the two of them talk until Harry falls asleep. For a couple of nights he has no other dream than normal teenager dreams. McGonagall telling him that he’s late and he’s going to have to eat an entire cake before he can leave class, or Hedwidge hunting side by side with an enormous magical snake. Classic teenage stuff, right?

And then, after a very normal, very successful start of the week, where Harry is paying attention in class and kind of keeping the homework under control, he has his first Malfoy dream.

It starts normally. They are on the Quidditch field, each on his broom, facing one other with that usual rivalry. And Malfoy says he’s going to beat him, and Harry says no chance, and they fly and fight for the snitch, and so on. But then the field turns into a forest. A deep dark forest, where a thing is lurking between the trees. Harry and Malfoy walk close, following bright silver spots on the moss and roots. They get closer and closer as the thing lures them deeper in the woods, more scared and closer as they’re more scared, and even closer until Malfoy takes Harry’s hand.

“Don’t leave me,” Malfoy says, and then Harry wakes up.

That day, Harry has much more trouble focusing in class.

What the hell, he asks his brain again and again. What was that? What in Merlin's hairy nipples’ name? Harry tries to get the dream out of his mind but there is a slight problem.

Tonight is his first detention with Malfoy.

Perfect timing, Harry thinks. The Universe has to hate him, he can’t see any other explanation. The day goes by way too fast and at the end of it, Harry can barely remember any class he had.

An hour before dinner, Harry walks to the kitchens, where McGonagall has instructed him to wait. Malfoy is already there, looking perfectly Malfoy again, with his hair perfectly in place and his uniform perfectly ironed. He gives Harry a quick, cold nod.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

Harry walks up to the painting concealing the kitchen’s entrance and tickles one of the pears, which giggles and turns into a large doorknob. Harry opens and walks in, hearing Malfoy groan behind him.

“Of all possible punishments, it had to be cooking…”

“Harry Potter!”

Harry is hit by a small, happy tornado, with big eyes and pointy ears. He greets Dobby with a large smile.

“Hey, Dobby, good to see you. How are you doing?”

“Dobby is doing great, sir, Dobby is doing excellent! How is Harry Potter, sir?”

“Huh… I’ve been better,” Harry says. “But overall I’m great,” he quickly adds, remembering how dangerous Dobby’s help could be.

“Dobby is glad to hear that, Harry Potter, sir!”

Then, to Harry’s great surprise, the elf turns to Malfoy and bows to him, not with fear but with what looks like… Respect?

“Dobby is happy to see Draco Malfoy again. How is Draco Malfoy doing, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Malfoy says. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Dobby is a free elf now, sir,” he says with pride, “but it is a great honor to work at Hogwarts. Dobby is being paid a galleon a week.”

“Oh, I see. That’s… That’s great.”

Harry shoots a curious look at Malfoy, surprised at his politeness towards the elf. He always imagined him being quite rude, if not abusive to Dobby, back when he was still working for his family.

“Dobby will show Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy their task, now. Follow Dobby!”

Soon, Harry and Malfoy are sitting at one of the large tables in the middle of the room. Many house-elf come and go around them, preparing dinner with their impressive elf magic. Harry and Malfoy, on the other hand, have to cut the vegetables by hand. They work in a tense silence, not looking at each other, barely distracted by the surrounding activity.

Harry is trying very hard to focus on his pumpkin but that goddamn dream is haunting him. The look on Malfoy’s face at the end… Eyes wide, scared, but not of Harry. Scared to be taken away from him. “Don’t leave me,” he said. With that same look on his face as when they woke up in the Room of Requirement. Scared, yes, but also hoping for something, and Harry can’t figure out exactly what, or exactly what it makes him feel.

Harry is deeply lost in his thoughts when his knife rips. It lends on his finger and leaves a small, clean cut, with a single drop of blood.

“Episkey.”

Harry looks up at Malfoy with stupor. The boy has healed him before he could even get his wand out. Malfoy scrupulously avoids Harry’s gaze.

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs, looking back at his pumpkin as well.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Malfoy blurts out.

Harry looks up at him again, even more stunned. Malfoy is keeping his head firmly down, concentrating on a reluctant sweet potato.

“I…” Harry is not sure what to say. “Is he making you say that?” he eventually whispers.

Malfoy finally looks up at Harry. He seems upset.

“What? No! Ugh, I’ll take my apology back, then!”

“No, no, I… Thanks. I’m just surprised.”

Malfoy lets out an annoyed sigh.

“I figured since we have eight hours to endure together, I might as well get this out of the way.”

“Right. Uh…”

They keep on cutting vegetables for a moment. Harry feels extremely uncomfortable. Now he tries to remind himself why he’s here in the first place, tries to remember this is the boy who works for Voldemort, the Death Eater son, maybe even a Death Eater himself. But everything Harry can think about is Malfoy in the forest, looking at him, scared but not of him. And then Malfoy in the manor, falling to his knees, eyes wide, hurt and scared, of him. Because of him.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says quietly. “About the fight, but also… The other thing.”

Malfoy’s knife makes a loud noise. He missed the potato, and his finger by very little.

“It was wrong,” Harry continues. “You couldn’t defend yourself.”

“I was late,” Malfoy says in an even lower voice. “He could have done much worse.”

“You were late because of me. We should find a system so you can warn me, next time.”

Malfoy gives a quick nod. They stay silent for a moment again, but Harry feels just a little better. He watches Malfoy fight with his sweet potato, clearly struggling.

“You should cut it in two before you slice it.”

“I can manage, thank you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re the one who cut himself anyway. I have no advice to receive from you.”

“It wasn’t deep. I had much worse. I nearly cut my whole thumb when I was seven.”

“Your Muggles let you cook at seven?”

“My Muggles made me cook from age five.”

“Made you?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He thinks about Voldemort’s words, the softness of his tone when he offered to kill the Dursleys. How ironic. Despite everything, he is the only person who truly understands where Harry grew up. A parentless, loveless house.

Harry shakes his head to get the thought away. He doesn’t want to think about this. Especially not in Hogwarts. It's another life.

“We could make some sort of bracelets or something,” he says. “Maybe rings. They could light up when we have to meet.”

“Matching rings,” Malfoy says with a scoff. “Can’t see why that would be weird.”

“Do wizards also exchange rings when they get married?”

“Most do, yes.”

“You share much more with Muggles than you think, you know.”

Malfoy looks at Harry with an offended face.

“Don’t start, or I’ll have to stab you.”

“Then we’ll have to spend the rest of the year cutting vegetables together.”

For some reason the idea seems to be tempting Malfoy. He waves his knife at Harry like a wand.

“I could make you disappear into a soup,” he says with a smirk. “No one would find you before you’re properly cooked.”

“Except the hundred house-elfs, you mean?”

“They might like the idea if I present it as a traditional meal.”

“Not if I do it first. You’de be great roasted with an apple.”

“You’d make a fine stew.”

“You’d be terrific in a pie.”

“Oh, I know I would.”

“Yeah, you’d give the whole school food poisoning, but it would be worth it.”

Malfoy doesn’t answer. He’s smiling. Not smirking, smiling. One of those genuine smiles Harry has only seen from afar, when he’s with his friends and thinks no one is watching. He looks like another person — well, no, he looks like Draco Malfoy, but a Draco Malfoy from another dimension, where there is no war and no hate and where Harry hasn’t tortured his father. It’s a sad and lovely sight. Shit. Harry is staring.

“What are you looking at, Potter?”

“Your stupid face. I’m wondering if I should peel you before slicing you up.”

That stupid smile is widening. Malfoy is trying to hold it back but it’s a complete failure and it illuminates his stupid face entirely. He pretends to be concentrated on his sweet potato but the poor thing is being butchered.

“Give me that.”

Harry takes the vegetable out of Malfoy’s hands and shows him how to cut it properly. It’s not complicated, even a prat like Malfoy should manage.

“Did house-elfs always do everything for you, then?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t you feel… Incompetent?”

“I’m not you, Potter.”

“Motherfucker.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen in shock again.

“You have to stop saying that. It is disgusting."

“Nazi.”

Malfoy opens and closes his mouth but finds nothing to say. Harry gives him the sweet potato back and their hands brush. Such a light touch, but it feels much more intense than the kicks and the slaps.

The rest of the hour is quiet, but not in the same way anymore. The two boys sit facing each other, faces lit up by the near fire, in comfortable warmth and almost comfortable silence. When the hour is done Dobby collects their vegetables, pouring Harry’s directly into the pot, then reshaping Malfoy’s with a snap of magic. Harry laughs as they walk out.

“You really are incompetent!”

“Silence, Potter. This is favoritism.”

“Sure. Whatever makes your fragile ego feel better.”

“Next time I’ll cut you into pieces, and we’ll see if Dobby reshapes you then.”

“Sure, Malfoy, sure. You can’t even hold a knife properly.”

“I will when I’ll stab you.”

“Stop, I’m terrified.”

They stop where their paths split, one boy having to go back to the towers, the other to the dungeons.

“We should resume the Apparating lessons,” Malfoy says.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure. I’m still free on Thursdays.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Ah, yeah. Already… Yeah, sure. After dinner, fourth floor mirror?”

Malfoy nods in approval.

“I’ll think about the rings, too,” he says.

His cheeks are slightly pink. It must be the kitchen’s warmth, Harry thinks. He still feels very warm too, despite the cold breeze blowing through the corridor. They’ve been looking at each other for just a little too long, now.

Malfoy suddenly grabs Harry by the sleeve and drags him into a near empty classroom, casting a silencing spell. The only light comes from the moon outside, almost full. It gives Malfoy’s eyes a peculiar glow as he looks at Harry.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “We have to work together, so we’d better get along. I still hate you and wish you were turned into soup, but… We should make some kind of agreement.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “I still hate you too and wish you were being roasted alive, but I agree.” 

“Good.”

Malfoy looks like he’s having a violent internal fight. Harry is fighting too, mostly against the dream that is resurfacing again and again.

“So… We agree to help each other?”

“Yes, obviously. We also shouldn’t fight anymore, at least not in public. Snape was right, my father was furious I attacked you.”

“What? Why? He should have been glad!”

“You’re under the Dark Lord’s protection now. I was not supposed to do that.”

“So I’m only allowed to kick your arse when no one can see?”

“Or you could refrain from kicking me at all. You have a pretty good punch.”

“You too. I was kind of…” Harry hesitates, but he’s started his sentence now and Malfoy is waiting for him to finish.

“Kind of what?”

“Impressed.”

Malfoy is holding back a smile again. Harry can recognise this easily, now, the twitching around his lips creating tiny dimples. He offers Malfoy a real, entire smile, shy but genuine. And Malfoy breaks, and he smiles too, and the dimples deepen. Harry’s heart beats faster as he realises they have never smiled to each other before this night.

“Well,” Malfoy says softly, “Do we have a deal, then?”

“Yeah, we do.”

Malfoy tries again to control his smile and to Harry’s great disappointment, he manages to get back to his serious expression. He walks to the door, raising his wand to end the silencing spell, but Harry can’t let him. Not yet.

“Wait.”

Malfoy waits. Harry takes a deep breath, feeling very nervous. There is something he has to say, but it’s difficult. But he has to.

“I’m… I am sorry about your father.”

What was left of Malfoy’s smile is now entirely gone. He inspires, expires, looks at Harry like he’s about to cry even if his eyes are dry.

“I—” he says, but the words choke up in his throat.

All the warmth is gone, now. The reality is too heavy to be ignored. They’re back at war, paws on a deadly chessboard, one white piece, one black. They can’t possibly both win.

“I’m serious about what I said,” Malfoy finally murmurs. “If you have to, hurt me instead of him.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Please.”

“I don’t think I can, Malfoy.”

“Why? Just imagine you’re roasting me alive. It will be easy.”

Neither of them smiles anymore.

“Think of this as a part of our deal.” Malfoy is almost begging.

“I don’t want to hurt you if you can’t hurt me back,” Harry blurts out.

Well, it certainly sounds worse than he intended to.

“I mean that I… I don’t enjoy hurting powerless people. I don’t want to become like him.”

Malfoy lets out a deep sigh.

“Oh, this… You know it’s the curse, right? It does that to people. The pleasant feeling. It doesn’t mean you are this kind of person.”

“But you have to want it, or else it doesn’t work”, Harry says in a faint voice.

“My father sent your best friend to the hospital. I mean… I’m not saying… Well, it's not unnatural. To feel anger at this.”

“Are you trying to justify my actions, Malfoy?” Harry asks, surprised.

“No. You’re a bastard and I should kill you for what you did to my father.”

There he is, the normal Malfoy, loyal to his family and cruel to his enemies. Harry feels strangely bitter at his words.

“But I have done terrible things too,” Malfoy then adds in the softest voice. “I understand how it feels. And I can assure you, you are nothing like the Dark Lord. You will never be.”

Long silence. Heavy. Deep. Filled with things Harry doesn’t understand.

“Do you even want to serve him?” he asks.

Malfoy turns away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Potter.”

A moment later, he’s out of the classroom.

That night, Harry dreams of Voldemort cooking Draco Malfoy in a big cauldron, an apple stuck between his teeth. Harry wakes up very confused. It does not get any better through the day, and by dinner time he is feeling electric.

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asks him.

“I have a headache,” Harry lies. “I’ll go take some air, don’t wait for me.”

He leaves the Great Hall before having finished his meal. A flash of excitement goes through his stomach when he sees Malfoy leave the table too. Harry arrives first at the mirror, waiting for Malfoy for less than a minute. What a weird feeling to be eager to see his enemy.

“Not hungry, Potter?” Malfoy asks when he arrives.

“No. You?”

Instead of answering, Malfoy does that thing where he holds his smile back, which makes Harry’s stomach squeeze a little.

“The spell is Aquaferum, by the way,” Malfoy says, changing the mirror into a shimmering surface.

They stay silent for most of the tunnel, until Harry can’t hold his tongue anymore.

“So… What’s the deal with Pureblood society?”

For a moment, only their steps on the stone resonate in the obscure space, then Malfoy’s voice fills the darkness.

“You probably know Salazar Slytherin was the first to have made a separation between Mud— Muggleborns and other wizards.”

Harry is surprised at Malfoy correcting himself, but he nods.

“Yeah, and he was banished by the three others for that.”

“No, he decided to leave. But anyway, people mostly ignored his warnings for centuries and wizards continued marrying Muggles until it became obvious that it was dangerous. When the International Statute of Secrecy was applied, in 1692, no one could deny anymore that wizards and Muggles couldn’t get along. We started hiding, stopped marrying Muggles, and this is where most Purebloods families were truly born, as well as the notion of blood purity, and the awareness that Muggles weaken magical blood.”

“You say that like it’s a fact, but there is no proof of this.”

“There is, Potter, though I’ll admit it’s a little dated now. But the wizarding community just loves spitting on everything the Purebloods defend, even if we are primarily doing it to protect our heritage.”

“How is bullying Muggleborns protecting your heritage?”

Malfoy sighs.

“School bullying isn’t exactly part of it. That’s more… I’d say it falls under house mentality. As you know, we are proud to represent Salazar Slytherin’s values.”

“Proud to be fascist, then.”

“It’s not— Can you let me explain without interrupting every second?”

“It’s hard to listen to so much bullshit in one sentence, but I’ll make an effort.”

Malfoy scoffs.

“Saint Potter. Anyway, you have heard of the Sacred Twenty Eight, right?”

“Vaguely. What’s that? An exclusive club for pricks and bullies?”

“You asked me a question, Potter. If you’re going to be insufferable, I’m not answering.”

“Okay, okay, go on. The Super Twenty Eight. I’m all ears.”

“The Sacred Twenty Eight are the families that were considered pureblood in the thirties. You’de be interested to know your dear Weasleys are part of it, even though they are considered blood traitors.”

“Yeah, what’s that even about?”

“They have rejected their affiliation with the Twenty Eight, claiming they were proud to have Muggle blood in their genealogy.”

“Yeah, I don’t understand how any family could have no Muggle ancestor at all. You’d be extinct or all inbred if that was the case.”

They are now in Hogsmeade and walk in the cold wind to the edge of the woods. Harry remembers his dream and resists walking closer to Malfoy. He just said Muggles weaken the magical blood, Harry reminds himself. If Aragog was getting out of the woods now, he’d have to let her turn Malfoy into a nice spider diner. That would be doing the world a great service.

But deep down Harry knows that if Aragog appeared here and now, he’d shield Malfoy with his own body. He’d do that for anyone. Nothing personal, really.

“Let’s finish this conversation once you’re able to apparate next to that tree,” Malfoy says.

“Which is going to be never,” Harry answers bitterly.

“Oh come on, Potter. No quitting in my class. Show me what you’re made of!”

“Stress and doubts?”

Malfoy snickers.

“Okay, okay. I know just how to motivate you.”

Harry can physically see the shift in Malfoy’s attitude. His back straightens to the extreme, his hands stiffen and on his face, a familiar contemptuous grin replaces the soft half-smile. The worst, of course, is the voice, posh accent pushed to the extreme, disdain leaking from every word.

“Have you forgotten, Potter, that I am capable of apparating? I learned at age fifteen if you must know, and did not find it very difficult. But of course a half-blood like you cannot show the same ability. Be sure that my father will hear about this.”

Harry laughs, half annoyed, half amused. He now remembers how it was to be in school with Malfoy all these years, and realises how much he’s changed, too. He gives the blond a light kick in the shoulder.

“I’ll show you what the half-blood is made of.”

“Half mud, if I had to say.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Always looking for excuses. It’s fine, Potter, just admit you can’t apparate.”

The next hour is more banter than lesson, but by the end Harry is capable of apparating three steps away from his starting point. When it gets too cold the two boys go back to the tunnel.

“That was much better than last time,” Malfoy says. “If we keep doing this once a week, you’ll be able to apparate before the winter holidays.”

“I sure wish I could apparate the holidays right here and now. I’m already sick of class.”

“You do have a lot on your plate,” Malfoy says softly.

Harry thinks once again the Universe has a strange sense of humor. Of all people, Malfoy had to be the one knowing about his darkest secret, the one helping him, the one he’s spending his evenings with. And the weirdest thing is, Harry doesn’t mind so much anymore.

“So, why don’t you explain how in hell Muggle blood is supposed to weaken magic,” Harry says, “and I’ll destroy your arguments. What do you say?”

“I say you’re about to get intellectually whipped.”

“Seriously doubt that, but try anyway.”

And so they argue all the way to the mirror, and a little more once they’re there. They decide to interrupt the conversation when they start insulting each other, but it doesn’t stop them from picking up exactly where they left it one week later, during their second detention night. 

Harry and Malfoy quarrel while making soup, then debate on the way to apparating lessons, then Malfoy explains the rules of Pureblood society while folding sheets in the laundry room. Harry has to stop him to correct his folding that is just all over the place, but later he’s so invested in the conversation that he empties a whole bottle of soap into a basket of clean socks. On the next apparating session, Harry tells Malfoy about the Muggle world, explaining electricity, cars, planes, modern medicine and cinema. Malfoy has so many questions that they spend the entire next detention talking about movies and rock music.

Weeks go by. Harry spends less time in the Room of Requirement and more on his homework, asks a surprised Hermione how computers work, then explains it to a confused Malfoy. They still insult each other in the hallways anytime their paths cross, but it doesn’t feel like exactly like insults, rather like a shared, precious secret. Harry has several more Malfoy dreams, deciding each time that it is nothing but his teenage fucked up brain messing with him and that there is absolutely nothing more to it. Still, he finds himself waiting more and more eagerly for his evenings with Malfoy.

These few weeks are a blessed breath of air in Harry’s suffocating life. He barely has any nightmares, and none through Voldemort’s eyes. The only news from the Dark Lord is in the newspaper, but it’s mostly rumors and no more attacks. Harry wonders when he is going to be summoned to Malfoy Manor again, of course, but he tries his best to not think about it.

Everything is good and great until their last detention together.

Harry is feeling almost tempted to hit Malfoy just to have more time to finish their debate about Muggle versus wizard medicine. He is getting quite good at apparating too, and wonders how they’ll be able to see each other when both the tutoring and punishment are done with. Not that he actually wants to spend any time with Malfoy, he convinces himself, but the debates are interesting, and it gives him a better understanding of the conflicts within the wizarding community. That’s the only reason, of course.

Anyway, they’re ironing shirts and robes in a thick vapor cloud, and Malfoy is much more silent than usual. To be honest, he seems a little down.

“Hey, stupid-face.”

Malfoy doesn’t even look up at Harry. The Gryffindor has to grab a towel and hit him to get the Slytherin’s attention. At least it works.

“Ouch! Fuck off, Potter!”

“Oh, he talks. What’s up with the attitude today?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving every second where I don’t hear your annoying voice, but…”

Then, seeing how upset Malfoy looks, Harry drops the act.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m failing Ancient Runes,” Malfoy answers dryly. “If you absolutely must know everything.”

“Oh. Is that such a bad thing? You can’t be perfect in every subject.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re failing half of your classes.”

“Hey, fuck you. I’m trying.”

“Whatever.”

Harry should not feel so bothered by Malfoy’s words. After all, he is his greatest rival, his dedicated bully, and overall a prick. Still, it feels different from the banter they’ve had the last weeks, and Harry realises how much he got used to the new Malfoy.

They spend the rest of the detention in a damp, warm silence. Malfoy is so distracted that he burns two ties, then snaps at the house-elfs just for looking at him in disapproval. At the end of the hour he leaves without a look or a word for Harry. Actually, he seems to be avoiding his gaze entirely.

This foul mood contaminates Harry, who is rather unpleasant to his friends during dinner. When they try to ask him what is going in, he mumbles something about homework stress and retreats to sulking silence.

The desserts have barely appeared on the tables when the usual chatter is interrupted by a long, loud and excruciating scream.

Many students get up but Harry, Ron and Hermione are some of the first to run towards the scream. It stops when they step into the Entrance Hall, turning into a cry then fading entirely. 

Harry’s stomach drops when he sees Neville laying on the ground, his eyes open but not seeing, spasms running through his whole body. 

Students gather around, soon pushed aside by teachers running to Neville. Madam Pomfrey kneels next to him and starts saying various incantations, while Flitwick sends portraits to warn Dumbledore, who Harry only now notes was not present at dinner.

Neville is now entirely motionless except for very tiny movements in his chest, proving he is breathing, barely but still. Terrified murmurs fill the Hall as more and more students arrive. Harry looks at his friend in horror, wondering what could cause such a violent reaction.

Then he sees Lavender Brown lean over Neville, as if to pick something from underneath him, and his heart misses a beat.

“DON’T!” Harry screams.

Lavender stops her movement a second before touching the white, ordinary looking quill.

There is a moment of silence, then all the conversations restart louder than before. With a Wingardium Leviosa McGonagall carefully extirpates the quill from under Neville’s body, shooting a worried look at Lavender. The girl is quite startled.

“Please, everyone, return to your tables,” Dumbledore’s voice resonates under the high ceiling. “Now.”

The students disperse, some going back into the Great Hall but other directly to their common rooms. Harry’s heart is beating extremely loud, so loud he’s sure Dumbledore can hear it from where he is. A humming increases in his ears, the world gets blurry. He tries to walk calmly back to his table but a familiar, dreaded voice calls his name. Slowly, forcing his breath to stay steady, Harry walks towards Dumbledore. Ron and Hermione follow him but stay a few steps back as he faces the Headmaster.

“How did you know that the quill was dangerous, Harry?” Dumbledore asks.

“I didn’t,” Harry says. “Is this what made Neville…”

He can’t find the next words. He remembers Voldemort’s voice, poised and proud, telling him what a good job he did.

“I suspect it is,” Dumbledore says in a low voice. “If that is true, you have saved Miss Brown from the same terrible fate.”

“Oh God,” Harry whispers. “Is Neville… Is he going to be alright?”

Dumbledore only gives Harry a worried look, then he sighs.

“You should go back to dinner, Harry. Rest assured that Madam Pomfrey and myself will do everything we can.”

He quickly walks away, leaving Harry standing in the middle of the hall. He barely feels Ron and Hermione put their hands on his shoulders, barely hears them say his name.

A the top of the stairs, a pale spot catches his attention. Malfoy and Harry stare at each other for a second, then Malfoy turns away and disappears.

Harry is so still it almost looks like he has been cursed by the quill as well.

Chapter Text

The door of the Slytherin common room opens to let out Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, whispering to each other like they usually do. These slick bastards.

As soon as he’s sure there is no one following them, Harry removes the Cloak of Invisibility and emerges from the shadows, blocking the two boys' way. He points his wand on Malfoy’s surprised face, hand trembling in anger.

“You son of a bitch,” Harry says. “You fucking piece of shit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Malfoy looks around them with alarm, then he pushes Harry to the side of the corridor, back into the shadows, Zabini following closely.

“Not here, Potter—” Malfoy starts.

“I don’t give a shit! Why did you give it to—”

“Mimblewimble.”

Harry is silenced by his own treacherous tongue curling up in his mouth, preventing him from saying another word.

“Are you completely mad?” Malfoy whispers furiously. “Don’t ever talk about that here!”

Harry tries to wrap his hands around Malfoy’s neck but Zabini tackles him to the wall with vexing ease.

“Quiet, Potter,” he says. “We’ll talk somewhere else, if you promise to behave.”

Harry shoots him a vicious look but he calms down and Zabini lets him go. Still unable to talk, Harry takes the Cloak out and puts it on, disappearing before the Slytherin’s stunned eyes. He only lets his hand out, pointing to the entrance of their common room. Malfoy hesitates for a moment, then sighs.

“Okay, we’ll talk in our dorm. But Potter, you cannot show yourself, or talk to anyone, or do anything stupid at all. Do you understand? This is vital.”

Harry’s floating hand gives them a thumb up, then disappears as well.

“Of course Saint Potter would have a bloody invisibility cloak,” Zabini says. “Doesn’t look cheap, too.”

Harry follows the two boys into their common room, staying between them not to walk into someone by accident. It’s morning and most Slytherins have already left for breakfast, but Harry can’t take any risk. As soon as they’re in the sixth year boys dorm, he removes the Cloak, pointing to his mouth with furious gestures.

Malfoy takes his time to cast a locking then a silencing spell, Zabini sitting relaxed on a bed. He seems way too amused for the situation.

“Before you start screaming at me again,” Malfoy says, “Longbottom wasn’t supposed to get hurt. If he wasn’t so stupid he wouldn’t have touched the quill. Oh, and by the way, yes, you can talk freely in front of Blaise, thank Merlin you asked.”

Only then Malfoy undoes the Tongue-Tying curse and Harry lets out a furious groan.

“I know it wasn’t for him,” Harry spits, “because if it was he’d be dead. But why the hell did you give it to him?”

“He was just the messenger. He was supposed to deliver it!”

“To who?” Harry roars.

“Calm down, big boy,” Zabini says. “Are you smart enough to understand Draco can’t share this information with you? Aren’t you supposed to know a thing or two about secrets?”

Harry is so angry he considers hitting Zabini, but the rational part of his brain, however diminished at the moment, convinces him to ignore the boy’s snarky tone. The fact that Zabini is a head taller than him is a considerable argument.

“How did you even convince Neville to do this?” Harry asks Malfoy.

His eyes widen in understanding before the blond answers.

“Did you fucking Imperio him?” Harry asks.

Malfoy doesn’t answer but his avoidant eyes do.

“I can’t believe it,” Harry shouts. “I’m going to—”

“Do you have a problem with Imperius, Potter?” Zabini cuts him sharply. “Would you perhaps think it’s wrong to cast it on someone, even when it’s the Dark Lord’s order?”

Harry has to make a serious effort again not to attack Zabini. He’s not sure what’s more infuriating, the fact that he seems to know about everything or his calm, mocking tone.

“Tell me who it’s for,” Harry says. “I can’t do anything about it anyway, but I want to know.”

“Why?” Malfoy snaps. “You’ll know when it’s done.”

“I need to know so the next time Voldemort asks me to curse something, I can fully understand what I’m getting into!”

“Wait, so you really did curse it?” Zabini says in disbelief.

“I told you he did,” Malfoy says dryly.

“I just didn’t think Potter was capable of it. It’s very advanced Dark magic.”

“Are you seriously telling him everything I say to you?” Harry barks at Malfoy.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Zabini says with a laugh, immediately interrupted by a pillow violently thrown in his face. Harry notes that Malfoy’s face is quickly turning red, but something else has his attention.

“You’re a Death Eater,” Harry blurts.

“Welcome to the club, Potter,” Zabini says, and it seems to Harry that his smile turns bitter.

“You have the Mark?”

Zabini gets up and lifts his sleeve, putting his arm way too close to Harry’s face. Harry steps back, uncomfortable at the view of the Dark Mark on the skin of a boy his age.

“What about you, Malfoy?” he asks. “You got it too, right?”

“Come on, Draco,” Zabini teases, “Potter asked you to undress.”

“I will kill you,” Malfoy tells his friend under his breath.

Harry interprets his even redder face as a confession of him having the Mark. He suspected it already, but this idea greatly upsets him. He instinctively grabs the locket through his shirt and turns away from the two boys for a moment. When he faces them again, Malfoy and Zabini seem to snap out of a silent but violent argument, Malfoy still very red and Zabini more amused than ever.

“Is it Dumbledore?” Harry asks.

The two boys look at him in surprise. Zabini loses his smile, now looking at Harry with a sharp eye.

“I can’t tell you anything,” Malfoy says with a blank voice.

“Are you under a Vow too?”

“No, I…” Malfoy hesitates. “You can’t do anything to stop me anyway, right?”

“You know I don’t,” Harry snarls. “And I won’t tell your precious Lord, if that’s what you’re worried about. Now that I think about it, it has to be Dumbledore anyway.”

There is a moment of silence.

“It is,” Malfoy finally says in a weak voice. “He wants me to kill him.”

Harry and him look at each other. Once again, reality crushes every civil moment they had before, every quiet conversation, every small hope Harry could have had about them being anything other than mortal enemies.

He sits on a bed and takes his head in his hands. Of course Voldemort wants to kill Dumbledore. He is the only one measuring to him in the whole wizarding community. But to give the task to Malfoy, to ask Harry to curse an object, it seems low, even for the cunning Dark wizard.

“Why are you doing all this, Potter?” Zabini asks, breaking Harry’s thought flow. “You are not a pureblood, you are not interested in politics, and you certainly are not a loyal follower of the Dark Lord. Why did you take the Mark?”

He might not know everything after all. Harry shrugs, feeling weary all of a sudden. Why is he doing it, indeed? The doubts rise again but he quickly shuts them off. No more doubt. No more hesitation. Only choices made long ago, choices he’ll have to make again and again.

“No one on Dumbledore’s side is willing to do what has to be done,” he finally answers. “They refuse to use Dark magic and they know they’re too weak to win without it. So they do nothing.”

Harry gets up and looks at Zabini with rage burning in his eyes.

“But I would rather die than do nothing,” he says. “I would rather align with the man I hate the most, ask him to teach me his ways and use them to defeat him, rather than let him burn the world down. Even if it means I have to hide and lie and hate myself for it everyday.”

Both Zabini and Malfoy look at him without a word. Zabini seems almost impressed, while Malfoy… Harry doesn’t even know how to interpret that face. He looks like he’s about to burst from the inside, containing himself with extreme effort. Probably refraining from hitting him, Harry thinks, even if he feels it’s not exactly it.

“I kind of get what you mean, Draco,” Zabini says slowly.

“Shut up, Blaise,” Malfoy says without taking his eyes off Harry.

“What?” Harry asks. “What does he mean?”

No one answers him. Zabini gets up from his bed as well, and to Harry’s great surprise, he offers him a hand.

“We might not have the same interests in mind,” he says, “but we could both benefit from each other’s help. Please consider me an ally.”

Harry hesitates, then he takes the boy’s hand, his fingers getting crushed by the strong handshake. Malfoy lets out an incredulous scoff.

“What, you’re going to trust him, just like that?”

“Don’t be jealous, Draco,” Zabini snickers.

“I’m not— Ugh! Are you done, Potter? We’d actually like to go get breakfast!”

“Try not to give any cursed object to anyone, this time,” Harrys snarls while putting the Cloak back on.”

“Fucking shut up, Potter.”

“Are you two always so edgy or is it just because I’m here?” Zabini asks with a smirk.

“Shut the fuck up, Blaise!” Malfoy yells at him, only making his friend laugh loudly.

