Feathers of a Phoenix - httpsruru - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: Abduction

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort was in an exceptionally bad mood, that much was crystal clear to the members of the inner circle present in the meeting room. Draco Malfoy shrunk in on himself even more than he usually did, ignoring the glare of his father who was trying to sit up right, his body trembling.

The other Death Eaters simply sat in their usual seats, with the occasional twitching of Bellatrix. The Lestrange brothers' facial expressions were completely neutral, not giving away anything even if perhaps they were scared out of their minds. An angry Dark Lord usually meant a lot of Cruciatus curses thrown left and right, however this time Lord Voldemort seemed to be seething silently, which was even more deadly. They hoped not.

Snape was the first one who got bored of the silence as he drawled, "My Lord, is there anything wrong?"

"Shut up, Severus," the wizard snapped, his fingers running in his hair in a frustrated manner.

"I can relieve you of some of your stress, my Lord, if you allow me," Bellatrix mewled lewdly, flinching immediately at Voldemort's murderous glare.

"Bellatrix, I suggest you shut your trap if you want to walk out of this room on your own legs," he snapped, twirling his wand between his fingers. "I have become aware of some disturbing news today," he started eventually with an uncharacteristic heavy sigh.

"What news, my Lord?" Snape gulped. His hand automatically tightened around the fabric of his robe. He put up his Occlumency shields as soon as the Dark Lord gazed into his eyes, pushing forward memories that would not give him away and place the Order in danger.

"That information is none of your business, Severus," he hissed gravely. "I merely conducted this meeting in hopes of some of you offering your help tonight… I must go and take care of something effective immediately," he said, raking his eyes over his followers.

"Draco would be glad to assist you, my Lord," Lucius sprung up suddenly. The younger Malfoy's head jerked up incredulously, but hung his head low again as soon as his eyes connected with Voldemort's. The Dark Lord smiled indulgently, ignoring the hissing chuckle of Nagini on his right.

"Brilliant idea, Lucius. Young Draco will be most helpful in this situation, I'm sure…" he drawled. "Rabastan, Rodolphus— You two are coming as well. The rest of you may go, I will notify you if your presence is needed in the next few days," he waved his hand dismissively.

Draco sat on his chair trembling slightly. He felt his mother squeeze his arm gently once before she and her father hurried out of the meeting room. The others left without much complication too — except maybe the grumbling coming from Bellatrix — and it wasn't long before he was alone with only the Lestranges and Voldemort for company. He gulped audibly, ignoring the snicker of Rodolphus as he lifted his head, scared of seeming disrespectful. He really didn't want to be subjected to the Cruciatus curse that evening.

"Gentlemen, tonight's mission is a fragile one. I must ask you to wear your masks and do not let yourself be identified by anyone. We will cause as little mayhem as possible — I want this to happen as peacefully as it can," he hissed with a glare, fingering the tip of his dark yew wand. "Understood?"

"Of course, my Lord," Rabastan nodded, his brother following along a heartbeat later. Draco copied their actions before taking the liberty of conjuring his mask, holding it in his hand carefully.

"My Lord, may I ask a question?" he inquired quietly, afraid of raising his voice lest it start to tremble.

"Speak up, boy!" Voldemort snapped impatiently. "What is it?"

"Where, exactly, are we going, my Lord?" he asked cautiously.

"We are going to retrieve the Potter boy from his despicable muggle relatives before Dumbledore does."

Harry Potter sat on his tiny bed in his slightly bigger than tiny room, twirling a random pen he'd found earlier between his fingers. He was restless, his scar still somewhat aching even after the pain potion he'd taken from his stash under the loosened floorboard earlier. He rubbed at it absently, sighing as it didn't seem to want to subdue in the slightest.

It was just his luck, really. He didn't even know why it hurt, although it was considerably better than at the graveyard. He shuddered thinking about the excruciating pain he felt when Voldemort's cold, clammy fingers had pressed against his forehead. Disgusting.

He sighed as Cedric's seemingly lifeless body flashed before his eyes. Apparently, Voldemort's heart hadn't really been all that into killing the brunet, seeing as he was currently recovering in St. Mungo's. Last Harry heard, Cedric was coming along nicely in his recovery with the help of the Healers and his support from his family and Cho.

Harry was glad Cedric was alright, it eased his guilt quite a substantial amount.

Right now though, he was going crazy. He hadn't heard from anyone else other than Sirius since the summer holidays began, and it was almost his birthday. The Dursleys were just as bad as they had been before and not even the threats of 'the murderer' — namely one Sirius Black — seemed to work. The chores were somehow worse now and Vernon had actually raised his hand at him once again, splitting his lip. Of course he told Sirius about it, however his godfather wasn't able to do anything— Dumbledore's orders, he'd said. And Harry understood, really, he did. But at the same time he didn't.

He knew about the blood wards, which were supposed to keep Voldemort away and required him to stay at the Dursley residence, but that had been little comfort when he'd had to clean the blood from his face.

Vernon's gruff voice tore him out of his musings.

"Come downstairs, boy!" he barked.

Harry let out yet another sigh and threw the pen onto the desk before making his way down the stairs warily. He peeked into the living room and sure enough there he found Vernon, sitting on the sofa like a big plop of fat. Harry had to physically restrain himself from frowning in disgust. How aunt Petunia managed to go to bed with the pig every night was truly beyond him.

"Yes, uncle Vernon?" he gritted out, trying and failing to sound polite.

"Don't get that tone with me, boy!" barked the large man, glaring daggers at his nephew. "We are going to have guests tomorrow. My boss and his wife are coming over for dinner, and you are going to cook it. Then, you will disappear into your room and only breathe when you really have to; make yourself as invisible as you can. I won't have you embarrassing me in front of them," he said, sputtering spit almost everywhere with the intensity of his accent.

"Yes, uncle Vernon," he said in a defeated voice. It was just a dinner. He would cook it and then make himself scarce; maybe then he'd get a little bit of the leftovers.

"Now, get into th—"

Uncle Vernon was promptly cut off by the front door slamming open with a bang.

Harry's hand instinctively flew to the place his wand was supposed to be and promptly let out a string of curses. This really was not the greatest time for his wand to be locked away into the cupboard underneath the stairs. He made his way to the hall hurriedly anyway, sucking in a deep breath upon noticing the Death Eaters in the doorway. Their faces were covered by their masks, the hoods of their midnight black robes covering half of the masks anyway.

He looked at the one who stood in front of the other three and his scar immediately started to hurt. He groaned, hand flying to his forehead instinctively. What happened to the bloody wards Dumbledore had been talking about ever since the end of fourth year?

"How the hell did you manage to get in here?" he hissed, voice laced with anger. He heard Petunia shriek behind him before running back into the living room and he hoped to Merlin they would just stay there until he took care of the situation. But how could he? There were three Death Eaters and f*cking Voldemort right in front of him and he was wandless. He had a hunch that no amount of wandless magic could be useful against the Dark Lord.

"Why, I just walked right up, Harry Potter," a velvety voice answered. Gone was the hoarse hiss, Harry noted, and gone were the claws as well. Come think of it, Voldemort's skin didn't look that sickly gray color anymore. He couldn't help but be curious about what had happened earlier that summer to make this possible.

"What do you want?" he asked icily.

"You, of course, Harry," came the answer calmly. "But first, I'm afraid I have a bit of business that I have to take care of which involves your muggles." Harry could practically hear the sneer, he didn't need to see it; he was at a loss. His hand shook as he raked his thoughts for something that would work, however, he didn't seem to stand a chance. "Petrificus Totalus! My apologies, Potter," Voldemort drawled as he stepped next to Harry's petrified body. He couldn't see the man, but he was sure he had gone in the living room.

Harry watched warily as one of the Death Eaters stood above him and pointed his wand at him. So, this is how I go, he thought sourly, at the hands of a Death Eater.

"Finite incantatem," he murmured, and Harry immediately felt the control back in his limbs. Although not for very long, seeing as almost instantly he felt thick ropes curve themselves around his wrists and ankles. "You mustn't run, I'm sure you understand, Potter," the Death Eater said, levitating a struggling Harry onto the stairs where he was ceremoniously dropped onto his butt. His voice was eerily familiar and it took Harry a few minutes to be able to put his finger on it. He knew he'd heard that voice before, the snobby accent quite hard to miss.

"Malfoy?!" he gaped. "You foul, slimy, absolutely barmy f*cking git— You're one of his minions?"

"How very eloquent of you, Potter," he stated flatly. "I was inducted shortly after the term ended, if you must know," he drawled, twirling his wand between his fingers.

"Let me go, Malfoy," Harry snapped, tugging at the ropes hugging his ankles and wrists. He heard Dudley let out a scream filled with pain and his blood froze in his veins. He started tugging more frantically, albeit to no avail. The ropes were obviously magical, seeing as despite them not hurting him at all, they still weren't easing up at all.

"Not likely," Malfoy stated calmly, as if he were just talking about the weather outside. The other two were just lounging around the hall, inspecting the pictures on the walls. It was a rather comic sight, and Harry was sure he would have laughed, had Voldemort not been in the process of murdering his relatives in the next room.

Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. Opening them, he focused on Malfoy's wand which he was still twirling between his fingers and tried to wandlessly summon it. Of course, it didn't work seeing as he only managed to master wordless magic last school year, not wandless one as well. Malfoy snorted, but tucked away his wand for good measure.

Another gut-wrenching scream came from the living room and Harry flinched. He closed his eyes tightly, pressing his head between his knees. His scar really hurt properly now, sharp white pain coursing through it as he gave a groan. It felt as if Voldemort's anger was splitting his head in a million little pieces. He lifted his head and rubbed his bound arms against his forehead in hopes of alleviating some of it, alas in vain.

"What's wrong with him?" asked one of the Death Eaters whose voice he didn't recognize. Malfoy glanced at him and shrugged in response. "Potter, what's wrong?" he turned to the raven-haired boy. Harry stared at him incredulously, as if he didn't believe it was a genuine question; but he supposed that was only natural. He was trapped in his own home with his archenemy and his minions; his relatives screaming and shouting and begging for mercy that would not come.

"I can't imagine anything that could even be remotely bad. Not a thing," he hissed, gritting his teeth together. f*ck, how he wished Voldemort would just calm the f*ck down and stop giving him such horrible, indestructible migraines that ate his brain from the inside.

The Death Eaters ignored him from then onwards. They didn't have to wait for long, though, seeing as Voldemort walked into the hallway a few minutes later. He looked pristine—his golden mask intact and in place, nothing out of the ordinary. Not a drop of blood, which could mean the best or the worst at the same time.

"Brilliant relatives you have there, I must say, Potter," he drawled, his wand in hand. "How you survived all these years amazes me, to be quite honest."

"I'm sure you know I'm supposed to be the Boy-Who-Won't-f*cking-Die. That doesn't only apply to situations you are a part of," Harry muttered. The sharp pain in his scar eased into a dull, much more tolerable throbbing.

"Such crude language," Voldemort tutted as if he were a father scolding his only child. Harry grimaced at the thought and even gagged a bit. "As charming as conversing with you is, Potter, I'm afraid we have to get going now."