The rest of the day drags itself. Harry is grumpy, tired and worried about Neville. He tries to visit him in the infirmary but he’s told the boy has been transferred to St Mungo, which doesn’t reassure Harry much about the gravity of the situation. The whole school is shaken but he, of course, feels responsible.

That night Harry goes to the fourth floor’s mirror but there is no one. He looks at his reflection for an instant, seeing only a tired boy with the eyes of a fraud. Then a pale hand emerges from the glass and grabs him by the shirt. Harry steps into the mirror and on the other side he finds Draco Malfoy, face dimly lit by the fourth floor lights.

“I can’t tutor you tonight,” Malfoy says before Harry can even open his mouth. “Actually, I don’t think we’ll need tutoring anymore. You were able to apparate last time.”

“You said I needed a couple more lessons.”

“Yeah, well…” Malfoy seems on edge. “I don’t have the time anymore. You’ll have to train on your own.”

“Isn’t it risky? Come on, Malfoy!”

“I’m not at your service, Potter.”

“Yes you are.”

Harry regrets his words the second they’re out, but it’s a second too late. Technically, yes, Malfoy is at his service by Voldemort’s order, still Harry wishes… What? That Malfoy would help him out of his own free will? Now Harry is just being ridiculous.

“Very well, Master,” Malfoy says with cutting irony. “Your wish is my command.”

Harry feels weird at these words. He’s not sure if it’s seeing Malfoy so upset, or maybe a hint of satisfaction to hear him call him that. Well, Malfoy does look upset.

“Look, it’s not what I meant.”

“Shall I abandon my studies and dedicate my nights and days to you? Be available at every moment?”

“Stop. I’m sorry I said that.”

Malfoy shuts up. He seems to be in a very bad mood these days. Harry can’t help but notice that instead of his usual smooth skin he has a bit of acne and deep grey circles under his eyes. It’s not difficult to guess why. Malfoy has failed to kill Dumbledore, and they both know Voldemort won’t be pleased.

“Are you going to be okay?” Harry asks softly.

Malfoy looks down. He stays silent for a moment.

“I don’t think so, no,” he finally says.

“He’ll give you another chance, right?”

“I suppose. Or maybe he’ll ask you and will get rid of me.”

“He can’t. I won’t ever do it, and he knows that. He needs you.”

“I’m far from indispensable.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Harry says. “I’ll tell him—”

“Please, don’t. Please.”

Harry stares at Malfoy with surprise. The boy sounds positively desperate.

“Why not? He listens to me, you know. Well, sometimes. I could at least try.”

“No, Potter, please. It’s something I have to do on my own.”

“Do you even want to do it?”

“Of course I don’t want to do it!” Malfoy cries out.

Just like Harry moments ago, he seems to immediately regret his words. He shakes his head, his breath shaky, his hands wringing. When he looks up, Harry is surprised at the rawness Malfoy lets appear. He seems so distressed Harry puts a hand on his shoulder, in an awkward attempt to comfort him. This contact makes Malfoy go very still, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

“I’ll help you,” Harry says. “Not to… Not about the Dumbledore thing, because to be honest, I’d prefer you to fail. But I’ll do what I can to protect you from him. I know you don’t want me to tell him anything, but I’ll try to find a way. Alright?”

Malfoy nods silently, looking at Harry with a peculiar intensity. He was probably not expecting help from him.

“It’s also in my interest to help so I can make sure you don’t, uh… Accidentally curse anyone else. Though this is also kind of my fault. I could have failed my curse, or at least made it less powerful.”

“Err… Right.”

Malfoy seems uncomfortable and Harry suddenly becomes aware his hand is still on his shoulder.

“Well, I better go,” he mumbles, taking a step back.

“Yeah, me too.”

Both boys step out of the mirror after ensuring no one is around. Harry watches Malfoy until he’s disappeared in the next corridor, then slowly walks back to the Gryffindor tower. He feels worried and sad. Now they don’t have detention nor tutoring together, how is he supposed to check on Malfoy? Not that he cares about his wellbeing, of course, but it’s always useful to know what your enemy is up to, right?

The next week, Harry spends most of his free time with the Marauder’s map in hand. When asked by his friends who he’s looking for, Harry mumbles some unintelligible answer, but it doesn’t take too long before Ron figures it all out.

“Are you spying on Malfoy?”

Harry quickly folds the map back, staring at Ron with a frown.

“Is he up to something?” Ron asks again.

“I don’t know,” Harry lies. “I’m not spying on Malfoy, I’m just… You know.”

“Obsessed by his vile little person?”

“What? No—”

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen you follow his name with your wand. What’s the deal?”

“I’m just wondering if he's not doing something,” Harry says as flatly as he can, “but actually I don’t think he is. It’s just prevention, you know.”

Ron and Hermione exchange a look. Hermione chuckles but keeps on reading.

“Whatever you say,” Ron tells Harry, but he’s grinning too.

“I just don’t understand,” Harry eventually says, unfolding the map again. “Look, he’s here now, but this morning I couldn’t find him anywhere. And it happened other times, too. He just disappears from the map.”

“Maybe he’s going out of the school.”

“Yeah, or there is a place in this school that doesn’t appear on the map.”

“You better keep an eye on him, then,” Ron says. “Just in case something happens to him.”

His voice is mocking but Harry ignores him. He goes back to following the tiny letters spelling DRACO MALFOY, that are currently turning in circles in the Slytherin common room, next to Blaize Zabini’s immobile ones. Harry imagines the two of them talking, wondering what it could be about.

It goes on like this for the rest of the week. By Sunday Harry knows the map almost by heart and is capable of spotting Malfoy in under a minute. Of course he still has to study something other than the bloody Slytherin from time to time, like in this windy morning. Harry is sitting in the library reading the same sentence for the third time, when the perfect excuse to stop studying flies by. Literally. An origami bird swirls around Harry’s head, letting itself get caught easily. Harry opens the paper and the five words make a wave of adrenaline run through his whole body.

Room of Requirement, now. M.

Harry blurts out a vague excuse to his friends and runs out of the library, not slowing down until the seventh floor. As he expected, Malfoy is waiting there. Seeing Harry from afar, he quickly passes three times in front of the wall, making the door appear right when Harry arrives near. They both get in without a word.

“The Dark Lord wants to see you.”

Of course it had to be Voldemort. Harry feels stupid even hoping that Malfoy could have wanted to see him for any other reason. He takes a deep breath, trying to fight back against the sudden wave of anxiety in his stomach.

“Are you coming too?” he asks Malfoy.

“I am,” Malfoy answers in a bleak voice.

They both step into the flames with a deep breath, and step out into Malfoy Manor’s study room.

Lucius Malfoy is there, as well as a tall, slim and elegant woman, who Harry recognises instantly even though he has not seen her in a very long time. Narcissa Malfoy is keeping her eyes down, only quickly looking up at her son when he walks out of the fireplace. Harry watches Malfoy’s expression shift, his whole body getting even tenser, his face hardening into a more adult, determined look. Harry can sense his worry from there.

“It seems you have finally deigned to learn punctuality, Harry.”

And of course, he is there too. Even though Harry hasn’t noticed him before, his presence is poisoning the whole room with fear. Voldemort is sitting in front of a window, turning his back to them, Nagini to his feet.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” she hisses. “You were gone a long time.”

“Hi,” Harry says in Parseltongue. “I, uh, I suppose I was.”

“Do not resent him, Nagini,” Voldemort says. “Harry was busy, as we were. Well, go say hello.”

The snake immediately slides up to Harry and wraps herself around him, immersing Harry into a comforting humming. He feels every tension in his body dissolve, trying his best to stay alert but Nagini’s presence relaxes him so much that soon his mind is free of any worry. Harry laughs and pets her shiny scales. Nagini emits a pleased hiss then unfolds herself, leaving Harry dizzy and calm.

“I dreamt of you,” Harry tells the snake.

“Have you not dreamt of me?” Voldemort asks in an almost teasing tone.

“I haven’t,” Harry says, unsure if the Dark wizard sees this as a good or a bad thing.

“I, however, have had a vision of you again,” Voldemort says. “It was quite unpleasant but not uninteresting.”

Harry doesn't ask what the vision was about, not with the whole Malfoy family standing there. Voldemort gets up and faces Harry, blocking the window’s light with his tall silhouette. 

“What will we do today?” Harry asks, vaguely amazed by his own tranquillity.

Voldemort smiles, if the weird shape his mouth makes can even be called a smile.

“Today, I will teach you two curses of my choice and one of yours. But first, I’d like to ask you a question.”

Harry waits patently. He feels relaxed but not as out of phase as he was last time Nagini gave him a hug. On the contrary, his mind feels clear and his thoughts slow but coherent.

“Have you sensed my feelings before?”

“I have,” Harry answers, wondering why the question is asked now. “When your Death Eaters escaped Azkaban last year, I felt your happiness. Or, er, whatever it was you felt.”

“I was pleased, yes. You, Harry, were not pleased last week.”

Ah. That’s why, then.

“You… You felt my emotion?”

“I did. I have to say, Harry, by the strength of your distress I was hoping that the quill had reached its recipient. I’m sure you can imagine my disappointment when I realized young Draco had failed to complete the mission I entrusted him with.”

Harry glares at the Malfoys, standing close to each others in obvious fear. Narcissa has a hand on her son’s shoulder but Lucius is stiff as a board.

“I can imagine,” Harry says quietly.

“I was also informed that you stopped another student from touching the quill, risking to expose yourself.”

“I didn’t think before speaking.”

“You should have.”

“To be honest I would have told Lavender not to touch the quill even if I had time to think,” Harry says firmly. “Though I could have done it more sensibly.”

“It is in your nature, I suppose,” Voldemort says in an annoyed tone. “Well, it matters not. For every failure there is a punishment. Draco, come here.”

Harry and Malfoy exchange a short look before the blond steps forwards. Harry knows what Voldemort is going to ask him, and he knows what Malfoy wants Harry to do. 

“I will teach you the curse of the Dark Hand,” Voldemort tells Harry. “You experienced it in your first lesson, when you failed to show me respect.”

“I remember,” Harry says, thinking back of the crushing feeling of a giant, invisible hand around his throat.

“In exchange, I will grant Draco a second chance, as long as you agree to help him.”

Harry and Voldemort stare at each other. Judging by the Dark wizard’s smile, he has somehow learned that Harry knows Dumbledore is the intended victim. Harry hesitates. He can’t kill Dumbledore, nor even indirectly help Malfoy do it, he’s certain of that. He might not be on good terms with his Headmaster but he is still the only man stopping Voldemort, still the head of resistance and the one person actively trying to destroy the Horcruxes.

“What if I refuse?” Harry asks.

“Draco will pay for his mistake with his life,” Voldemort says cordially.

Narcissa emits a faint squeak noise. She covers her mouth but Harry notices her trembling hands. Her husband places an arm behind her back in discreet support, but he too is a shade paler than usual. Then Harry turns to Malfoy, and what he sees breaks his heart.

Eyes down, jaw clenched, hands joined; only his uneven breathing gives away his fear. He doesn’t think that Harry will choose him, he doesn’t even consider it. He has already accepted his fate.

“I’ll help him,” Harry says.

Malfoy looks up at him. His eyes catch Harry’s, desperate and vulnerable. At this precise moment everything they went through this year aligns. The conversations, the gentle fighting, the hard hits, the obsession, the dreams. Harry doesn’t hate him anymore, he realises. He cares for Draco Malfoy. He is not ready to let him die. Even if it means he has to help him kill Dumbldeore.

“Very well,” Voldemort says. “I will let you discuss the matter together, but I expect proof of your participation, Harry.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry says mechanically.

“Why are you so reluctant to call me your Lord, Harry?” Voldemort asks with annoyance.

“I don’t know, Tom,” Harry answers sharply. “It is in my nature, I suppose.”

Voldemort looks at him with disdain but Harry holds his gaze. Nagini makes this noise that sounds a little like a laugh and Voldemort lets out a snort, getting his wand out.

“The Dark Hand,” he says, “can be used to crush opponents in various ways. It can also serve as a protection, as means of transportation or any other task requiring great strength. Today, we will focus on offensive usage.”

“Of course,” Harry says under his breath.

“The incantation is rather simple but controlling the Dark Hand is a difficult task. When misused, it can cause great damage.”

Saying those words, Voldemort shoots a sickening grin at Malfoy, who keeps his eyes resolutely set on the ground.

“Repeat after me, Harry. Tenaci Tenebris.”

“Tenaci Tenebris.”

“Repeat the wand movement.”

Harry spends a few minutes perfecting the motion, a pentacle traced in the air followed by an arrow to the sky. When he can do it fast enough for Voldemort’s liking, his throat tightens. He knows what comes next.

“Once the spell is successfully cast, you will control the movement with your wand, but also with intent. Practice on Draco, and do not hold back.”

Harry knows he can’t argue. If he refuses to hurt Malfoy, Voldemort will without a doubt ask him to try the spell on Narcissa Malfoy, and Malfoy was clear enough on the matter. Harry sighs but he turns his wand to his classmate.

“Tenaci Tenebris.”

The Dark answers immediately. Harry can feel her emerge from the air all around him, attracted by the sigil he’s tracing with his wand, concentrating into a massive shape somewhere in front of him. Harry can feel her warmth, her playfulness. She is not evil nor good, she just is, powerful and ancient, above human morals or concerns. She loves him, though, Harry senses it, and just like last time a great emotion passes through him.

“Use it, Harry. Bend it to your will.”

Harry does not use nor bend. He closes his eyes, letting himself get surrounded by the Dark. He inhabits it, occupies the same space, merges himself into it. He visualizes a giant hand, as tall as himself, agitating its fingers. When he opens his eyes, Malfoy is looking at him. Harry moves his wand.

Malfoy’s feet lift from the ground and a moment later he is floating, surprised but not looking so scared anymore. Harry tries his best to stay in balance but the Dark’s spirit is strong and soon she escapes his will, letting Malfoy fall violently on the floor.

“Try again,” Voldemort says.

Harry tries again. He says the words, draws the sigil in the ether and feels the Dark gather in front of him. Once again he tries to collect Malfoy and lift him, but this time with no success.

“Again.”

And Harry tries again. And again and again and again, until he understands how to direct his thoughts, how to tame the Dark, how to dance with her. It takes a long moment before he’s able to properly visualize the hand and make it follow his every thought, but he eventually manages.

“Now, show me your wrath,” Voldemort says.

Harry knows he has to. With a swift wand movement he wraps the immaterial fingers around Malfoy’s body, shaking him and crushing him, though not too hard. The boy winces in pain, but it’s nothing violent.

“Shall I remind you that if you do not punish Draco correctly, I will?” Voldemort says in a suave, menacing tone.

Harry grits his teeth and in a quick, dry movement, he slams Malfoy against the stone wall. The blond lets out a scream of pain but Harry stays focused. He knows he cannot avoid this. He tightens the grip around Malfoy’s body, making him fly through the room and hit various pieces of furniture. When Malfoy seems entirely out of breath, letting out a faint wail, Harry brings him back to the floor and lets go.

“You are not done, Harry,” Voldemort says. “Draco has failed a very important task. This punishment shall remind him of his duty.”

“I think I’ve done enough,” Harry argues.

“Very well.”

All of a sudden Malfoy is in the air again, but Harry hasn’t done anything. He looks with horror at Voldemort’s wand, handling the boy with much less caution than Harry has. Malfoy hits the wall with a violent crack and Narcissa lets out a shriek, then hides her face in her husband’s arm.

“Tenaci Tenebris,” Harry shouts.

The Dark answers him more fluidly than ever and snatches Malfoy from Voldemort’s control. Harry takes in a deep breath, then smashes Malfoy to the ground, then again in the air, tightening his grip around his throat, the pale face turning purple. Harry does not let go. He feels sick, he wants nothing more than hitting Voldemort with all of his newfound strength, but instead he presses harder on Malfoy’s body. Time stretches, Harry loses all notion of space, his eyes following the fair face distorting in ache.

When he lets Malfoy violently fall to the floor, when he turns to Voldemort, Harry lets out a breath. The fucking bastard seems pleased, at last.

“Have I shown enough wrath, my Lord?” Harry asks in a toneless voice.

“You have. Good boy.”

Harry ignores the violent urge he has to fucking hit Voldemort in the face, and instead walks as calmly as he can to Malfoy. The boy is coughing his lungs out, shaking on all fours, eyes wide and full of tears. Without a word, Harry extends a hand.

Malfoy looks at him, distraught, and for a moment Harry fears he’s done too much, gone too far. But then Malfoy takes his hand, letting Harry lift him up, and the two boys stand, looking in each other’s eyes.

Harry mouths silently ‘I’m sorry’ and Malfoy gives him a quick, very tiny nod, which might mean ‘I know’.

Then Harry lets go of Malfoy’s hand and steps back, not looking at Voldemort yet knowing he is not pleased.

“What will the second curse be, my Lord?” he asks.

Malfoy staggers to his parents and his mother catches him, holding him close. Harry avoids her eyes.

“Follow me,” Voldemort says.

The window opens for him and with no word, no wand, he lifts from the ground and flies through the aperture. Harry steps over the edge and jumps, falling quite violently to the not so close ground. The three Malfoys apparate next to him and Harry regrets not having thought to do the same.

Voldemort is standing straight in the wind, overlooking the Malfoy estate, his robe flying in the winter breeze. Harry approaches carefully.

“Your next lesson, Harry, will be the Earth Fury. This curse makes one the master of the ground he can see, giving him complete control over the movement of the land.”

“I’m going to create an earthquake?"

“It is the most common use of this curse as well as the one I wish for you to learn today, yes. However, like most magic, it can serve the purpose you intend it to.”

“And in exchange?”

Voldemort turns to Harry, his eyes mere slits in his face.

“You will make a declaration to the Daily Prophet, bashing Hogwart’s Headmaster.”

Harry looks at Voldemort with surprise. He’s not even sure what to say. Of all things he did not expect that.

“You want to undermine him.”

“There are many ways in which one can be weakened.”

Harry takes his time to think. Voldemort has spies at the Ministry, this at least he knows, but what could he gain from such an article? And what does Harry have to lose? Many people have lost faith in the newspaper after last year’s bullshit, but many others still take it as the holy word. More than anything else, Harry fears his friends’ opinion. They have always supported him, always joked about the Prophet when it spat disgusting lies about him, but how would they react if he now changed his tune?

But then again, what choice does Harry really have?

“Whatever,” he says between his teeth. “I’ll do it, but I won’t just say anything.”

“Of course. Your words have to sound genuine, after all.”

Harry hopes this agreement will leave him enough freedom to not entirely belittle Dumbledore, but he can guess Voldemort is going to monitor the article closely.

“So, what’s the spell?”

“Draco, go take a walk.”

Malfoy obeys with his head down, still a little unsteady on his feet. Harry watches him step down the garden stairs and wander in the grass.

“Repeat after me,” Voldemort says. “Oritigis.”

Harry says the incantation a few times, then imitates Voldemort’s hand movement. It’s even more complex than the previous one.

“Now,” Voldemort says, “You will try to awaken the earth. Malfoy will be your epicenter.”

“I have punished him already,” Harry argues. “Shouldn’t I—”

“You, Harry Potter, will obey my orders,” Voldemort thunders.

Harry takes a step back without even noticing. If he thought Voldemort was going to be content with his previous ‘wrath’ demonstration, he was wrong. Or maybe it was Harry’s gesture of kindness, helping Malfoy to get to his feet, that is the cause for this additional punishment.

Harry breathes in, breathes out. “Ortigis,” he says, careful to point his wand just a little next to Malfoy.

On the first few tries nothing happens, but then Voldemort takes Harry’s hand and directs it to correct the movement. Harry can physically feel the power emanating from the cold fingers, enhancing his own magical energy.

“Ortigis.”

A flash of light ejects from his wand and flows through the air like electricity, or like the patterns crackled dirt forms when it’s too dry. It lands so close to Malfoy that the boy falls. Harry removes his hand from Voldemort’s, directing the light to the side until it’s all absorbed by the earth.

Once again Harry feels the Dark surrounding him, but it isn’t a gentle, playful force anymore. It's wild and mighty and feral. It’s all around, in the soil, in the air, in the wind. In Harry’s body, in his blood, in his flesh.

The earth moves. First it’s a tremor, then the shaking gets stronger and stronger and Harry sees Malfoy fall to his knees. He tries his best to contain the movement but it quickly grows uncontrollable. Harry watches in horror a crack form in the ground, run through the garden and propagate, creating more and more fragments in the earth.

“How do I stop it?” Harry exclaims.

“It is all about willpower,” Voldemort says calmly.

Harry concentrates as hard as he can but he feels the Dark growing and relishing in the chaos, infusing Harry with the same want, the same need for destruction. This, he understands, is a very, very Dark spell. Harry feels like he is actually part of the ground, part of the soil, but unable to control it.

And then there’s Malfoy, small in the middle of the fury, clinging on to the grass like his life depends on it — because it does. In a glimpse of lucidity Harry understands that Voldemort wants him dead. By Harry’s hand.

“Tenaci Tenebris!” 

Harry senses the Dark splitting, torn by his wand’s movement, and finally he recognises a whimsical energy separating itself from the tumultuous one. Harry forms an invisible hand in the middle of the torment, gently catching Malfoy and lifting him away from the rocks, the stone and the dirt exploding all over.

The concentration it takes from Harry to bring Malfoy back to where they’re standing is such that at the same time, it focuses the energy put into the Earth Fury. When Malfoy stumbles at Harry’s feet, the young wizard isn’t looking at his classmate anymore, the Dark Hand still shielding him without Harry even noticing. He is now lost deep in the movement raging in front of him. His eyes are wide open but he does not see anymore — he only feels. 

For a moment Harry is part of the globe itself. He tames the earthquake down from the inside, forgetting where he is and who he is except that he needs to break the spell, or rather undo it gently, calming the Dark until, at last, the shaking becomes vibrations and the vibrations become stillness.

Harry falls. He is caught up by pale, powerful arms, and lets himself go. Voldemort carries him like he weighs nothing at all, bringing him back inside, laying him down on a sofa. When Nagini slithers to him and covers him with her rings, Harry holds her like a kid holds a stuffed toy. The humming she emits calms his trembling little by little, until he can breathe steadily again. White hands seize the snake to drive her away.

“The child needs rest, Master,” Nagini hisses.

“He will be fine. Leave him, Nagini.”

The snake gives Harry a little peck on the shin then flows to the ground. Harry has now regained enough consciousness to sit up and face Voldemort.

He is stupefied to see the man not just satisfied but positively thrilled.

“You’re… You’re not angry at me?” Harry mumbles.

“Why would I be angry?” Voldemort asks. “You did what I demanded, and with great success.”

Harry doesn’t remind him that he saved Malfoy when Voldemort probably wanted him dead.

“Casting such a spell at your age, and with such control, is a sign of very strong will, Harry. You are performing beyond my expectations.” 

It’s so unusual to see the Dark wizard so pleased, that for a moment Harry feels… proud. Then of course he reminds himself where he is and who he’s so eager to please. No, no bloody way.

“I just did what you asked,” he says dryly.

“And I hope you will keep on doing so.”

Voldemort turns away from him, watching through the window. Harry follows his gaze and sees the Malfoy estate plowed, the gardens devastated. He lets out a shaky breath when he remembers how it felt being inside the earth, part of the elements, and the limit he almost broke. He nearly lost himself, Harry realizes.

“Have you decided which will be the third curse you learn today?” Voldemort asks.

“I’d like to learn how to undo the curse Neville is under,” he says, ‘if there is one.”

Voldemort scoffs.

“Of course. Always so eager to help. There is no miracle cure, but I can teach you of a way to weaken the curse, which might let the boy heal. Are you certain that this is what you want?”

“Yes. Well, I mean… What do you want in exchange?”

A large, wicked smile grows on Voldemort’s face and Harry feels like he is shrinking under the red gaze.

“Since you showed so much aptitude for the Earth Fury, I believe you are ready to try it at school.”

“... What?”

“Tomorrow at dawn, you will provoke an earthquake on Hogwarts’ grounds. I will reclaim it as my own doing, and you, Harry Potter, better not get unmasked.”

Harry struggles to breathe for a second.

“Wait, no,” he says, “I’m not strong enough. There… There will be people injured—”

“Of course there will be. What else will you complain about to the Daily Prophet?”

“Oh.”

Harry feels dizzy again. He sees Malfoy looking at him from the other side of the room, standing in front of his mother and behind his father. Harry feels grateful that at least Voldemort seems to have forgotten about them.

“Dumbledore’s time is nearly over,” Voldemort says. “I will soon be the one and only ruler of the wizarding world, and I want to be able to thank you for it, Harry.”

Harry lowers his head, feeling his breath get out of control again. That is not what he wanted. He walked in here to help people, to do something, to get stronger. To make a difference. Well, he is making a difference, but not the one he intended to.

“Well, Harry,” Voldemort says in a soft, sickening voice, “will you accept?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You always have.”

“What if I refuse?”

Voldemort seems even more dangerous when he’s in a good mood, Harry notes.

“What shall I ask of you? Let’s see… I could kill young Draco, that you seem to have taken a liking for. Or I could take away another of your friends, perhaps young Weasley or… I have been told you are close to a Mudblood girl, but surely it is a rumor, is it not?”

“I’ll do it!” Harry blurts out. “I’ll fucking do it, I’ll do the bloody curse at school, but you can’t touch them! You can’t!”

Voldemort’s steps on the hardwood floors get louder as he gets closer to Harry. The Dark wizard kneels near him and Harry feels a shiver run down his spine when icy fingers raise up his head.

“You are weak, Harry,” Voldemort says quietly. “You will be weak as long as you love.”

That’s not true, Harry screams in his head. You’re weak because you don’t love anyone! But he doesn’t say anything. The devil gets up, his steps sharp in the silence.

“Raise, Harry,” he says.

Harry gets up. Voldemort makes him stand despite his exhaustion and teaches him a rather simple counter-curse to help Neville. Harry is so tired it takes him more than an hour to fully grasp it, yet the Dark wizard stays patient and calm, adapting to Harry’s rhythm. By the end of the lesson, the boy is barely standing on his feet.

“You have done very well today,” Voldemort says.

And Harry should not care, he should not give a single fuck about what this madman thinks, but at these words he feels so validated, so seen. He was good enough. Not for anyone, too, but for the most powerful man alive.

“You will unleash the Earth Fury on the school or one of your friends will die,” Voldemort says lightly. “There will be no other warning, no other chance. After that, if you are still unsuspected like I certainly hope you will be, the Ministry will be contacting you to make an announcement. And of course, I expect that Draco will manage to kill his target shortly. You may both go.”

Malfoy helps Harry walk to the fireplace and step into the green flames. The last thing Harry hears is Nagini, hissing goodbye.

As soon as he recognises the familiar walls of the Room of Requirement, Harry falls to the floor. He lays eyes wide open, his breath unstable, an unbearable ache in his chest. Not even the locket manages to appease the horror creeping all around him. Everything seems to be getting closer and tighter, like the room itself is crumbling — or maybe it’s Harry’s body itself that is shrinking and breaking apart.

What has he done? He keeps on convincing himself that Dark magic can be used for good, but what good has he done? Now he made promises that will hurt people if he keeps them and hurt people if he breaks them. Harry cannot get any air into his lungs, he feels like he is going to explode, taking everything around down with him. The walls are collapsing, his chest is too small…

“Breathe, Potter.”

A voice is reaching to him in the chaos. A voice from outside the walls, beyond the pain.

“Breathe in, breathe out… Hey, Potter, look at me. Breathe with me.”

Harry feels a hand taking his and warmness propagates in his palm. Familiar grey eyes lock his and all he sees is Draco Malfoy, breathing slowly above him. Harry tries his best to match his rhythm, to hold back the tears, to push back the walls.

“You’re doing fine, you’re doing just fine. It’s great, you’re doing great. Keep breathing. Listen to me, hey, look at me, okay? I’m here. You’re fine, I promise.”

Harry keeps breathing. It takes a long moment, but eventually, he calms down. Malfoy’s voice guides him through time and space, bringing him back to reality. They’re out of there, out of his reach. They’re safe, at least for now.

“What did I do?” Harry whispers once his brain is more or less functioning again. “I fucked up, Malfoy, I fucked up big time. I hurt you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“You saved my life, Potter.”

Harry sits up. He looks at Malfoy, still holding his hand tightly. None of them wants to let go, Harry’s not even sure he could if he wanted to. None of them wants to look away. Malfoy’s eyes are like a reminder that it was all real, everything that happened, but that the rest is real too. The school, their friends, their conversations in the kitchen, the moments where Harry felt like a normal sixteen-years-old. It all exists together, at the same time. It’s a mess, but that’s how the world is.

“Thank you,” Malfoy says quietly. “I’ll never forget what you did. Never.”

“I wasn't going to let him kill you, you know.”

“You protected my family, too. You didn’t fuck up, Potter, you really didn’t.”

“He said if I failed, he would kill you…”

“But he won’t, Potter! He’s trying to scare you, to bend you to his will, because he saw what you’re capable of!”

“Yes, and now I have to attack Hogwarts!”

“But it doesn’t have to hurt anyone. You can do it, I know you can.”

“No I can’t!”

Malfoy takes a deep breath. They’re so close Harry feels the soft breeze on his cheeks.

“I don’t think you realize, because you were in a serious state, but… What you did in the garden, it was… I’ve never seen this. I don’t think the Dark Lord himself was capable of this at your age.”

“What do you mean? I just did what he told me to…”

“You, Harry Potter,” Malfoy says slowly, “have an extreme ability for the Dark Arts. And you are way, way more powerful than you think you are.”

“But…”

“He was impressed, Potter.”

Silence fills the space between them. Harry’s breath accelerates for a second but Malfoy tightens his grip on his hand and Harry stays grounded. Impressed. Voldemort was impressed. By him?

“By me?” Harry asks in a tiny voice.

“Yes. He saw — we all saw what you’re capable of. Well, you didn’t, I suppose, but let me tell you, the Dark Lord was pleased. Extremely pleased. Maybe it’s because you can be useful to him, or maybe just that he didn’t expect that… But I think it’s more. I think he is starting to believe you could become his equal. And I think you could… You could become even more, Potter.”

Harry takes a moment to let Malfoy’s words sink in. When he looks back up at him, his eyes shine with a fierce determination.

Chapter Text

It’s still dark. It’s still quiet, early in the morning, and the first students arrive at the Great Hall. The eyes are puffy, the porridge warm, the last stars yawn. All is calm.

Harry is standing on the edge of the Astronomy Tower. The Cloak of Invisibility is half draped around him, creating strange shapes in the darkness, a broken silhouette. Behind him Malfoy is leaning on the parapet, his eyes closely following Harry’s every move.

Both boys look tired, but when their gazes meet the same fire is burning in their eyes. Determination looks good on them.

“Are you ready?” Malfoy asks.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” Harry answers in an aching voice.

Malfoy steps closer to Harry.

“Breathe,” he says. “No matter what happens, I’ll be there.”

Harry wants to thank him but the words get caught up in his throat. He gives Malfoy a nod then turns to face the grounds below their feet.

 “Ortigis.”

The light tears the night sky, a glorious pattern cracking and spreading like electricity in slow motion. It fills the air, progresses down and Harry feels the Dark waking up all around, alive like a beast. When the light hits the ground, far below them, the shock almost makes him fall. But Malfoy holds him and Harry stands.

The raw, wild magic present all around Hogwarts has nothing to do with Malfoy Manor. All of a sudden Harry understands, or rather he feels centuries of witches and wizards walking here before him, he senses magical creatures hiding in the lake, in the forest, in the earth. The energy is considerable and Harry feels like a tiny thing tickling a titan. Yet the Dark feels him back.

“Please help me,” Harry whispers. “Please, I need your help. Do not let me hurt anyone.”

It starts from deep, deep under the surface. A shiver. First it’s only noticeable in the waves covering the Great Lake, then the trees start trembling, then the soil itself. Harry is already far away from the tower, his consciousness lost somewhere under his body, in the vibrations.

“Wake up,” Harry says in a deep voice.

The Dark rises in a split second and the world crumbles. Suddenly there is nothing but movement, the land shakes, the castle itself trembles. Harry doesn’t feel Malfoy holding him, dragging him away from the edge, arms wrapped around Harry in a hope to keep him grounded in reality. But Harry has never felt more real. He is only matter and time, only here and there.

The earthquake amplifies and screams resonate in the whole castle, deep cracks start splitting the school grounds. Harry is looking the Dark in the eyes now. They are part of one another, the tiny human just a fragment of the whole, and the whole just a collection of fragments. With no words, no thoughts, they understand each other.

When the first wall collapses Harry knows it’s time to break the spell.

“Please,” he says aloud, lost in the trance. “Please hear me. Listen to me. You have to rest now, you have to get quiet. I’m sorry I woke you up but you have to get back to sleep, you have to stop now… I’m sorry. I know you understand. Please.”

Harry is shaking violently. The Dark is hard to call and harder to tame, but it does understand. It does feel the fragile lives running in panic, shaken to their core, it knows what death is.

Like it came, the movement goes.

Harry is gently laid down. He does not react when Malfoy takes his wand out of his hand and covers him with the cloak. He barely hears the series of spells Malfoy is casting to hide the Earth Fury, one after the other, diffusing quickly into the void.

“Okay, we have to go now. Can you move?”

“Mmh.”

Harry can’t stay still, that’s the problem. He is shaking so hard he can’t even see straight. Malfoy grabs the broom laying close and makes Harry mount it, then climbs behind him. He manages to cover them both with the cloak and raises slowly.

The two boys have barely flown out of the Astronomy Tower when Albus Dumbledore emerges from the door, running to where they were standing a second before. By the time he looks above the parapet, they have vanished behind another tower.

Malfoy lands in catastrophe. Harry’s shaking made the flight difficult but thankfully no one saw them. They manage to walk into an empty room, Malfoy dragging Harry behind him. As soon as the door is closed, he casts a locking and a silencing charm, then runs to Harry.

“Are you fine? Are you okay?”

Harry can’t talk. His teeth are still shaking hard, and when Malfoy takes his hand the vibration propagates. They stay like this for a long moment, one laying and the other sitting, one breathing fast and the other looking at him with concern.

“You will be fine, you will be okay, it will be fine…” Malfoy says softly.

When Harry finally stops shaking, the day has broken outside. They both take a deep breath before stepping out of the room, Harry hidden under the Cloak again.

The castle is pure chaos.

Students and teachers are running everywhere, screaming instructions, casting spells. Several walls have collapsed and most of the furniture is smashed or even broken into pieces. There are people injured being carried by friends, some other kids sitting on the floor, looking lost, still in their pajamas. Before splitting up, Harry grabs Malfoy’s hand for a second. He knows the blond can’t see him but he wants to say thank you in a way or another. Malfoy squeezes his hand back, then they separate.

Harry runs to his common room. It’s empty, as well as his dorm. He hides the Cloak then gets out again, this time rushing to the Great Hall.

“Harry! Harry, you’re here!”

Hermione runs to him. Harry feels a wave of relief when he also sees Ron’s red hair behind her. The three of them crash into each other, hugging hard for a long minute. When they take a step back Ron grabs Harry by the shoulders and shakes him, making Harry wince.

“Where the hell were you? I was worried sick, I looked for you everywhere, I thought you were fucking dead!”

“Ron, I’m fine, stop shaking me… Stop shaking me!”

Ron eventually lets go but he keeps Harry’s arm locked in his. Harry notices his other arm is wrapped around Hermione, who is resting her head against Ron’s chest. They both look extremely startled but not hurt.

Soon things start to get organized. Healers and Aurors arrive from the Ministry, the injured students are being taken care of. The teachers help rebuilding with volunteers. At lunch Harry almost cries in relief when Dumbledore announces that no one died, and that most injuries are superficial.

In the evening Ministry officials start questioning students. When Harry spots a pink toad coming towards him, he knows he can’t escape. Of all people, it had to be her.

“Well, what a delight to see you again, Mr Potter… Of course, the circumstances are tragic, but I am certain we will manage to make something good out of it, will we not?”

Rage rises in Harry’s body but he imagines himself casting the Dark Hand on Umbridge, smashing her against the wall. This vivid imagery helps him stay calm and answer almost politely.

“Tragic, indeed, ma’am,” Harry says, thinking hard about her head exploding eyes first.

With a supporting look from Ron and Hermione, Harry steps into the classroom used by Umbridge for questioning. They sit and stare, painful flashbacks in Harry’s mind, the scar on his hand feeling almost fresh again. But this time it’s even worse. Because he has to actually help her, agree with her. If he doesn’t, his friends will pay the hard price.

“Such a terrible fate the school has faced today, Mr Potter. You must be in shock. Could you describe what happened?”

Harry is almost certain Voldemort wouldn’t tell her about his situation, intelligent enough to know not to trust the woman. He chooses his words carefully.

“I was in the bathroom when everything started shaking. It got stronger and stronger, and then it stopped. It lasted maybe five minutes, I’m not sure.”

“Very well, and what else?”

“Like you said, ma’am, I am quite shocked. I’m afraid my memories aren’t clear.”

“Of course, of course. Could you tell me, Mr Potter, how you think it happened?”

Harry pretends to think even if he knows exactly what he has to say.

“It could have been a natural disaster, but many students said they saw a flash of magic at the beginning. I think it must have been a curse, and a very powerful one… To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if…”

“If what? You can tell me everything. This conversation is strictly confidential.”

Like hell it is, Harry thinks.

“I just think it could be… I mean, it’d be logical to think Voldemort is behind all this.”

Umbridge nods with a fake comprehensive smile.

“Indeed, one could come to this conclusion… And how would it make you feel if it was proven to be true, Mr Potter?”

“I’d be scared, of course. If Death Eaters got into the school, it would mean… It’d mean… That… Dumbledore can’t protect us anymore.”

Harry hates how delighted Umbridge looks. How easy it would be to cast the Cruciatus Curse on her…

“I wouldn’t want to worry you, Mr Potter, but I believe your theory might be correct. As you know, I have been warning the wizarding community about Albus Dumbledore for quite some time now… At his age, is he really the adequate candidate to defend the future generation of the wizarding world?"

Harry takes a deep breath and looks at Umbridge with as much hatred as he can physically show on his face.

“I don’t think he is,” he says.

Harry loathes himself for that. He loathes Umbridge and Voldemort both, and everyone in between. Every adult that let him get into this situation. But, hey, Harry had a choice. He could have let Voldemort kill Malfoy or his friends. What a choice.

“I have heard that one of your classmates was gravely injured, too. Isn’t this another proof of Dumbledore’s failure?”

“It is,” Harry says, teeth clenched.

“Would you personally say you’d feel safer if Albus Dumbledore was not the Headmaster of Hogwarts any longer?”

“I would,” Harry spits.

He gets up suddenly. Imagining Umbridge dying in atrocious ways is not enough anymore. He can almost feel the Dark gathering around his wand, begging to be used.

“I have to go now,” he says with great effort not to add an insult into the sentence. “The shock.”

“Of course, of course, it has all been very traumatizing… I just have to ask one more silly little question and then I will let you go.”

Harry waits for her to speak, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“You wouldn’t see any objection if your… Opinion was briefly mentioned in the Daily Prophet, would you? You know the journalists, they just have to get their hands on something, and, well, you’re the Boy Who Lived. I’m sure you understand how much your words mean to the wizarding community.”

“Yes,” Harry says, his voice sharp as ice shards. “I understand. I don’t… I don’t object.”

He storms out of the room and runs away before any of his friends can ask anything.

That night Harry dreams of the Earth opening and swallowing him whole. He wakes up, hyperventilates for a while, then falls back asleep.

The next dream is much more vivid, more like a memory.

He is standing in a luxurious living room but barely looks around. All of his attention is caught by a familiar locket in his hand. Then Harry looks at his other hand, holding a small gold cup with two handles. Harry joins his hands together to look at both objects next to each other, and a maniacal laugh escapes his throat. Harry is feeling amazing. He’s feeling like nothing can ever stop him.

A faint wail makes him gaze up to the sofa. Laying there motionless, her face getting more purple by the second, an overweight woman with a bright pink dress and ginger hair is desperately trying to breathe.

“Hush,” Harry says quietly. “The poison will soon achieve its full effect.”

The woman dies with atrocious pain painted on her face, but Harry chuckles. Putting the locket around his neck, he prepares the cup for the ritual. Harry almost doesn’t flinch when he pops his eye out of its socket, then chews on it while reciting the darkest, most wicked incantation known to man. It is all finished in a matter of minutes and then — comes the best part.

When Harry’s soul splits, the now familiar, atrocious pain fills him entirely. Yet as his spirit is torn apart and maddening ache takes over him, he smiles. One more step towards immortality. And the pain grows and burns him to his core and Harry screams and screams and…

“Mate!”

Harry hits the invasive hand with all of his strength. The pain recedes quickly as he realizes it’s not real — none of this was real. Well, it was, but a very long time ago. He touches his face in a panic but both his eyes are there, not replaced by a red slit. Only then he notices Ron groaning on the floor.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry!”

“Yeah, it’s alright…”

“Do you mind? Some of us are trying to sleep here!”

Dean is understandably in a bad mood. Harry can imagine that getting woken up by his screams isn’t very pleasant. Ron sits on his bed and looks at Harry with worried, tired eyes.

“You okay?” he whispers.

Harry nods. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

Harry shakes his head. He can’t tell Ron what he saw, he doesn’t want to think about it anyway. At the same time, he’s not sure he can fall back asleep now…

“Well, move aside, mate,” Ron says gently.

Surprised, Harry rolls to the side to make space. Ron lays next to him, curled under the covers. A moment later his best friend has fallen back asleep, his faint snoring providing Harry with unexpected comfort. Soon, he’s asleep too, and this time no dreams wake him up.

Harry and Ron don’t talk about this incident in the morning. They don’t have to. Sometimes Harry forgets that his friends are here for him, and each time they find a way to remind him. Ron spends the entire breakfast trying to cheer Harry up by imitating Snape during Defense lessons.

“You incapable little shit, not even able to hold your wand correctly… I will make you regret even being born…”

Harry laughs along with Hermione and the other sixth years. Overall, it is not a bad morning, and he manages to keep the dream out of his mind.

Then the mail comes in, and the morning turns sour.

“Shite, Harry, are you serious? Did you really say that?”

Harry turns to Seamus and his smile fades when he sees the newspaper in his hand. On the Daily Prophet’s first page, an old picture of him is displayed under thick letters. 

𝐇𝐎𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃

Harry snatches the newspaper from Seamus’ hands and gets paler with every word.

Harry Potter speaks up after a terrible attack on Hogwarts Wizarding School. An earthquake believed to have been magically provoked has shaken students and teachers alike yesterday at dawn. Many injured pupils have nearly lost their lives, thankfully rescued by Ministry officials quickly arriving on the grounds. Shock and terror could be seen on the young faces, with one question shared by all: is Hogwarts not safe anymore? The most famous student in school has bravely agreed to answer this question for us, despite being deeply affected by the events.

Confirming our worst fear, Harry Potter believes the attack is the doing of a certain Dark wizard Who Shall Not Be Named. “It is logical to think he is behind all this,” young Potter claims with a desperate voice. ‘“I’m scared, of course. If Death Eaters got into the school, it means Dumbledore can’t protect us anymore.” The school, being claimed as the safest place in the country by its Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, seems to be more effective at keeping secrets in than keeping dangers out. The case of student Neville Longbottom, gravely harmed a few weeks prior, has been kept hidden from the public until now. “To be honest, I’d feel safer if Albus Dumbledore was not the Headmaster of Hogwarts any longer,” Harry Potter declares, expressing with simple and clear words what many of us have been afraid to say for quite some time now. More on this at page 3.

“That dirty old hag!” Hermione explodes as soon as she’s finished reading. “This has to be Umbridge’s doing, isn’t it, Harry? Oh, that vile, disgusting old bat!”

“Now the bitch is straight up inventing things,” Ron adds. “She can’t do that, Harry. You should talk to my dad, I’m sure he can find a way to—”

Harry gets up. Rage is burning in his stomach but he can’t even hate Umbridge for it. He can only hate himself. These are his words, or almost his, and he agreed to that. Once again, he agreed to strike his own camp, discrediting the only man still standing against Voldemort. He did that.

“Harry, it will be fine, we can publish another article and tell everyone this is all fake…”

And now, will Harry lie to his friends, too? Is that who he is now? The fucking Boy Who Lied?

No way. He still has a choice about some things. 

“It’s… Not fake. I said these things.”

A thick, uncomfortable silence falls over his classmates.

“Harry… Tell me it’s not true.”

Harry looks at Hermione in the eyes, no matter the shame, no matter the urge he feels to tear the newspaper out. He made a choice, he reminds himself. He can’t do anything but stand by it.

“It’s the truth,” he says sadly. “Well, I… I don’t think Dumbledore should go, but I think he’s not doing enough. I’ve said that before and you all know it. Maybe with this, the wizarding world will finally fucking do something about Voldemort instead of hiding in their precious little Ministry. Now excuse me, I have to go hit my head against a wall.”

Harry leaves the table, a deadly silence behind him. His blood is pumping loud in his veins, a humming is taking over every other sense. Right before getting out of the Great Hall, he turns around.

Sitting at the staff table, staring at him from a distance, Harry can still distinctly see the look on Dumbledore’s face. He is not surprised or disappointed. He is imploring. Imploring for Harry to come back, to talk to him, to trust him.

They both know it’s way too late.

Harry storms out and runs to the Room of Requirement. As soon as he’s in he starts shooting curses at the walls, screaming in frustration, letting all of his rage explode in colorful lights.

“Hey, careful!”

Harry stops when he recognizes the voice. Once again Malfoy has come into the room without any difficulty. Harry has to be more careful about that.

“What do you want?” he snaps.

Malfoy sighs.

“Please don’t attack me, Potter. I just wanted to… Check on you.”

“Oh, I’m great. I’m amazing! I just lied to the entire world to serve Lord fucking Voldemort, but I’m doing delightful!”

Harry shoots a few more curses around, but now that Malfoy is here it feels a little ridiculous. He eventually sits on the floor, hiding his head in his arms.

“I just— It’s so frustrating! No matter how hard I try to make things better, I just make them worse. I thought I’d make a difference, get a chance to defeat him, but all I’m doing is giving him more power!”

“Maybe you need a new strategy.”

Harry looks up at Malfoy who comes to sit near him. The blond is perfectly put together, as always, which somehow calms Harry down.

“To be honest I don’t even know what my strategy is.”

“You don’t— Potter, you don’t have a strategy?”

“I mean, not really. I thought getting closer to Voldemort would be enough to find something I could use against him, but the bastard is hard to get.”

“Of course he’s hard to get, Potter! He is both the most powerful and paranoid man alive! Oh, Merlin be damned. Okay, let’s find you a strategy.”

Harry looks at Malfoy with surprise.

“Why would you even help me?”

“In case you have forgotten, Potter, the Dark Lord tried to kill me and you saved my life. Apart from the fact I owe you a pretty enormous debt, it’s also in my interests to help you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Then consider this pure logic and unwillingness to die on my part.”

A weak smile finally finds its way to Harry’s face.

“Thank you,” he says. “To be honest, I really could use some help.”

Malfoy smiles.

“For someone supposed to be smart you’re pretty stupid, Potter. First thing first, let’s think about the Vow you took. Will you keep silent any knowledge you gain about me, my followers, my plans and my actions, unless I order otherwise.”

“You remember it word for word?”

“Well, someone has to. Have you studied the mechanics of the Unbreakable Vow?”

“Not really.”

“Merlin, Potter, no wonder you feel lost. An Unbreakable Vow is powerful, but its magic is tied to the exact words spoken, which means it leaves room for interpretation. He said ‘knowledge you gain’, which means knowledge you already had before the vow doesn’t count.”

“Are you one hundred percent certain? If you’re wrong, I die.”

“Do not interrupt me while I'm thinking, Potter. Now, the second part. Will you not harm me or my followers, unless I order otherwise. That’s pretty clear, but if you could get his approval for a reason or another, you might play with that.”

“He’ll never let me touch any of his precious goons.”

“He might if it serves him, if he wants them punished and chooses to make this a learning opportunity for you, or even if you ask him as a favour. But we’ll get into details later. Now, the last part. Will you refuse to assist those who attempt to defeat me, unless I order otherwise.”

“I can’t believe you remember all of it by heart.”

“I can’t believe you don’t, Potter. It is pretty essential. So you cannot help any of your friends or Dumbledore, but you could help me, for example.”

“You just said you’re now on my side and not on Voldemort’s.”

“No, I said it’s in my interest to help you. I still serve the Dark Lord and I do not wish to defeat him, but I also wish to help you.”

“It’s tricky.”

“I’m a Slytherin, Potter. So, let’s assume you are not going to attack him in any way. The only other way I see for you to obtain what you want would be a bargain. You’d assure your loved ones’ security by giving him something in exchange.”

“He already said he was not going to ever grant me that. He needs it to keep on menacing me.”

“But what if he didn’t have to menace you? What if you gained his trust?”

“That seems kind of unpossible.”

“Not at all. Like I told you, I think his opinion of you is shifting. He was impressed by your abilities last time. The Dark Lord only truly values himself, but if he came to see you as a reflection of himself, like some kind of heir… You could easily become his right hand, Potter. That would give you great power.”

“Just like your father is his right hand? I’ve seen what he does to his favourites, so no, thank you!”

“My father is no longer the favourite. After his failure at the Department of Mysteries last summer, Bellatrix is now the closest to the Dark Lord. But that could easily change, too. After all, he has already granted you her death.”

“That’s true,” Harry says pensively.

They both think in silence for a moment, sitting close, the fire cracking softly and their breathing aligned without them noticing.

“I suppose I’d have to lick up to him,” Harry says. “Play pretend. Flatter him.”

“I’m not sure,” Malfoy says. “Everybody else already does that and he only considers them inferior. I think he likes that you’re standing up to him. I’d even say it’s safer, because the moment you start lying you are playing with fire. The Dark Lord is an excellent Legilimens, he’d know pretty quickly if you’re being dishonest and that would anger him more than anything else.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Just… Spit in his face and hope it makes him like me?”

“No,” Malfoy says quietly. “You would have to genuinely accept him.”

Harry looks at Malfoy like he is the noseless madman.

“Accept him,” he repeats. “Accept the man who killed my parents, tried to kill me numerous times, manipulates me to his own benefits, made me torture you, threatens my friends and on the top of it all, is the most purist of all blood purists?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says. “I’m not saying you have to like him, but at least try to understand him. See things through his eyes.”

Harry scoffs. Malfoy can’t possibly know how relevant his word choice is.

“I don’t see how it would help me at all.”

“Potter, listen to me,” Malfoy says in a grave tone that surprises Harry. “I know you still imagine you are going to defeat him despite the Vow, despite everything that has already happened. You have to forget about this. He is too powerful. Dumbledore is still influential but he’s old and his reputation was fading long before that article in the Prophet. Potter, please, believe me when I say the Dark Lord will take power at some point. You and your optimistic little friends might delay it by dying one after another, but he is just too powerful, and like you said, he has means the Ministry isn’t willing to use. You have to start imagining a future where he is the minister, or whatever title he will discern himself.”

Harry looks at Malfoy in horror. He has always refused to imagine this possibility, because if that is true, what is left to do? Malfoy’s grey eyes are deep into Harry’s, his fair face framed by silky blond hair, his pink lips set in a determined line. Harry briefly thinks that he looks lovely but the idea is drowned in the cyclone of his thoughts.

“I can’t think like this, Malfoy,” Harry says. “That would mean… That’d mean all the people I love would die, that everything I stand for is gone forever.”

“But what if it didn’t, Potter? What if you could shape this future differently?”

Without realizing, Harry gets closer to Malfoy, looking at him with confusion.

“I don’t understand. You just said…”

“Imagine,” Malfoy says in a voice almost shaking from the intensity. “The Dark Lord is ruling the wizarding world, and you, Harry Potter, are standing by his side. You, his most trusted follower, the only one he listens to, the only one he truly respects — because he could respect you, Potter, I’m sure of it, just like he respects any form of power. You could be the one convincing him to show mercy, the one who’ll make him spare hundreds of innocents. You could make a difference, not against him, but by his side.”

A surreal silence falls between the two boys. Harry and Malfoy stare at each other, the blond’s gaze febrile, Harry’s gaze frantic.

An image slowly develops in Harry’s mind. He can see Voldemort sitting on a throne and himself, standing tall next to him, all dressed in black, Dark Mark exposed. In his vision Harry is older, stronger, and he’s grinning.

“It’s your only chance, Potter,” Malfoy whispers.

And then Harry hears it. “Don’t leave me.” Malfoy spoke in the exact same tone he did in Harry’s dream, with the exact same expression of mixed terror and hope. Harry understands that ‘your only chance’ means ‘my only chance’ and that truly, what Malfoy is asking is for Harry to save him.

In his vision Harry sees himself standing by Voldemort’s side again, but this time there is another man close to him. Draco Malfoy looks older, his hair longer and his face sharper. He doesn’t seem afraid at all anymore. He looks at Harry, Harry looks at him, and they smile at each other.

“Oh.”

Harry lets out a strangled breath. He realizes he is sitting very close to Malfoy. In his stomach, something violent is happening, like some kind of vacuum — a painful, raw void that he instinctively knows can only be filled by Malfoy’s smile, by Malfoy looking safe, by Malfoy standing close to him.

Harry panics. He gets up brusquely and steps away, pressing his hands to his temples. This is too much to process. This doesn’t make any sense.

“That’s crazy,” he says. “You’re crazy.”

Harry walks in circles, trying to push away the storm of ideas raging in his brain, trying to push away that bloody image of him standing with his two worst enemies, feeling victorious and whole. No, no, no. He can’t. It makes no sense.

“Potter, calm down,” Malfoy says, standing up and walking towards him.

Harry feels like he’s being attacked. He can’t let Malfoy come closer or he’s going to do something bad, something very bad. Maybe hit him again. Maybe something worse.

“Go away. Go away, don’t—”

Malfoy tries to put what must be a calming hand on Harry’s shoulder, but Harry pushes him hard.

“Don’t touch me!”

Oh no, it’s not right. It’s not how things are supposed to be. Malfoy is not scared of Harry, he’s not angry, he’s not scornful or mocking. Fucking worried, that’s what he is. Trying to help, genuinely trying because they are on the same side now.

“Potter, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, don’t be sorry, you can’t be! You can’t help me, you can’t be like this. Why are you even like this? Why are you so kind to me?”

At last Harry stops walking. They face each other and Malfoy opens and closes his mouth like he’s fighting to hold his answer back.

“I don’t hate you anymore,” he finally says.

“That’s not possible,” Harry says even though he knows he and Malfoy stopped hating each other a long time ago.

“Honestly,” Malfoy says in a very faint voice, “it’s pretty difficult to hate you.”

“No it's not! Just… Just shut up. I can’t hear that, you can’t say that!”

“Potter, I know it’s hard for you to imagine that we are allies now, but we are. If what I told you becomes true, no — even if it doesn’t, I will be loyal to you. I’ll serve you.”

“No, no, no! I’m not like this. No one serves me. I’m not like… I don’t want to be another Dark Lord, Malfoy, I don’t want to… I can’t spend the rest of my life by his side, obeying him, letting him play with me, and you off all people saying you’d serve me…”

“I know you don’t want this, like I didn’t want to take the bloody Mark, but neither of us has a choice and if I have the option of serving you instead of him I’ll always choose that!”

They stare at each other, Malfoy’s words floating between them.

“So you have the Mark,” Harry says.

Malfoy rolls up his shirt and shows his arm to Harry who instinctively holds his breath. The snake looks even bolder on the pale skin than on Harry’s tan one, attracting the eye like a hypnotic rune. Harry exhales slowly.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, okay.”

Malfoy rolls up his sleeve. His face is somber, his gaze dark. Harry sees once again the older Malfoy from his vision, looking healthy and calm, smiling.

“I have to think about all of this,” Harry says. “I won’t give up just yet, but… I’ll think about what you said. About working with Voldemort, not against him.”

The idea still disgusts Harry, but he has to at least consider it. After all, if he doesn’t find a way to defeat Voldemort, he will have to protect his loved ones in another manner. Either way, gaining the Dark wizard’s trust can’t hurt.

“I think we’re late for class,” Malfoy says quietly.

Harry looks at the Room of Requirement’s clock and gasps. They are indeed more than late. Caught up in the conversation Harry has completely forgotten about school, class and all that trivial stuff. He and Malfoy walk to the door.

“We should resume the apparating lessons, too,” Malfoy says before opening.

“I thought you didn’t have time.”

“I’ll make time.”

Harry sighs. This is just how things are, now. Malfoy being nice to him. In that case, he has to be nice back.

“Malfoy, do you think, uh… Could we maybe meet tonight? There’s something else I need to ask you.”

“Of course. Here after class?”

“Yeah, that’d be perfect.”

“Great. See you, then,” Malfoy says in a weird voice.

Harry tries his best to avoid his friends all day but at lunch Ron and Hermione corner him before he can run away with his plate. They sit him between them and Harry has to endure a long, painful intervention. 

“You have all the right to be angry, but this is pushing too far,” Hermione says.

“You can’t side up with Umbridge of all people! Have you lost your mind?” Ron says.

“We barely see you anymore, you’re late for class, you disappear all the time…”

“I think you should talk to someone about the dreams, too.”

“The situation is difficult for everyone, but you can’t take your anger out on others.”

“We’re here for you, mate, but if you don’t tell us anything, we can’t help…”

And it goes on like this until the next class. Harry is almost relieved to endure Snape instead of his best friends. By the end of the day he is so on edge he almost insults a Hufflepuff who stepped on his shoe by mistake. Harry pretends he has to go to the bathroom for his friends to finally leave him alone, and he rushes to the seventh floor.

When he gets into the Room of Requirement, Malfoy is already there, sitting in an armchair, eyes closed. He doesn’t open them immediately, even when Harry sits next to him.

“Hard day?” Harry asks in a tired voice.

“Not worse than yours, I imagine,” Malfoy answers.

He opens his eyes and a light smile covers his face when he looks at Harry.

“You look terrible, Potter. Your hair is… Good grief, I won’t even try to describe it. Have you ever touched a brush?”

“They all break the second they get into my hands.”

“No wonder. I suppose it’s your destiny to look like a Hippogryph nest.”

The quiet banter makes Harry feel so much better. Like he’s safer here, hidden in this room with Malfoy, than in his own common room with his friends.

“So, what did you need to ask me?” Malfoy questions.

“It’s something big. You don’t have to do it.”

“Now you’re worrying me. Please, Potter, get to the point.”

“I need help to sneak into St Mungo. I want to help Neville.”

“Ah…”

Malfoy’s expression softens for a moment, then his usual seriousness takes over.

“He’s a good friend, isn’t he?”

“Yes. And it’s my fault he’s in this state of shock.”

“Mine as well.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll help you. Should we do it tonight?”

“Early tomorrow morning would be better, I think. But yeah, the sooner the better.”

“Okay. Do you have a plan or do I have to do everything this time as well?”

“I have some sort of plan.”

“Right. This means I have to make a real one. Let’s get into it.”

They talk late until every detail of their expedition is set, then split up to get some sleep before their meeting at four in the morning.

That night, Harry dreams that he is sitting on a black and majestic throne, his wand in hand like a scepter. He feels like the most powerful man alive, and it has everything to do with the fact that Draco Malfoy is sitting on his lap.

Chapter Text

Harry is struggling so much to keep his eyes open that he almost puts his spoon in his nose. Hedwidge has to give him gentle, then more aggressive pecks on the head to convince him to open the letter she brings him.

Harry wakes up in an instant when he reads the single line the letter contains.

Thank you. What you did for my grandson will never be forgotten. You have my everlasting trust.

Sincerely and discreetly, Augusta Longbottom

Harry is overwhelmed by both happiness and anxiety. Neville is out of trouble, this at least he now knows for sure. But it also means he saw Harry by his bedside tonight. The Cloak of Invisibility only fell for a moment, and Harry isn’t sure if Malfoy was exposed too, but he can only hope Neville will be as discreet as his grandma promised to be.

He pushes the fear aside and lets the relief sink in for a moment, eyes closed. Neville is out of danger, they didn’t get caught, they performed the spell properly… Harry helped his friend, he corrected his mistake — so maybe the world isn’t entirely fucked up.

When Harry opens his eyes he looks over to the Slytherins’ table and easily finds Malfoy. The blond is already staring at him with a curious look. Harry shoots him a large smile, holding the letter in his hand, and Malfoy seems to understand as he smiles back.

“Why on earth are you smiling at bloody Malfoy?”

Harry turns around like he’s been struck by lightning. Ron is looking at him with squinting eyes, Hermione with a faint smile.

“I, uh, I… I was imagining him choking on his food,” Harry says, hoping that his cheeks aren’t as red as he feels they are.

“Choking on his food, right,” Ron says in a weird voice. “He was smiling back at you, by the way.”

“Probably imagining me being turned into soup,” Harry says, feeling his face getting hotter by the second.

“Must be a delicious soup to make him smile like that,” Hermione says lightly.

Ron and her chuckle and Harry buries his face in his bowl. These two seem to be getting a lot closer these days. Well, it’s not surprising considering he’s spending half his free time with Malfoy.

Thinking of the devil… Didn’t Harry dream of him tonight? He only remembers it was a great dream and that he woke up feeling very nice…

“Oh no,” he squeals.

The images appear in his memory and Harry feels his face turn even redder than before. Malfoy was sitting on his lap. Oh god, oh god. What the hell is that even supposed to mean? Is it some symbolic shit or something?

“You okay, mate?” Ron asks, once again with a teasing tone.

“Yeah, I just, uh… I remembered something…”

“The face Malfoy makes when you choke him?”

“What?”

“I said, the face Malfoy makes when he’s choking. On his food, you know.”

Hermione giggles once again and Harry stares at his friends with distress.

“Oh, come on, Ron, don’t torture him,” Hermione scolds.

“Sorry. I’ll let you figure out your identity crisis in peace, then,” Ron grins.

“What?” Harry squeals again.

These two know something he doesn’t. Harry starts panicking. Do they know? How could they have found out? He was so careful! But if they knew Hermione wouldn’t be smiling so hard, and Ron wouldn’t be laughing at all.

Soon they have to go to class and Harry has no more time to wonder about his friends’ weird behaviour. As the winter holidays approach the amount of homework is getting aggressive. For the next week Harry has no occasion to think about his conversation with Malfoy, about the article in the Daily Prophet and not even about Voldemort.

Neville comes back by the end of the week and the Gryffindors win a Quidditch match the same evening, an excellent occasion for a celebration in the common room. Harry once more notices that Ron and Hermione are very close, and he’s not sure if it’s friendly or something more. They do dance very close to each other, but Harry has hugged both of them before and never seen anything more into it, so maybe their shy smiles and pink cheeks are just a consequence of the crowded common room.

By the end of the party, when most younger students are gone and the room is a little quieter, Neville asks Harry to talk in a corner.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Nev,” Harry says with a wide smile.

“Thanks, Harry. I’m really glad to be back too.”

Harry gives him a quick hug, awkwardly but wholeheartedly given back by Neville.

“Look, I have something to ask,” the boy tells Harry with hesitation.

“Of course,” Harry says, already guessing what it’s about.

“I think… I think I saw you when I woke up.”

“Really? And, uh… Did you only see me?”

“Yes. I actually saw you for a second, like you, well… Like you put your Cloak of Invisibility back on.”

Harry is relieved to hear Neville hasn’t seen Malfoy. He already had decided to be honest with him anyway.

“I was there,” Harry whispers. “But you have to promise me not to tell anyone, Neville.”

“Oh, Harry, I… I already told my gran. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I think she’ll keep the secret. But I’m serious about it, no one can know. Not even Ron and Hermione, okay?”

“Of course,” Neville says. “I don’t know what you did and I won’t ask, but… Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much.”

Harry feels very emotional. He resists telling Neville that of all things he is mostly sorry, but of course he can’t.

“You have to know, Neville,” he says without thinking, “that no matter what you hear about me I’ll always care for you, and for all of my friends. No matter what I do, I do it for you all.”

“I know, Harry,” Neville says quietly.

Harry goes to sleep feeling happy that night. He might be Voldemort’s pawn, he might have the Dark Mark on his arm and he might tell Draco Malfoy more things than he tells his best friends, but Harry is not an entirely rotten person. He’s still able to do the right thing from time to time.