"What did you do to them?" Harry demanded, once again trying to free his wrists from the rope's prison.

"You needn't worry about that," Voldemort replied, the dismissal clear in his voice.

"Did you kill them?"

"Of course I didn't kill them, you foolish boy. What do you think I am, an idiot?" the Dark Lord sneered, looking around the hall in obvious disdain. The frown on his face only deepened as he took notice of the numerous picture of Dudley's gigantic self. "Where are your things, boy?" Voldemort turned to him suddenly, and Harry felt the pain intensify once again. He gritted his teeth together and scrunched his nose up, raising his chin defiantly as if it could make the pain go away.

"Why don't you just Accio them, if you're such a mighty powerful wizard?" he spat, albeit with far less bite than he intended to, probably due to the splitting headache he was sporting seeing as he refused to give Voldemort the pleasure of seeing him cower in front of him.

Voldemort grunted, then flicked his wand wordlessly in an intricate manner Harry had never seen before. The door of the tiny cupboard under the stairs slammed open at once, his things floating out of it fastly, but still delicately. His heart rate sped up upon seeing his wand, the wood calling to him like no other. Harry's throat tightened as he saw the single Gryffindor necktie curled around the handle of the trunk— It had been his father's once, a long time ago. Sirius had given it to him the last time he'd seen him just before the term ended. He then pursed his lips together, set on not letting the wizard standing in front of him and his minions see him weak.

"Ah, I wondered why you hadn't knocked my Death Eaters out yet," he drawled upon seeing the wand. He grabbed it and tucked it away — Harry winced — before shrinking the trunk and passing it to one of his followers. "Right, I believe we are all set. If you wish to take something else, do tell me," he said calmly, glancing at the still bound form of Harry.

"Hedwig," Harry muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"My owl. She's upstairs," he said curtly, his eyes leaving Voldemort's mask-covered face for the first time.

"Alright," Voldemort relented then turned to one of the Death Eaters. "Go upstairs and free the owl. Tell it to go straight to the manor," he instructed him, and the man went without a word. Harry was a bit worried— Hedwig wasn't very good with new people, especially murderers. Although, he thought, it certainly wouldn't be a bad thing if she nipped at his hand a bit harsher than usually.

"My Lord," Malfoy spoke up. "What are we going to do about the Muggles?" There was a worried edge to his voice which Harry found quite strange.

"We aren't going to do anything about them," he drawled. "I already took care of it, of course. Unless you don't trust me, young one?" he asked and Harry could practically touch the threat with his fingertips. The tension was high for a few seconds before Malfoy bowed his head a bit.

"Of course I trust you, My Lord."

"Good," Voldemort nodded as the Death Eater returned from upstairs. Sadly, Harry couldn't see anything out of place on him which essentially meant that Hedwig hadn't attacked him. He frowned, mentally making a note of telling Hedwig later who to nip at harder. He wondered whether they'd let him write a letter but then immediately realized it was a stupid concept. The fact that he hadn't been majorly harmed yet meant nothing, as he was still being kidnapped; a fact he needn't forget.

Oh, how he wished he had Ron's obliviously unbothered personality.

Voldemort closed the gap between Harry and himself, placing his cold hand on his shoulder. It took everything in Harry not to flinch at the contact as he swallowed the bike that had risen in his throat. Merlin's saggy left ball, Voldemort was touching him and Harry didn't even have a wand— not that it would have helped him much, seeing as he was just every bit as tied up as he had been minutes prior.

"You three know where to go," he drawled. "Go on and inform Lucius we're arriving."

With two pops, the three cloaked figures Disapparated, one of them firmly clasping the other's elbow.

"Don't touch me," Harry sneered, trying to get farther from the monster he knew was under the midnight black robes. He heard an icy chuckle and shivered; he hoped death came soon.

The Dark Lord simply tightened his hold on the bony shoulder as an answer and pointed his wand upwards.

"Such a little Gryffindor." Harry heard his raspy, deep voice murmur before he was sucked into the sick swirl of Apparition.

The room they landed in was spacious and alive with light despite it being dark outside. Harry supposed the windows were charmed to make the inhabitant think it was natural light coming through them. No matter, Harry loved the fact that the space was so bright.

His wrists and ankles were free after the woosh of a wand— namely one Tom Riddle's wand. The wizard had donned the golden mask and was now standing in the middle of the room clad only in the black hooded robes. Harry couldn't help but stare; the figure standing in front of him was so far from the snake-like thing that had come out of the cauldron at the end of his fourth year that it actually amazed Harry. The man in front of him resembled the Tom Riddle he had seen in the Chamber of Secrets in his second year, only he was a bit paler, looked a little older and had glowing, crimson eyes.

Harry felt extremely uncomfortable.

"We're at Malfoy Manor," the pale wizard spoke up suddenly. "I figured you would like having someone your age around, wouldn't you?"

"Malfoy and I don't get along really well," he gritted out through his teeth.

"Well, that's not really any of my concern now, is it?"

Merlin, but the man was infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin— looked Voldemort dead in the eyes and waited for the sharp pain to start.

It didn't.

He scrunched up his nose, but let it go, grateful that he didn't feel the migraine anymore. He watched, eyes like a hawk, as the midnight-haired man elegantly reached under his robe and took out Harry's wand. The teenager's breath hitched— He almost expected Voldemort to simply snap his wand in two. But, that didn't happen.

Instead, the wizard took a few steps closer and extended the wooden stick towards him. Harry stared at it for a few seconds before slowly reaching out his hand and curling his finger around the wand as it hummed happily at being in his owner's hands once again.

Harry should have known there was a catch, really.

Voldemort suddenly whipped out his own wand, pressing it against Harry's throat as he gripped the fingers curled around the brother of his wand. He sneered down at the raven-haired boy, as there was a significant height difference between them, and bore his eyes into the emerald orbs.

"If you so much as try any magic, I won't hesitate to have you thrown into a cellar," he hissed out, the threat crystal clear in his voice.

"We'll see," Harry spat, not being able to stop himself and glared at the Dark Lord towering over him. "I will not take orders from you!"

"We'll see," replied Voldemort, his face settling into a dangerous smirk. "Do enjoy your stay here, Mr Potter. I believe it will be lengthy."

Then, he Apparated straight out of the room, leaving Harry confused, with his hand still glued to his wand.

A few hours later, the room was still bright and Harry was sitting on the edge of the enormous bed, Hedwig on his shoulder and his wand between his fingers. His palm itched to do some magic, however, he knew he couldn't risk it. He didn't want to be sacked from Hogwarts for violating rules, and so he ignored the itchy feeling and sat on the same spot for hours.

He wondered what his friends were doing. They hadn't been able to write to each other compared to the other summer holidays, what with the Dursleys being worse than usual and Hermione going abroad for vacations. Ron had spent most of his summer with Charlie, his older brother, in Romania at the Dragon Reserve. He sent his occasional letter to keep them updated about the dragons — which he was positively enchanted with —, though, so Harry supposed he really couldn't complain. Except, you know, being kidnapped by bloody Malfoy and the Dark Lord.

He really should have been suspicious of how well his fifth year had went, without any major hitches, only a few Death Eater raids.

A house elf had popped by earlier to deposit his things in his new room, although he hadn't touched his trunk yet. He sighed, looking at the big magical clock on the wall which told him it was just after two in the morning. He supposed everyone had to be asleep, so… A stroll could hardly hurt, now, could it?

He tiptoed to his trunk, keeping quiet in his rooms even though he knew no one could possibly hear him and tugged the Invisibility Cloak out of one of the secret pockets. He circled it around his shoulders and gently tugged the gigantic door open.

He was about to step outside on the corridor when his foot bumped into something. He frowned and looked down— It was a silver tray packed with heaps of Wizarding sweets. There were a dozen chocolate frogs as well as a few packets of Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans, Fudge Flies and Peppermint Toads. He chuckled; it was a bit silly to leave all of this for him seeing as the sweets were more meant for younger kids, however somewhere deep down it warmed his heart and he wondered which house elf had left it there for him.

He bent down to pick up the tray when he noticed a big, leather-bound book next to it. He picked it up instead and sucked in a breath upon seeing the silver lettering against the dark cover, which read: The Darkest of the Dark Arts and How to Master Them.

He picked them both up, promptly forgetting his intention to go explore the manor and hurried back to the bed where he dumped the sweets onto the mattress.

He twirled the book around for a bit, pondering whether or not to open it, seeing as it was clear who had given it to him along with the sweets. That was another thing he couldn't figure out the reasoning behind as he gnawed on his lower lip but decided to worry about it later.

He noticed a little, colored piece of parchment — he didn't even know those existed — peek out from the middle-ish of the monstrous book. Curiosity taking over him, he gulped as he opened it where it had been marked beforehand.

He read the title of the chapter and frowned,

Horcruxes?

Chapter 2: Malfoy Manor

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort was sitting in Lucius' study, his lips set in a grim line, a glass of high-quality Firewhiskey in his hand. He swirled the transparent liquid before knocking it back all at once, ignoring the burning feeling down his throat.

Normally he didn't indulge in this type of stress relief, finding torturing his followers a better outlet, however that night's mission had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth he desperately wished to wash down with something alcoholic. He wasn't used to feeling anything other than rage, contempt and satisfaction that came from killing, however with the pieces of his soul regained he found that the ability to feel more than a spoon would had come back to. He supposed it would be beneficial for him, feeling— After all he wanted the Potter boy to be as comfortable as possible while in this new situation, and acting like a madman serial killer surely wasn't going to invoke that state.

Nagini was curled around his ankles, her enormous head resting on his lap. He felt her slick tongue against his wrists from time to time and lifted his free hand to gently pet her, just the way she liked. Despite being a twelve-feet long venomous snake, Nagini sure did like to be pampered and held close. Not that Tom would ever confess to cuddling sessions with his familiar late into the night. That really was information only he should know, for obvious reasons.

"So I can't eat him?" she hissed to him after a long bout of silence. Voldemort snorted, trailing his fingers down her scales.

"No, you can't, lovely," he answered. "It is our priority to keep him safe from now on, just as we keep you out of harm's way."

"What changed your mind, Master?" she asked, slithering up further until she reached his neck and draped herself over his shoulders, head resting against his right cheek. Tom sighed.

"He has something of mine, something of utmost importance. I'm sure you understand, Nagini, what I'm implying," he drawled, rolling a tense shoulder carefully as to disturb his snake as little as humanly possible. She let out a hiss-like huff of breath before sliding down his body.

"I shall go and look out for the new hatchling," she mumbled as she was already slithering away from the study.

The Dark Lord shook his head and slid his gaze towards Lucius' form. The blond man had watched the exchange between master and familiar with a peculiar facial expression of terror. Tom wanted to laugh— Lucius was such a wimp. He had half a mind to make him suffer more for betraying him after the first Wizarding War, however, lately he leaned heavily towards his son, Draco.