The next week starts as tiring as the previous one, if not worse. Harry is so late in every subject that he seriously considers dropping out of school, abandoning the wizarding world to its fate and running away to another country. He is sitting in the library, struggling about a Transfiguration essay, when a tiny paper bird flies his way. Harry grabs it so fast he crushes the poor thing entirely.

Requirement Room, now. M.

“Have to go, sorry," Harry blurts out before abandoning his studious classmates.

He practically flies to the seventh floor. Malfoy is already there, but he is not alone. Blaise Zabini is standing very close to him, talking into Malfoy’s ear. This annoys Harry more than any Transfiguration essays.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Harry groans.

“Such a pleasure to see you too, Potter,” Zabini snickers.

“I’ll explain inside,” Malfoy says. “Get in.”

Harry reluctantly follows the two Slytherins into the room. Before he has a chance to start complaining again, Malfoy speaks.

“I believe Blaise can help us. He can be pretty diabolical when he wants to.”

“Look, Malfoy,” Harry says in an annoyed voice, “I’m trusting you, which is already some kind of miracle considering our history. But I don’t think Zabini—”

“Blaise has the Mark for very different reasons than the ones you imagine,” Malfoy cuts him. “He has his own agenda, which I think you will find pretty interesting if you’re willing to listen.”

Harry lets out a loud sigh, then crashes in one of the armchairs the Room has made for the occasion.

“I’m all ears.”

“Delightful,” Zabini says in an anything but delighted tone. “First of all, Potter, you have to know I choose to get the Mark. My family isn’t very influential and I did so as a means to protect both my mother and myself. It is also a strategic move for my future, since I believe the Dark Lord will shortly be in a position of high power. However, I do not endorse all of his methods.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s cute. What’s your opinion on Muggleborns then?”

Zabini looks at Harry with contempt.

“I do believe they are lesser than purebloods, but I don’t think they should be… Persecuted.”

“Amazing! Is this the ‘agenda’ I’m supposed to find interesting, Malfoy? You know exactly what I think about that kind of bullshit!”

“However,” Zabini continues, talking over Harry, “it has come to my attention that the Dark Lord intends to take radical measures concerning both Muggleborns and Halfboolds. I can’t let this happen, and intend to do everything I can to make these measures less cruel, if I can help it.”

“Why would you do that?”

Zabini seems reluctant to answer but Malfoy gives him a gentle push.

“You cannot tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, Potter,” Zabini warns.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“I’m very serious.”

“You know some compromising shit about me too anyway. I won’t talk.”

“Good. The matter, you see, is that my mother is a Halfblood.”

Harry looks at him with surprise, then lets out a sigh.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand this blood thing. How can you be such a prick about it when your mother—”

“She is ashamed of it. She hid it from me for most of my life, and only revealed it when she thought it might endanger us. I have been raised with Purebloods morals, and believe me or not, it is rather hard to unlearn everything you’ve been taught for years. Anyway, I don’t expect you to understand. What you have to know is that I’m hoping to get a job at the Ministry after the war, and will do everything within my power to protect Halfboolds.”

“But Muggleborns can suck it, right?” Harry says bitterly. “Fuck you, Zabini.”

“Hey,” Malfoy says, extending a hand in front of his friend and Harry both. “Potter, calm down. Blaise, don’t be a prick, tell him now.”

“What?” Harry barks. “Tell me what?”

“I’m willing to help you,” Zabini says like it’s physically painful, “to gain the Dark Lord’s trust, and to protect both Halfbloods, Muggleborns and Muggles. I am ready to swear if needed, in order to prove my intentions.”

Harry looks at Zabini in disbelief, then sighs.

“You’re going to make a fine politician,” he finally says. “Well, I guess your reasons don’t matter much. If Voldemort does win — which I sure as hell won’t let him do so easily — then I’ll be there to protect what’s left to be protected. So yeah, if that happens, I’ll need all the help I can get. But if we win the war, I hope you’ll pay for your crimes.”

By the look on his face, Zabini is either holding back a crude insult or a punch in Harry’s face.

“I help you and you help me,” he says coldly. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Harry says in an even colder voice.

“Good,” Malfoy says with relief. “Now to the reason why I need both of you here despite your lovely relationship, is because the Dark Lord has asked me again how the Dumbledore matter is going. I cannot wait any longer. Potter, I know you don’t want to, but—”

“I promised to help,” Harry cuts him, “and I will. I’d like to get into Dumbledore’s office anyway. I could try to get you in, if it’s of any help.”

“I’d be delighted, but how would this benefit you?” Malfoy asks.

“He has something I need,” Harry says, keeping it vague.

“Right. Well of course I could benefit from getting into his office too, but would that not be a little too… Radical, for you?”

“I swore to help you anyway,” Harry says. “Might as well gain something out of it.”

“Good,” Malfoy says. “Then you will get the thing you need from Dumbledore and I’ll use the opportunity. You don’t have to know about the details if you don’t want to, which would make it easier for you not to be tempted to make me fail.”

“No, I want to know. I won’t try to stop you.”

It hurts Harry to think too hard about the situation. A few nights ago he was so proud to have helped Neville, and now he’s planning Dumbledore murder… Harry is torn between his hope that Malfoy will fail and his fear at what will happen if he does.

“I could tell him I need to talk,” Harry says, pushing these thoughts as far away as he can. “I suspect he’s been waiting for me to come back to him for quite some time. You could maybe wear the Cloak and get in with me.”

“Great idea,” Malfoy says. He seems almost as troubled as Harry.

“You could plant a trap in his office,” Zabini suggests. “Or maybe let a dangerous creature in. Or poison his desk…”

“I already have something I could use,” Malfoy says. “I got an artifact from Borgin and Burkes. It’s a very discreet curse that operates for a few days, making the air in a room more and more poisonous, until the person dies.”

Harry feels horrified at this idea. He can’t believe he is truly doing this. Betraying a man who has always tried to help him, the only one Voldemort fears. The one protecting Hogwarts, still, despite the lies Harry told Umbridge.

Harry gets up and walks in circles in the room while Malfoy and Zabini discuss the details. He thought he could hear this but he can’t. This whole situation is messier than ever, and the guilt is now barely bearable. Until now Harry has successfully convinced himself that this is the right thing to do, the only way to help his side… But what if Dumbledore dies? What if he doesn’t? Every option is terrible. Harry kind of wants to cry. His breath is getting faster and the room is getting smaller…

“Potter?”

Harry doesn’t answer Malfoy's worried voice. He barely hears the blond getting up and walking to him. Harry is clutching the locket and the whole world is fading into a low humming.

“Potter, are you okay?”

“Mmh.”

Harry is sure he felt a vibration. He felt something shaking. The walls. The floor, the whole school. He’s doing it again, he didn’t even notice, he can hear people screaming in the distance…

“Hey, look at me. It’s fine.”

Two hands touch Harry’s shoulder and the vibrations stop. Harry looks up and sees Malfoy, staring with worried but gentle eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, you know. I can tell the Dark Lord you helped, I can lie.”

“No. You said he’s a good Legilimens, he’ll know…”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s cruel to ask you to do this.”

“I have to,” Harry says, his breathing getting fast again. “I don’t want him to hurt you again, but I don’t want Dumbledore to die, I don’t want any of this, I just don’t know what to do!”

“I know, Potter, believe me I know. I don’t want it either. I don’t have a choice, but you do.”

“Do I? What choice, really? Watch him kill everybody while I do nothing, or help him kill some people in hope I can save a few others? That’s fucked up, this whole situation is fucked up!”

“I know it is. I know. It will be fine, I promise. We’ll help each other.”

Harry lets out a deep breath. He finds a bit of comfort by looking into Malfoy’s eyes, seeing him so genuine and eager to help. Maybe Malfoy wants to save Harry as much as Harry wants to save him. Or maybe he just really needs him to stay alive.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says with a sigh. “Let’s talk about the details, but please, could we… Could we avoid the murder part?”

“Sure.”

Harry sits back down. Zabini is looking at him with less disdain and more sympathy now. After all, the three of them are the same. Just kids with a black mark on the arm, offering their souls to the devil to protect the ones they love.

It takes a couple more days before Harry asks Dumbledore for a meeting, and one more week before the Headmaster actually agrees to his request. He tells Harry he’s very busy but the boy wonders if Dumbledore isn’t avoiding him.

By the night of the meeting, the plan is perfect and all elements are ready. Harry has spent a significant amount of time with both Malfoy and Zabini, so he got to know the tall Slytherin a lot better. After the initial dislike from both parties, some kind of silent acceptance has set between them, and now Harry is even starting to appreciate Zabini’s intelligence and humor. It appears that Zabini’s favourite activity is to pick on Malfoy, which happens to be one of Harry’s preferred hobbies too. They start bonding by mocking the poor blonde and Malfoy does not dare telling them to stop, too happy to see his two allies getting along.

Tonight, however, the mood is not so joyful.

“You hide it and go back to the stairs,” Harry repeats for the hundredth time. “Don’t stay a second longer.”

“I know, Potter, I know! Merlin, would you relax?”

“Sorry. Guess I’m a little tense at the idea I’m helping you murder our Headmaster.”

“Don’t start. Do you think I’m not nervous? I’m the one committing the murder.”

“Could we all stop talking about murder for a second?”

Harry and Malfoy turn to Malfoy. Well, it’s Zabini, but he sure looks like Malfoy. The Polyjuice has given him the looks and voice of his friend, but the attitude is clearly not fitting.

“You’ll have to walk more elegantly,” the original Malfoy says. “Speak like a lord, too.”

“You mean speak like a lady?”

“At least my mother taught me good manners.”

“Do not even try to talk about my mother.”

“Who’s speaking about your mother? I was speaking about mine. Do you always have to make everything about yourself?”

“Actually do that,” Harry says. “You’ll sound more like Malfoy.”

Both Zabini and Harry snicker while Malfoy shoots them an annoyed look. The banter is mild, tonight, barely distracting them from the terrible reality. If everything goes according to plan, in three days the Headmaster will be dead.

“Well, I suppose it’s time…” Zabini says gloomily. “Good luck to you both.”

“You too, Blaise.”

Zabini walks away with his now pale skin and blond hair, going to study in the library where multiple students will be able to see him. Just in case the actual Malfoy, now under the Cloak of Invisibility, might be suspected later. Him and Harry quickly walk to Dumbledore’s office. The gargoyle shoots a look at Harry then opens. He can feel Malfoy getting in behind him, silent as a ghost. They walk up the stairs together, Harry making as much noise as he can without it sounding suspicious. When he sees Dumbledore, sitting at his desk, the wizard does not seem to have heard anything.

“Ah, Harry, good evening. Please sit.”

Harry sits. His heart is beating extremely fast. Regrets and doubts assault him but he keeps a straight face.

“Good evening, sir.”

“You wished to talk to me?”

“I did. Actually, I…”

Harry feels awful. He feels like the worst person in the world, like a traitor, a liar, a cheat. He is all of this, really. He thinks of Malfoy, of his delicate face getting crushed by Voldemort, and he pushes the guilt away.

“I wanted to apologize, sir.”

Harry’s conscience does not get any better when he sees Dumbledore smile, genuinely happy.

“You do not have any reason to apologize, Harry.”

“No, I do. The things I’ve told the Prophet… I didn't really mean it, I hope you know that. I was angry, I was scared, and for a moment I thought it’d be a way to get back at you. But it was unfair.”

At least Harry is being honest now. At least he has a chance to apologize before… Before it’s too late. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to look Dumbledore in the eyes.

“There are still things I’m angry about, but… I know you do your best.”

“I am trying to.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I know, Harry. Like I said, you have nothing to apologize for.”

They exchange a smile, quite weak on Harry’s part but still a smile. He knows Dumbledore is sincere and it only makes his guilt worse. He can’t let that stop him though.

“Sir, there is something else I wanted to ask.”

“Of course, Harry. Tell me.”

“Could I… Could I get the book back?”

Dumbledore looks at Harry with attention. Harry’s not sure but he thinks he heard a light step sound behind him.

“The book you found in Knockturn Alley?”

“Yes, sir. I know I stole it and it’s wrong, and I know it’s a very dangerous book. But there are… I need to know, sir. I want to understand better.”

“You are still trying to destroy the Horcruxes, then.”

Harry’s heart beats faster. Everything is going according to plan for now.

“I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure I can do anything. Can I ask if you’ve made any progress?”

Dumbledor sighs.

“I believe I have. To be honest with you, I have been looking for some memories, trying to retrace the story of the Horcruxes’ creation.”

“And what have you found?”

Dumbledore looks into one of his drawers and Harry’s heart misses a beat when he sees him take out a golden locket with an engraved ‘S’. He resists the urge to touch his chest and check if his own locket is still there.

“I have found this with great difficulties,” Dumbledore says, looking extremely tired. “A dear friend helped me retrieve it and it almost cost us our lives… It was all in vain, it seems. This is not an Horcrux. The original has already been found and replaced by this imitation.”

Harry remembers Kreacher’s story and feels horrified. Does this mean Dumbledore drank the awful potion, then? Did he and his mysterious friend fight against the Inferis?

“I’m sorry to hear about this, sir. Have you found anything about the others?”

“The ring, as you can see, is still intact. I have been tempted to destroy it many times, but it seems that it is rather… Reluctant to let me do so.”

“What do you mean? Is it sentient or something?”

“It is not. However, I cannot remove it from my hand, and destroying it while still wearing it would be very dangerous.”

“I see,” Harry says.

He is aware Malfoy is somewhere behind them and listening to every word. Just like he hoped, Dumbledore is revealing precious information about the Horcruxes without Harry having to do so. Now, however, the time has come for the next part of the plan.

“So, about the book, sir? Would you please lend it to me? I promise I won’t show it to anyone. I’ll only read the part I need and then I’ll bring it back.”

Dumbledore sighs again. Harry tries his best not to stare at the golden ring on his hand, feeling it vibrate lightly like it’s calling him.

“Very well,” the Headmaster finally says. “I believe you have the right to know about this, and after all you have risked a lot to obtain the book. But I beg of you, Harry, use this knowledge for good.”

“I won’t make an Horcrux, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That is not what I’m worried about.”

For a moment Dumbledore looks at Harry with such sadness that the boy gets the feeling that he knows about everything. Then the wizard gets up and walks to his bookcase, turning his back to Harry.

Harry hears a slight noise and moves his chair to cover it. He feels a breeze and thinks he hears some steps, but by the time Dumbledore is back everything is perfectly silent.

“Here you go, Harry. Be very careful.”

“I will,” Harry says. “Thank you, sir.”

He gets up, feeling nauseous. He can’t stay there any longer.

“Good night, then, sir,” he says before walking to the stairs.

“Good night, Harry,” Dumbledore says.

It’s done. It is all done, they’ve done it, it’s finished. Everything went according to plan. Yet before going away Harry turns around. Now it’s his turn to look at Dumbledore with an aching, deep sadness.

“I wanted to say… Thank you. Thank you for everything you do. I want you to know that…”

Harry feels like crying. He now realizes how much darker a world without Dumbledore would be.

“I want you to know that no matter what I do, no matter what you think I’m doing… I swear, I have good reasons.”

Dumbledore smiles.

“I know that, Harry. I have never doubted your good heart. I worry sometimes, but you don’t need my concern. You’re strong.”

Harry feels a lump in his throat.

“Thank you, sir.”

He quickly turns away and flashes down the stairs, gets out the door and almost runs away. Only when he’s in a quiet corner of the school, with no status and no portraits to watch, Harry stops. A breeze stops next to him.

“Did you do it?” Harry whispers.

“I did,” Malfoy whispers back.

His voice is as shaky as Harry’s.

“Good,” Harry breathes. “Let’s go, then.”

“Potter, wait… Are you okay?”

Harry is not okay. His entire body is weak and his mind even weaker, like any draft could break him into pieces.

“I’m fine,” he lies in a breath. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Harry knows Malfoy is lying too. He closes his eyes to prevent the tears from coming up. An invisible hand gently takes his and squeezes. Harry squeezes back, hard, like it’s the only thing that’s real, like the rest of the world does not exist. For a brief moment, it works. Malfoy’s hand is warm and soft through the silky fabric. Then they have to let go because, well, they have to. The rest of the world awaits.

“I’ll give you the Cloak back tomorrow, if that’s okay?” Malfoy whispers.

“Sure. We still meet for an apparating lesson tomorrow evening?”

“Absolutely. I think I’ll need the fresh air.”

“See you, then.”

That night, of course, Harry dreams.

He is in the orphanage again, sitting alone at a table. All the other kids sit at the other end, all together, talking together, maybe about him. Harry feels the poisonous loneliness sink in, deep, deep. Freak, freak, he hears. They are talking about him. Die, freak. Harry closes his eyes and imagines them all dead. A scream makes him look — one of the kids’ fork has stabbed him in the hand, deep and sharp. There’s blood, all the children scream. Harry smiles. He has not moved, so they can’t accuse him. But he knows it’s him, and they know it too.

One day the freak will kill you all.

Harry wakes up without screaming but he almost wishes he did. The pain from the dreams don’t last; the loneliness do. He stays very silent all day.

No matter how much Harry wants to look at Dumbledore during the meals, he resists. He stares at his plate, at his book, at his parchments, at the wall. He stares in the void all day. He feels like a little lonely kid who did something very wrong. He wishes it was just a dream, but it’s not.

When he arrives at the fourth floor mirror in the evening, Malfoy is already waiting on the other side. They walk silently the whole way through the tunnel. There is nothing to say but their mutual presence is somewhat soothing.

Harry isn't very focused and doesn’t do very well on his lesson. At some point he’s so frustrated that Malfoy decides to stop and they just sit on the ground, backs against a tree, looking up at the stars. It’s freezing but Malfoy sits close to Harry, and the air between them feels warm.

“Can I ask about something Dumbledore told you?” Malfoy questions.

“I hoped you would,” Harry confesses.

“That’s what I thought. These things, the Horcruxes. Dumbledore’s ring and…”

“Yes?”

“The locket. It looks like… I’m not sure, but it could be Slytherin’s locket.”

Harry looks at Malfoy with interest.

“What’s that?”

“They say it was a piece of jewelry made by Salazar Slytherin himself, but I always thought it wasn’t real, or long lost.”

“Does it have any powers or something?”

“I’m not sure, but there is a legend saying each one of Hogwart’s four founders had a relic, and, well, this looks a great deal like Slytherin’s.”

“Was Gryffindor’s relic a sword, by any chance?” Harry asks, his heart beating a little faster.

“Yes, how do you… Wait, have you seen it? Is it real?”

“The sword is real, yeah. What are the two others?”

“Ravenclaw had a diadem and Hufflepuff a cup, I think. I could look it up when I’m at home if you want. I believe we have a book about the subject.”

Harry remembers the cup from one of his dreams and a glimpse of hope warms him up. That might turn into a concrete discovery, something useful, finally.

“That would be great, but be careful. I have a feeling Voldemort shouldn’t know you’re looking into this.”

“It has something to do with the Dark Lord, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t say anything,” Harry shrugs.

“That means it’s information about him.”

Harry does not answer, but he hopes Malfoy asks more. He doesn’t. He seems lost into deep thought, and only Harry’s loud sneeze makes him get up.

“We should go back,” Malfoy says. “Meet at the Room of Requirement tomorrow?”

“Okay. Any particular reason?”

“I’ll tell you there. And, uh… Bring the book.”

Harry looks at Malfoy with curiosity.

“The book Dumbledore gave me? I don’t think I can let you read it.”

“I know. You won’t give it to me, but please bring it.”

“All right.”

Harry dreams again that night. Now he’s a grown boy, tall and strong. He stands, wand in hand, in a large drawing room. Everything here is Muggle, aristocratic, clean, expensive. The opposite of the house where Harry had spent all these years before he arrived at Hogwarts, before he knew he was a wizard. He knows now, and he made them know too.

His grandparents are already dead, lying on the floor. Harry does not feel any satisfaction like he thought he would. He feels enraged. Madder than ever. A man is crawling on the floor, crying, begging. He is the one making Harry mad.

“Please, Tom, please,” the man wails. “She bewitched me. I did not know… I did not know she was with child…”

“Liar,” Harry says calmly. “The maids told me you did. You abandoned her and me with no regrets. She died, you know? She died and abandoned me too.”

“I did not know… Please, my boy, please, let me live… Let me make it up to you…”

Harry laughs. It’s a pleasant, elegant laugh, with a murderous accent when you listen closely.

“It’s far too late, old man. I do not need you or any other filthy Muggle. I am already immortal, and thanks to you, soon I’ll be even further away from death.”

“Please, please, no… My boy, listen to me, I’ll take you in, I’ll give you everything…”

“Too late,” Harry says. “Sixteen years too late.”

The man cries hard near his parents’ bodies, dragging himself at Harry’s feet.

“Please… Please, my son…”

“I’m not you son!” Harry screams.

A green light fills the room for the third time. Harry does the ritual in a hurry, the ring ready on his hand. He cuts out a part of his tongue and eats it, his mouth bloody, his stomach upset but he has to. He has to. Harry says the words, seals the spell, his soul tears in half and he screams, and screams, and screams…

“Can’t he fucking shut up already?”

“Hey, you fucking shut up!”

“It’s like this every bloody night!”

“I’d like to see you if you went through half of what he did!”

Harry hears the boys mumble something but he’s not sure what. Ron comes into his bed and lays next to him. Harry can guess the face he’s making, even in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m alright now.”

“Are you sure?” Ron asks.

“I… I don’t know, honestly. I’ll cast a silencing spell next time.”

“I’ll sleep in your bed, if you want.”

“It’s fine, Ron. You have to get some sleep too.”

“I want you to be okay.”

“I’ll be okay. I’m okay. It’s fine.”

“I’ll still stay for tonight, alright?”

“Alright. Thank you.”

Ron stays and is soon snoring, but Harry does not fall back asleep.

He thinks about Tom Marvolo Riddle, a boy his age, murdering his last remaining family. He would rather get revenge than ever forgive them. Harry tries to find it awful, to hate the boy who killed his father, but he can’t. He thinks about the loneliness, about the pain, about the raw despair in Tom’s voice when he screamed “I’m not your son”, and he understands. He does not approve, he does not agree, but he can still vividly feel what Voldemort felt, and it’s almost worse than the feeling of one’s soul getting torn apart.

Harry is still thinking about the dream by the end of the day when he meets Malfoy in the Room of Requirement. In his school bag there are two black books, one of them he hasn’t even taken the time to read yet. To be fair Harry is scared to open the book Dumbledore gave him back. He’s scared of what he might find in it.

“Ah, Potter. You’re here, good. Do you have the book?”

Malfoy looks almost as shitty as Harry does. Still, even with giant grey circles under his eyes, he looks gorgeous. Harry snaps out of his observation before Malfoy notices him staring.

“I have it. I have two of them, actually.”

“Perfect. Can you take them out?”

“I told you I can’t give them to you. I would die.”

“I know, I know. You don’t want to give the books, right?”

“Well… I don’t want to die.”

“Incarcerous!”

Harry immediately falls to the ground, bound by ropes tying all around his body. With a smile, Malfoy walks up to him and takes his school bag.

“How can your bag be this dirty, Potter? Have you ever heard of bins?”

“Shut up,” Harry says.

Malfoy eventually gets out the two only books that aren’t school manuals, making some order in Harry’s bag while he’s at it.

“So, there’s valuable knowledge in here, mmh? Let’s see the first one… Oh, Potter, you even turned down the page’s corner. You really are making this too easy.”

Malfoy starts reading Regulus’ Book of Darkness. His victorious smile quickly fades, disappearing entirely and finally turning into an horrified expression.

“Holy wand,” he mumbles. “This is… That is disgusting.”

“Tell me about it.”

Malfoy reads the Horcrux page twice, then he sits next to Harry, frowning with concentration. 

“Several means the Dark Lord has made several of those Horcruxes things.”

It is not a question, but he looks at Harry to read his face. Harry is torn between a strong fear to die at any word and a strong hope that Malfoy can actually find a way to help him.

“This would explain why he claims to be immortal,” Malfoy continues, “and it also provides the way to defeat him. Of course we do not want to defeat him, but it’s always good to know. So, the Horcruxes. Dumbledore has one, the ring that has obviously cursed his hand, and then there is the locket, but it’s not the real one. Let’s think about others… Knowing the Dark Lord, he would have chosen a powerful magical number. That would be three, seven or nine. Twelve seems a lot, even for him. I’d say three or seven, most likely.”

Harry listens, in awe of Malfoy’s deduction. He knew he was smart but the blond keeps surprising him. As he gets to know Malfoy better and better, Harry has to admit he is a far more complex and interesting person than he used to think he was.

“If the locket truly is Slytherin’s, I would assume he at least tried to find the other founders’ relics. You said the sword is real but Dumbledore did not mention it, and I do not think the Dark Lord would have used Gryffindor’s relic anyway. With the diadem and the cup, assuming they exist and he found them, that makes four. Three more to go to get to seven. Now, what could the others be?”

Malfoy falls silent. He seems to be thinking very hard, until realization grows on his face. He turns to Harry with shock.

“Could… Could a living being be an Horcrux?” he asks.

Harry looks at him with equal stupor. He is positively impressed by the rapidity of his thinking. If only he could tell him he’s right! Harry thinks about a way to confirm without taking any risk.

“I’ll never say that again, but… You’re a genius, Malfoy.”

Malfoy turns pink, but for once he is too stunned to brag. He looks at Harry with something between amazement and horror.

“You are a Horcrux,” he says slowly.

Harry’s face answers for him. Malfoy gets up suddenly and starts walking fast through the room, leaving Harry tied up on the floor.

“Merlin’s arse, that’s… That’s a pretty huge revelation, Potter. It’s crazy.”

“How did you even come to this conclusion?”

“He cannot kill you,” Malfoy says very fast, “you are a Parsemouth, you have that strange connection to the snake, which I now suspect is a Horcrux as well, he likes to keep you both close, and that prophecy saying you have to kill each other could make sense too, in the way that you’ll have to die to be able to kill him. Gosh, that’s… Does Dumbledore know about this?”

Harry looks at Malfoy with a bitter face. “I can’t tell you anything.”

“No, no, of course you can’t… Well, he has to know, I suppose. That would explain why you were so angry at him, why he’d even tell you about these things in the first place… This whole thing is messed up, Potter.”

Harry is surprised at Malfoy’s tone. He doesn’t seem to be scared of Harry or disgusted by him, but rather… compassionate.

“You understand now why it’s all so complicated?” Harry says miserably. “I can’t do anything to defeat him, and I can’t help my friends do it either.”

“We are not aiming at destroying the Dark Lord,” Malfoy reminds him. “It would be a waste of time since there is no known way to destroy Horcruxes.”

Seeing Harry’s change of expression, Malfoy immediately raises an eyebrow.

“Or maybe there is? But then of course, you can’t tell me anything about it…”

Malfoy opens the Book of Darkness, but he has read everything there is about the topic. He sits back next to Harry, this time opening the other book. He stays silent for a long time. After a while Harry is getting too nervous to keep quiet.

“So? Are you finding anything?”

“You haven't read it yet?”

“The last few days were… Intense.”

“Right. Well I’ve only found unrelated things yet, but boy, this is a nasty book. Even my father wouldn’t keep this in his library… Because he could get arrested for it. Maiden sacrifices, necromancy…”

“Spare me the details. What about the Horcruxes?”

“It’d be easier if you let me read.”

After a little while longer, Malfoy’s eyes lit.

“Ah, I’ve found it! Explanation on how to make the ritual, same as the other book. Animal sacrifice to prepare the object, autophagia, murder, spell, soul splits… Ah, here we go. Means of destruction. Basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, destruction by the maker.”

“Fiendfyre?” Harry repeats. “That’s—”

Harry shuts up because Malfoy has put his hand on his mouth. Harry’s brain does a full stop and it takes a second before it starts again. Malfoy’s hand has no business being this soft against Harry’s lips.

“Don’t speak without thinking,” Malfoy says, taking his hand off. “If you die, I’m in trouble.”

“Right. You don’t really need me to figure things out anyway. Does it say anything else?”

Malfoy reads for a little longer, then his eyes widen.

“Listen to this. The only known way to truly reunite the pieces of soul contained inside a Horcruxe is for the creator to feel genuine regret and remorse for what they had done to make them. The process of reuniting the broken pieces of a soul is said to be extremely painful, and even potentially fatal.”

They look at each other. Harry is very still, very silent.

Reunite the pieces.

Extremely painful, potentially fatal, but possible.

Harry doesn’t have to die. It’s not the only way. He doesn’t have to die.

“That’s… That’s a massive change of plans,” Harry says.

“I thought you agreed we were not seeking to destroy the Horcruxes anyway.”

“Yeah, no, I know, but… Malfoy, you know what that means! I could be…”

“Free. Yes.”

Silence lasts a little longer before Malfoy speaks in a quiet tone.

“Do you think he’d ever agree to it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure that he’s capable of feeling remorse at all, but… It’s still better than having to die. I have to try, at least.”

When Harry looks up at Malfoy, he is smiling.

“You’re right, you absolute prick. You’re bloody right! I have to gain his trust. I have to be a good little Death Eater, not too rebellious but not too docile either, I have to make him happy, to be indispensable. I have to make him… Like me.”

Malfoy smiles back.

“Now that is starting to sound like a strategy.”

With a swirl of his wand he undoes Harry’s ties, letting the boy sit up. Malfoy is once again looking at him with that focused intensity, and Harry wonders what he’s thinking about.

“Potter, can you tell me about your childhood?”

Harry immediately regrets wishing to know Malfoy’s thoughts. He looks away, uncomfortable.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“The Dark Lord said you two were alike. You have some access to each other’s memories but you obviously can’t tell me anything about him. I can only assume your past might help us understand the Dark Lord better, and maybe help with your strategy.”

He’s not wrong, of course, but Harry doesn’t want to talk about his childhood with anyone, and especially not with Malfoy. Even Ron and Hermione know very little about the first ten years of his life.

“You grew up with Muggles relatives, right? How was it?”

“Isn’t this just my favourite topic,” Harry says gloomily.

“I thought you liked Muggles.”

“That’s not the point,” Harry snaps. “Most Muggles are very good people.”

“And you relatives… Weren’t?”

Harry sighs. He’s not even sure how to start. Malfoy does not ask again, letting him think, letting the memories resurface. Harry feels very vulnerable all of a sudden.

“They didn’t want me there,” he finally says. “And I didn’t want to be there either. Well, maybe I did in the beginning, but I don’t really remember… I don’t remember ever feeling like it was my home.”

Harry breathes. The images he never thinks about slowly take all the space in his mind. Harry breathes. It’s fine. It’s over. The Dursley are nothing to him anymore.

“I was kind of their house-elf,” Harry says in the most detached voice he can. “Except I had no magic, of course. I did some of the cleaning, cooking too, but mostly I had to be discreet. When they had visitors I stayed hidden, like I didn’t exist.”

Harry can’t look at Malfoy. Saying those things out loud makes him feel strange, deeply alone. Not at all like he felt in his dream, wishing the other kids were dead. It is lonely too, but different. It makes him wish that someone would hold him close and tell him everything is alright.

“My cousin Dudley is a bully, and he made sure I had no friends at school,” Harry still continues. “The brat was spoiled rotten and I… Well, hah.” Harry lets out a bitter laugh. “I got a coat-hanger for my birthday, or a toothpick, or whatever thing they didn’t want anymore. But nothing too good, you know. God forbid I had anything nice.”

Harry doesn’t hear Malfoy make any sound. The git isn’t talking, not asking, not anything. Harry is too scared to look.

“I slept in a cupboard,” he says in a breath.

“You what?”

Harry jumps, surprised by the tone. He finally finds the will to look up at Malfoy and… Oh.

He did not expect him to look so furious. The blond is livid, his eyes wide, brows frowned to the extreme. Plain enraged. Harry looks away again, a sense of shame growing into his belly, though he’s not sure why.

“In a cupboard, Potter? You mean they turned it into a room, or…?”

“Uh, no, not really. It was just a cupboard, you know. To be honest I don’t think I’d fit inside if I tried to get in today.”

This idea makes Harry feel sadder than anything he said before. That cupboard was both the worst and best place in the house. It was his, and he felt safe there, but it was also a constant reminder that he was unwelcome in this family, his own family. And now he couldn’t even lay in that tiny space where he used to spend so much time. Now the only things fitting there are cleaning supplies and the memory of a tiny, lonely boy.

Harry feels his eyes well up and quickly turns his back to Malfoy, holding his breath. He’s not going to cry, right? That would be stupid. So stupid.

“How is it even possible?” Malfoy snaps behind him. “How can you do that to a kid? Are there no Muggle laws against it? Did nobody see? Why didn’t anybody do something?”

“I… I don’t know…”

The first tear crashes right between Harry’s shoes. He promptly wipes it but another one follows, and another one, and soon he’s crying as silently as he can, hoping that Malfoy can’t see his shoulders trembling.

“Oh, Potter, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Don’t be sorry, Harry wants to say. It’s not your fault you had two parents who loved you and a giant manor and everything you ever wanted. It’s not your fault my parents are dead and I didn’t know how it feels to be loved until I was eleven, until Ron and Hermione decided I was worth it. But he says nothing. He feels so alone and so ashamed to be crying like a little boy.

“Can I… Can I hold you?”

Malfoy’s voice is very gentle and very uncertain. Harry wants to scream that yes, he can hold him, please. But he can’t speak so he just nods miserably.

Two arms wrap Harry from behind and a warm, soft body presses against his back. Malfoy holds him carefully at first and Harry holds back as well, trying to control the shaking and the pathetic crying noises. Then Malfoy brings him a little closer, and a little closer again, until Harry lets himself go completely.

He still makes no noise other than little wet sniffles and sharp inhales, still can't open his eyes because he’s too scared, still feels like the worst creature that ever walked the earth. But Malfoy holds him.

And it’s the softest, most delicate, tender feeling Harry can remember ever experiencing.

It doesn’t last very long. Soon the tears dry and his breath falls back into place and he can open his eyes again. Malfoy feels him move a little so he gently lets go, offering Harry a handkerchief appeared out of nowhere. Harry blows his nose, still feeling ashamed but overall a little better. When he’s finally able to turn back he keeps his eyes on the floor.

“I’m sorry I asked,” Malfoy says. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry. But you have to know, Potter, I will…”

He lets out a sharp breath, then extends a hand, lightly touching Harry’s knee.

“I will not let you go back there. Never. It’s done, you won’t see them again. You can come to my house, or I will make my father buy you a house, or— I’ll find something, but you never, ever have to go back there if you don’t want to. I promise.”

“Shut up,” Harry says very softly. “You’ll make me cry again.”

He puts his hand on Malfoy’s and the two of them stay still a little longer. Harry feels calm now, like the sky after a storm. He feels a warmness in his stomach, as well as in his back where Malfoy’s hands were, and in the knee Malfoy’s hand is touching, too.

After that day, Harry isn’t scared to think about the Dursleys anymore.

He lets bubbles of memories pop, and it’s painful for a moment but he feels lighter once he’s let them through. One night, when the three of them are sitting by the common room’s fireplace, he tells Ron and Hermione about some things. The cupboard, the ‘Harry Hunting’ game Dudley invented, and the fact that there was never any picture of his parents at home. His friends listen and ask questions and hug him, and Harry cries just a little but it feels okay.

Of course the rest of his life is still a bloody mess. Dumbledore is nowhere to be found for a week, the teachers refusing to give any other answer than vague allusions about a trip. When he reappears one night at the teachers’ table, Harry and Malfoy exchange a look from afar.

Dumbledore seems even more old and tired than usual, but he’s alive.

“Either Burke sold you some rubbish,” Zabini says that night when the three of them meet in the Room of Requirement, “or the old bastard is exceptionally tough.”

“Probably both," Harry says. “I know for a fact that Dumbledore has resisted powerful curses before.”

Malfoy doesn’t speak, laying on the floor, an arm covering his eyes. Harry and Zabini exchange a worried look.

“You know I won’t let him hurt you,” Harry says. “If he summons, I’ll come with you.”

“You can’t save my life forever,” Malfoy says in an exhausted voice. “I have to kill Dumbledore, and soon.”

“At this rate I’d say the Killing Curse is your best bet,” Zabini says in a bleak voice.

Malfoy sits up promptly, looking at him with anger.

“Don’t say that!”

“Sorry.”

“I’m serious. Don’t say that. You have to want it to use the curse, and you know I don’t want to do it. Not like this, at least.”

“I know, I’m sorry. We’ll find a way, Draco.”

During their next Apparating lesson Malfoy is very nervous and much less patient than usual, but Harry can’t blame him. He still manages to apparate perfectly three times in a row, and Malfoy declares him ready with a light, tired smile.

Soon the winter holidays are in sight, to the whole school’s delight except Malfoy’s. Harry is worried too but he’s not sure what he can do. He’s supposed to go to the Burrow, which usually delight him but now feels like a minefield.

He has managed to hide the Mark until now by showering before or after everyone else, and only changing in the privacy of his bed with curtains closed. At the Weasley’s he’s not sure how he’ll be able to keep this up. Ron’s room is small and has absolutely no hiding place. Yet he’s much more worried for Malfoy than for himself.

The last night at Hogwarts, an origami bird flies into Harry’s glass during dinner. He unfolds the paper and despite the water, the blurred handwriting makes him smile.

Meet me at the lake tomorrow by ten. M.

The next morning, Harry is early at the lake. The weather is cold and windy but it feels good after another sweaty, suffocating night.

“Potter.”

Harry abruptly turns around, so deep in his thoughts he didn’t hear Malfoy coming. In the daylight the Slytherin seems even more tired and Harry instantly forgets his own problems, worrying for Malfoy instead.

“Look, if you need something during the holidays,” he says, “just write. Use another owl if you can, though, because yours is—”

“I have better than owls,” Malfoy cuts him.

He dives his hand into his pocket and gets out a small silk sachet, handing it to Harry. He seems extremely anxious watching him open it. In the sachet there is a gold ring, simple but elegant, the band rather large and flat. Harry’s face lights up with a large smile.

“Is this…?”

“Look,” Malfoy says, now slightly smiling as well.

He approaches his hand to his mouth and Harry realizes he’s wearing the same ring in silver color. Malfoy whispers something, his lips touching the ring, and Harry immediately feels a warmth in his hand. On the gold surface, tiny letters are engraving themselves.

𝒫𝑜𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈

Harry bursts out laughing so loud he scares some poor birds in a nearby tree. When he calms down, Malfoy seems extremely pleased. The words are already fading out, leaving the ring looking like any ordinary ring.

“Malfoy, this is amazing!”

“Well, try yours.”

Harry whispers to his ring, holding it against his lips. A moment later Malfoy is reading the words around his finger, then rolling his eyes at Harry.

𝑀𝒶𝓁𝒻𝑜𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒶 𝒻𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓉 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒

“No, really, this is genius,” Harry says. “Where did you get them?”

“I made them,” Malfoy answers with barely hidden pride.

“Really? Wow, it seems like a difficult charm.”

“It wasn’t so hard,” Malfoy says, his cheek a little pink. Probably the cold. “Anyway, keep it on you at all times. I will inform you if the Dark Lord summons, and I’ll possibly insult you randomly throughout the day too. You will have to check each time, of course, in case it’s something important.”

“Great,” Harry says with a smile. “I’ll do the same. Hey, if you’re, hum… If you’re in danger or need help or something… Just tell me, okay?”

“I will,” Malfoy says softly.

Harry puts the ring on his right hand. It looks gorgeous, gold against bronze skin, but a little too noticeable. He takes the locket out of his shirt and threads the ring on the chain. 

“Wait, you— Potter, you have the original locket?”

“I’m a man full of surprises,” Harry says with a wink.

Malfoy looks at him putting the ring and locket back under his clothes and his cheeks get pinker.

“You surely are,” he says. “Well, I have to go, the train will be leaving soon. Try not to fuck up while I’m away, alright?”

“I’ll do my best, but you know how I am,” Harry answers with a smile.

They each take a different way back to the castle, because Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy cannot be seen walking together with idiotic smiles on their faces. Harry feels a little pinch of something at the idea that Malfoy is gone for the next two weeks. What a strange thing to feel.

Bonus:

“Well, did he like the rings?” Blaise asks with a half-mocking, half-curious smile.

“He did,” Draco answers, his face red and eyes shiny. “Said it’s amazing. He wears it on a chain and it hangs right next to his heart.”

“Oh, Merlin help me. You’re going to be even more insufferable now that you two are married.”

“We’re not—”

“For fuck’s sake, Draco, you exchanged rings! I hope Saint Potter stays an oblivious moron, because if he starts using his brain for a second you’re in trouble.”

Draco seems almost as terrified at this idea as he is delighted.

“I wouldn’t worry too much anyway,” Blaise sighs. “If he hasn’t figured out you’re head over heels for him since third year, I doubt he ever will.”

Draco doesn’t answer. He’s too busy whispering, holding his ring against his lips.

“Get lost, fucker.”

Miles away, Harry feels something warm against his chest and he smiles.

Chapter Text

𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑜𝓃

𝓅𝓇𝒾𝒸𝓀

𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝒾𝑒

𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉

If Harry tried to smile less he would fail.

It started once or twice a day, with cutting insults Harry was not entirely sure how to interpret. Then it happened more, and more, until it was every few hours. Mean words than he was now certain were some strange form of affection. Friendship, perhaps. He returned them with the same intensity.

Then on Christmas eve Malfoy wished him a merry Christmas. Harry wished back, and without even thinking he whispered, ring against his lips, “I miss you.” 

Of course Harry panicked immediately but it was too late, the message was sent, engraving itself at that very moment on Malfoy’s ring. Harry spent a few minutes in anguish, wondering which country would be far enough for him to disappear to, until the answer appeared, elegant letters on the metal.

𝐼 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜𝑜

From that moment the holidays became impossibly slow. Harry did not remember the winter break to be so long and so dragging. He and Malfoy were talking with almost no interruption from dawn till dusk, except for some hours of silence every couple of days which always made Harry imagine Malfoy in the worst of situations, until he was back.

Harry found that he enjoyed the company of Ron and Hermione much less these days. It had nothing to do with the fact that he could not use the ring in public, for safety reasons. It had, of course, everything to do with them having a very weird dynamic. Like they wanted to hit each other in the face but also had to be standing very close at all times. Anyway the holidays passed with no major incident, Harry managing to hide his Mark, talking to Malfoy through the ring, and waiting eagerly to go back to Hogwarts.

And now, finally, Harry is back. He’s waiting on the seventh floor, pacing in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Malfoy is late and Harry is nervous. Why is he so nervous? It’s not like they weren't talking a minute ago. But to see Malfoy again, in the flesh, for some reason it makes Harry way too nervous. Maybe it’s because of the gift hiding in his cloak.

𝒶𝓁𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒

Harry inhales, exhales after reading the words, and hides the ring back under his jumper. Before he manages to calm his fast-beating heart a blond head emerges at the end of the corridor.

Harry has some spare seconds before Malfoy arrives to wonder. What exactly is that feeling? Why so nervous? Why so happy? Then the boy is too close and Harry’s brain loses track of anything else but Malfoy’s radiant smile.

Harry opens the door and the two of them get into the Room of Requirement. The door is barely closed when Malfoy takes Harry’s hand and squeezes, his grin so wide it almost bares his teeth.

“Good to see you, tosser.”

“Great to see you, twat,” Harry answers with a smile just as huge.

Malfoy lets his hand go and Harry’s nervousness moves up a notch. They sit on the floor, the Room not having provided any chairs, but they don’t care. For a moment they have nothing to say, or rather too much, or maybe it just seems strange to talk out loud instead of whispering to their ring. Still, despite the anxiety and the embarrassment, Harry feels so happy he could implode.

“You’re still in one bit,” he says.

“I told you the Dark Lord wasn’t there most of the time,” Malfoy answers.

“Could have been lying.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Not to worry me?”

“You were worried? How adorable.”

Harry rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling.

“Of course I wasn’t.”

They stay silent for a moment. The air between them is warm and full of something soft, something unsaid yet pleasant. Eventually Harry gathers enough courage to get the gift out of his cloak.

“There’s no way this is as good as the rings, but… I made you something too.”

Malfoy blushes a little. Harry wonders if he was always so prompt to it, if it was always like this but he just didn’t notice before. He seems to be noticing a lot of things about Malfoy that did not catch his attention the previous years. Harry hands the gift with an awkward smile, watching Malfoy’s delicate hands undo the ribbon and paper. He seems puzzled with the object he now has in hands.

“That’s, uh… Interesting, Potter. Err… What is it?”

“That, Malfoy, is a walkman.”

“Right. Of course. And… What exactly does this Walk Man do?”

“Stay still. I’ll show you.”

Harry takes the headphones and gently places them on Malfoy’s head. The back of his hand brushes against the blond’s cheek but both of them pretend not to have noticed. Harry taps on the plastic cube with his wand and the screen lights up. The first song was of course chosen ahead of time.

Harry looks at Malfoy closely. He watches with apprehension his face turning confused as the first notes begin, eyes questioning Harry but staying still. Then the lyrics start and Malfoy’s face melts into something different. Their eyes lock and the rest of the world disappears. Harry can hear the music coming out of the earphones very faintly, he can see every detail of Malfoy’s face, the long blond lashes, the texture of his skin, the nuances in his iris.

He sees the exact moment where the refrain starts because Malfoy’s pupil dilates in a split second. He seems to forget to breathe for a moment. Yeah, music does that to you. Or maybe it’s the fact that they are so close their breaths melt into each other. Harry feels a strong urge to touch Malfoy, maybe take his hand or something, but he’s afraid it would be inappropriate so he puts his hands behind his back to resist temptation.

The entire song plays and they do not stop looking at each other. It seems like Malfoy is screaming something with his eyes and Harry does not know what but it makes him feel extremely weak. It’s not even nervousness anymore, it’s way beyond it. His heart is beating so much harder than it should. It’s just a gift. The moment has no reason to feel so important, so pure, so sacred.

When the song ends Harry puts the music on pause and removes the headphones.

“There are many other songs,” he says quickly. “All Muggle, and the walkman is too, but I modified it a little so it works at Hogwarts. If I did it correctly you won’t have to change the batteries, but if it stops working just tell me and I’ll get you new ones. Feel free to listen, or don’t. I just, uh… I just thought you’d like to hear what we talked about during detention.”

Malfoy takes the walkman and inspects it closely, seeming very curious at the object. Then he looks up at Harry and a soft smile illuminates his face.

“Thank you. It’s an excellent gift.”

Harry smiles back at him, finally relaxing a little. He is so glad Malfoy likes it despite being a muggle thing.

“Hope you’ll like the other songs, too.”

“I’m sure I will. Did you choose them all yourself?”

“Yeah. With some recommendation from Hermione.”

They soon have to separate because dinner is about to start, but for the rest of the evening Harry wears an unfading smile on his face. He watches Malfoy, sitting at the Slytherin table, and feels absolutely ecstatic seeing that he too can’t stop smiling.

That night Harry casts a silencing spell around his bed but no nightmare disturbs his sleep. On the contrary, he has a very nice dream.

Harry is walking on the edge of a tall cliff. It’s dark and he can’t really see anything underneath his feet, but there is a light at the horizon. Not exactly like dawn, though. It’s a star. Harry walks towards the star and as he gets closer, he sees that it’s not a star at all. It’s Draco Malfoy, dressed all in white. He’s smiling at Harry.

Harry starts running as fast as he can, and when he gets to Malfoy he’s so out of breath he almost falls over the edge of the cliff. But Malfoy holds him. He pulls Harry towards him and takes him in his arms, holding him tightly. They don’t talk, they don’t even look at each other. They just hug, so close that Harry can feel every detail of Malfoy’s body against his. It makes him dizzy but it feels amazing.

Then Malfoy tilts his head, he pulls down Harry’s collar and leans over. And he kisses Harry’s neck.

The touch electrifies Harry. Malfoy’s lips are magnetic against his skin, so soft, so warm, so real. It’s breathtaking, it’s thrilling and wild, it’s crazy and forbidden and delicious. Harry wishes it would never stop.

Then he wakes up.

Harry is alone in the darkness of his own bed, feeling very sweaty, extremely flustered and incredibly confused.

What. The hell. Was that?

He gets up and spends a long time in the shower, having to wash with cold water to make his body temperature drop. At breakfast Harry is still dazed. He cannot stop thinking about the dream, about Malfoy’s lips on the curve of his neck, cool against his burning skin. He shoots some looks at the Slytherin table and when he finally meets Malfoy’s gaze he looks away like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

“How’s the identity crisis doing, mate?”

Harry jumps at Ron’s voice. He looks at his friend and sees him looking back, a sly smirk on his face. Harry shrugs, unfocused.

“Great, great,” he mumbles.

“Oh, you’re obviously doing excellent,” Ron says in a tender but slightly mocking tone. “That’s exactly the face you make when everything is perfectly normal.”

“I’m fine, Ron,” Harry repeats, a little defensive this time.

“Hermione, false alarm!” Ron says with a wide smile. “Harry is fine. Doesn’t he look absolutely fine?”

Harry turns to Hermione and discovers she, too, is smiling widely.

“Don’t tease him, Ron,” she says. “It’s hard enough for him as it is.”

“What?” Harry asks. “What’s hard?”

Ron sneers into his orange juice, and to Harry’s great surprise Hermione too lets out a little laugh. It angers him. Seeing his friends glued together all holidays is one thing, but them laughing in his face is another.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Harry asks aggressively.

“You tell us, mate.”

“Ron, stop. He obviously has no idea.”

“No idea what?” Harry practically yells.

His friends exchange a look, then Hermione sighs and nods at Ron in connivance. Both of them glide on the bench to get closer to Harry. Oh no, is this another intervention?

“We couldn’t help but notice, Harry,” Hermione starts in a hushed tone, “that your mind seems elsewhere these days.”

“You’ve been acting very strange during the holidays,” Ron adds. “At first we weren’t sure but it’s getting kind of obvious now.”

Harry starts panicking. They know. He’s not sure why they are so calm, how they can even be smiling, but what else can it be? They somehow found out, they know.

“If you don’t want to talk about it it’s fine, Harry, but…” Hermione trails off.

“But we think you should talk about it,” Ron finishes.

Harry looks down, his heart beating fast, his fists getting tense. His breath gets shaky. He has no idea what to say to Ron and Hermione, no idea where to even start his explanation.

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione then says softly. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly fine! We just want to help you!”

Harry’s breath calms down as he looks at her, more confused than ever. Okay, maybe they don’t know. But then what the hell are they talking about?

“Guys, I’m lost here. Really.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what we’re saying,” Ron smirks.

“Harry, we’re talking about… Well, you know. How you’ve been staring at Malfoy a lot these last months.”

“These last years, really, if you care for accuracy.”

Ah.

He did not expect that.

“I’ve not been looking at him,” Harry lies, feeling his cheeks get warmer.

“Yes you have,” Ron says. “And hey, that’s fine. He’s a prick but even I have to admit he’s good looking.”

Harry certainly agrees but he has no idea what it has to do with anything.

“At our age,” Hermione continues with an almost medical tone, “it’s normal to explore our sexuality, asking ourselves questions, no matter where the questions originate from.”

“No matter if the question has an annoying face and an ugly Slytherin uniform,” Ron adds with an understanding smile.

Harry looks at them in disbelief. The thing his friends are trying to tell him forces a way in his brain through layers and layers of denial.

“Harry… It’s okay if you have a crush on Malfoy,” Hermione whispers. “We don’t judge you.”

“Well I do, but I still love you,” Ron adds.

“Ronald!”

Ron and Hermione bicker lightly while Harry sits between them with an absolutely ravaged face.

A crush. On Malfoy.

A crush on Draco Malfoy.

“Oh my god,” he says in a very weak voice.

Hermione and Ron look at him with these half-mocking, half-loving smiles. They fall silent, letting him process. Harry feels so hot that he has no doubt his face is now the color of his tie.

“Oh, fuck.”

Many things suddenly make an awful lot of sense. That sort of attraction he feels anytime he’s near Malfoy, physically needing to get closer to him. The constant urge to know where he is, what he’s doing. The smiling and the banter and the worry. The dreams, dear lord, the motherfucking dreams.

“Oh my fucking god.”

“Harry, are you fine?”

“I think we broke him, ‘Mione.”

“Guys,” Harry says weakly. “I— I’m not— Oh, fuck.”

“What, did you really realize this just now?” Ron laughs. “Wow, you’re a desperate case. It’s fine, mate, take your time.”

“I can’t like him,” Harry squeals. “It’s not… He’s… He’s him and I’m me!”

“By all means you don’t have to do anything about it, Harry,” Hermione says. “In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t do anything. He is quite an awful person if you want my opinion. But you have nothing to be ashamed of. To be honest I’ve always thought your rivalry was sexually tense.”

“Hermione!” Harry yelps.

He has never felt so embarrassed in his whole life. His cheeks are now so hot he could cook an egg on them. Ron, of course, is finding all of this incredibly funny.

“Ooooh Malfoy, where are you? I can’t see you on the map, it’s been three minutes, I’m going to diiie…”

“Shut up! Shut up, both of you! Oh my god, I can’t believe it…”

Harry lets his head hit the table and stays like this, watching all his certitudes collapse in real time. A crush. On Draco bloody Malfoy.

“Is it even possible?” he finally asks, looking up at his friends with anguish. “I mean… Can, uh… Can two men like each other? In the wizarding world, I mean.”

“I suppose it’s more or less like it is for the Muggles,” Hermione says.

“Mentalities are changing but some people are still being arseholes about it,” Ron explains. “But if anyone ever says anything to you about it, I’ll hex them.”

Harry risks a look at the Slytherin table and to his great horror, Malfoy is once again looking back. Harry quickly turns his head, his face burning hotter than ever. He feels like all of the Great Hall heard this conversation and that every single one of the students are now talking about him. Harry Potter has a crush on Draco Malfoy. It’s the end of the world.

Of course, the others students do not give a single fuck.

Harry gets up with such confusion that he almost trips on his own schoolbag. Ron doesn’t stop snickering until they arrive to class. To be fair, neither Ron or Hermione stop shooting amused looks at Harry for the whole day. For their benefit Harry looks so comically lost and distressed all day long that he’s unable to listen to a single word uttered by the teachers.

The only thing he can think about is a beautiful fair blonde with grey eyes.

It explains so much. Harry plays back every one of the moments shared with Malfoy these last months and the reality becomes painfully obvious. A crush. A bloody crush. How did he not think about it earlier? Good grief, they were standing so close last night when Harry gave Malfoy his gift. And Harry almost took his hand, too. But how? How did it all even happen?

They’re getting out of Charms when the Gryffindors meet the Slytherins in the hallway. When Harry’s eyes meet Malfoy’s eyes, he instantly feels his whole face turning red once again.

Oh no. It’s Malfoy. The boy Harry has a crush on. Oh no.

“Move, Potter,” Malfoy says in the contemptuous tone he addresses Harry in public. “You’re breathing my air.”

Harry tries to answer one of his snarky replies but the only thing that gets out of his mouth is a weak squeak. Ron almost chokes up laughing and Malfoy shoots Harry a questioning look before walking away.

“My life is ruined,” Harry groans as soon as he’s able to function again. “I’ll never be able to look him in the eyes now.”

“It’ll be fine, Harry,” Hermione says with a kind smile. “Every teenager has to go through this at some point.”

“I hope you know this is all your fault, guys,” Harry says. “I was fine before you told me about it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ron snickers. “Perfectly fine. Not obsessed at all. Have you checked him out on the map? Do you think he’s made it to the end of the hallway yet?”

“Do shut up or I’ll make you,” Harry says.

But of course Ron keeps on laughing to himself.

Thankfully the trio soon has something else to think about. Back to school means back to work, and the teachers all seem to find their students have rested too much during the holidays because the amount of homework is soon overwhelming. Still, even when he’s rushing through an essay for the next morning or when he’s learning potion ingredients by hearth, Harry’s thoughts always spiral back to the same pale face.

His ring is much quieter now that they’re both constantly surrounded by people. Sometimes it will heat up and Harry will find a single word insult engraved, or sometimes in the evening they wish each other good night, but that’s all. Harry misses his conversations with Malfoy, he misses spending time together, but he is also relieved to have an excuse for avoiding him. Because if they got face to face now, how would he cope?

Next week is already there when the whole school wakes up under a white blanket. The snow puts everyone in a good mood, including the house-elfs apparently because the lunch is particularly delicious.

Harry is eating his third bowl of soup when he feels a familiar warmness against his heart. He takes the ring out, careful not to expose the locket, and reads the words eagerly.

𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑒𝓃?

A symphony of contradicting emotions explodes in Harry’s stomach. He is both dying to see Malfoy, and absolutely terrified. The violent need to spend time alone together takes over.

𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒

Harry abandons his lunch and gets out, walking fast through the castle and running as soon as he’s outside. Harry loves Hogwarts under the snow but today he barely notices the view. Soon he is standing where he and Malfoy met before the holidays, where he got Harry the ring. Now Harry sees the irony — it feels almost sensual whispering to it against his lips.

No, he can’t think like that. He has to get his shit together. Malfoy absolutely cannot know about this crush thing. Their newfound friendship is still fragile. Harry has to stay calm.

Stupid hearth beating faster as soon as he sees the elegant silhouette walking towards him. Harry takes long, deep breaths, but it’s inefficient. When Malfoy arrives near him the only thing Harry can think about is how beautiful he is.

First, there’s the smile. A silly, gorgeous smile, not only with the lips but with the eyes too. And the eyes… So light and so deep at the same time. Little windows that let Harry stare directly into Malfoy’s soul, but he doesn’t look for too long or he’s sure he’ll get lost. The hair is perfect too, silky and a little undone by the wind, and Harry wants to tuck it behind Malfoy’s ear so bad but he cannot, he absolutely cannot. The final nail in the coffin is the delicate pink shade painted by the cold on Malfoy’s cheeks. Harry feels like he is being stabbed right in the heart just by looking at this artwork of a man.

He is going to kill Ron and Hermione. Denial was so much easier.

“Hey, Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry manages to say in an almost normal voice.

“Would you fancy a walk?”

“Sure,” Harry squeals.

Oh, lord. He has to get his shit together now.

“I listened to all of your songs,” Malfoy says as they start walking around the lake, going away from the castle. “I have no choice but admit that Muggles know what they’re doing when it comes to music.”

“There’s many different kinds of Muggle music,” Harry says. “Just like wizards’ music. But I’m glad you liked it.”

“I suppose it means you have good taste, Potter. I love the Beatles, and Queen too. But my favourite is Radiohead, of course. Especially the first song you made me listen to.”

They wander around the frozen lake, each step crisp in the fresh snow, a shy ray of sun making the whole world shimmer. And yet, in this beautiful scenery, Harry still finds his eyes are always drawn back to Malfoy. He has to force himself to look at the mountains in the distance in a desperate attempt to calm down.

Don’t start, Harry tells his heart. Stay still. The situation is under control.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he says, remembering a thought he had last night when he was trying not to think about Malfoy. “You mentioned that you talked to a Muggle once.”

Malfoy stays silent and Harry risks a peek in his direction. He looks like an angel fallen on earth, probably hiding his wings under his winter cloak. Still, the angel looks a little sad.

“You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s fine,” Malfoy says quietly. “It’s not a very happy story, but… I suppose I can share.”

He takes a deep breath, then looks at Harry. Their eyes hook for a second but Harry quickly looks away. He’s not ready for eye contact. Not just yet.

“Take your time,” he simply says.

“I was around seven,” Malfoy starts after a beat. “Or maybe a little more, I’m not sure. My parents took me to some kind of meeting, perhaps a family event… I don’t remember what it was, I just know I was the only kid and that adults were terribly boring, as per usual.”

Harry dares another glance. Malfoy is looking in the distance, observing the frozen lake. Maybe watching the memory unfold before his eyes. The wind makes his hair dance gracefully and Harry has to look away again for an instant.

“I snuck out to the garden, but I must have gone outside the property, because I met another kid. A girl my age. Her name was Bethany.”

Malfoy marks a pause. Now, Harry is sure he is seeing little Bethany again like all of it happened yesterday. He can almost see her in Malfoy’s eyes.

“She was instantly nice to me. Asked if I wanted to play, and of course I wanted to. I told her we could play Quidditch and when she asked me what it was, I just assumed her family was not into sports. I explained the rules and she got very excited about it. We played for a long time. I was the seeker and she was the chaser. It was almost dark when I heard my mother call for me, and I told Bethany to come with me so I could introduce her…”

Harry feels the shift in Malfoy’s voice. It’s not the little kid remembering the games, now, it’s the adult telling a story. One with a bitter ending, Harry guesses.

“Before I could tell mother how nice Bethany had been, she drew her wand.”

A snowflake is melting on Malfoy’s face. It looks like a tear.

“She dragged me away immediately so it took a moment before I understood what had happened. Mother only Stunned Bethany, but Merlin knows how much time it took for the curse to dissipate. I can only imagine how scared she must have felt, alone and incapable of moving, night falling on the garden…”

Malfoy stays silent for a moment. Harry can’t look away now. He watches the curve of the lips sinking downwards, the quick blinks and the sharp breaths.

“I’ll never know what happened to Bethany in the end. I asked mother about it a few years later and she told me she didn’t think before acting, that she got scared for me, and that she too has been thinking about that day quite often since. She told me she regretted it. She just got so very scared, seeing me with a Muggle… When she was a girl, you see, Muggles attacked her and her sisters, and from what I gathered she was saved at the last minute by Bellatrix. I suppose I should resent her for what she did, but I can’t, not really.”

Finally, Malfoy turns to Harry.

He looks bitter, ashamed and sad. It makes Harry want to tell him it was not his fault, that Bethany is probably fine now, that he’s so sorry things ended like this, that he was just a little boy and that it’s all so unfair. But he doesn’t seem to find the words, so he just opens his arms a little.

Malfoy stares with surprise for a second, one terrible second that feels like a punch in Harry’s guts, then the blond steps forward and slips into Harry’s arms. They hug silently, eyes closed, bodies a little stiff, exchanging warmth in the biting cold.

Harry hopes Malfoy understands what he’s trying to say without words. That he’s glad he trusted him enough to share this story, and that he’ll always be there if he needs to tell other ones, no matter how sad. Judging by Malfoy’s hand gripping Harry’s back, he does understand.

When they step back, Malfoy’s eyes are shining bright. He offers Harry a weak smile then looks away.

“Please don’t judge my mother too severely, Potter.”

“I don’t judge her.”

“She was just trying to protect me.”

“I know.”

“She regretted it. She knows now that Bethany was just a little girl, that she didn’t deserve it, Muggle or not…”

“I know, Malfoy. I promise.”

They start walking back to the castle. Classes will soon resume. Harry can’t feel his feet but he’d rather freeze to death and stay there in the cold with Malfoy than break the moment. It is so quiet and so unique that oddly, he finds the whole crush thing easier to deal with. After all it’s still him and Malfoy, strange friends, weird allies. Things don’t have to be different just because he realised the nature of his feelings. They will help and protect each other no matter what, he knows they will.

“Have you thought about the strategy?” Malfoy asks when they’re back to their starting point.

“A little,” Harry says. “Did Voldemort tell you anything about Dumbledore?”

“Not recently. He's been very busy these last few weeks.”

“Any idea what he’s up to?”

“My father won’t tell me anything, but from what I gather it has something to do with the Ministry.”

Harry sighs. That can’t be good. Of course he prefers not facing Voldemort, but the long time between the lessons means less chances to get information.

“Well, we’d better go,” Malfoy says. “Snape will assassinate me if I’m late to Defense.”

“And Flitwick won’t care if I’m late for Charms but Hermione will end me.”

They exchange one last look. All of a sudden, Harry once again feels like he’s falling very fast right into Malfoy’s iris. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling; except this time, months later, he knows what it means.

“See you,” he says, and it sounds almost like a prayer.

Malfoy only nods then walks away, taking the long way to the castle. Harry wonders if he left him the short one on purpose. Probably not.

He thinks about little Draco Malfoy and Bethany a lot the next few days. It both pleases and hurts him to imagine the blond child playing with a Muggle girl, unaware that there is any difference between them at all.

A few weeks go by, cold and quiet. Harry and Malfoy meet a few times to talk about everything and nothing or listen to music, which is always the best moment in the entire week. The rest of the time is only class, homework and more class, with a good dose of stress on top of it all.