Draco could bring back useful information once he returned to the school. Severus as well… Although the Lord had his suspicions about the midnight-haired man. Ones that he couldn't ignore anymore, and he figured he could test Severus' loyalty at a later date, perhaps after the Potter boy has settled in. Until then, he could feed him useless information and not give anything important away while regularly worming his way into his mind. Not that he found anything remotely interesting there, as Severus seemed to be an astounding Occlumencer, though he forgot one thing.

Voldemort was a better Legilimens than he was an Occlumencer, thus he knew ridiculously easy when one had Occlumency shields guarding their mind.

He put down the empty glass on the desk and sighed. It was very late, just brushing against two in the morning and he knew he had to go to sleep if he wanted to function normally the next day. The worry was still gnawing away at his stomach like black poison trying to kill him, but he paid it no mind as he got up to his feet and cast a meaningful look towards Lucius.

"Good night, Lucius," he said drily. "Do not forget about the meeting tomorrow," he warned him, then slipped from the study gracefully.

Lucius Malfoy let out a relieved breath.

Harry Potter was tired.

He had tried to decipher the reason behind the sweets and especially the chapter about the Horcruxes, and had gone to sleep when birds started chirping, so when he woke up a few (not enough) hours later to Hedwig's incessant hooting, he groaned and pulled the silk covers on his head. He tried ignoring his bird, but when she started to flail about the room, Harry was forced to open his eyes.

He did not, however, expect to be met with the enormous head of an even bigger snake. His heart jumped in his ribcage and he immediately sat up and rubbed at his eyes, seeing whether he was only hallucinating.

"You smell scared, hatchling," the snake said then, lifting its head a bit higher. It seemed harmless, though, the slitted eyes roaming over his form curiously. "You're also very skinny. I will have to ask Master to fatten you up…" it hissed, seemingly in deep thought, if a snake could even do that. Harry blinked at its blurry form, then reached to the night desk next to the mahogany bed and put on his glasses.

"Who are you?" he asked curiously, ignoring the never-ending hooting from Hedwig. The way his pet always wanted to keep him safe warmed his heart, but the loud screeching made his ears positively bleed.

"My name is Nagini," she responded, sliding closer to him and gently nudging her head against his ribs. Harry tried not to flinch. "Your bones are sticking out, hatchling."

"Yeah, uh, thanks," Harry replied, feeling the deep red embarrassment creeping up his cheeks. "Do you mind closing your eyes while I'm changing?" he asked awkwardly. The snake gave what Harry thought was a bark of laugh, but obeyed.

Harry hurried to his trunk and dragged a t-shirt and some jeans on, both too big for his skinny frame, as they were once Dudley's clothes. Thinking of Dudley made him think of the Dursleys and his throat tightened painfully. He wondered what happened to them, after all Voldemort had said he didn't kill them. That couldn't be a lie, could it? Harry was sure the Dark Lord would boast about murder. But if he didn't kill them then what had happened? It was eerily quiet in the house when they had Apparated away. He tried ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach as he put on his favorite socks — they were Gryffindor-colored — but to no avail.

Yes, the Dursleys hated his guts and it wasn't as if Harry was fond of them, but did he want them to die? No, probably not. Although seeing Dudley with a literal pigtail had certainly been amusing, wishing someone to get their limbs transfigured into an animal's bits was a lifetime away from wishing someone's death. How would Harry be any different from his despicable relatives?

Nagini's gentle hissing tore him out of his musings as she said, "Can I look now, little hatchling?"

"'Course," Harry muttered. "And don't call me that, for Godric' s sake!" he snapped angrily, glaring at the reptile.

"I will call you however I please," she stated, her voice flat. Could snakes' voices even be flat?, Harry wondered. "Someone's coming."

Harry stared at her with a confused glint in his eyes, however, sure enough, a few moments later there was a knock on the door. His mouth went suddenly dry. What if it was Voldemort? But then again, would he really knock?

Harry walked over to the door and wrapping his fingers around the handle he tentatively opened it, only enough to stick his head out. Draco Malfoy was standing there looking as if he'd rather stand anywhere else — even the Gryffindor Common Room —, a deep frown etched onto his pointy features as always. The crease in his eyebrows was so familiar to Harry he almost laughed; Malfoy never looked at him without a frown, sneer or grimace being present.

"Potter," began the blond boy, "your presence is requested in the dining room," he continued with a grit of his teeth.

"What? Why?" Harry stared at him. He had figured last night before falling asleep that Voldemort would just let him starve away from existence.

"Are you not familiar with the concept of eating breakfast?" Malfoy snapped. Harry did not want to point it out to him that other than Hogwarts, no, he wasn't familiar with the notion as his relatives had never let him eat with them even when he was younger. "The Dark Lord has explicitly asked for you to come down, so if you would hurry up before he hangs my severed head on the front gate of the manor, that would be much appreciated," he added, the impatient tone clear in his deep voice.

"Uhm, alright," Harry muttered. So Voldemort wanted to throw an Avada Kedavra at him at the breakfast table? That was sick, even for a Dark Lord. Harry glanced back to the room and noticed Nagini curled up in the centre of his bed, looking content, with her eyes closed and Hedwig on his pillow not far from her, now calm. He gnawed on his lower lip before he opened the door wider and stepped into the hallways. Malfoy looked at him with a bamboozled facial expression. "What?"

"Potter, I— Shoes. Put on some shoes," the blond said and massaged his temples. It was evident to Harry that Malfoy really didn't want to be dealing with him. Not that the feeling wasn't mutual, of course…

After successfully sliding on his trainers, they made their way down what seemed countless corridors. Harry stopped counting and paying attention after the seventh one. The manor seemed to be huge, naturally, that was to be expected. Harry had always thought Malfoy was a git when he brought up his family's financial status, and while the feeling didn't magically change, Harry noted with slight bitterness that Malfoy could back up all of his claims. Which, really, was a shame since Harry had thought out some very creative insults to throw at him. Not like this, though, going on a f*cking expedition just to get to the dining room, and with the looking threat of Voldemort hanging over his head. Harry figured that getting out of the manor was far more important than continuing some school rivalry during the summer.

Somehow, Voldemort seemed even more real now that Harry had noticed some changes, and the raven-haired teenager wasn't happy about it. He had hoped that something must have gone wrong with the awful potion in the graveyard, somehow killing Lord Voldemort. His hopes only got higher and stronger when the Dark Lord hadn't turned up anywhere even as the school year neared. Obviously, Harry couldn't have been more wrong.

Once they got there, Harry's fingers curled around his wand reflexively.

Voldemort was sitting at one end of the table, an empty chair on his right side and Lucius Malfoy on the chair on his left. Bellatrix, who was glaring at him earnestly, was sitting next to Narcissa and Malfoy sat down in between his parents. The other two seats on the opposite side of the table were already occupied by people he didn't know and so he gulped and gritted his teeth together. Hand around his wand he strutted towards the remaining seat, his jaw set defiantly and a death glare aimed at the occupants of the room. He slammed himself down onto the chair, back set rigidly straight. Bellatrix muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Blasted kid, could just throw a little Avada Kedavra right here, he'd deserve it', but Harry ignored her.

"Good morning, Potter," he said in a silky voice and with a snap of his fingers a few terrified House Elves started serving everyone their breakfast. It seemed to be a full English breakfast and it looked delicious; Harry's stomach growled even though he had willed it not to. "Slept well?"

"Terrific," Harry ground out. "Especially when that blasted snake of yours decided to show up," he added, even though Nagini had been exceptionally nice. Harry saw movement from the corner of his eyes. He whipped out his wand and cast a Shielding Charm just before the red light could hit him.

Voldemort took out his own wand and pointed it at the witch whose eyes glistened with a deep fear. A moment later red light shot from the wand and Bellatrix fell to the floor, screaming and twitching violently.

Harry bit down on his lower lip as he watched her, almost transfixed. It was horrible. He didn't like Bellatrix, knew enough about her to despise her actually, but seeing her writhing on the marble like that made him sick. He tore his gaze away from her body and looked at Voldemort instead. His face was professionally schooled into one of utmost nonchalance, but the clear satisfaction in his eyes gave him away.

"Perhaps you are going to think before you act next time, Bella, won't you?" Voldemort inquired, finally pulling the curse away. Harry noticed one of the strangers on his side look at Bella with a mix of concern and exasperation. He wondered who he was to her.

"Forgive me, my Lord," she said breathily, her voice hoarse from all the screaming. "But he was being disrespectful, I merely wished to—"

"That's quite enough, Bella," the man Harry noticed earlier butted in with a stern voice.

"Thank you, Rodolphus," Voldemort looked at him sharply. "Keep your wife in line, she might just find herself in the family tomb one of these days," he added off-handedly. Harry had to refrain from gaping openly at him.

His eyes slid over to his breakfast and he felt his stomach roll despite being hungry. He pushed the plate away and concentrated really hard on not throwing up right then and there.

Everyone else tensed up but otherwise seemed nonplussed and Harry was horrified. He supposed Bellatrix deserved her punishment in a way, although he didn't quite understand just why she was punished, but still… The nonchalance absolutely baffled him. The only thing keeping him grounded was the fact that Malfoy looked a little green himself, and wasn't just that interesting… One would think he wouldn't he wouldn't be so upset by something like this. He's probably seen worse, hasn't he?

"Is breakfast not to your satisfaction, Potter?" he asked suddenly, his crimson eyes boring right into his soul. Strangely, his scar didn't hurt, much like it hadn't last night.

"You Crucioing Bellatrix is not to my satisfaction," he hissed. He stood ubruptly, with a force that almost sent his chair flying back and hurried out of the room. He didn't know where he was going, of course, seeing as he hadn't paid attention when Malfoy was escorting him down.

He wished he had Sirius to talk to. Or anyone else, really, but especially his godfather. The shaggy haired man always knew how to calm him down, and seeing as his blood was boiling right now he was in need of some serious pacifying. All of the corridors he came upon looked the same, the only thing differing were the portrays. His chest had just started hurting from all the being angry when Nagini slithered up to him. He exhaled a deep breath and looked at her.

"What is troubling you, little one?"

Great. Even a snake was calling him small.

"I'm fine," he snapped angrily. There was a crack-like sound behind him and he whipped around, coming face-to-face with Voldemort.

"Tell me, Potter, did your muggle relatives use to let you eat breakfast?" Silence. "Thought so. Which brings me to my question as to why exactly you left so rudely?" he asked, co*cking an eyebrow. Harry merely stared at him.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked calmly.

"Why am I doing what?"

"First, you kidnapped me and brought me here. Then, you gave me an enormous room with six million windows and let my owl stay with me even though I could have written a letter, and did not bother me once. Now, you're asking me why I didn't eat breakfast. Just what the hell is your agenda?" he growled, pointing his wand at the Dark Lord. He felt his scar sting a bit but kept looking Voldemort dead in the eyes nonetheless.

"It wouldn't be very Slytherin of me to reveal my intentions, now, would it?" he smirked as Nagini slithered up his body, resting draped across his shoulders. Harry couldn't help but think that the picture of the snake rubbing her head against the man's cheek was rather… Adorable. He hated himself for thinking that. "Have you read the book?" he asked then, refusing to give an answer to the raven-haired teenager's previous question. Harry felt annoyance burn in his chest yet again.