One night Harry forgets to put the locket back on after his shower and he falls asleep without it. That night, he finds himself in Hogwarts, but it’s not exactly his Hogwarts. He is dressed in green, sitting at the end of the Slytherins table, surrounded by boys talking with animation. Harry vaguely hears them arguing about dueling and the use of the Dark Arts, but he finds it all very dull.

Once again Harry feels deeply alone. Will no one ever be able to measure up to him? Is there no other mind like his, no other soul like his, even here, in the world’s greatest wizarding school? Is he destined to forever be misunderstood, admired but not challenged, respected and still powerless?

One day, Harry promises himself, he will be the most powerful man in the world, and no one shall deny it. If he really is the only one of his kind, he shall rule them all.

When Harry wakes up, he senses he’s about to hear from Voldemort very soon. Indeed, the very same evening, Harry’s ring gets warm against his skin.

𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑜𝓃𝑒𝒹

Harry abandons homework, telling his friends something about a bellyache, then runs to the Room of Requirement. Malfoy is not there, which slightly relieves Harry. He takes a moment to calm his short breath, reminding himself of the strategy. Gain Voldemort’s trust. Not too rebellious but not too docile. Make him happy, make him like Harry.

He steps into the fire and walks out in the manor’s drawing room.

It’s dark. Outside the night has set long ago, but inside it is another kind of night, an obscurity made by man, an manufactured absence of light. Harry casts a Lumos and carefully evolves amongst the furniture. He can hear breathing in the dark. He can feel the presence of the man who summoned him, somewhere.

Harry turns around promptly when a breeze caresses his neck. Voldemort is standing behind him, still and tall, like he was always there. He is looking at Harry with this peculiar attention so unique to him.

“Good evening, Harry.”

Harry only gives a nod for answer. With a swift movement Voldemort attracts two armchairs and sits in one of them. Before Harry even has time to think he is sitting in the other, pushed into it by an external and intangible force. A couple of candles lit up across the room, maintaining a dim atmosphere and projecting deep shadows on Voldemort’s face.

“Today we will have a simple lesson,” he says in a slick tone. “Severus has informed me that he tried and failed teaching you Occulmency last year.”

“He did,” Harry says carefully.

“Well, we shall remedy this. I will teach you Legillimency first, as it is always useful but also an excellent way to understand Occulmency better.”

“And in exchange?” Harry asks, dreading the lesson’s price.

“I shall take one of your memories.”

Harry is relieved at first. At least this will not harm any one other than himself. Then he remembers Voldemort always has a good reason to ask for something, and anxiety crawls back into his chest.

“Which one?”

“Cast a Patronus for me, Harry. I have heard you are quite good at it.”

Harry’s chest tightens even more. His happiest memory, that's what Voldemort wants. Nothing less, of course. Harry refuses thinking about Ron and Hermione, tries not to think about his first Christmas or the moment Hagrid told him he was a wizard. Instead he thinks about winning his first Quidditch match. This he can spare, this he will allow Voldemort to have.

He focuses on the charm and feels, very faintly but definitely there, a foreign presence in his mind. Voldemort is watching. Harry focuses. He remembers spitting the Snitch out, the Gryffindors exploding in applause when he brandished it, the overwhelming emotion, the amazement in everyone’s eyes…

“Expecto Patronum!”

A weak mist of light exits Harry’s wand, but nothing more. As he feared, Voldemort is smirking.

“Do not attempt to hide from me. I wish for your most precious memory, and it is the one I shall have.”

Harry tries again, thinking this time about Ron and Hermione. He has many memories with them, he can let go of one, they will make other memories… But once again the Patronus is incorporeal.

“Do not mock me, Harry… Fulfill your part of the contract and I shall do the same… Refuse yourself to me and I shall ask for a far higher price.”

Harry exhales heavily. He has no choice, has he? This is a low cost to pay, after all. He closes his eyes and remembers the faces of everyone he loves. It takes the shape of the mirror of Erised, Harry in the center of the frame and all the others gathered around. Ron, Hermione, Sirius… His parents, too, smiling and loving, proud. And without Harry even expecting it, there is Malfoy by his side as well, looking back with tender eyes. He can feel their love enveloping him, lifting him, comforting beyond any other thought.

“Expecto Patronum.”

The light emerging from Harry’s wand turns into a silver stag, whole and perfect. The creature looks at Harry with its glowing eyes, slightly tilting its head like a salute. Then it does the same to Voldemort who looks at it with a grin until it evaporates, dismissed by Harry. The Dark wizard turns to the boy. He seems content, at last.

“This is the memory I shall take.”

“It’s not exactly a memory,” Harry says in a tired voice. “But it’s the best I have.”

“I will take the thought, then. The feeling.”

“As you wish.”

The lesson begins. First Harry cannot concentrate, thinking again and again about his vision in the mirror. Then Voldemort offers his own mind for Harry to train, and curiosity takes over the rest.

For a long time there is no success at all. Harry feels himself entering Voldemort’s mind, only to be ejected immediately. Then, as exhaustion starts weakening his efforts, Harry slips into a strange state, half-awake, half-dreaming.

It happens there, in this vague territory.

For a glimpse of a second Harry sees trees, darkness, moonlight. He hears wind and animals too, but more than everything — he feels. It is not loneliness but something far beyond. It is the absence of matter, the exile from his own body, forced to inhabit a frail and small animal, not able to speak, not able to use magic at all.

Then Harry is ejected out of Voldemort’s mind and he finds himself on the floor, his breath uneven, his glasses half fallen from his nose.

“How unexpected.”

Harry looks up and sees Voldemort staring at him with interest. To Harry’s astonishment the man walks to him and offers a hand. Harry takes it and stands; they face each other, close, still, and Harry once again remembers how tall and imposing the Dark wizard is.

“You do have higher skills than any child of your age,” Voldemort says, “yet I doubt even a talented grown man would be able to pierce my defense. I suppose you have a unique ease when it comes to my mind, Harry.”

“As you do with mine, Tom.”

Voldemort smirks, then steps back and gestures towards Harry to sit. Once again, before the boy has even approached the armchair he is forced into it by an invisible pressure. Voldemort doesn’t seem to even have realized he has coerced Harry. He’s lost deep in his thoughts, or maybe distant memories.

“We shall continue at another time,” he eventually says. “I will take what is due, but afterwards I’d like you to stay for a short while, if you agree.”

Harry is always surprised to remember he has the choice.

“You could take all of this by force,” he says. “You could just make me spit whatever you want to know. I wouldn’t resist long. Why do you give me the choice?”

“Is it not worth so much more when you are the one freely giving me everything I ask?” Voldemort says in a velvet voice.

Harry sighs. Of course it is.

It’s not about power, since they both know Harry is not even close to the wizard’s level, despite his fulgurant progress over the last lessons. It is about control. About corruption, about morality. Voldemort wants Harry to become like him, to betray his values, his beliefs, his people. This is why he asks for memories, this is why he offers choices.

And Harry, again and again, accepts. He takes the pale, cold hand and shakes it. The deal with the devil is not the kind of contract you sign once and forget about; it is your blood becoming ink and your every breath shaping the words.

“Take the memory,” Harry says.

He feels sad and tired, but not even angry at Voldemort. He has always been honest with him, at least, always clear about his intentions. Harry decides he too will always be honest from now on.

“I wish you didn’t take it, though,” he says quietly. “I wish you didn’t try to change me.”

Voldemort looks at him with surprise, then his expression shifts to curiosity.

“What do you wish for, then?”

“I suppose… I want people to see me for what I really am, without trying to turn it into anything more or less.”

The Dark wizard tilts his head to the side, like he’s looking at some strange new species, or a complex mechanism not functioning quite normally.

“And what are you, Harry Potter?”

Harry lets out a deep sigh. Right now, he’s mostly tired. But that is not what the question is about. He decided to be honest, didn’t he?

“I’m a sixteen-year-old boy, who just happens to have been marked by the most powerful wizard of our times.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

“I’m not saying I’m only this, but… I’m not what others see in me. I’m no hero or martyr. People keep trying to mold me into the shape they think I am, but the thing is, I never fit. Clearly I’m no hero, I lost that possibility the moment you gave me the Mark. And I don’t think I can be a martyr either… I don’t suffer gracefully enough.”

Voldemort laughs quietly. That sound does not seem as unnatural to Harry’s ears as it once was.

“You could be more, if you wanted,” Voldemort says. “You will be more. What do you wish to be?”

“At the moment, just… Anything else. Not me. Not marked, not The Boy Who Lived, not the Survivor… Just Harry, you know.”

“What a waste that would be.”

“Maybe for you. For me, it’d be easier.”

There is a moment of silence. Harry yawns and rubs his eyes, but he’s surprised to realize he doesn’t want to go. Not just now. There is something to this conversation, to the quiet and dim room, to the softness of the armchair. It is fascinating, in a way, simply facing Voldemort and not trying to fight, not trying to hide, to lie. Just tell him what is on his mind.

“It could have been another boy,” Harry says. “The prophecy, it applied to me and to another boy my age.”

“Neville Longbottom. The one your quill accidentally cursed.”

“Yes.”

They stare at each other with no defiance, no mockery, not hate. It is peculiar to be able to sit there and just talk about it, just ask, so freely.

“You knew it could be both of us.”

“I did.”

“Why did you choose me, then?”

Dumbledore said he marked Harry because he was a half-blood like him, but Harry isn’t so sure that’s all there is to it. Maybe Voldemort had planned to go after Neville right after anyway, or maybe there is something more. He waits patiently. Voldemort is looking at him with a pensive, tranquil gaze.

“I chose you because you were you,” he simply says. “From the moment I learned your name, Harry Potter, I knew you were the one.”

Harry’s breath gets caught up in his throat for a moment. It’s not even an explanation. It’s not rational, it’s not what he wanted to hear… He hoped for something that would leave no space for interpretation, something he couldn’t argue with, something to persuade him it was just a logical chain of events. Just a casualty.

And here he is, having to hear Voldemort tell him that it was a decision. Not just a choice, an evidence. Like fate, like a cruel predestination, like Harry was born with it engraved into his soul.

“Do you wish it was Longbottom in your place?” Voldemort asks.

“No,” Harry answers immediately. “I don’t wish this for anyone.”

“Your selflessness astonishes me.”

Harry sneers. It’s not selflessness, just his stupid personality. He knows it’s not true but some part of him still believes he deserves this. That he is made for suffering, more than anyone else.

“What about you?” he eventually asks. “Do you wish your life would have been different?”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Like if… If your father didn’t abandon you.”

For a second he’s scared that Voldemort is going to get angry, but he just squints his eyes with contempt, and it’s not directed at Harry.

“My genitor was not only a Muggle but also a coward and a disgrace. If anything I wish he was not related to me at all.”

“What about your mother?”

Now Voldemort is looking at Harry. Still not angry, but a little more on his guard — Harry can guess by the slight tension of his jaw.

“What about her?”

“Well… You always lived at the orphanage, right? Before Hogwarts, I mean. What happened to her?”

“She died giving me birth.”

He never knew her, then. Harry wonders what difference it made for him to know his parents a whole year before they died, even if he remembers nothing of it. A big difference, if he had to guess.

“And… Do you think if she didn’t… Do you think your life would have been better?”

“What does better mean?” Voldemort asks. “That I would not be the man I am today? That I would have been an ordinary child, turned into an ordinary wizard with no power nor ambition? I do not believe it would have been better. I am proud to be who I am, proud of what I have achieved.”

For the first time, Harry realizes fully that what he considers evil and cruel is just a matter of point of view. Of course it’s wrong to kill and torture and try to shape the world into a hateful picture. But Voldemort does not find any of it immoral or wrong, because it is all he has ever known. It’s no excuse — but it’s an explanation.

“Maybe if she had raised you… Maybe you’d know how it feels to be happy.”

“Then I would have known how it feels to be hurt,” Voldemort answers without missing a beat.

“You already know that,” Harry says quietly.

Voldemort seems annoyed for the first time that evening. He shoots Harry a sharp glare.

“I do not. I can feel anger, disappointment, disdain, but I do not know fear nor sadness.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“You are mistaken, boy.”

“I felt it, you know. I felt how lonely it was to be you. To sit at the orphanage, to sit at Hogwart’s table, to kill your family. I felt what you felt.”

Harry holds Voldemort’s gaze. He’s right, he knows he is. Voldemort knows it too.

“You are having more dreams, then,” the wizard finally says.

“Yeah.”

There is a long silence, only occupied by the wind howling outside. They sit and stare but Voldemort doesn’t seem angry anymore; rather vexed like an adolescent. For a moment Harry recognises young Tom Riddle in the way he pouts, then Voldemort collects himself and his face is back to the usual detached mask.

“Maybe you are right, in a way,” he says in an even voice, like it’s an insignificant detail. “Maybe what I felt then was beyond anger and hatred. Maybe I have known sadness and happiness like every human has. But this time is long gone. One has to give up humanity in order to gain immortality.”

“Maybe you created the Horcruxes for more than immortality, then,” Harry says.

Voldemort’s facade cracks for just a second. He is not looking at Harry, but still, the boy sees he touched something that had never been touched before.

“Maybe you wanted to stop feeling.”

He is not accusing or belittling. It’s a fact, just a fact. The truth, coated with a maybe, but Harry sees now how right he is. Voldemort is a little too still, trying a little too hard to pretend he doesn’t care.

“I understand that, you know. I’ve wanted to stop feeling, too.”

Harry’s voice is almost soft. Tiredness has lowered all his protections, not only from the man sitting in front of him, but also from himself. Where Harry usually draws a firm line — do not feel sorry for the murderer, do not try to understand, try not to understand — now there is a blur. Harry finds he has empathy for the monster. Even more, perhaps, than for normal people.

“You do feel a lot,” Voldemort eventually says.

“Ha.” Harry lets out a bitter laugh. “Have you… My emotions. You’ve sensed them again?”

“I have felt glimpses.”

“Of what?”

“Sadness, I suppose. Excitement. Tension.”

“How does it work? Do you feel it like it’s yours? Can Occulmency block it?

Voldemort takes a moment before answering.

“Creating a Horcrux is extremely powerful magic. It is expected that, given your… situation, some side effects are inevitable."

Harry smiles faintly. Voldemort can’t simply admit it, but this means he can’t do anything about feeling Harry’s emotions, just like Harry can’t do anything about feeling his. Not that the latter has happened recently, but still. It might happen again.

“Take the memory,” Harry says in a low voice.

Voldemort almost seems like he had forgotten about it. He gets up and approaches Harry, taking a vial out of his robe pocket.

“I want you to know,” Harry says as the Dark wizard points his wand to his temple, “that this is not a payment.”

“No? What is it, then?”

“It’s a gift. And… I’d like you to keep it. In your mind, I mean. I’d like you to make this memory yours. Maybe this way you will feel loved.”

Voldemort freezes.

“I do not wish to feel loved.”

“Do it for me, then.”

The man does not answer, but he puts his hands around Harry’s head very gently. The coolness stings like the winter wind bites, gently. Harry does not flinch.

He concentrates on the vision, seeing the mirror of Erised reflecting every person he cares for the most. He fills his mind with as much love as he can. The love he has for them, the love they have for him. It slips away delicately, and when Voldemort puts it in a vial Harry does not feel empty. He’s not sure what he just gave away, but he knows one thing.

He still has enough love inside of him for a lifetime.

 “You may go,” Voldemort says.

Harry doesn’t go. He watches Voldemort. The red eyes seem more expressive now than in the first lesson, he notes, like he got used to them, like he can read them more subtly. The face does not seem monstrous anymore. It doesn’t scare him.

“I’d like to ask you for a trade, too,” Harry says after a moment of reflection.

He has been thinking about it for some time but it felt too early. Until now. After this conversation… Harry’s not sure Voldemort trusts him yet, but they have been honest with each other. Maybe this is exactly what Harry needs — being even more frank. Maybe if he shows Voldemort he has nothing to hide, the trust will come more easily.

“Tell me.”

“I’d like to know what your other Horcruxes are, and where you keep them.”

Voldemort looks at Harry with an unreadable face. Now that he's said it out loud Harry is not so sure it was a good idea, but he stays calm. It’s just an offer, it can be refused if it’s too much.

“What shall you give me in return?”

“I don’t know. Something you need.”

“And why would you need this information?”

“I just want to know,” Harry says, and it’s almost true. “I can’t do anything about it anyway. I won’t attempt anything.”

“Do you perhaps hope that this knowledge will make you feel more… In control?”

Harry feels a little ashamed to have been read so easily. Yes, actually, that’s exactly why he’s asking. Knowing this, even if he can’t act upon it, is some form of power he’s been desperately missing these last months.

“Very well,” Voldemort says to Harry’s surprise. “I will reveal it all. In exchange, I’d like a part of you.”

“Another memory?”

Voldemort smiles, and suddenly Harry remembers who he’s facing. The grin is so wicked, so predatory that Harry instinctively steps back.

“This time, I would like a tangible gift.”

Harry is not sure what he means, but he’s certain that the word gift does not apply anymore.

“A finger should do,” Voldemort says smoothly.

“A… A finger?”

“From your left hand. The choice of which one is up to you.”

Harry looks at him with horror. A finger, a real finger. This is what Voldemort asks in exchange of information? For knowledge Harry can’t even use? A fucking part of his body?

“That— That’s too much! I can’t give you— What are you even going to do with it?”

“A ritual, perhaps. Or a pendant. Blood and bones hold very high magic properties, as you know.”

“You want to wear my finger around your neck?” Harry croaks. “That’s disgusting!”

“However repulsive to you, that is the price I ask.”

Harry shakes his head in disbelief. To think that a moment earlier he wanted Voldemort to feel loved and happy! He feels ridiculous. The wizard must sense it because his expression softens a little.

“I will not try to change you, Harry,” he says. “You are free to be whoever you think you are, whatever you want to be. I might not understand it, but I believe I have come to respect it. However, I too follow my nature. Do not forget it.”

“How could I,” Harry mumbles. “You keep reminding me.”

He takes his time to think. Does he really need to know? He could find a way to bypass the Vow and destroy the Horcruxes, or at least give the information to Dumbledore. Maybe Malfoy will know what to do. It is crucial, after all. The only way he can overcome Voldemort.

But what if he can’t? What if he dies trying? What if he never even tries, too scared to pay the treason with his life?

Then Malfoy’s voice echoes in Harry’s memory. “The only known way to truly reunite the pieces of soul contained inside a Horcruxe is for the creator to feel genuine regret and remorse.” This, he remembers, is another way, one that would technically not break the Vow since Voldemort would have to fully consent to it. The only other way.

If Harry truly wants to give it a chance he will have to know about all of the Horcruxes in a way or another, now or later. He is already fairly certain the gold cup, possibly Hufflepuff's cup, is one of them, as he’s seen it in his dream. If he knew where it’s kept, maybe he could find it, study it…

But then again, a finger. A whole, real, very material finger. Is it not disproportionate?

Well, he has provoked an earthquake to heal Neville, he has bashed Dumbledore in public for a curse, he has taken the Mark for exactly this: information. And now he can’t sacrifice a part of him? How selfish. What is a finger, really? He’ll still have nine others. This thought gets a sarcastic laugh out of Harry.

He ponders a little longer, looking at his left hand with a growing dread.

“Will it hurt?” he asks.

“It doesn’t have to.”

“What am I even going to tell people?”

“Quidditch accident.”

Harry looks at Voldemort with astonishment. A joke. A funny joke, too, or at least it could be if it wasn’t so dark.

“I’ll still have nine others,” Harry mumbles out loud to give himself courage.

Voldemort grins, and Harry is horrified to find himself grinning too. It’s nervous, but still. He thinks once again about what is at stake, stares once again at his hand. Five fingers, not very pretty or special, but still, his own.

“We have a deal,” Harry says before he starts panicking too much. “Make it quick and painless.”

Voldemort seems absolutely delighted and does not seek to hide it. He invokes a knife, blade sharp and shining under the candle light, then takes Harry’s hand in his.

“Which finger?”

“Annular.”

“You may close your eyes.”

Harry doesn’t. He looks at Voldemort tracing sigils of light around his hand, pronouncing fast incantations. Harry’s entire hand becomes numb and soon he can’t feel Voldemort’s touch anymore. He watches the knife approach.

It is the weirdest thing, seeing the blade cut into the skin but not sense it; seeing the blood drip abundantly but not spill, floating inside the runes circle; seeing the bone exposed and still, nothing. Harry observes how his finger detaches, how clean the cut is. He feels a little weak in the stomach but that is all.

Voldemort has cut at the root, just after the palm ends. Now where there used to be bronze skin there is only void. The sliced finger floats in the air with the blood, until the last words are said and everything pours into a vial, just like Harry’s memory earlier. The light fades, the sigils vanish and Voldemort releases Harry’s hand.

The boy doesn’t realize he’s losing balance, too busy staring at the empty space between his little and middle finger. The armchair moves to catch him in his fall, Voldemort’s gaze following closely. Harry stares at his hand, feeling weak. It looks cicatrized already. Just a paler spot of skin, like it has been like this for years.

Eventually Harry looks up and his eyes meet Voldemort’s. The Dark wizard isn’t smirking anymore. He seems attentive, almost… Concerned.

“Drink this.”

He hands Harry a vial that just now appeared in his hand, filled by a wine-like liquid. Harry drinks. It tastes like iron. A drop runs down his chin, red as blood.

“The first Horcrux I created was the diary,” Voldemort says quietly.

He sits in front of Harry, closer than before, slightly leaning towards him, his eyes still searching for a sign of weakness or ailment.

“It was destroyed by your hand four years ago, in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Stabbed by a basilisk fang.”

Voldemort nods, his face impassive.

“The second one is my grandfather’s ring, heirloom of House Gaunt, descending from Salazar Slytherin, as I am. It is hidden in the very house where I have reclaimed it, the house where my mother was born.”

Harry feels a jolt of surprise hearing these words. Voldemort is not aware Dumbledore has the ring. Harry does his best to keep his face straight. He might tell him, in time. Not yet. It’s good to have knowledge Voldemort doesn’t, for once.

“The third one is Slytherin’s Locket, which is currently hanging around your neck.”

Like a reflex Harry clutches the piece of jewelry through his clothes. It truly is Slytherin’s locket, then. Harry is impressed by Malfoy’s perspicacity. 

“The fourth one is Hufflepuff's Cup, kept safe in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts Bank.”

Malfoy was right about this too, Harry thinks with a wave of admiration. As for the vault, it is not a surprising place to keep a precious object, but it will be difficult to retrieve.

“The fifth one is Ravenclaw’s Diadem. It is kept at Hogwarts, in the Room of Hidden Things.”

The diadem, Harry expected it by now. But Hogwarts? And in a room Harry has never heard of, too. This, he thinks with excitement, can easily be investigated. This is some real information. He keeps his face as blank as he can.

“The sixth is currently sitting in front of me,” Voldemort says in a suave voice, and Harry can’t help but feel a shiver run down his spine at the malice in these red eyes.

“And the seventh is currently chasing mice somewhere in the house. You can call her, if you wish. She will be glad to see you.”

“I’ll refrain,” Harry says feebly. “Her hugs tend to be… A little overwhelming.”

Voldemort smiles, then he moves back into his armchair, still watching Harry carefully.

“Are you satisfied with this information, Harry?” he asks.

Harry looks at his finger — well, his absence of finger. He feels nothing, nothing at all. It is extremely weird, but the realization has not settled in yet, while the information is already making its way into his brain. Useful information, too, especially concerning the diadem.

“I am,” he says. 

“Are you feeling strong enough to return to school?”

“Yes, I think so. I’m not exactly eager, but… They’ll have to see it at some point, right? I suppose a spell could do the trick for some time, but I can’t hide it forever.”

Voldemort’s eyes shine for an instant.

“I am eagerly waiting for the day you will not hide at all,” he says.

It sounds like a menace, or like a praise. Harry’s not sure. He stands carefully but he now feels sturdy enough to walk. Voldemort follows him closely, as if to catch Harry in case of a fall. The attention is odd but vaguely comforting. Harry doesn’t know how he feels towards Voldemort after everything that happened. His mind is a mess and his body… Well, his body certainly isn’t in its optimal shape either.

And yet when Voldemort lights a fire for the way back, when the flames illuminate his face with a warm shade, it almost makes him look like a normal human being.

“Good night, Harry,” he says, and his voice is not so cold anymore.

“Good night, Tom,” Harry replies. 

When he is back to Hogwarts, walking through the dark, empty corridors, Harry looks down at his hand again. The realization hits him here and there, with the chill air caressing the fresh scar, the wandlight projecting a distorted shadow on the wall.

The shadow of a hand with only four fingers.

Chapter Text

Harry awakes and throws up.

Every boy in the dorm turns to him, some with disgust, others with worry.

“You okay?” Ron asks, approaching Harry carefully.

Neville cleans up Harry’s puke with a spell then offers a glass of water. Harry only remembers at the last second to take it with his right hand. The left is still hidden under the covers.

“M’fine,” he mumbles. “Thanks.”

He closes his curtains, ashamed by the incident and definitely not feeling fine. The slim ray of light passing through the curtains illuminates his hand, falling on the empty space between his pinky and major. Harry looks at it for a moment, feeling disconnected from reality.

Well, it was not a dream. Still four fingers.

Harry manages to get through breakfast without using his left hand. He barely eats, still feeling nauseous. He was fine last night but apparently his body decided to delay the reaction. Harry fake laughs at his classmates’ jokes, vaguely listens to Hermione complain about an essay she’s not quite sure she got right, manages to catch the bread Ginny tosses him from the other side of the table. Normal morning, he thinks, normal morning. Do not pay attention to that ill feeling in your body, do not listen to your woozy mind.

“What the hell happened to your hand?” Ron asks suddenly.

Harry’s stomach contracts with anxiety. Not so soon, please, not so soon…

“Nothing happened. Can you pass me the juice?”

But Ron has already caught Harry’s hand, lifting the sleeve covering it. He looks at it, looks at Harry, looks at the hand again.

“What’s that? Is it some kind of— It’s an illusion, right?”

Harry extracts his hand from Ron’s but it’s too late. Hermione has seen, too. He avoids their gazes.

“Harry, no,” Hermione says in a shaky voice.

Harry can’t. He can’t face them now, he’s not feeling well, it’s too early, he hasn’t thought of a lie yet, he can’t do it, he can’t, not now. He tries to get up but Ron grabs his robe and sits Harry back down easily. Harry feels too weak to protest anyway.

“No, Harry, no, no,” Hermione repeats, her voice getting higher at every word. “Please, tell me you didn’t do that. Tell me it’s not what I think it is, Harry, please…”

“You mean…” Ron whispers, looking at his two friends back and forth with horror growing on his face. “You mean that’s… That this is Dar— That it’s you-know-what?”

Harry hides his hand back into his sleeve. He can’t answer. He can’t look at them. Hermione covers her mouth with her hands, holding back a whine.

“Harry, that’s—” Ron starts. He seems so startled that Harry feels a wave of guilt wash over him. “You didn’t do this to yourself, right?”

“Of course he did!” Hermione explodes, struggling to keep her voice low. “Harry, oh, Harry! What are you doing? Why do you do this? I tried so hard not to say anything but this is just too much! You are hurting yourself, you are playing with— It’s too dangerous! You cannot do that, Harry! I can’t let you!”

“Can’t let me?” Harry finally mumbles. “You can’t stop me, Hermione. You don’t understand.”

“Of course we don’t understand!” Ron whispers furiously. “You’re not talking to us!” 

“I can’t,” Harry says. “I wish I could but I can't. I swear there’s a good reason—”

“No, Harry!” Hermione shrieks. “There will never be a good reason for that kind of thing! It’s wicked and dangerous and wrong!”

“I know it is,” Harry whispers, “but I have to. Please, believe me. Please. Don’t ask—”

“You can’t just sacrifice a bloody finger and not even tell us why!” Ron whispers back.

“Please,” Harry murmurs in exhaustion. “I can’t tell you. I want to but I can’t—”

“This is going too far,” Hermione cuts him. “I’m so worried for you, Harry! You’re so different, ever since… Since you got that gift, that stupid book! You promised you’d give it to Dumbledore and you never did, you promised you’d… The locket, you’re not wearing it, right? Tell me you’re not, Harry!”

Harry looks at his friends with despair. He knew they were not going to take the new very well but this is just disastrous. He’s so tired, he feels so ill, like the whole world is upside down, like his organs switched places inside of him, like his blood is circulating backwards in his veins.

“Please,” he begs. “Just trust me. I know what I’m doing, I’m—”

“But you clearly don’t, Harry! This is going too far! If you’re not going to talk… If you’re not telling anyone, I am!”

Hermione suddenly gets up. Harry grabs her arm with his left hand, four fingers exposed. He didn’t think, he can’t think straight, he just knows this is not fair. They don’t trust him. His best friends don’t trust him enough to believe he can’t talk, they won’t even listen, they won’t even give him a chance. Other students are starting to shoot them curious looks but Harry can’t take this anymore. 

“Don’t, Hermione,” Harry says.

It might have come out more menacing than he intended to, because both Hermione and Ron stare at him with appalled faces.

“You’re scaring us, mate,” Ron mutters.

“That’s it!” Hermione says, snatching her arm out of Harry’s grip. “I’m going to tell McGonagall!”

“No you won’t!”

Most Gryffindors are looking now. Harry feels his head burning, his stomach contracting stronger than ever, but he’s managed to grab Hermione back, looking at her with ignited eyes.

“You’re not going to do anything,” he says in a cutting voice. “You think you’re helping but you’re not. I don’t need your help, I just need you to trust me, and if you can’t do that then just leave me the fuck alone!”

He spoke too loud. Harry can feel it without looking — all the eyes on him. He can hear them — judging, laughing, whispering. What’s with Potter now? Always trying to be the center of attention, this one. What a weirdo. What a freak.

Harry lets go of Hermione like she turned to white-hot metal. He gets up, grabs his bag and runs out of the Great Hall. That’s all he seems to be doing these days, running away from his friends. Harry only stops when there is not one around, no one at all. Then he folds in half, thinking he’s going to be sick again, but nothing comes out. He pants for a long moment, clinging on to the wall, then eventually just sits up on the cold floor.

Against his chest the ring is heating up again and again. Malfoy is writing but Harry can’t bring himself to look. He feels too pathetic to be seen, to be cared for. Yesterday it all seemed like a good idea, like a fair trade for priceless information… But today it feels like he gave one too many parts of himself to Voldemort — because he did, literally. The missing finger is a physical sign of belonging, one he can’t hide under long sleeves.

Harry sits for a long time, trying to cry but not able to, trying to get rid of that sick feeling but nothing comes out. Eventually classes start and he arrives just in time, staying in the back of the room, ignoring his friend’s worried looks. They manage to catch him at the end of the period and he has no choice but to face them. He must look truly miserable because they don’t lecture anymore. Hermione only hugs him way too hard and Ron gives him an awkward pat on the shoulder.

“We trust you, Harry,” Hermione says. “We’re just very, very worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers. “I’m so sorry…”

“You sure you don’t want to go to the infirmary or something?” Ron asks.

Harry shakes his head.

“I can’t. Madam Pomfrey will ask questions, and… I can’t answer. I just… I physically can’t, guys, you have to believe me.”

“We do,” Ron mumbles, but it doesn’t sound true.

The day is one long nightmare. By the end of last period Harry’s ring is heating up every few minutes. He still hasn’t gathered the courage to answer when he gets out, only to find a fulminating Slytherin waiting for him at the door. Malfoy looks rabid.

“Professor Snape wants to see you,” he spits.

Harry tries to address his friends a reassuring smile but it looks more like a wince. He has no choice but to follow Malfoy through the corridors and into an empty room, perfectly aware that Snape does not want to see him, not now and not ever.

Malfoy locks the door and casts a silencing spell. There is a moment of silence, the two boys looking at each other in a heavy stillness, and then Malfoy explodes.

“Why are you ignoring me? What happened to you? Do you have any idea how worried I was? You disappeared for hours yesterday and you gave me no news, you let me imagine the worst, I thought he murdered you, Potter! It takes a second to answer, just one bloody second to tell me you’re fine! Do you have any idea—”

Malfoy stops because Harry got his left hand out of his pocket, opening it wide right in front of Malfoy’s eyes, and the blond chokes on his words.