"I have," came the answer after a few silent moments, cautiously. "Why did you put it there?" he asked warily, his wand still trained on the Dark wizard without swaying. Voldemort raised his eyebrows.

"Did you at least manage to grasp what Horcruxes are?" he said, leaning against the wall nonchalantly, as if the teenager was not two seconds away from hexing him.

"I know that Horcruxes are very dark magic. One splits their soul into pieces by murder to live forever," he responded tightly, regretting that he sounded like Hermione.

"Hm, well, yes, essentially," Voldemort waved a dismissive hand. "Read it a few more times Potter. Try to read between the lines. I'm sure I will see you at lunch. Until then…" He didn't give Harry a chance as he Disapparated with a crack, taking Nagini with him as well.

Harry was stuck.

Grimmauld place was grimy and dark as always. The members of the Order were sitting in the kitchen, trying to tune out the screeching of Walburga Black's portrait.

Sirius was tired. He hadn't slept well in weeks, an odd feeling clawing away at his chest. He'd tossed and turned in his enormous bed, rumpling the sheets as if he were up to something else, but sleep never came. So there he was sitting with bloodshot eyes, yawning so big he almost tore his mouth, listening to the synchronized high-pitched voices of both his mother and Molly Weasley. It was a total nightmare.

"Albus, we really ought to get Harry out of that household." That, Sirius could agree with. Even if comprehending full sentences was unusually hard for him at the moment, anything that had to do with Harry was of utmost importance even to his sleep deprived brain.

"We can't do that, Molly," said Dumbledore, "he's the safest there. Severus hasn't reported back in a few weeks, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must be lying low for some reason—"

"Constant vigilance!" Mad-eye Moody barked in.

"—and so we ought to keep all of our eyes out. Magical or otherwise," he finished, eyes glowing with mirth.

"We could bring him here, though," Sirius' voice croaked silently. "The house is under a Fidelius Charm, innit? He'd be safe here, too," he grunted. Molly shot him a look that let him know they agreed on something for once. The approval of the woman however did not make him feel any better, nor did it sway Dumbledore.

"I'm afraid Fidelius Charms can't be trusted," Albus said soothingly. "The blood wards will keep him from harm's way."

Sirius thought about the tiny boy he'd seen two years prior, in the too-big clothes and sharp cheekbones. Harry was smaller than his peers, Sirius had noticed immediately, and he flinched every time Sirius motioned with his hands while talking. Sirius knew the signs, and he also knew that Dumbledore knew— So why wasn't he doing anything? Fat load of help, blood wards were, if his godson was safe from everyone but his own relatives he was stuck with every summer.

His eyes met Remus'; he wasn't pacified by the grave look on his best friend's face.

Chapter 3: Conversations

Chapter Text

Harry was finally back in his room after half an hour of aimless wandering across numerous corridors. Finding his room was harder than navigating through the maze in the Triwizard Tournament.

Hedwig was sleeping peacefully in her cage, having buried her face under her wing, shielding herself from the bright light spilling into the room from the large windows. But she seemed to be the only one somewhat at peace.

Harry felt lonely. though he supposed it was to be expected. There he was, stranded in Malfoy Manor of all places, kidnapped by the bloody Dark Lord of all the people, with no one knowing where he was. He wondered whether anyone even checked in on him at Privet Drive, but quickly answered his own question. Why would they? They hadn't done it in the previous years.

He couldn't help but feel a bitter taste in his mouth at that.

He often found himself wondering, ever since Hogwarts began, really, about the reason why it was mandatory for him to spend his summers at the Dursley residence. Harry felt especially angry, that despite him not spending all of his previous summers at Privet Drive, he was supposed to be staying there full time this summer—and he would have done that, if Voldemort hadn’t kidnapped him.

Which, now that he could think more clearly about it, was a ridiculous notion to Harry.

Where were the freaking blood wards that Dumbledore spent hours and hours going on about? Weren't they supposed to keep him safe? If not from his Uncle's wrath, then at the very least from Voldemort? So just how on Earth had he walked right into the house and taken him?

Harry bit down on his lower lip and walked closer to the grand windows resting along one wall of the room. They stretched from the floor up until the ceiling and had elegant black frames with carvings in them. Harry liked the spacious feeling it gave to the already gigantic room and he enjoyed bathing in the sunlight pouring through the glass. It was a far cry from the tiny bedroom he had back at his relatives' house and an even further cry from the cupboard under the stairs. Just thinking about the pea-sized space gave Harry the chills and he would rather not think about that part of his life.

Instead, he opted to distract himself by watching the garden stretching out beneath his windows. The garden was truly magnificent; there were probably thousands of different kinds of flowers just resting on the perfectly mowed, fresh green grass. He wished Hermione was there with him, she would love the roses and narcissuses despite always vehemently denying her love for flowers. She couldn't fool him; Harry had seen her take a sniff from the bouquets Viktor Krum used to get her during fourth year.

He suddenly noticed a figure sitting in one of the — surely expensive — carefully carved white benches. It was Voldemort.

The man positively glowed in the sunlight and Harry hated thinking of him as if he was a person. But truth was, mass murderer or not, Tom Riddle was a rather handsome man now that he didn't have gray flesh and had a nose. His thick, black wavy hair rested atop his head perfectly styled, as if it had been charmed to stay that way. He wasn't looking anywhere in particular, at least Harry couldn't see, and Nagini was curled around herself beside him on the bench, her head resting across his lap. Riddle seemed to be absent-mindedly petting her every now and again. It felt weird for Harry to watch them, so he looked away and walked over to his trunk where he kept his books. It was time to start doing homework.

He was just about to settle down on the bed with the Defence Against the Dark Arts essay he had to write on Dark creatures in Romania, there was a knock at the door.

He sighed, then carefully put his things on the bed and made his way over to the door with a carefully schooled facial expression. He feared it would be Malfoy — or worse, one of the Death Eaters, but instead he found himself face-to-face with Narcissa Malfoy. The short, elegant woman was levitating a tray with delicious looking food on it and her eyes held a deep warmth to them despite her tight-lipped smile.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," she greeted, "May I come in?"

Harry was flustered by the formal tone, but pulled himself together and answered with an unsure, "Sure."

"I brought you a late breakfast, since you didn't seem to get to eat anything earlier," she said, gently lowering the tray onto the glass table between the two armchairs in the room. Harry almost gaped at her, "I hope I'm not intruding?" she inquired with a raise of her eyebrow that reminded Harry eerily of Professor Snape.

"Uh, no, not at all, Mrs. Malfoy," he mumbled, sitting down opposite of her and rubbing his toes against each other in his socks, weirdly embarrassed about not wearing shoes, "May I ask what this visit is for?"

"You need to eat, Mr. Potter. I have a teenage son and he eats like a cow, excuse my language, so it can't be normal for you to skip breakfast," she deadpanned, sliding the tray towards him with an amount of grace Harry guessed only Narcissa Malfoy could have, "That, and I figured you'd like some company. Do tell me if you don't, I can leave and send a House Elf to bring back the plate later." The woman was now wearing a slightly friendlier smile, although still one that terrified Harry.

"No, it's okay. Thank you for — er, bringing me food. You really didn't have to, really," he muttered, picking up a buttered toast and starting to nimble on it.

"I think I did have to. After all, my sister is the reason you couldn't eat with us in peace," she sighed, "Do not fret, our Lord has punished her as he saw fit already. I'd like to think you won't have any more trouble with Bellatrix. That is, if she knows what's good for her," she said, giving him a sly smile. Harry grimaced.

"I bet he did."

"You don't like him very much, do you?" Narcissa asked, giving him a searching look.

"With all due respect, Mrs. Malfoy, he did kill my parents. There isn't much for me to like him for," he glared at the plate in front of him, his throat constricting.

"Yes, I suppose that'd do it," she conceded, "He's trying his best right now, though, Mr. Potter. Surely you must see that."

"Ah, yes. Kidnapping me and giving me a blasted book about Dark magic I can't even understand was a jolly good move on his part!" He snorted, then widened his eyes, "Sorry."

"No harm done," she waved her hand, "I know this isn't what you must have imagined your summer like, and it's understandable that you are upset. But, I'd like you to know that no one is going to harm you in this manor. You're safe here; probably safer than with your relatives since our Lord wouldn't have taken you otherwise, risking being seen by people."

Harry didn't want to tell her that while spending the summer locked in with his school enemy and his archnemesis of a mass murderer wasn't his ideal vision of how a holiday was supposed to go, the last twenty-four hours had probably been the calmest in his entire life so far.

"I just don't see why anyone would want to follow him," Harry sneered, his Gryffindor bravery suddenly surging through him, "He's nothing but a blood purist madman, who slaughters anything and everything that gets in his way. He requires complete submission and kills anyone who doesn't obey him. And with what common sense? He's a half-blood! Going on his logic, he should have killed himself a long time ago!" Harry fumed. Narcissa simply blinked at him, and the raven-haired boy admired her for it, seeing as his voice had gotten louder with practically every word spoken.

"Mr. Potter," Narcissa began cautiously, "have you ever talked to a sane Death Eater?"

"Is there even such a thing?" Harry grumbled. Narcissa looked at him pointedly, but ignored his comment.

"The Dark Lord isn't the bloodthirsty murderer you make him out to be. Yes, I admit by the end of the First Wizarding War, shortly before you defeated him, something clicked and he went completely mad. But you have to see that the Ministry's way of running our community is not right, either. There are too many ways in which someone could go ratting us out, and then it'd all be over. Muggles aren't forgiving towards the things they do not understand, Mr. Potter —" Harry thought of the Dursleys, "— and saying that the way the Ministry is handling everything is right would be foolish."

"So you're telling me that Voldemort doesn't actually want to eradicate all Muggleborns and Half-bloods?" he co*cked an eyebrow skeptically.

"Yes, that is exactly what I am trying to say," she looked at him, her gaze softening as she saw the crease in his eyebrows. "Mr. Potter, what have you heard about the policies the Dark Lord wants to impose?"

"Not much," he admitted, "just that he wants to do it in a way that would eventually end up in all-around blood purity among wizards and witches," he muttered darkly, his hand tightening around the piece of toast he was holding, squeezing out the butter. It dripped down his fingers and Harry lapped it up with his tongue then shot a guilty look at Narcissa,, "Also, could you please call me Harry?"

"Certainly," she answered, then continued, "Harry, you must think logically. True blood purity, after a while, can only be achieved by inbreeding, isn't that right? I'm sure you know what the effects of inbreeding are," she shot him a look, "why would a wizard who seeks power want the people in his country to be all twisted?"

"Does that mean that Voldemort doesn't actually mind Muggles as long as they're only used to keep magical people from inbreeding in the long run?" he asked, a confused expression latched onto his face.

"You could put it like that, yes," she conceded, "The idea would essentially be keeping a close watch on Muggles who have Wizarding children— monitoring them, if you will. So that they don't abuse their children because of the accidental magic they do when they are toddlers, but also so that they don't go around telling their friends about the Wizarding World," she finished with a small smile. Harry's eyebrows crawled up almost to his hairline, his toast long forgotten.

"No offense, Mrs. Malfoy, but do you expect me to actually believe that?" he asked incredulously. "What is this, a joke? It's not even April yet!" he seethed. His blood was boiling with anger, making his body warm with rage and Harry was sure his face was already flushed. Irritation crept up his spine like an ugly poison, hugging him tight and squeezing tighter and tighter as the moments in silence passed.

"Forgive me, Harry, if I've angered you," she said eventually, "that was not my intention. I should have known you wouldn't have had the means to hear about this beforehand," she blinked, placing her hand on his shoulder for a brief moment before letting go.

“I refuse to believe Dumbledore would lie to me like this! Yes, he may have kept things from my whole life but this, I refuse to believe.”

“That is your call entirely, Harry,” she said placidly. “Although, if I were you I’d broaden my mind. I often find that one man’s truth is sometimes another man’s lie.”

"Can you go?" he asked suddenly. "I'd like to be by myself."

"Of course, Harry," she answered, getting up from her spot. "Please, eat." And with that, she slipped out of the too-large room.

Harry buried his face into his hands, feeling the dampness of his forehead. His skin crawled with a bitter, incredulous feeling. He didn't know what to believe anymore— Was Narcissa telling the truth? But that meant that Dumbledore and all of the others had lied to him his whole life. What the blonde woman had told him could have also been just a ploy to get him to trust them and seduce him over to the Dark side so that he could help them...

He felt too hot and suddenly the room was too small and he couldn't really breathe properly because Dudley's hand-me-down t-shirt felt as if it was three sizes too small and all he wanted was to shed his skin and leave it on the floor. Breathing heavily, with big gulps of air, Harry tried calming himself down, though it seemed he was already beyond the point of coming back. His heart squeezed tightly in his chest, his ribs hurting and his throat constricting painfully against the aggressive, ragged breathing.

He had already gotten 'episodes', as he liked to call them, like these before but he still didn't quite know where to place them. He didn't want to call them panic attacks because that felt too obnoxious, but he also wanted to stick with Hermione's advice of not invalidating his own feelings. It always felt thick, though— Like a foul poison spreading through his entire body, eating him from the inside and paralyzing him. He'd only ever gotten these after particularly violent interactions with Uncle Vernon, though, never because he felt too angry.

Harry tried concentrating on regulating his breathing with little success. Everything felt out of place, like the world was expanding and shattering at the same time, coming down on him with all its might— Until it didn't. He felt a strange sense of subtle, but definitely there, sense of calmness washing over him. It was like a gentle breeze of cool air stroking him head-to-toe and he let out a gentle breath of air, not even bothered to think about where it had come from. His scar tingled, the prickly but surprisingly good feeling running down his arms like a dozen of tiny spider legs, painting a contented smile on his face. He handed himself over to it, let it wrap him in its invisible arms and relaxed against the back of the sofa.

His shirt was damp and it stuck to his back but he didn't mind. He closed his eyes and placed his hand over his heart on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under his fingers; the previous anger all a distant memory in his mind. He didn’t even care enough to question why he had calmed down instantly, out of nowhere.

Harry woke up in the morning feeling well-rested and fresh. It was a weird feeling not to wake up with his scar hurting, so he enjoyed it for as long as he could, laying around in bed with a small, contented smile on his face. The crumpled sheets were pooling around him like a safe cocoon and he buried his face in the soft blankets surrounding him.

After a while though, he acknowledged that he had to wake up at some point and so with a grumble he tumbled out of bed and walked over to his closet. He quickly pulled on some comfortable pants and a sweatshirt, then walked over to the big windows.

Outside the sun was shining brightly, the birds were chirping and the grass was green. His smile widened as he stared at the view in front of him; the flower fields stretching widely across the garden.

Out of nowhere, though, the glass and the view both swayed weirdly and turned into something more dark, more grim. The flowers changed into piles of something Harry couldn't make out at first so he stepped closer and squinted. What he saw, made his stomach roll— They were dead bodies.

Harry was suddenly standing in the middle of them, blood sticking onto his feet and ankles, the empty eyes of the dead bodies staring up at him. He realized with a start that these weren't strangers, no, not at all— These were all his friends and family. There was Hermione, Professor Dumbledore, Sirius, Remusand everyone of the Weasley family. They were all laying there limp, lifeless, like bloody ragdolls. Harry's throat tightened and as he crouched down, Sirius' eyes popped open. He stumbled back when a greyish black, burnt hand reached out for him and grabbed his ankle.

"Harry, Harry…" the distorted, hoarse voice of Sirius said as he stared the raven-haired boy dead in the eyes, his gray orbs like crystal-balls, "It's your fault, Harry… We're all dead because of you, because we were protecting you… Harry, Harry…" it chanted. All of a sudden, Sirius’ face morphed into his father’s and something in Harry’s chest squeezed tight.

“You didn’t love us enough to keep us safe, boy,” his corpse-father said, his voice strangely resembling Uncle Vernon’s.

Harry scrambled back even further, but the corpses seemed to rise and they were now all towering over him in a circle, saying his name and blaming him over and over and over again—

And then it was over. He woke up with a silent scream frozen on his lips and his whole body sticky with sweat. The feeling of contentment the dream had started with vanished completely, leaving him trembling and aching for something unknown. His throat felt all clogged up and his eyes stung with the tears he was trying to hold back. Corpse-Sirius’ words were still echoing through his mind like an ugly mantra that wouldn’t leave him alone. He hugged his knees to his chest and buried his head into his elbows, sobbing and finally letting the tears free. He wished Sirius was there; he was sure his godfather would come barging into his room as soon as he heard the crying. But Harry was all alone in the Manor — not literally, but it still felt like that. He had no one to confide in, no one to talk to and he hadn’t felt this lonely in a long time; not ever since he’d first gotten his Hogwarts letter. Right now, though, it was as if he were just a tiny piece of dust in the middle of a gigantic room.

He took another big gulp of air and wiped at his face forcefully with the sleeves of his too-big pyjama shirt. He stared at the opposite wall, his eyes welling up with tears yet again and he let out a little sniff. His chest felt empty and hollow, his arms dangling numbly at his sides and suddenly, the feeling of cool calmness from the previous day washed over him yet again. Harry didn’t know what this was, but he welcomed it wholly and closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. The feeling lingered for as long as he truly calmed down and then slowly dissipated, though Harry didn’t start feeling distressed again. He ran his fingers through his hair and crawled across the bed to his trunk. He dug around for a few minutes before dragging out the Marauder’s Map. He got his wand from under his pillow and muttered, “I uh.. I’m really up to no good.”

The ink on the map, instead of revealing everyone’s whereabouts on the Hogwarts grounds, morphed into elegant letters.

“Mr. Prongs would like to advise the holder of this map to get their grubby hands off it if they don’t know the secret password!”

“Mr. Padfoot would like to say he, unfortunately, agrees with Prongs.”

“Mr. Moony would like to tell his friends to kindly shut the hell up.”

“Mr. Wormtail would like to ask when Messrs. Prongs, Padfoot and Moony would like to go to dinner.”

“Mr. Prongs would like to say he wants to go down early so he can get a look at Evans.”

“Mr. Padfoot would like to tell Mr. Prongs his one-sided crush is pathetic.”

“Mr. Prongs would like to tell Mr. Padfoot he’s going to whack him if he doesn’t shut up.”

“Mr. Moony would like to, once again, tell his friends to shut up.”

The ink vanished suddenly and Harry heaved a deep sigh.

He’d already seen the inscriptions thousands of times before ever since Sirius had shown them to him. They were always the same, of course, they never changed, but the reassurance that his father had once said that, had bickered with his friends while making a magical map that basically recorded anything they said near it when they were enchanting it against those who shouldn’t have it— It was enough to ground him. Biting down on his lower lip, he placed the map onto the duvet and then took the moving picture of his parents from the trunk.

He lay back onto the fluffy, now slightly damp and cool pillow, and hugging the picture to his chest he drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

He woke up hours later to a House Elf popping in to tell him his presence was requested at breakfast. Harry groaned and dragged the blanket over his head, having a half mind to just skip breakfast if it meant he didn’t have to see all the Death Eaters and especially Voldemort.

His conversation with Narcissa from yesterday was still fresh in his mind. It would have been nice if what she said was true, however, Harry wasn’t remotely sure about that. She’d tried painting the freaking Dark Lord as some type of misunderstood leader, for Godric’s sake! It was the most ridiculous thing Harry had ever heard and he was roommates with Seamus, who tended to talk about a lot of nonsense.

Deciding that he wouldn’t want to get hexed just because he didn’t go down to eat (but also because his stomach gave a very loud growl), Harry got up and pulled on some clothes in record time. He quickly finished his bathroom duties, gave Hedwig a kiss and slipped out of his room while combing through his hair with his fingers. After three corridors of aimless wandering he thought about simply sitting down with his back to the wall and wait until someone found him. How was this f*cking house so big?

“Are you lost, young man?” he heard from behind him and he whipped around. The slightly raspy voice belonged to a portrait, someone named Abraxas Malfoy. Harry guessed he must be Draco’s grandfather, or great-grandfather, seeing as he eerily resembled Lucius Malfoy. Scratch that— They looked almost identical. “Fleamont?” the man in the portrait raised his eyebrows upon inspecting Harry more closely. The dark-haired teen frowned.

“Who’s Fleamont?” he asked, co*cking an eyebrow.

“Terribly sorry, I must have mistaken you for someone else,” the painting drawls. “Although you look exactly like him, you couldn’t possibly be him. Tell me, young man, are you perhaps a Potter?”

Harry gave him a weird look then carefully answered, “Yes. Why?”

“Ah, it all makes sense now. You must be Fleamont Potter’s grandson,” he said with a sneer. “Damn Light wizard, he was. He was a few years older than me, but I knew him through my parents, you see. Heard he was quite a bit advanced in age when his son, James, I believe, was born. What are you doing here?” he glared suddenly. Harry had to hold back the roll of his eyes.

“I was kidnapped,” he deadpanned. “Your grandson is in the same year as I am, only, he’s in Slytherin.”

“Of course he is in Slytherin!” the portrait boomed loudly. “No one from the Malfoy family has been sorted into another house since 1265!” he said with a proud smile. Harry ignored the way the old man had totally skipped the part where Harry said he had been kidnapped.

“Of course they haven’t,” Harry grumbled, then blinked back at the portrait again, “Listen, sir, could you please tell me how to get to the dining room? I’m afraid this house is too big for me to find my way around it alone,” he said with an embarrassed smile, scratching the back of his neck. Abraxas Malfoy sneered but got up from his armchair and made a motion with his hand, telling Harry wordlessly to follow him.

Harry followed the painting through another four corridors, trying his best to memorize the path this time, with little success. When he got to the double door of the dining room, he politely thanked the old Malfoy and made his way inside. The first thing he noticed was the absence of Bellatrix. Other than her, everyone else from yesterday was there, already eating. Harry thought he ought to apologize for being late but decided against it, seeing that he really had no idea where he was going most of the time. It really was not his fault that no one had thought of showing him around properly.