Might as well get this out of the way, Harry thinks bitterly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I should have, I know I should, I just… I’m sorry, okay? This happened, and I’ve been trying to process it and, well, it’s not going so well. I’m sorry, I really am.”

Malfoy just stares at Harry, then at the empty space where a finger should be, then at Harry again through the spread fingers.

“You… Potter, did he do that to you?” he finally utters.

Harry nods morosely. Malfoy is livid.

“Potter, I will kill him. Did he hurt you? Did he—”

“It was my choice,” Harry cuts him. “I asked for information and this was the price and I chose to pay it. He didn’t hurt me. Please, Malfoy, please, believe me…”

“I believe you. Of course I believe you, but… Holy wand, Potter, why did you agree?”

“Because it’s the only thing I can do!” Harry says with despair. “I have to do something, I have to make some kind of progress, I have to make that deal worth something! And this— This is fair, this is not hurting anyone else, it’s my choice and it’s my problem and anyway, it’s done!”

Harry has shouted this last word. There it is, the truth. It’s done and no matter what anyone thinks, it’s too late. What’s the point in discussing it now? Harry braves Malfoy’s stare. He’s worried, like they all are. Not scared or angry but worried. Harry can’t stand seeing them all so worried each time they look at him.

“I don’t want your pity,” he spits. “I don’t want people to decide for me what’s right or wrong, what’s worth it or not. This is mine to give and I’d give more if I have to, because that’s how I matter! That’s how I’ll get powerful! Don’t ever look at me like this, because I’m not the one you have to worry about. I’m the one protecting you, and I’ll die for it if I need to!”

Malfoy takes a step back. He looks at Harry with such ache and Harry can’t stand it. They can all look at him like this but not Malfoy. Not him.

“I don’t want you to die for me,” Malfoy whispers.

“You don’t get to choose,” Harry whispers back.

Malfoy shakes his head, his eyes imploring, his hand stretching to Harry but immediately called back.

“Potter, please,” he says. “I know you want to save everyone but you can’t let him do this to you. He’s using you, he’s using your fear to loose people—”

“Tell me what I should do then! Let him kill you? Watch him hurt you? You can’t ask me that! I want you to be safe, it matters more than anything else, more than a finger, more than me!”

“How can you say that?”

“It’s true! You of all people should understand! You asked me to hurt you and not your mother, and so I did! And now I’m asking you to let me do what I have to, but you’re trying to stop me like everyone else! I knew they wouldn’t understand, but I thought you would, because you’re the only one who knows why I do this, you know everything, what I am, what he is to me, and yet you don’t trust me! Why can’t you trust me?”

“I trust you!” Malfoy shouts back. “But you’re not the only one who cares!”

They both fall silent. There’s barely three steps between them and still they feel more distant than ever. Harry wants nothing more than to break that distance, take Malfoy in his arms and hide face in his neck, hold him tight to make sure he’ll never go, protect him from the whole world. But he doesn’t move.

“I don’t want to fight,” Malfoy eventually says with a broken voice. “I won’t… I know you’re doing your best. I know that. Please, let’s not fight.”

“Okay,” Harry says in a weary tone. “I don’t want to fight either. I’m just… I’m so tired.”

“I know. I’m sorry I got mad.”

Harry doesn’t answer. He looks at his hand and it’s not even the finger he misses, it’s the quiet. The time where he could still pretend it was all going to be fine, that he still had a chance to make it out in one piece.

“Just… Just promise me one thing,” Malfoy says.

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Please, just… Just answer the ring, alright? One word. To tell me you’re alive. It can be an insult, I don’t mind.”

Harry sighs weakly. No matter how much he hates everyone worrying for him, it still feels good to know that Malfoy cares.

“I promise,” he says.

They exchange one last, painful look, then get out. For the rest of the evening Harry doesn’t pretend. He doesn't fake being fine, doesn’t try to be nice and polite, doesn’t eat at dinner. He’s too tired. Tomorrow, it’ll be better. Tomorrow he’ll go back to normal, he’ll be the golden boy, the good student, the great friend.

Except he doesn’t.

Something broke inside of Harry. Patience, or illusion maybe. A mask he wasn’t aware he was wearing. He stops giving excuses when he leaves in the middle of a studying session, stops spending so much time on homework because he’s not going to graduate anyway. There’s a war raging but everyone seems to forget about it the moment the headlines are about something else. Harry stops talking unless he’s talked to, stops saying good morning and good night and how are you. Just surviving. That’s what he’s made for, after all.

At night, Harry dreams. He’s casting silencing spells around his bed every evening now, because every morning before dawn he wakes up in a cold sweat, sometimes screaming, sometimes just staring at the canopy for hours. He sees Voldemort at every age, on his own or with company, but always lonely. He sees himself killing his parents, killing Voldemort's father, killing Myrtle and other nameless victims. Tearing his soul apart or wishing he was. Harry dreams about Sirius, too, and about everyone he loves getting killed. Malfoy especially dies a lot. It always feels very real until he wakes up.

During the day, Harry searches. Whenever he has a moment he goes talking to portraits or ghosts, asking about the Room of Hidden things. He reads everything he can find in Hogwarts’ library, even asks old professor Binns but of course he has no answer.

One finger missing, his friends looking at him like he’s made of glass, and still no diadem. All this for fucking nothing.

It hits him one morning during potion class. Harry gets up in the middle of his preparation, tells Slughorn he’s feeling sick and flies out of the classroom without waiting for an authorization. He runs to the second floor, not stopping until he’s arrived at the girls' bathroom.

Harry knows what sink he needs to speak to for the chamber to open. He kneels and whispers in that whistling language another soul taught him.

“Open.”

The sink moves and an instant later the entrance to a dark tunnel is revealed. Harry ignores the anxiety he feels at the idea of going back there. He has done worse since, far worse. He glides inside and everything gets dark.

It takes some time before Harry manages to find his way through the collapsed stones and the long corridor, but finally he’s in.

First he thinks the Chamber of Secrets has not changed, like time has no power here. Then Harry sees the colossal skeleton in the back of the room and he exhales slowly. All things can die, he reminds himself, even the most horrifying ones, even the most powerful.

He searches the whole Chamber for a long time, looking in every corner in hope to find the diadem. He finds nothing.

It would have been too easy. Why would this be the Room of Hidden Things when it’s already the Chamber of Secrets? Voldemort would have said its true name. He has no reason to hide the location from Harry, they made a deal, and Harry is bound by his Vow. He sits on the damp floor for a moment, feeling discouraged.

Against his chest the locket hums eerily, like it knows this place is his maker’s legacy. Harry shoots a look at the Basilisk skeleton. Even like this it reeks of power and menace.

Harry gets up slowly. He walks to the large, white bones, stopping in front of the open jaw. The teeth are still attached, sharp and deadly.

Harry quickly removes his cloak and wraps his hand in it. He hits the closest fang once, twice, three times until a sinister crack fills the Chamber. The fang falls to the ground and Harry wraps it in his cloak. Maybe this sordid trip wasn’t entirely useless after all.

Harry gets out of the Chamber as fast as he can, eager to leave the morbid tunnels. Once outside he runs to his dorm, holding wrapped fang right against his heart. The venom is obviously still very much effective as it’s already weathering the fabric. Harry finds an indestructible glass jar in his potion equipment and hides the fang inside, then covers it up with a bunch of clothes and books.

Just in case, he thinks. It can always be useful. Just in case. Not going to use it. Not now, anyway.

Harry does not get discouraged. He continues his search for the diadem whenever he has time. Marauder’s map in hand, he inspects every corner of the castle, but there are many he has no access to. Harry especially wants to visit the Ravenclaw Tower, as it seems to be a good place to look, but he has no way of entering, doubting that the access would be granted to him even if he asked Luna very nicely.

Harry starts sleeping less, skipping meals. First it turns into more time for exploration, then he decides to start training for the Dark Arts again. Soon Harry is spending at least an hour a day in the Room of Requirement, sometimes two or three. He doesn’t only study the curses from Regulus’ Book of Darkness, but also tries some of the least risky ones in the book stolen from Knockturn Alley. He finds some easier now that he can distinctly sense the Dark around, but some are too complex without the help of his despised teacher.

He doesn’t want to, but Harry grows impatient for his next lesson with Voldemort. He wants to learn new spells, gain more power, more information. He’s ready to give at least one other finger and as many memories as he’ll need to. But Voldemort doesn’t summon.

A harsh routine slowly takes over Harry’s life. Wake up before everyone, shower with cold water to cleanse the night’s dreams, explore the castle. Skip breakfast, go to class, sometimes listen, most of the time scribble notes about Dark spells and curses. Harry has always been good in Defense against the Dark Arts but he is now getting excellent — to Snape’s great displeasure. Eat lunch, sometimes participate in conversations, most of the time eat in silence and avoid Ron and Hermione’s eyes. Class, do the minimum, talk back to teachers who dare to ask him to be more attentive. Occasionally, detention, which Harry sees as a waste of time and nothing more. Explore the castle until dinner, do some homework, eat. Sometimes skip dinner. Harry’s not so hungry anyway. After dinner, train in the Room of Requirement. When he’s too exhausted to even think, go back to the dorm, cast silencing spells and sleep. Dream of loneliness and wake up lonely.

Harry avoids Malfoy at all costs. He still answers the ring when it heats up, whispering a reassuring lie then trying to forget about it. He doesn’t forget. Every time he sees Malfoy, in the corridor, during dinner, from afar on the Quidditch field, Harry’s heart collapses a little in his chest.

Malfoy doesn’t look good either. Well, he’s still gorgeous and wonderful and Harry still sees his perfect face in his dreams. But he seems tired, sick, unhappy.

Harry forces himself not to think about it. What can he do anyway? They can’t be friends, not when the whole world thinks they’re archennemies. They certainly can’t be more than friends — Harry has no doubt that Malfoy is only interested in pureblood girls from respectable families.

He misses the easier times when they had detention together, when things seemed complicated but truly, they weren’t so much compared to what they are now. Harry sometimes imagines himself talking to Malfoy. His bed curtain closed, he murmurs everything he’s scared of, every one of his deepest, most secret desires. When he closes his eyes, he can almost sense Malfoy’s presence by his side, laying just close far enough so they don’t touch.

A few weeks into February, an official Ministry instructor is announced to give Apparating classes to those who wish to obtain the license. After some hesitation Harry decides to take the class. He doesn’t need to, really, and it’s less time for Dark Art training, but a license can always be useful.

The first lesson takes place on a Saturday morning, the first sunny one in long months. The Great Hall has been cleared of all furniture for the occasion and the Anti-Apparating Charm removed inside the room. Harry stands with his friends, feeling the ceiling’s fake sun on his skin and letting it sink in, eyes closed. There is a merry atmosphere and the students are filling the space with laughter and chatter. The instructor gives an introduction speech and the basic explanations, then everyone is placed next to a hoop they are supposed to Apparate into.

Harry doesn’t try at first. He observes the others with a light smile. It’s amusing to see everyone spin around and for a lot of them, fall with no other outcome. Harry hasn’t felt so normal in a long time. He laughs gently when Ron falls arse first on the floor, and encourages Hermione when she thinks she felt something for a brief moment.

The session is almost over when Harry hears a round of applause on the other side of the Great Hall. He sees Malfoy, standing proudly inside his hoop, being felicitated by the instructor. Harry’s throat tightens. Once he would have been jealous of Malfoy, his rival, getting any form of praise. Today it’s different. It’s the fact that no matter how hard he tries not to, Harry’s thoughts are always coming back to him. And Malfoy just has to be so perfect and rub it in Harry’s face.

Then Malfoy turns his head, and his eyes meet Harry’s. He did not look for him in the room, like he knows exactly where Harry is. For three long seconds they stare at each other, then Harry spins violently and Apparates into his hoop.

The instructor runs to him and inspects his whole body, looking for a trace of splinching, but there is none.

“Remarquable,” he says. “It’s very rare that a student manages to Apparate on the first lesson, let alone two! Congratulations!”

Harry doesn’t give a shit about his congratulations. He still looks at Malfoy, until the blond turns to his friends and laughs with them like he has entirely forgotten Harry exists.

“How did you do that?” Hermione asks Harry, seeming a little vexed.

“I just focused,” Harry says vaguely.

“Hmpf,” Hermione mutters, but she doesn’t insist.

Ron approaches Harry. He follows his glare and sighs when it lands on the Slytherin group.

“How’s the crush going?” Ron asks.

“It’s over,” Harry lies, quickly looking away. “You were right, he’s good looking but that’s it. Still a blood supremacist. It was stupid even thinking about it.”

“Yeah,” Ron says, not sounding too convinced.

Harry’s not so sure that last part is true, though. Does Malfoy still listen to his playlist? Has he changed his mind about Muggles being inferior? Harry remembers the precious, urgent emotion he had when he gave Malfoy the walkman. He thinks back of that snowy morning where the blond told him about Bethany, and the recent awakening Harry just had about his feelings. The intensity he felt at each look he dared to take at Malfoy. Now each look feels bitter, painful, like a stinging reminder of what can never be.

For the next few weeks, Harry’s ring does not heat up at all anymore. Winter is reluctantly retreating when it does.

𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑜𝓃𝑒𝒹

Harry’s heart beats faster. He runs all the way to the Room of Requirement, arriving faster than usual thanks to his recent discovery of several shortcuts. When Harry comes in, his heartbeat accelerates even more. Malfoy is here.

“Hi,” Harry says faintly.

“Potter,” Malfoy says in a cold voice.

They stare at each other for a moment. Seeing him from so close hurts Harry much more than he thought it would. He managed to convince himself that he didn’t care for Malfoy as much as he used to, but it’s now obvious that on the contrary, he cares even more. Harry has to use all of his willpower not to run to Malfoy, not to hug him and apologize, not to tell him he misses him so much.

“How are you doin?” he still asks, unable to help himself.

“Oh, I didn’t think you were interested.”

“I am,” Harry says, feeling miserable.

“Well,” Malfoy snorts, “I’m doing brilliantly. Just like you, it seems.”

Harry knows he got thinner, that his hair is way too long and his eyes drowned in grey circles. He doesn’t mind. What worries him is Malfoy. He too seems tired, tense, all nerves exposed. Harry can’t hold back anymore and takes a few steps towards him.

“Did Voldemort summon you too? Have you made any progress about Dumbledore? Do you need help?”

“No. You’re going alone.”

Harry wonders why Malfoy is here, then. He dares to take one more step towards him.

“Do you need help?” he repeats.

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter!” Malfoy snaps. “Stop pretending you care!”

Harry freezes. His chest hurts like hell, like it’s getting tighter, like his ribs are going to pierce through his flesh and open him up from the inside.

“I care,” Harry says in a breath. “I’m sorry, I…”

He can’t find the words. Malfoy is staring like he’s daring him to talk, or maybe begging. Harry can’t stand it. Everything he sees is a failure — his own mistake, his incapacity to protect the one he loves, inability to keep a friend close.

Harry turns around and without another look, he steps into the fireplace.

The drawing room is quiet. Grey daylight illuminates the man standing in the middle, looking royal in his black embroidered cloak. Harry walks toward Voldemort with a heavy heart. Malfoy’s icy voice still resonates in his ears.

“Good morning, Harry.”

“Hi,” Harry mumbles.

Voldemort approaches Harry and raises his chin to look at his face closely. Harry shudders at the cold touch.

“You seem unwell. You have been unwell lately, I have felt it. What is wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Harry sneers. “I don’t see what could be. My friends hate me and I can’t sleep and I’m never going to graduate, but what does it matter? The world is going to end anyway.”

Voldemort seems amused.

“Ah, I see. Teenage anguish it is, then.”

“Yeah, nothing out of the ordinary,” Harry retorts angrily. “Just a normal teenage boy trying to survive a bloody war.”

“And how are you managing?”

“Why do you even care?”

“I am wondering how I could help you,” Voldemort says calmly.

Harry looks at him with stupor. Maybe he’s still asleep and this is a very twisted dream.

“Help me? You want to help me?”

“To regain strength, yes. I have felt your state degrade since the last time we met and I have wondered if it had to do with the finger you gave me, but you seem physically fine except for a lack of rest. You are eating correctly, are you not?”

Harry is too stunned to answer for a moment, then he gets up angrily, facing Voldemort with tight fists.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says. “You’re asking me about my health? Seriously?”

“I am very serious.”

“It’s not about the finger!” Harry explodes. “It’s never been about the finger! It’s about— You don’t really care about how I’m doing! All you want is for me to be healthy enough so you can keep on playing with me, so you can torture me for many more years!”

“That is untrue,” Voldemort says, but Harry doesn’t let him speak.

“I’m in this state because of you! You’re provoking a war, you lured me into the Department of Mysteries and your filthy Death Eater killed Sirius! You’re making me do things I don’t want to because if I don’t, you’re going to kill my friends, and you’re the fucking one making Malfoy kill Voldemort! He’s a kid, don’t you understand that? He’s a kid just like I am, and you’re playing with all of our lives like it’s nothing, like we don’t feel, but we’re not you! And you’re asking me if I’m eating enough?”

Harry kicks an ornamental table, sending the precious books it carries to the floor. Voldemort does not react.

“Every single problem in my life is your fault! I have to hide from everyone and lie and cheat and this is all! Your! Fault!"

Harry presses his hand to his temples. He tries to get angrier, he tries to think of everything Voldemort has done and hate him for it, but he can’t.

Why avoid the truth? This is not all Voldemort’s fault. It’s his. He could be at Hogwarts right now, all ten fingers intact, sitting with his friends, not even remotely worried about Malfoy, not aware Dumbledore has to die, not spending his time practicing Dark curses, not talking about his problems to the one man he should not tell anything to. Yet here he is.

“If… If I wanted to stop everything,” Harry says wearily, “would you let me?”

“Of course. I do not wish to constrain you.”

“But you’d hurt people I care about.”

“I might.”

“It’s not a real choice, then. If you menace me, I’m staying by your side because I’m scared for them. It’s not free will.”

“And if I promise not to hurt them, you stay to guarantee their safety, and you are not free either.”

Harry sighs and lets himself fall on the sofa, facing Voldemort. He always has an answer for everything. It’s annoying but also reassuring, in a way.

“If I wish to hurt people,” Voldemort says, “it will be done for specific reasons. Not because you obey me or not. There is already a Vow ensuring you do not turn against me. Whether you leave or stay will not affect my decision to attack the ones you care for. Rest assured, Harry, that you are entirely free.”

Harry groans.

“In a way I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave me any choice,” he mutters.

“Would it be easier for you to simply obey orders without thinking?”

“I don’t know. No, I don’t think so… But to have the choice, it’s worse.”

Voldemort gets up.

“You think too much,” he says. “Let’s start our lesson. This time you will make an attempt at Occulmency, and in exchange, I will have a memory.”

“Alright,” Harry says in a tired voice.

He gets up and Voldemort points his wand at him.

“You already know what to do. Let us try once and you shall do your best. Then I will provide you with advice, and we shall try again.”

Harry tries his best to empty his mind but it’s full to the brim. When a familiar presence invades his brain Harry is carried away by a wave of memories. He’s in the Department of Mysteries and Sirius is falling through a veiled arch. He’s in Malfoy Manor in front of all the Death Eaters and Voldemort is inking the Dark Mark under his skin. He’s walking around the lake with Malfoy and trying not to look at his face. He’s grabbing Hermione’s arm and shouting at her. He’s in the dark humidity of the Chamber of Secrets, punching the Basilisk’s teeth…

Harry violently falls back into reality. He finds himself on his knees, watching the hem of Voldemort’s robe from way too close. When Harry looks up, the Dark wizard is staring down at him with an expression Harry can’t interpret.

But he knows he fucked up. He fucked up real bad.

“You are searching for the diadem,” Voldemort says calmly.

“I’m not,” Harry says. “I mean I am, but… I’m just curious. I wasn’t going to…”

“You retrieved a Basilisk fang.”

Harry gets up on his feet, still shaken up. He’s so stupid. How could he be so stupid? How could he let Voldemort see this?

“I’m sorry,” he says in a shaky voice. “I didn't mean to use it or anything…”

“Do not lie to me.”

Harry’s breath accelerates. Voldemort doesn't sound angry and that’s maybe the worst part. He’s perfectly still, dominating Harry from all his height but not shouting, not menacing.

“I wasn’t going to use it, I swear!” Harry says. “I just saw it and I didn’t think, I—”

“You took and kept one of the only known substances to destroy a Horcrux. You are seeking the diadem, and you’d seek the others if they were accessible to you. Is that not true?”

“No, I mean— Yes, it’s true, but I’m not going to destroy them, you know I won’t!”

“Because you cannot. But if you could, you would.”

“No,” Harry says, feeling panic building up in his chest. “No, I’m not going to—”

“Do not lie to me,” Voldemort says, his voice getting colder.

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurts. “I’ll throw it away, I promise, I won’t do anything!”

“I do not care about your actions, I care about your intent. You are looking for a way to destroy me.”

So calm, why is he so calm? It terrifies Harry way more than any display of violence. Voldemort is just standing still and staring at him with his blood-red eyes, and Harry feels crushed and small and so, so stupid.

“I— But you knew that, didn’t you?” he asks desperately. “I told you from the start that I wanted to help my friends, that I…”

The words die in his throat.

“You have made me believe you changed, Harry,” Voldemort says in his icy tone. “How foolish of me to have thought that you did not wish my demise any longer.”

“You—”

Harry can’t think straight. Is Voldemort truly disappointed? Did he really believe Harry had grown sensible to his cause? But then again, it’s not entirely false. Harry started to understand him, to hate him less — no, he doesn’t hate him at all anymore.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he says, a hopeless accent in his voice. “I’ve changed, I swear!”

“And yet you seek ways to destroy me.”

“No! No, I’m just trying to… I want to protect the people I love, you have to understand this, don’t you understand this? Everything I’m doing, it’s for them, and you’re putting them in danger, that’s why I did it! But I’m not going to betray you, ever, I swear!”

Voldemort sighs, like he’s listening to a little kid’s caprice.

“I have been very patient with you, Harry. I have shown mercy where I usually never do. I have spared Draco because you begged me to, and I keep sparing your miserable friends… But it does you no good, Harry. It brings us nowhere.”

“No, no, no, listen, it has nothing to do with them, it’s not this—”

“It has everything to do with them. As long as you are trying to protect others, you are bound by fear. It keeps you from growing, it prevents you from unleashing your true potential.”

"That's not true!” Harry shouts, his voice high. “They make me strong, I’m nothing without them, I know you don’t understand this but you have to believe me, please!”

Voldemort seems calmer than ever, not even remotely touched by Harry’s plea.

“I have told you before, Harry,” he says cooly. “You will be weak as long as you love.”

“No! It’s not true, it’s just not! The prophecy said I have a power you do not know, and it’s love, this is the power, I know it is!”

Voldemort lets out a cold laugh.

“Did your dear Dumbledore told you so? And you believe this nonsense, Harry? Do not be pathetic. Love has no power.”

“It does! It does, it’s what made me ask for your help, it’s what made me learn the Dark Arts, I only did it to protect my friends!”

“And it is the reason you’re reluctant to hurt others, too. Love is the obstacle preventing you from ruling, like you could. I see the potential you have, boy, almost as might as the potential I had myself, but you have to make sacrifices. You have to clear the way. Once your friends are dead, you will understand.”

“What? No, please, no!”

“I have waited long enough,” Voldemort says with detachment. “I see now that true help would be to relieve you from that useless love you cling to. I shall get rid of every person present in the memory you gifted me.”

“NO!” Harry screams. “No, you can’t, you can’t!”

“I can, and I shall.”

Harry doesn’t even remember who was in the memory, but he knows it’s bad. Ron and Hermione, certainly, maybe Ginny and Neville too, maybe others… And Malfoy, Harry realizes, might be in the memory as well. He falls to his knees before Voldemort.

“Don’t do it,” he implores, feeling tears coming up. “Don’t do it, please don’t, please!”

“Raise, Harry,” Voldemort says in annoyance. “I do not like seeing you so weak.”

“You can’t kill them,” Harry says, grabbing Voldemort’s robe. “You can’t do it, I won’t let you, you can’t, please!”

“I can do whatever I please!” Voldemort raises his voice. “I will free you from this liability and you will rise, strong and unbound!”

“No!” Harry screams. “I beg you, I fucking beg you, I’ll do whatever you want!”

“I want you to stop acting like a pathetic little child!” Voldemort snaps. “I want you to be free, truly free, to show the world what you’re capable of!”

Harry gets up, swallowing back his tears. He forces himself to stand straight, to look at Voldemort in the eyes and calm his trembling breath.

“I will show you,” he says. “I will show everyone, I’ll… I’ll reveal the Mark if you want, I’ll do anything you ask. But you cannot kill them. It will never make me stronger, it will only make me hate you, hate myself. I’ll be strong, I swear. Let me prove it.”

Voldemort stares at him, pondering. He still doesn’t seem really angry, only displeased. Harry ignores the violent feeling in his chest, ready to explode; he pushes back the fear as far as he can, not thinking of everything he could lose. Do not think of Malfoy, Ron and Hermione. Do not show any sign of weakness.

“There will be an attack in a fortnight,” Voldemort finally says. “My Death Eaters will demolish a Muggle bridge, to send the world a message. Are you strong enough to participate, Harry?”

Harry feels the floor beneath his feet give way.

Attack Muggles. Civilians. Kill them, certainly.

That is his only way out, the one exit Voldemort offers, because Harry is certain he will not accept any more bargaining. This, or his friends die. It should be an impossible choice to make, he should not feel relieved by the offer. Yet he is. Harry doesn’t recognize his own voice when he answers.

“I will do it. I will prove to you that I’m strong enough… My Lord.”

Voldemort does not seem pleased or surprised or angry. Still just dissatisfied. It’s not a real choice, he and Harry both know it. Harry is not free anymore. In a terrible way, Voldemort was right. As long as his friends are alive he’ll never be free.

“We shall see,” Voldemort says. “You have one chance. Now, I will take the memory and you may go.”

Harry doesn’t protest. He lowers his head, offering his temple to the Dark wizard.

“I would like you to remember the first time you have been in love,” Voldemort says.

Harry first thinks of Cho Chang, who he liked so much last year. He then remembers Cedric Diggory, who occupied his every thought in fourth year. Then, of course, there’s Malfoy… But Harry can’t let Voldemort know he loves him. Harry is not in love anyway, it’s just a crush, a stupid crush that is leading nowhere.

He focuses all his mind on his first kiss with Cho. He liked her, he really did. Voldemort touches Harry’s head with the tip of his wand and the memory slips away into a vial. Harry watches him drop it into his robe pocket, feeling empty inside.

“Go now,” Voldemort says. “I will call you when it’s time to prove yourself to me.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Harry says in a toneless voice.

Right before he steps into the fire Voldemort grabs him by the arm.

“You do not see it yet,” he says with an intense stare, “but I am helping you. I am the only one who can truly understand you, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want it to be true, but he’s afraid it is.

When he steps back into the Room of Requirement, Malfoy is still there. He jumps when he sees Harry, eyes alert and anxious.

“Are you fine? What happened?”

“You waited for me?” Harry asks feebly.

“Only way to ensure you’re alright, it seems,” Malfoy says, but his voice isn’t as detached as he tries to make it.

Seeing Malfoy safe and sound makes Harry realise how close he came to losing him forever. He can’t believe he almost cost him his life. Without thinking he walks up to the blond and takes him in his arms, holding tight, hiding his face in his neck, once more holding back tears.

Voldemort cannot take him. Harry simply can’t stand this idea. Now he knows that he’s not fighting in the war by Dumbledore and the Order’s side anymore. He is fighting for Malfoy, Ron and Hermione. He will do whatever he has to for them. No matter how terrible.

“Are you alright?” Malfoy whispers in a softer tone, wrapping his arms around Harry.

“I’m not,” Harry’s voice trembles. “But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are.”

“I’m fine,” Malfoy says, confused. “I stayed here all along. Did he tell you something about me?”

“He says my friends make me weak,” Harry whispers. 

“What are you talking about?”

“He wants to kill you to make me stronger.”

“What?” Malfoy squeals.

“But I won’t let him, Malfoy, I promise!” Harry exclaims. “There’s a way out. I know what I have to do. He won’t touch you.”

“What do you have to do? What did he ask?”

“I’m becoming a real Death Eater,” Harry says faintly. “I have to show him I’m strong.”

Malfoy takes Harry by the shoulders and steps away to look at him. He seems horrified.

“You’re not going to… You’re not going to kill someone, right?”

“I might have to. I don’t know.”

“Potter, you can’t do that!”

“I don’t have a choice.”

Malfoy pulls Harry back into his arms, holding him tighter than ever. Harry closes his eyes, heart beating fast, breath uneven. He can smell Malfoy’s delicate cologne and underneath a light odor of sweat, not disgusting at all but on the contrary, making Harry feel weak in the knees.

At this moment he knows that if he has to kill someone for Malfoy, he will do it. He simply can’t imagine himself without him, he cannot accept to see Malfoy hurt. Harry’s vision of Voldemort reigning, himself and Malfoy by his side, seems more fragile than it used to, but it’s still possible. Harry wants it more than he wants Voldemort to fail, he wants it more than Dumbledore alive, more than the right side winning the war. And he doesn't want Malfoy to be his friend, either. He wants him by his side night and day, right here, against him, because this is how things feel right.

The embrace is lasting and Harry is trying to memorize Malfoy’s smell, the feeling of his hands in his back, the warmness of his body. His cheek is touching Malfoy’s skin in the back of his neck and Harry has never craved anything like he craves having more of this. If he does not kiss Malfoy right now, surely he’ll die

But if he does, Malfoy will.

Voldemort cannot see this. He cannot know, ever, how violent Harry’s love for Malfoy is. There, in that moment of gutting fear, Harry understands that he was wrong earlier. This is not a crush. No feeling ever compared to this.

He is in love with Draco Malfoy.

Harry forces himself to let go, to step back. He can’t look at the boy in front of him or he’s sure he will make the terrible mistake of kissing him and then, he’s not sure he can ever stop.

“I have to go,” Harry says. “I think it’s better if we stay apart for some time. I’m sorry.”

“No, you need help,” Malfoy says. “You need to have someone by your side. I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” Harry insists. “It’s dangerous, now, being my friend.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Then why are you staying? Why did you wait for me today?”

“I can’t help being your friend,” Malfoy says in a soft voice. “But even if I had a choice, I’d be your friend every time.”

This is what a real choice sounds like, Harry thinks. He wishes Malfoy wouldn’t like him, if it meant he was safe. But at the same time he desperately needs him by his side. It felt awful not seeing each other that last month.

“I want you to be safe,” he says.

“I want the same for you,” Malfoy answers firmly. “Don’t push me away anymore, okay? I know the risk I’m taking.”

“I’ll protect you,” Harry whispers. “I’ll become the most powerful Dark wizard the world has ever seen and no one will dare to hurt you.”

“That sounds like a strategy,” Malfoy says with a weak smile. “Lord Potter. Not so bad.”

They laugh feebly. Harry looks at Malfoy with an infinite tenderness. He will burn the world down for this man.

“You should go,” he says quietly. “There’s still something I need to do.”

“I’ll stay.”

“No, please. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Alright. Use the ring if you need anything. I mean it.” 

“I promise I will.”

Malfoy gets out. He hasn’t noticed that Harry plucked off one hair during the hug. A blond, almost white thread, that Harry keeps carefully in his hand. He sits on the floor, Harry gets the Book of Darkness out of his bag.

‘Use this book for good,’ Sirius had written. ‘I know you’ll find a way.’ With an aching thought for his godfather, Harry opens the book to one of the last pages.

Harry has noticed this ritual from the very first day, but he never truly envisaged it before. It’s too dark, too desperate, completely insane.

“Welcome to your new life,” Harry mutters to himself. “Dark, desperate and insane.”

He studies the ritual for a moment. He will need some rare ingredients, but nothing he can’t find in Snape’s stock. He will need his own blood, three night animals like foxes or owls — alive, and a sharp blade.

Then, of course, he needs one of Ron and one of Hermione’s hairs as well.

Chapter Text

It’s raining and Harry is running.

He almost slips in the muddy grass but doesn’t stop. His glasses are steamy, his hair dripping, his shoes dirty but he goes on. Harry only slows down when he arrives at the edge of the Great Lake. Malfoy is already there, perfectly dry. He turns around when he hears the steps and a smile brightens his face.

“Gosh, Potter, you can use the Dark Arts but not cast an Umbrella spell?”

Harry laughs. He’s a little out of breath but tries not to show it. Malfoy doesn’t need to know he ran all the way from the castle the moment he got his message. The blond notices anyway.

“Were you eager to see me, Potter?” he teases.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy,” Harry says with a smile.

“Well, come here, idiot.”

Harry steps under Malfoy’s umbrella, soaking and cold but not caring at all. They start walking slowly around the lake. None of them speak, simply enjoying each other’s presence, adjusting their paces, close but not quite touching. It’s the third time they meet this week and Harry can’t deny anymore that it makes a huge difference in his life.

He still has terrible dreams every night, still feels tired and angry and scared every day, still drifts away from his friends and feels like he’ll never catch up in class. But every time he meets Malfoy all of his troubles fade away for a moment, replaced by one big, sweet trouble. How fucking in love he is with Draco Malfoy.

“Aren’t you cold? Give me your wand.”

Harry gives Malfoy his wand and takes his, holding the magical umbrella it projects. Malfoy mutters a drying spell and a warm feeling envelops Harry.

“Thank you.”

Their fingers brush when they exchange their wands. Harry imagines how it would be to hold Malfoy’s hand in his, how warm and magical it could feel. He refrains from doing so. He’s held Ron’s hands a couple of times but his friendship with Malfoy is different. Every contact between their skins leaves him begging for more and thinking about it for hours.

“How was your day?” Malfoy asks when they sit on a rock to watch the scenery.

“Not so good. How was yours?”

“Fine. Great, actually.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Well for starters I’m seeing you.”

Harry feels his cheeks get warm and his smile widens. Malfoy has been more forward with his affection lately. Harry suspects that it has to do with them openly admitting they are friends and not just helping each other to stay alive.

“I’m also making some progress about Dumbledore,” Malfoy says in a bittersweet tone.

“Oh,” Harry murmurs. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. I know how you feel about that…”

“You know I want to help you, too.”

“I am aware, but this time I won’t need help. It will be fine.”

“You’ll tell me if you need me, right?”

“I will,” Malfoy says, and he smiles sadly at Harry. “What about you? Any news?”

“Still nothing… It’s been more than a fortnight now, but maybe the attack has been delayed or something.”

“The stress must be killing you.”

“Yeah… The dreams are getting worse.”

“I wish I could slip into your dorm to comfort you,” Malfoy says lightly.

Harry blushes at this idea. He blocks the images his brain is sending him. Not now. Not ever. Not gonna happen. Get over it.

They already have to walk back to the castle if they want to be on time for dinner. Harry offers Malfoy help to get up, just to feel his hand for a second. He holds it just an instant more than he should.

“I think my friends are starting to suspect something,” Malfoy says on the way back. “They think I’m seeing someone.”

“Well, you are.”

“Yes but I mean… They think I have a secret relationship.”

“Isn’t this a secret relationship?”

“Oh, come on, Potter,” Malfoy says with slightly pinker cheeks. “They think I have a secret lover.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

Their pace gets slower as they approach the end of the way. Harry wants to live in this moment. Pretending to look at the mountains when truly he’s looking at Malfoy as often as he can. God, is it even allowed to be so gorgeous?

“But you’re not, uh… You don’t have a girlfriend, right?” Harry asks, trying to sound detached.

Malfoy shoots him a strange look.

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend, Potter. And I’m not interested in having one either.”

“Ah, yeah, right. Other priorities, I suppose.”

“You could put it like that.”

They stop at their meeting point. It’s time to split up and pretend they hate each other. Though even the insults they exchange in the corridors sound dangerously affectionate now. Harry delays the separation as long as he can, but he knows they can’t stay here forever. The moment is way too sweet to fit into his mess of a life.

“Wait,” Malfoy says just as Harry managed to convince himself to go. “I’ll teach you the Umbrella spell. It won’t be too complicated for a Dark wizard like you.”

“Stop calling me that,” Harry says even if he secretly likes it.

“The incantation is Pluvia Celare. Now, for the wand movement…”

Harry’s heart misses a beat when Malfoy takes his hand in his. He directs Harry’s wand, his fingers soft, his movements gentle. Harry is so overwhelmed by that light touch that he doesn’t pay any attention to the motion.

“Your turn, now,” Malfoy says, letting go of his hand.

The opportunity is too tempting.

“Err… Would you mind showing me again?”

This time Malfoy places his entire body behind Harry, guiding his arm, taking his hand more firmly. Harry can feel his breath in his neck.

“Concentrate,” Malfoy says.

Harry sort of manages to replicate the movement on his own after Malfoy lets go. It takes a few tries but he finally makes a decent umbrella.

“I’ll take the long route,” he says. “See you soon, right?”

“Whenever you want.”

Harry walks back to the castle with a silly smile stuck on his face. Malfoy doesn’t have a girlfriend, then. Harry had some doubts about Parkison, but it seems he has nothing to worry about.

That night, instead of the usual worries it’s a symphony of touches and glances that plays in Harry’s mind. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not that Malfoy is so tactile. On one side he loves every small contact; on the other it’s torture to know it’s nothing but platonic. He falls asleep with this sweet and sour mix of emotions.

Harry wakes up in pain, but the stinging feeling on his arm does not fade after he opens his eyes.

He hastily pulls up his pajama sleeve and discovers with horror that the skull on his forearm is laughing. The snake swirls under Harry’s skin and there is no more doubt. This is not a dream. His Dark Mark is burning like fire.

Voldemort is calling.

All the warmth in Harry’s body seems to disappear. It’s time. It is happening, now, tonight. He takes a few deep breaths to fight the pain, then covers back his arm and peeks outside of his curtains. Everyone seems to be sleeping. Harry quickly gets dressed and takes his Cloak of Invisibility. Right before he puts it on he sees Neville’s head peeping out of his curtains.

“Everything okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “Just… Need some air.”

Neville gives him a nod then disappears in his bed. Harry gets out of the dorm, crossing the empty common room then the castle as fast as he can. He tries to prepare himself for what is about to happen, but there is no rationalization possible. Harry has gone past the acceptable. For Malfoy, he remembers, for Ron and Hermione.

He has no way to know if the ritual he did two weeks ago worked. Harry felt the Dark answer his call, he felt her listen and guide him through the steps. She was there when he offered the hedgehog, bat and mouse Hedwog had caught for him. She appeased his trembling hand when he sliced open the poor Stupefied animals, their little hearts still beating in panic. Harry couldn’t look at himself in the mirror for days after that — and he doesn’t even know if it worked.

It better had worked, he thinks when arriving at the seventh floor. If he fails tonight his friends' lives are on the line, and he’s not sure even an effective ritual will be enough to protect them from Voldemort’s wrath. But he won’t fail. He won’t.

Malfoy is waiting in the Room of Requirement. For a moment Harry is scared he has to come too — he can’t bear the idea of him in a Death Eater robe. But Malfoy is thankfully not invited to the deadly party.

“I’ll wait for you until you come back,” he says in an anxious tone.

“You don’t have to stay, you know…”

“I don’t think I can sleep anyway, knowing you’re out there.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says, even though they both know it’s a lie.

“I made my father promise to protect you,” Malfoy murmurs. “Stay close to him. I know you don’t like him, but this is vital.”

“I’ll stay with him, and I’ll be very careful,” Harry promises.

Malfoy looks at him with a terribly worried look, then he suddenly takes Harry in his arms and squeezes him hard.

“Don’t die, Potter,” he says. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“Don’t get arrested. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll try.”

“No, don’t try, just… don’t do it. I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

Harry holds Malfoy tightly, trying to engrave his smell into his memory. He wants to say a million things, like ‘I’m doing this for you’ and ‘if anything happens to me you have to run away as far as you can’, or even ‘no one ever made me feel like you make me feel’. But it’s too hard to say out loud. He’ll tell him when he’s back. He’ll be back soon.

They have to let each other go because you don’t make the Dark Lord wait. Harry steps into the fire backwards, facing Malfoy. His grey eyes are printed on his retina when he steps out of Malfoy Manor’s fireplace.

Voldemort is not there. In fact, there is no one but Narcissa Malfoy, waiting anxiously. As soon as she sees Harry she walks toward him and slightly bows to him, which makes Harry very uncomfortable.

“Err… Good evening, Mrs Malfoy,” Harry says, unsure of the politeness fitting such circumstances.

“Good evening, Harry,” she says. “Please follow me.”

They walk quickly through the manor. Harry can see that the woman is very agitated. She must be worried for her husband. Death Eater or not, she seems to love him very much. Harry is surprised when she turns to look at him, though not slowing her pace down.

“I cannot thank you enough,” she says in a low voice. “I know what you are doing for Draco. If you can put your differences aside, please accept my husband’s help tonight.”

“I will,” Harry says. “Malfoy told me I can count on him.”

Narcissa lets out a faint sigh. Harry sees the same worry in her eyes fixed on him as in Mrs Weasley’s. It must be a mother thing, he thinks bitterly.

“It is a cruel world in which boys your age must go to war,” she says in an even lower voice, like she’s scared the portraits could hear.

“It’s a cruel Lord who sends them to war,” Harry answers in the same tone. “Listen, ma’am, if anything happens to me… You have to take your son very far away, you know that, right?”

Mrs Malfoy stops for an instant and turns to Harry. She seems deeply upset.

“Nothing will happen to you nor to Draco.”

Harry hasn’t the heart to contradict her, but he’s not as certain. They soon arrive at the large door that Harry first opened months ago. He remembers how then, he didn’t feel scared at all. Today he’s terrified.

He takes a deep breath and opens.

They’re all here, of course. All the bloody goons, wearing their murderers' uniform. Heads turn to Harry when he walks past them but he only looks at the man at the table’s end.

Voldemort seems delighted to be there. He makes a slight hand motion and the closest chair to him moves back to let Harry sit.

“Welcome, Harry,” he says in a clear and loud voice. “Tonight, you will have the honour of participating in the great mission of elevating our society. Tonight, you will take a step towards a purest civilization. Tonight, you will mark the wizarding world.”

Harry wants to scream in front of everyone that this whole thing is delirious and wrong, that none of this is an honour, that they’re both Halfblood anyway. He shuts up. Keeps his eyes down.

“You will all Apparate above a Muggle bridge in London,” Voldemort continues, “and terrorize the population. The Ministry has been underestimating us long enough; it’s time to remind the whole country who we are, and what we are capable of. Do not show any mercy.”

Harry breathes as slowly as he can. He stares at the marble table, observing the shapes in the stone, trying to forget where he is; but with Voldemort standing right next to him it’s rather impossible. Harry can feel his gaze on the back of his head.

“You, Harry, will put our lessons to practice. You will use the Earth Fury to shatter the bridge.”

I can’t, Harry thinks. I won’t do it, there will be innocent people there, I can’t do that, I can’t. But he says nothing. He breathes even slower, eyes glued to the table.

“The operation must be quick. As soon as the bridge is down you will Apparate back here. If Ministry officials are prompt enough to intervene, kill them all.”

Harry closes his eyes. For Malfoy, he repeats in his head. For Ron and Hermione. It’s far too late to go back anyway.

“Raise,” Voldemort says.

Everyone obeys in a single move, except Harry who’s late.

“Look at me, Harry,” says a velvet voice.

Harry looks up. He hates how proud Voldemort looks. Like having Harry in his rank is the greatest part of the whole event. With only a motion of his wand Voldemort changes Harry’s clothes to black smoke, soon turning into the full Death Eater uniform. The mask appears last, and Voldemort adjusts it himself. Harry feels sick, not physically but deep in his soul, like it’s rotten from the inside.

“Show me your strength,” Voldemort tells him.

“I will, my Lord,” Harry answers, and his voice almost doesn't tremble.

“Go now,” Voldemort tells all. “Magic is Might!”

“Magic is Might!” repeat dizains of voices.

Harry doesn’t have time to think. He’s grabbed by the arm by a masked man and the very unpleasant feeling of Apparating is forced onto him. When it ends he is floating in the air, still firmly held by the man.

They are flying over the River Thames, approaching a pedestrian bridge, still busy despite the late hour. The wind slaps Harry’s exposed skin, the water far below them.

“Act quick, Potter,” the man says and Harry recognises Lucius Malfoy’s voice. “As soon as this is over I will bring you back to the manor. Cast the curse now!”

Harry closes his eyes. He can’t panic now. He can’t question what he’s doing. For Malfoy. For love.

“Tenaci Tenebris,” Harry says, and the Dark rises around him.

The Dark Hand materializes to carry him and Lucius Malfoy lets his arm go. Harry keeps his eyes closed. He feels the energy around, he focuses only on the Dark’s calming presence…

“Ortigis.”

There is a notable difference here, in the middle of a Muggle city, but Harry can still sense the Dark all around and especially in the river. The Thames wakes up. It roars and rages, and Harry can feel the high waves crashing on the bridge even with his eyes closed. He feels the energy and directs it under the bridge’s foundations to shatter them, managing to keep the curse under control. He focuses on the movement, on the magic — nothing else.

Until he hears the screams.

Harry opens his eyes and sees the bridge collapsing right under his eyes. It crumbles under the violent vibrations he created, already split in two, the cables breaking one after the other. Dark silhouettes are flying, howling, laughing, casting curses all around, hitting moving shapes fleeing the bridge.

And Harry sees them. People. Falling into the river.

He lets out a scream and wants to look away but the Dark is awake now and won’t tame on its own. Harry tries to concentrate but all he hears are screams and metal sounds and euphoric laughs. When he looks up he sees the clouds taking the form of a massive skull spitting a snake out of its jaw, and what he really is doing hits him.

Harry’s sight blurs, he starts hyperventilating and feels he’s losing all control. Fuck.

“Potter!” a voice calls.

It’s an almost familiar voice. It’s Lucius Malfoy, father of Draco Malfoy, calling his name with the same accent, the same urgency. Harry feels hands grasp his shoulders, holding him firmly.

“Potter, do not stop now. End the curse and I’ll take you out of here. Focus!”

Harry can’t, he’s hearing death all around, he’s sensing it, the earth is furious and devours everything and he doesn’t even remember how to stop this.

“Potter, come back!” the voice calls. “You have to stop this now!”

“I can’t!” Harry screams.

“You have to! Do it now!”

“I can’t!” Harry repeats, unable to breathe.

“You can do it! You have to, for Draco! Please!”

A smell invades Harry’s nose. It’s the same cologne as Malfoy’s. On his retina he sees two grey eyes imploring. “I can’t lose you.” Harry takes a great breath in, his lungs expanding all of a sudden.

He reconnects to the Dark. The energy around is so unstable it takes him a moment to make himself known to it, to get its attention.

“Cease now!” Harry screams at the top of his lungs.

The Dark roars but Harry gets within it, connecting every one of his nerves to the magic around, imposing his will to the ground, to the river, to the air. He feels himself crushed under the pressure like he is not physically here but low underneath his feet, yet he keeps on pushing back, screaming at the Dark to force it back into place.

The earth stops moving abruptly. Even the waves calm down in a second, the whole river falling flat like there never was any movement at all.

Harry falls but he’s caught by a sturdy hand. The last thing he sees is the bridge eviscerated and bodies floating in the wreckage — then everything disappears.

The return to silence and light is violent, like a hard slap in every one of his senses. 

Harry has been Apparated in Malfoy Manor’s reunion room. He is on his knees, whole body shaking, breathing fast and head spinning. Lucius tries to get him up but Harry hits him. The ground isn’t steady, or maybe it’s his body that doesn’t remember how to stay still. Harry stays on the floor for a moment, until he realizes whose shoes are coming towards him.

Raising his head, Harry sees Voldemort above him, extending a hand. Harry takes it slowly. He’s still shaking but manages to stand up.

“My wonderful boy,” Voldemort says. “You made me very proud.”

Harry can’t look him in the eyes. He can’t look at the Death Eaters Apparating one after another, can’t fucking look at his own hands, can’t, can’t.

“Oh no,” he breathes.

People fall in front of his eyes. Screams resonate in his ears.

“No, no, no, fuck, fuck.”

“Everything is fine, Harry,” Voldemort says. “You are safe here.”

“No, no, I— I hurt them, I hurt people, I—”

“It’s all right, Harry,” Voldemort says again.

“No it’s not!” Harry screams.

He steps back in a panic, his breath getting harsher and faster, his chest tightening.

“What did I do? What did I do, what did I do?”

“You did very well, Harry. You showed strength beyond my greatest hopes. You showed the whole world how powerful you are.”

Harry finally raises his head and oh, god. They are all looking at him. Every one of them, black silhouettes that were flying and killing a moment sooner. All still and silent and looking and it does not feel real. It cannot be real.

“Why are you so fucking silent?” Harry says. “People died. People fucking d—”

He can’t breathe. He can’t stop seeing the bodies falling.

“Harry, calm down. It had to be done.”

“No it did not!”

Harry has to hold onto the table to stay on his feet. He agreed to it, he decided to do it, and all this for what? To protect Draco, Harry desperately reminds himself, to protect Hermione and Ron. But they wouldn’t be in danger in the first place if he was not so fucking dumb. He made the choice to walk in here, months ago. And for what then? Nothing. For information, for small pieces of soul he can’t even destroy, for power he has used not against his enemy but to serve him.

He watched people die and did nothing. He has killed people, he knows he has. How could he do it? How could he watch, participate, how can they all sit and stay so fucking silent?

“How can you do this?” Harry yells. “You kill people and you don’t even care! They’re dead, they’re all dead because of us!”

No one answers. The dark silhouettes stare at him and he is so, so alone.

“All is fine, Harry.”

“It’s not… It’s not right… I shouldn’t…”

“Nagini, calm the boy.”

“No! No, don’t touch me! Don’t come near me, don’t…”

Nagini tries to approach Harry but he recoils and she stays away, hissing sadly. She wants to comfort him but she can’t, Harry can’t let her, it’s an evil thing, it carries Voldemort’s soul, it’s wicked and wrong and…

Oh, god. And he’s wicked too.

“Why did you do this to me?” he pants. “Why me? Why?”

“Harry, I do not understand. You accepted to—”

“I HAD NO FUCKING CHOICE! YOU WERE GOING TO KILL EVERYONE I LOVE!”

Harry finally looks at Voldemort. He tries to see a monster, tries to hate him, but he can only see the concern, the fucking concern in Voldemort’s eyes. He is worried for Harry. He dares.

“You have a great power, Harry,” the Dark wizard says. “It would be a shame not to use it.”

“I DON’T WANT IT! I DON’T FUCKING WANT—”

And then Harry breaks down.

He folds in half and starts crying hard, ugly, loud. They’re all watching but what does he care? He’s alone here, alone among his enemies, like he is alone among his friends.

“Great destinies are not easy to bear, Harry.”

“I— I— I don’t—” the boy chokes. “I don’t want it, I don't want it, I want to be NORMAL!”

“You are not, Harry, you—”

“It’s your fault! Y-your fault, you did this, you killed my parents, you m-marked me, it’s all your fault, I fucking HATE YOU!”

But it’s not even true. If he hated Voldemort, he wouldn’t feel so goddamn ashamed. He wouldn’t feel so awful at the idea that Voldemort sees him like this, that he could be disappointed in him right now.

“I f-fucked up,” Harry cries, “I fucked up like I fuck everything up, I c-can’t do it, I can’t, I can’t…”

“You are in shock. You have a…”

Voldemort sighs. His voice carries a hesitation never heard before.

“You have a good heart,” he finishes quietly. “It cannot be easy for you to walk on the Dark path like it was for me. Yet it is your natural place.”

“No, no, no… P-please don’t say that, I don’t want it, I want to be normal, I want to be a normal b-boy, I’m just a kid, I’m just a…”

“I understand you are scared—”

“I’m not scared!” Harry screams. “I want it to fucking stop! I want it all to s-stop, I can’t do this anymore, I c-can’t, I don’t want to, I… Please, please, make it stop…”

Harry falls but he does not touch the floor. Cold, large hands catch him. He clings to Voldemort’s arms, desperately trying to find something to ground him, something real, an anchor in the hurricane his life is, and this is all he has. The hands that killed his parents.

“You should have killed m-me,” Harry sobs. “I wish you would have killed me with them, I wish I was d-dead, I wish I wasn’t fucking even born!”

Harry cries and cries like he never cried before. He grabs Voldemort’s robe and tries not to sink, not to drown, but his whole body is shaken to the core by his tears.

“Everyone h-hates me, I should be dead, I should not exist, this is not right, this is n-not… They hate me, they will kill me when they know what I am, what I d-did, I fucked up, I fucked everything up…”

“Hush, child. You have not failed.”

Voldemort places a hand in the back of Harry’s head and very gently brings him closer. Harry crumbles, letting his forehead rest on Voldemort’s chest. He keeps on sobbing and sobbing as the wizard caresses his hair.

“I will never let them hurt you,” Voldemort says gently. Never. You are under my protection, now and forever.”

“N-no, you hate me, you hate me like e-everyone else does…”

“I do not.”

“Liar,” Harry whispers.

But he still hides his face in Voldemort’s arms, letting himself finally go.

“Nagini,” Voldemort calls.

This time Harry lets the snake approach. She curls around the two of them, enveloping both Harry and Voldemort in her rings, protecting them from the entire world. Harry’s face is soaked in tears, his throat burning, his stomach a void. He’s a pathetic mess and still, Voldemort does not push him away.

“Listen, child,” he whispers. “You have to believe me. I will not let you down. I will not hurt you and I will not let you get hurt.”

Harry can’t answer. He’s crying too hard. 

“I will not leave you,” Voldemort says very softly. “I will be there whether you succeed or fail. I will care for you. I promise you that.”

The worst, worst thought is making its way in Harry’s head. He tries to push it away, to kill it in the root, but it only grows louder.

This, he thinks, is what having a parent must feel like.

“I do not mind your actions,” Voldemort tells him. “Not good nor bad. I do not mind your loyalty or your intentions. I do not need you to obey. Not anymore, Harry, not anymore. I wish…”

Harry can’t believe it, he can’t allow himself to hear the sincerity in Voldemort’s voice right now. It can’t be. What if he’s lying? What if he changes his mind?

“I wish for you to be content,” Voldemort says.

“Please,” Harry cries, “p-please don’t lie, please…”

“You have to believe me, child. You have to understand I too can change. You have… You have made me change.”

Now Harry is deep into Voldemort’s arms, clinging to him, begging to be held. And Voldemort holds him. He protects him from the rest of the world, protects him even from himself. Still there despite the ugly tears and the repeated failures and the insolence and the imperfections. Holding the messed up little kid Harry is. Still there after having tried to break him, to kill him. Loving him enough to have changed his mind.

There is something to that cold touch, the slick scales enveloping him, the second heart beating again his first. Little by little Harry feels it, beyond his tears, through his shaking body. A familiar humming, getting louder and deeper, filling the whole space. Harry focuses on it, lets it carry him entirely. He can hear Nagini with her higher pitch, and the locket with its metallic accents. Then he notices another note — way deeper, more full and profound. This is Voldemort’s soul calling him, Harry understands.

He recognises the last note without searching. The fourth part of soul present in the room, held close against the three others, has a delicate echo. It vibrates with the rest, all of them aligning until they are almost indistinguishable.

It all fades. Thoughts, memories, feelings, wants, fears. It all narrows to this sound, this vibration, and for a moment Harry only exists within that frequency, making one with the other parts of himself.

A shattered soul symphony.

Harry’s not sure how long they stay like this. Time seems to have stopped for a moment. When Nagini lazily unfolds her rings, Voldemort holds Harry a little longer. The boy has stopped crying. He feels drained but quiet, the humming having silenced all the thoughts in his mind.

“Leave.”

For a second Harry is terrified that Voldemort is pushing him away. He’s not ready to go, he’s— But the chairs scrape the floor and Harry hears the Death Eaters exiting the room. Voldemort sits him up on a chair, a hand still holding his shoulder.

“Breathe deep, Harry.”

Harry does. The air feels fresh in his lungs, like it’s his first inhale ever. After a few more he’s able to hold his head up. Voldemort is looking at him with such concern that Harry feels obliged to say something.

“I’m ‘kay,” he mumbles vaguely.

His mouth feels like cotton. He’s sleepy. His body hurts but from afar, like his nerves have been turned down. Voldemort puts a hand on his forehead and the touch is glacial.

“You’re burning,” the wizard says.

He casts a few silent spells and Harry feels a coolness envelop his head. Then, once again, a hand on his forehead, feeling less icy this time. Harry rests against it. He knows there is something very wrong going on, something that should worry him, but he can’t remember what. He doesn’t really want to either. It feels better to let himself be taken care of, to let Voldemort watch him with worry, to be held.

“You have to rest,” Voldemort says. “Can you walk?”

“Sure,” Harry says.

He gets up and immediately falls. Once again he is caught by strong arms, lifted and held tight. Voldemort carries Harry through the room, Nagini sliding by his side, and by the time they get to the door the boy is already asleep.

When Harry wakes up, he’s not sure where he is.

He had no dream, or none he can remember, and feels more rested than he has in a long time. The bed can’t be one from Hogwarts because it is way too comfortable. Harry manages to get up and the first thing he sees is Voldemort, sitting in a near armchair. Watching him with acute attention.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Uh… Okay,” Harry grunts. He’s confused by the situation. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“Merely monitoring your state.”

“Ah,” Harry mumbles. “Uh… For a long time?”

“It is nearly dawn,” Voldemort says. “You should soon go back to Hogwarts. It would be unwise to be missing after tonight’s events.”

‘Tonight’s events’ flash before Harry’s eyes and he lets out a faint cry.

“Oh no…”

“Do not panic,” Voldemort immediately says. “I will have to give you a Calming Draught if you start crying again.”

The tone lands somewhere between menace and concern. Harry takes his head between his hands but he doesn’t panic. He feels fine, actually, at least physically speaking. As for his mind… He’s calmer than he should be, thanks to Nagini certainly, but he still remembers everything in detail and it’s all horrifying. The Dark Mark burning up, the reunion, the bridge… People falling, screaming, and him, unleashing the Earth Fury on the Thames… Losing control there, only calmed by Lucius Malfoy, and then losing control here, calmed by Lord Voldemort himself.

And the one thing Harry would rather forget: he killed people.

Even if he didn’t mean to, he destroyed the bridge, he’s responsible. There is no escaping this, not now and not ever. That’s something he’ll have to live with until he dies.

Harry sits with this thought for a little while. He doesn’t cry, though. If anything he feels way too calm given the situation, a part of him wishing he was screaming and crying again. He’s a confirmed Death Eater now, after all. That’s severely fucked up. Still the guilt doesn’t crush him as hard as it should.

Harry risks a glance between his fingers. Voldemort is still looking closely, following his every move with his attentive eyes. Harry sighs and raises his head to look back at him.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “Really, I’m… I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Voldemort says, seeming relieved. “I must admit your reaction unsettled me.”

“Hah,” Harry laughs without joy. “Welcome to having feelings.”

They stay silent for an instant.

“Was your first murder more peaceful?” Harry asks without thinking.

“It was planned,” Voldemort answers? “I believe it felt strange for a moment, but the victory of having created my first Horcrux quickly dispersed all doubts.”

“You had doubts?” Harry asks with interest.

Voldemort moves his hand in the air as to dissipate the question.

“I certainly did not have so much remorse as you did. What you felt tonight, Harry… It was extremely unpleasant.”

“Tell me about it. I was there.”

Voldemort doesn’t seem amused.

“How can you function with so many emotions?” he asks. “I have not felt such anguish in years. Truly, I cannot remember when I last felt this upset. We will have to find a way to cut the connection, and soon. I certainly do not wish to experience your panic attack again.”

“Or you could, you know—,” Harry says in a sarcastic tone, “—not make me do anything that will cause me panic attacks. Like no murders, for example. I think it’d be a good start.”

Voldemort looks at Harry with curiosity.

“You do seem to be in a better state.”

“Thanks to you, I suppose. That, hum… That hug you gave me. It was… I mean, you felt them too, right?”

There is a moment of silence before Voldemort answers.

“I felt the separate parts of my soul resonate, yes. It was a… peculiar feeling.”

“But not a bad one.”

“No, not a bad one.”

They stare at each other. No one else in the world will ever know this feeling, Harry thinks. Sharing a soul with someone else. Carrying it for them, so rooted it hurts, so deep it makes you love them even if they are the one who turned your life upside down.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers. “For… For having been there.”

“You are welcome,” Voldemort answers. “Do you remember what I said, Harry? I meant it. Every word.”

“I remember,” Harry says. “You won’t leave me. You will care for me. You want me to be content. I… I made you change.”

He feels an intense emotion saying it out loud. What he couldn’t believe to be true some hours ago now feels evident. Voldemort is sincere, Harry knows it without the shadow of a doubt.

“You’ve made me change too,” he says quietly. “I thought I wanted to destroy you, but I don’t anymore. I can’t hate you, no matter what you did. I think… I think I want to save you.”

Voldemort looks at Harry for a long moment without any motion. Then, slowly, he smiles. It seems out of place on his face, but it’s a true smile nonetheless.

“There is nothing to save, Harry.”

The boy is not sure what he means, but he smiles back.

A war might be raging outside, but not here, not between them. Not any longer.

Voldemort helps Harry to get up, giving him water and food to regain strength. They walk together to the drawing room, where a fire is already lit.

“I shall soon call upon you to come,” Voldemort says, “but if you wish you can call upon me as well. I will be there whenever you need.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “See you soon.”

While he’s stepping into the fire he thinks to himself that this is probably the weirdest thing he ever said to Voldemort.

The Room of Requirement is only illuminated by the flames. Malfoy fell asleep in an armchair, turned towards the fireplace. Harry stands there for a moment, feeling wrecked. He hesitates to wake the blond up. He seems so angelic, so serene, like a breathing painting by a romantic virtuoso. Then he sees the clock and has to gently shake Malfoy up.

“Huh? What, what happened?”

Harry forces a smile and Malfoy’s expression clears up when he sees it.

“You’re fine,” he mumbles. “Merlin’s beard, I thought you were dead…”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I kind of fell asleep. I used a lot of magic.”

“But you’re… You seem fine,” Malfoy says, inspecting Harry closely.

“I am now because I’m still a little high,” Harry mutters. “Nagini and— Well, I got a special hug.”

“Mmh. I don’t like what that snake is doing to you.”

“It’s nothing wrong,” Harry reassures him. “It helps me, truly. I’ll explain it to you one day, but right now we have to go back to our dorms.”

Malfoy gets up and rubs his eyes. Harry is feeling himself melt. It’s adorable.

“Can I give you a special hug too?” Malfoy asks in a smooth tone.

Harry laughs faintly and takes Malfoy in his arms. The two boys get closer than ever, truly letting themself rest onto each other. Harry breathes Malfoy’s scent and drives away the nasty memory of that same perfume above the bridge. He only wants to think about what is happening now. One of Malfoy’s hands is in his back, tracing gentle circles, the other is in his neck. Harry must definitely still be high because he thinks he feels Malfoy’s lips brush against his ear. Real or not, it makes him shiver in the best way possible.

Sadly they have to break the embrace at some point. Harry notices Malfoy is very pink. His pupils are dilated to the extreme, his face still a little puffy from sleep, his hair entirely undone. Harry can’t resist and runs his four-fingered hand through his hair to reveal Malfoy’s eyes a little more. Then he has to stop because one more second and he’d be taking this beautiful face between his hands and covering it with kisses.

“I’ll be there when the high comes down,” Malfoy says in a slightly strangled voice.

“Thank you. I think I’ll need it.”

They get out and exchange a last smile before splitting ways. Harry is so lightheaded he feels like he’s floating all the way to the Gryffindor tower. He should be feeling much worse after killing innocents, right? Gosh, he’s a terrible person. What a freak.

Harry is more dazed than ever when he gets back into the Gryffindor common room. In a few minutes he’ll have to pretend he’s waking up, pretend it was a normal night, pretend he’s not a fucking monster, a Deat Eater scum, a bloody murderer. But for now, Harry is just that. A despicable boy with the Dark Mark still black on his arm. Still feeling dizzy, Harry gets straight into bed and closes his curtains, wondering how on earth he’s going to endure this new lie.

He hasn’t noticed Neville, sitting up on his bed with a livid face, a letter in hand. Neville, though, has very well noticed Harry.