Today, they left him an open seat between Draco and Voldemort and he did his best not to scowl. He sat down silently and eyed his plate of scrambled eggs for a long moment before picking up his fork and cutting off a small piece. It was a rather large portion and Harry wasn’t really sure he would be able to make his way through it. No one said a word as they resumed eating and Harry was happy he would finally have a nice night's sleep. That was, of course, until Voldemort decided to open his mouth.

“So, have you read the book, Potter?” he asked, casually popping a cherry tomato into his mouth.

“Of course. It’s all I’ve done yesterday,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Rodolphus snorted and tried covering it up with a cough, rather poorly. The man sitting next to him harshly slapped his back a few times and gave him a glare. Voldemort simply co*cked an eyebrow but otherwise ignored the two men.

“Don’t get too cheeky with me,” the Dark Lord warned, “I might not have hurt you during your stay so far but that can change, if you want it to.”

“Oh, do forgive me,” Harry flashed him a sardonic smile and popped another minuscule bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Voldemort’s gaze darkened and Harry saw his grip tightening on his fork. Weirdly enough, though, his scar didn’t hurt despite the Dark Lord clearly being in a foul mood.

“Don’t,” Tom deadpanned. “You really need to read that book. If you can’t find out in the next five days why I’m so adamant about you reading it, then I will help you figure it out. But only if you drop the attitude,” he added as an afterthought.

“Why, is there a secret love letter for me in it?” Harry smirked. He felt the tension rise in the air at once. Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths and Harry got scared for a second, all of his Gryffindor cheekiness and bravery vanishing.

His breath hitched as Voldemort leaned closer and whispered right in his ear.

“You wouldn’t happen to be hoping for that, would you, Potter?”

Chapter 4: Revelations

Chapter Text

The following few days were a complete and utter disaster. Harry had been so traumatized by what he later realized was the Dark Lord’s attempt at teasing him, that he even stopped going downstairs for meals. That, of course, lasted for only a day before a very disapproving Narcissa Malfoy came and dragged him down for breakfast.

Ever since then, Harry promised never to skip another meal, and he dutifully kept his promise, even after Bellatrix started joining them again. She seemed to have learnt from last time and aside from a few nasty glares, she left him alone. Harry was very grateful, seeing as eating proved to be a tedious task even without a crazy witch sending curses his way every minute.

The food was delicious, of course, there was nothing wrong with the quality of it. The quantity, however, seemed to be Harry’s biggest enemy. He hadn’t managed the finish a full portion yet, but he was getting there, and he was proud of that. Eating normal sized portions was always a problem after spending time with the Dursleys, so he wasn’t surprised with having to ease himself back into eating regularly and heartily.

Other than mealtimes, Harry had finally taken to exploring the grounds as well as the Manor. He had gotten to know the corridors quite well, and was now able to get to his room without any problems. He had even picked up a habit of going for evening walks in the garden, pretending that he didn’t see Rodolphus and Rabastan who had started acting as his shadows, no doubt having been ordered by Voldemort. Harry had scoffed the first time he’d noticed his ‘bodyguards’. What was he going to do, run away?

Well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried that already. He’d been rebuffed by the wards surrounding the grounds pretty harshly and spent most of the next day knocked out on his bed. Malfoy had laughed at him for half an hour straight.

After that incident, he hadn’t made any other attempts at escaping, slowly slipping into an indifferent acceptance of sorts. He spent his days holed up in his room doing homework and trying to figure out what Voldemort meant by marking the chapter about Horcruxes. Well, that was not fully true. It had taken Harry approximately two more days to realize Voldemort must have made a Horcrux, and Nagini had half-heartedly confirmed his theory, but wasn’t willing to tell him more information or divulge some secrets. The snake proved to be good company, to Hedwig’s deep disdain, but Harry ignored her whenever she got into one of her moods. Nagini’s snark was actually quite delightful and he was surprised that snakes had such distinct personalities.

One of the downsides of spending all of his time cooped up was that he had plenty of time to think. And think he did. He thought about his friends — friends who hadn’t sent him even one measly letter —, Remus, who always gave him chocolates after nightmares, Tonks, who always managed to pain a smile on his face.

Then, he thought about Sirius. He pictured his godfather's shaggy black hair that came down to his shoulders, the occasional mischievous glint in the otherwise hollow eyes, and the way he was so earnest to give Harry the world. Sirius was terrifying; bigger than life itself and Harry missed him so much he could almost feel the physical ache of his godfather's absence. He remembered all those times the Animagus acted like his father, protecting him and doing his best to keep him safe. He hadn't even noticed the tears until they were already falling silently onto his palms.

He sniffed, taking a big gulp of air as if that would force the tightening of his throat to ease as he grabbed for the photo on his nightstand. It was one that Sirius had given to him shortly before Fifth Year started. His father, Remus and Sirius were grinning into the camera, eyes glinting with mirth Harry was sure only the Marauders could master. It was his favorite photograph of all time, after the one with his parents of course. It was taken in a time when everything was a lot easier. His father was still alive, Sirius hadn’t gone to Azkaban yet and Remus still had his friends to endure every full moon with him.

A sharp knock at the door tore him out of his musings and he made his way over to the door as he hastily rubbed away at his face. His nose was stuffy and he was sure his eyes were red but he didn’t care at the moment, annoyance flaring up in his chest at whoever decided that bothering him would be a marvelous idea. Opening it, his jaw tightened when he saw Rabastan Lestrange.

“Good afternoon, Potter,” he drawled, thrusting his hand out with an envelope in it. “This came for you. We have already checked it over for curses or anything damaging, and we found nothing so it is perfectly safe for you to open.”

Harry stared at his hand for a long moment before reaching out and taking the letter, careful not to touch the Death Eater’s fingers, just in case. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Rabastan smiled at him tightly. “Don’t write the address on the reply, should you decide to answer the letter. It wouldn’t do any good, seeing as it would only morph into the location of your Muggle relatives,” he added, stepping back. Harry set his lips in a grim line.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” he muttered. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Rabastan nodded. “I will see you at dinner,” he offered as a goodbye before he turned on his heels and stalked down the corridor.

Harry closed the door with a heavy sigh and went to the bed, tearing the envelope open. In it were two letters, and Harry’s heart leapt in his chest. He knew one was from Ron, but he couldn’t wait to find out who the other one was from seeing as it was ot labeled or anything. He set that one aside and began reading the one from his redheaded best friend.

Harry!

Mate, I’m so sorry I haven’t written to you, but Dumbledore’s very adamant about us not sending you letters, thinks they’re going to get intercepted by the Death Eaters (oh, if Ron only knew, Harry mused at that). Things have been bloody hectic here, too. Bill’s getting married! Terribly exciting news, although Mum constantly looks as if she’d bitten into a particularly sour lemon.

Percy is still an entitled arse, Fred and George are testing out their new line of toys on family members and Ginny has been exchanging letters with Dean f*cking Thomas. Can you believe it?!

Another good news is that Charlie’s coming home! I wish you could be here to meet him, mate, he’s quite fond of you. Although he keeps saying you two are going to meet up so I shouldn’t worry… I don’t really get that. Do you?

Anyway, the reason why this letter is probably, hopefully, early, is because Errol’s been in a very bad shape for the past few weeks and I wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to deliver it. Happy Birthday, mate! Have a good one and ‘Mione and I are going to give you your present on the train. It would be too risky to attach it to the ruddy old owl now.

Cheers, see ya soon,

Ron

1. ‘Mione is sending her best wishes and hopes you’re not too behind on your schoolwork. Barmy girl, I’m telling you.

Harry finished reading the letter with a soft smile and folded the parchment in half before gently placing it in the secret pocket of his trunk. He missed Ron and his endless ramblings about his family. Harry was glad his best friend had broken the rules and written him. He then turned towards the other piece of parchment on his bed and unfolded it with a curious glint in his eyes.

Harry,

I’m sorry I can’t be there for your birthday. It’s a real shame, because I was hoping I could dump a bucket of ice-cold water onto you as a wake-up call. I used to do that to your father, you know. Though, there is always next year…

Happy birthday, Harry. I hope you’re doing as well as you can in your situation and that you don’t resent me too much for not being able to get you out of that household, the way I wish I could do so. I miss you, and I can’t wait for you to walk Padfoot to the station.

Now, onto the gossip! Remus is a bloody traitor and shacked up with Tonks. It took the poor girl a good six months to get a date out of him and now Remus is sending me daily, extremely panicked letters about how he’s going to f*ck up whatever relationship they have. I thought him and I were going to be single forever out of solidarity, you know… The lone wolf and the old dog. I guess there goes our resolution down the drain… f*cking werewolves.

To tell you the truth, Harry, Dumbledore seems restless. Now, I don’t want to be a worrywart, but it’s very suspicious to me. He’s been canceling more and more Order meetings lately, and Minerva tells me he spends quite a lot of his time out of the country. I’m sure he’s on some mission he wants to keep a secret, but watch out, just in case.

Take care of yourself, Harry, and don’t be afraid to threaten Pig Sr. and Pig Jr. I trust Horseface not to be much of a nuisance, right?

Love,

Padfoot

Harry snorted at the goodbye and bit down on his bottom lip. He missed his godfather more, now that he had read the letter, but at the same time he was glad Sirius had thought of him. It was easy to forget his birthday, seeing as in a house full of Death Eaters Harry would rather worry about getting murdered in his sleep rather than be anxious whether he’d get a cake tomorrow or not. He placed Sirius’ letter in the pocket he’d previously put Ron’s, and deciding to put off answering until tomorrow, he stretched and walked over to Hedwig’s cage.

The snow-white owl was sitting elegantly, blinking at her with her great yellow eyes. Harry slowly ran a finger through the feathers on her head and she hooted happily, nuzzling her beak against his palm. Harry smiled and bent, softly kissing her head, which Hedwig, albeit a bit reluctantly, allowed him to do. Harry guessed she was in such a good mood since Nagini hadn’t made an appearance that day yet, otherwise she would have bitten him if he tried getting closer like this.

Casting a glance at the clock on the wall, Harry saw that it was a little past half five, which meant that he still had at least an hour and a half before dinner. He quickly pulled a hoodie and his trainers on before slipping from the room and going to explore the manor’s parts he hadn’t been to yet. He started with the slightly dubious looking corridor down to the right of the Founders’ room. He stared at the multiple landscape paintings, watching in awe the way the gentle breeze seemed to caress through the leaves of the magnificent trees. He smiled a soft smile and thought else was worth looking at on this particular corridor, when he noticed a massive, heavy-looking door. He frowned, and stepping closer his hand hovered above the doorknob. He knew there must be a reason why it was closed, but seeing as it didn’t seem to be locked nor were there any sounds coming out of the room, he let his curiosity take over his survival instincts and pushed it open.

Whatever bloody difficult and efficient Silencing Charm had been placed previously, dissolved as soon as Harry opened the door. The shrill, pathetic screaming pierced his ears and he scrunched up his nose.

The room was empty, save for the long table in the middle. Voldemort was standing on the right side of it, a plump man writhing in pain at his feet. Harry recognized the red of the Cruciatus Curse, but as he was about to (stupidly) shout for the Dark Lord to release the man, he recognized him. It was Peter Pettigrew, the loyal servant who had betrayed his parents and helped Voldemort regain his body at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Suddenly, Harry shut his mouth tight, despite the rolling of his stomach and the guilt that gnawed away at his conscience. This was Wormtail. He deserved it. Didn’t he?

“Potter!” he heard the sharp hiss of Tom Riddle’s scratchy voice as the screaming stopped. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, whipping around and facing him with a glare. Harry could feel his scar throbbing, and he grunted softly, reaching up to press his fingers against the lightning bolt as if it would help ease the pain of Voldemort’s wrath.

“Apologies for stumbling over your very well-hidden torture chamber,” he gritted out, glaring right back at the Dark Lord. The man huffed out a breath, and finally after a few minutes Harry felt the sharp pain ease into a dull throb; the cooling tingle doing wonders all over his forehead. He furrowed his eyebrows; he really had to find out where that tingle came from.

“I was just having a little bit of fun, you see,” he smiled wryly. “Lucius, we are going to have to talk about the efficiency of your Locking Charms,” he said unimpressed, turning to the pale Death Eater.

“What Locking Charms?” Harry furrowed his eyebrows. “I could just walk right in here.” Voldemort co*cked a perfectly trimmed eyebrow.

“I apologize, my Lord,” Lucius said, hastily dropping onto his knees. “I will be more careful next time.”

“You shall, Lucius, you shall…” Voldemort trailed off. He cast a glance at the lump in front of him. Pettigrew twitched every few seconds. Harry was sure he was going to be sick. “Bella, my dear, if you would be so kind as to escort our guest back to his room,” he smiled sinisterly at the curly-haired woman.

“What are you going to do to him?” Harry asked, his blood boiling with anger. Yes, he absolutely loathed Wormtail, but did he really want him to die? Wouldn’t that make him just as worse as the Death Eaters in the room?

“Whatever shall I do to him, Potter? Any ideas that have crossed your terribly young and fragile mind, perhaps?”

“You would know all about my mind,” Harry snorted, “seeing as you’ve been snooping around in it all year,” he glowered.

“Surely you are not waiting for my apology,” Voldemort smiled icily. “Right, then. Bella?”

“Certainly, my Lord,” she responded, striding over to Harry and grabbing his elbow. He snatched his arm right out of her grip and redirected his glare at her. She merely rolled her eyes at him. “Come on, Potter!” she barked at him before turning sharply out of the room.

Walking with Bellatrix was an… experience, to say the least. Although Harry was roughly as tall as her, he had to almost jog to keep up with the brutal pace of the insane witch. He could see Bellatrix’s jaw struggle to keep her mouth closed. Harry was sure she would have a thing or two she wanted to tell him — or maybe throw a curse or two at him — but she remained silent all the way through until they eventually reached his room.

“I know no one has punished you yet for wandering about the manor,” Bellatrix started when they finally arrived at the door, “but you would do well not to stick your nose in matters that are none of your concern, Potty,” she mocked.

“Why would I want to crash a Death Eater meeting? Afraid I’m going to run away and divulge all the nasty secrets to Dumbledore?” he sneered, his hand tightening on the knob until his knuckles turned white. Bellatrix snorted, twirling her wand between her long fingers.

“We don’t need you for that,” she cackled, stepping away and wiggling her fingers at him. “See you later, Potty.”

Back in his room, Harry read the chapter about the Horcruxes again and again, trying to find a clue that went beyond the fact he was sure Voldemort had Horcruxes. He knew from the book that Horcruxes were a nasty piece of magic, often draining the wizard or witch so badly, they had to spend several days resting. Other than that, Harry learned about the process of making a Horcrux — which wasn’t pleasant either. He couldn’t, for the life of him figure out what else Voldemort wanted. Why had he even indirectly shared such delicate information? Harry knew about the prophecy, the one that said he would be the only one able to vanquish the Dark Lord, and so he was sure Voldemort knew, too. So why would he practically hand over the tool that would eventually lead to his weakening, if not murder? Harry was so, so confused. He wished he had Hermione there with him, he was sure the young witch would have found out in three days.

Then, he tried focusing on his homework instead, but gave up after he noticed the headache forming behind his eyes. He lay down on the massive bed and curled around one the fluffy pillows and closed his eyes. A while later, a weight settled on him, although it wasn’t all that heavy. He cracked an eye open, although after seeing green scales he happily buried his face further into the pillow.

“You’re warm, little hatchling,” Nagini hissed, resting her head somewhere near Harry’s neck.

“‘Sokay, you can stay if you want,” he mumbled, his words slurring together as he slowly faded into sleep.

A while later, he awoke to a House Elf telling him dinner was ready and that Nagini had already left. He stretched for a few minutes, figuring that being late to dinner wasn’t such a big deal, then pulled his hoodie over his head and headed downstairs to the dining hall.

There, he found the usual people, with the addition of Bellatrix. Well, at least she wasn’t glaring at him anymore. No one said anything as he sat down and helped himself to some pasta — which was delicious —, eating in small, measured bites. After a while, conversation started to pick up and for a moment Harry was afraid they would discuss that week’s murders or raids, and was pleasantly surprised to hear about mundane things like how the peaco*cks were ready for sale. He hadn’t even known the Malfoys had peaco*cks, much less that they were for sale… Surely the Malfoy wealth couldn’t come only from selling temperamental birds to witches and wizards who didn’t know better? Were peaco*cks kept as pets in pureblood wizarding families, or was it only a quirk of Lucius and the people who bought peaco*cks from him? Harry was thoroughly confused.

Just as Harry was about to dig into his treacle tart, Voldemort looked up at him, “Potter, our lesson is immediately after dinner. I’m going to help you with that book since it’s crystal clear you’re not up for the job.”

“I thought the offer got canceled automatically after five days,” he grumbled, putting his fork down, his appetite leaving him suddenly. “I don’t want to spend more time in your presence than it’s necessary,” he spat.

“And you won’t,” said Voldemort placidly. “This impromptu studying session is very much necessary, Potter. Don’t go around thinking I want to spend so much time with you as company.”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” muttered Harry. “But fine. I’m not going to make it easy on you, though.”

“I’d be worried if you did,” said Voldemort, a sardonic smile gracing his lips.

Now, Harry’s appetite was truly and fully gone without a trace. What a shame, it was such a delicious looking tart, too...

After dinner, Harry found himself in the room in the corridor down to the right of the Founders’ room. Now that he didn’t have a screaming Peter Pettigrew to distract him, Harry finally noticed the numerous paintings on the walls. Creepily enough, they were all paintings of various famous Dark Wizards. The only one that didn’t move, though, was that of Gellert Grindelwald. Harry wondered whether Voldemort kept them as a motivation to be even more evil and cruel than all of them together. It was a creepy notion, but then again Harry wouldn’t be surprised if that really was the case.

Voldemort was right behind him, watching him examine the room patiently. Harry’s fingers were curled around the wand resting in his pocket, despite Voldemort not even threatening him with cursing him. Better safe than sorry, Harry supposed.

When he got fed up with the slurs the portraits kept throwing at him, he turned around to face the current Dark Lord.

“So? Are we going to get on with it or do you plan to force me to stay here all night long?”

“Ah, the impatience of youth,” Voldemort drawled while gesturing at the long table in the middle of the room. He sat down at one end, with Harry opting to sit at a reasonable distance from him now that he didn’t have to sit next to Voldemort. “Right. So, tell me, Potter, what have you managed to gather from the book?” he asked, co*cking an eyebrow.

“I know you have made a Horcrux,” he said. “I don’t know what that has to do with me, though. I’m trapped here, I can’t possibly be stupid enough to try to run away again. Last time I was unconscious for several hours,” he grumbled. To Harry’s horror, Voldemort actually snorted.

“I shall think you aren’t dumb enough to do that. One simply can’t know with Gryffindors, now, can they?” Harry was absolutely horrified at the grin the Dark Wizard was sporting. “What can one make into Horcruxes?”

“Legally speaking, one can’t make a Horcrux,” Harry muttered with a glare, his hands fidgeting, “but if we are going to ignore that slight problem, then only inanimate objects can be made into Horcruxes. A living creature cannot be a Horcrux.”

“And that, Potter, is where you are wrong,” Voldemort said, growing serious.

“But the book said—”

“The book lied!” Voldemort roared. “Or, the author wasn’t as knowledgeable in the art of Horcruxes as he would have liked to believe,” he gritted out angrily. Harry noticed Nagini slither up to her master, hissing something Harry couldn’t hear into his ear. Voldemort's stance changed almost instantly, his tense shoulders dropping after a calming exhale of air.

“Right, so you’re telling me you have a living Horcrux,” Harry said, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Excellent deduction, Potter. Fifty points to Gryffindor,” came the sarcastic reply. “Think harder, you’re on the right track.”

But Harry couldn’t. His brain felt all mushy, as if all of his brain cells had been Vanished. He was so thoroughly confused. Why was Voldemort telling him this? He was practically handling his secret weapon over to Harry, as if he wished to die at the teen’s hand. But then again, Voldemort had only divulged a minimal amount of information, just enough so that Harry’s mind would start raking through possibilities. Was Nagini the Horcrux? Surely she wasn’t; Voldemort wouldn’t give him a practically free pass to kill his pet. No, the living Horcrux had to be something… Or someone, Harry wouldn’t want to kill. So, who could it be?

“That night,” Voldemort started after a few moments of heavy silence, “the night I killed your parents because of the prophecy I’d heard, something happened. You survived the Killing Curse, Potter, but how?”

“My mother’s love,” Harry glowered. “Something you would know nothing about. She sacrificed herself for me, her love so grand that it made the curse rebound and hit you instead!” he said, hands twitching in his lap.

“Why do you think you can talk to snakes, Potter?” Voldemort asked, ignoring Harry’s answer and tone of contempt.

“Wizards and witches get gifts, sometimes, don’t they?” he grumbled, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “There doesn’t have to be a reason for me to be able to talk to snakes.”

“Indeed… But don’t you think it’s strange? The fact that not only are our wands brothers, but we also have the same Magical Gift?” Voldemort asked, staring right into Harry’s eyes. The raven-haired boy felt as if he was staring right into the core of his soul. “Dumbledore hasn’t told you the entire truth about yourself, or that night, for that matter, Potter. To trust that old, barking crazy man is the stupidest thing you could do.”

“You’re only saying that because he’s the only wizard that could kill you. You’re afraid of him.”

Voldemort let out a chilling, cold cackle.

“The only wizard who could kill me? No, Potter,” he shook his head. “You’re the only wizard who could kill me. Although, you have something of mine that certainly makes it a rather difficult task,” he admitted, stroking his hand up and down Nagini’s head. Not lovingly, though. Never lovingly.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Harry snapped. “You kidnap me, treat me actually well but then you give me a book and keep telling me some f*cked up riddles, going around in circles and never telling me what it is you have to say! So don’t waste both of our time, and just spit it out already!” he shouted, standing up from his seat with such force it almost sent the chair flying backwards.

“Sit down, Potter,” Voldemort hissed harshly.

“I’m not sitting the f*ck down!”

“Fine, you absolutely horrid, petulant child,” came the answer with a snarl. It reminded him strangely of Professor Snape, not that Harry wanted to think about the dungeon bat in a situation like this. “Just think, Potter. You have something of mine.”

Harry stood in silence for a few moments, his brows furrowed, then it suddenly clicked.

“You’re my Horcrux, Potter.”

Chapter 5: Sirius Black

Chapter Text

Hot-white rage burned through his being, taking him apart piece by piece.

He’d felt angry before, plenty of times, but it was nothing like the all-consuming murderous feeling that took over his body. His ears were ringing, and he felt his magic curling around his fingers. He heard something shattering in the background, followed by the unapproving tuts coming from the portraits in the room.

He stared at Voldemort.

“Get it out of me,” he gritted, clenching his hands into tight fists at his side.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Potter,” Voldemort drawled. Harry was seething, seeing red; his clothes feeling suddenly like they were on fire, burning his skin.

“You’re lying,” Harry growled. “There wasn’t anything about living things made into Horcruxes in the book! I can’t- Can’t be your f*cking Horcrux!”

“Because I am possibly the only person who has ever managed to make a living Horcrux, Potter, use your brains,” Voldemort said with a glare.

“How do you know it wouldn’t work, then?” he hissed, hearing something new shatter behind him. He didn’t particularly care what it was, but he still hoped Narcissa wouldn’t hang him if it was one of her seemingly extremely expensive vases.

“I assume you wouldn’t survive to tell the tale of getting a piece of soul taken out of you,” Voldemort grumbled. “Do you think I’m enjoying this? I can’t kill you, Potter. It is rather troublesome, I assure you.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you can’t f*cking murder me? Do I need to remind you just whose bloody Horcrux this is? You were the one who made it, so you must know how to reverse all this!”

“I didn’t exactly… Do it on purpose, you see,” the older wizard admitted. “I am fairly certain it had to do something with the Killing Curse that rebounded when I tried killing you.”

Harry heard the cruel, high-pitched laugh over his mother’s screams and he saw the bright green flash again. He clenched his jaw, feeling his sharp nails digging into his palm, drawing blood— yet, all of that felt minuscule compared to the trembling of his every limb. He glared up at the Dark Lord one last time before turning on his heels and storming off from the room. He didn’t know how much time it took him to get back to his room, but by the time he arrived, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold his wand to toss it onto the bed.

Hedwig hooted anxiously from her cage, watching Harry with big, concerned yellow eyes. The raven-haired boy didn’t pay her any mind though as he moved towards the desk and downed a glass of water, the glass refilling itself. It didn’t help much, so Harry tried to ground himself by inhaling big gulps of air and focusing on his feet planted on the ground. He counted to seven as he inhaled and six as he exhaled, shutting his eyes tightly. After a few moments, his erratic heartbeat seemed to calm down a great deal, and his ears weren’t ringing anymore.

He walked over to the couch and plopped down onto it, throwing his head back against the back of the sofa. Voldemort’s words were echoing in his mind. You’re my Horcrux, Potter.

But what exactly did that mean, anyway? How did it change anything, really? After all, Harry had lived with the Horcrux inside of him since he was one. How much of his persona was the Horcrux, and how much was the real Harry? Was there even any difference between the two of them, or had the Horcrux influenced him so much over the years that it couldn’t even be a separate being? Harry groaned.

God, how he wished Sirius and Remus were with him. His godfather would simply offer some Firewhiskey, sure — he was horrible at heart-to-hearts —, but Remus would probably give him a pained smile and a big speech about how Harry was his own person and the Horcrux didn’t matter, because it had been there already, they just didn’t know it. He missed them so much. He gritted his teeth against the ache of homesickness he had for a home he didn’t have, and flexed his fingers. Hedwig hooted softly from her corner and Harry extended his arm towards her, the snow-white owl flying onto his biceps almost instantly, She nuzzled her beak into his messy locks and Harry exhaled slowly.

He tried concentrating on Hedwig’s claws digging into his skin from where she was perched onto his shoulders, the feel of the tip of her beak poking him in the top of his head and her cloud-soft feathers brushing against the nape of his neck. The warmth emitting from his bird helped ground him and he slowly felt the pain from his chest becoming lighter and lighter as the minutes passed. It was only a few moments later when he realized the tingling travelling down from his scar towards the numbness in his limbs, revitalizing them in a kind, fairy-like way. He frowned, starting to think.

Why was the tingling feeling always coming from his scar? Wasn’t that the same scar that Voldemort had used in order to implement terrible, frightening nightmares in Harry’s mind since fourth year? But if the curse scar was a connection to Voldemort, then that meant一 That meant that Voldemort was essentially the one who had calmed Harry for the past few weeks every time things got too much. And wasn’t that just the weirdest concept? Perhaps for the first time since having been told he is a wizard, Harry Potter got truly and utterly surprised. He didn’t have much time to dwell on the revelation, though, as he heard a forceful knock on the door.

He sighed, getting up and shooing Hedwig away as he moved to open the door. There, behind it stood the youngest Malfoy, wearing a scowl so deep Harry was afraid it would give the blond premature wrinkles.

“What can I help you with?” Harry asked, arching an eyebrow. Malfoy started squirming in an awkward, undignified way that almost made Harry snort. He decided against doing that, though, in favor of hearing whatever it was that Malfoy needed.

“The Dark Lord sent me to make sure you hadn’t wrecked your room to the ground,” he replied, with a surprising touch of calmness in his cold voice. “I don’t know what happened, but I am very, very keen on following orders, so here I am. Ready to listen to the concerns and problems of one Harry Potter.”

“You’re ready to listen to whatever bothers your arch-nemesis?” Harry asked, confused but still stepping aside so Malfoy could enter his quarters.

“Potter, the Dark Lord would be very offended if he knew you called me your arch-nemesis. Out of the two of us, isn’t he the one who is trying to actively kill you?”

“Was. Was trying to actively kill me,” Harry replied softly, letting the doors close back again as he watched Malfoy walk over to the sofa. The blond boy plopped down and arched an eyebrow, motioning beside himself, telling Harry to sit down.

Harry was getting dizzy. He suspected the happenings of the last three weeks had just begun to catch up with him, like an unwanted cold shower. His head felt heavy, his eyes burned and Draco Malfoy was sitting with his legs open on a couch that belonged to the Malfoy Manor, where he was currently imprisoned. He was a Horcrux, and Voldemort was calming him through their connection whenever things got too much by sending tingly weird magic that had a cooling effect. For a moment, Harry thought he was going to keel over. Right there, in front of smirking, pointy-Malfoy.

“Potter?” Malfoy asked, his face scrunched up. “Are you quite alright?” There was something akin to worry in his voice, but Harry couldn’t be too sure about it. Was Malfoy even capable of feeling real feelings?

“I will be, just as soon as I wrap my head around all of this,” Harry muttered while stumbling across the room to sit down, still feeling a bit faint.

“Understandable. I imagine waking up to Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself breaking into your home would be fairly unexpected,” Malfoy said placidly. Harry was getting annoyed with the way the blond boy seemed so calm and collected. It was so unlike him, Harry wondered for a moment whether he was really Malfoy, or someone else in disguise.

“More like absolutely barmy.”

“If one wishes to be crass,” the blond inclined his head, though his hands were twitching weirdly, clenching and unclenching his fingers around his wand.

Malfoy’s eyes darkened, a ghost of the sneer Harry was used to washing over his face for a fraction of a second before vanishing. There was a dark fire gleaming in his eyes. “But of course I do, Potty. Just finished Crucioing a redhead Muggle that looked eerily similar to your own mother when the Dark Lord summoned me. I’m terribly sorry, would you have liked to watch?” he growled, his patience visibly thinning and eventually snapping. It took Harry a few seconds to actually realize what the blond boy had said, seconds during which Malfoy froze, seemingly knowing he had stepped a bit far. The glass near Malfoy shattered into little bits, a few even hitting him, but Harry didn’t care.

All the feelings of anguish, hopelessness and sorrow that had been building up inside of him for weeks suddenly seemed too much to bear. He felt his magic gathering around at the tip of his fingers, if he would only just flick them in Malfoy’s direction, then—

A loud pop! interrupted them. A terrified, big-eyed House Elf was looking at them with fear, playing with her fingers.

“Pipmey is being sent by the Dark Lord to fetch Mr. Harry Potter and Master Draco Malfoy,” she squeaked. “The Dark Lord is being waiting for them in the Abraxas Malfoy Room in the North Wing,” she finished in a high voice. Harry didn’t even have a chance to thank her, despite his anger, or be properly weirded out by the fact that the Malfoys had a room named after Lucius’ father, before Pipmey popped away.

“Come, Potter.” Malfoy was already standing by the time he finished barking out his order. Harry felt another wave of annoyance flare up with him, and would have liked to tell the git to shove his orders up his ass, but decided against it, because upon closer inspection Malfoy seemed actually scared for his life. Well, serves him right, Harry thought bitterly. No one could hide from karma, after all.

They practically floated through the endless mass of corridors with the way Malfoy was rushing to get there. Harry found he almost couldn’t keep up with the long legs, and had had to ask Malfoy to slow down several times, although his pleas met deaf ears.

They got to the Abraxas Malfoy Room in under five minutes, Malfoy breaking out in a sweat and Harry’s lungs screaming for oxygen. He was sure the Slytherin boy wasn’t sweating because getting to the room had been so tedious, which was indeed weird, considering Harry had never actually realized how athletic Malfoy was. But that was neither here, nor there, he realized, as they stepped inside the gigantic room.

Harry noted that he had never been here before, so the room was probably not the one being used for Death Eater meetings. He would have liked to appreciate the sheer brilliance of the art hanging on the walls, were it not for the sight that greeted him. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange were holding a shaggy black-haired man bound between themselves. The man was Harry’s godfather.

Sirius Black.

Harry thought his heart might have stopped for a minute when their eyes met, and then his arm shot to his pocket to grab his wand almost reflexively, only, it was empty. Dread climbed its way up his spine, spreading through his whole body. They were going to kill Sirius, and make him watch it without even having a wand to try to protect his godfather, he was sure of it. Had this been the plan all along?

“Harry!” Sirius shouted, tearing him away from his panicked musings. “What the f*ck are you doing here? You were supposed to be at the Dursleys’! Dumbledore said he visited you on your birthday, when have these— Have they hurt you? Merlin, please, don’t hurt Harry, just hurt me ins—”

Sirius was cut off by Voldemort shooting a Silencing Spell at him.

“Merlin, shut up at once!” he growled. “He’s been talking non-stop ever since he got here! How do you keep yourself from bloody hexing him all the time?” he asked Harry, completely bewildered. Harry privately thought Voldemort should be worried about a number of different things, none of them being his godfather’s talking habits. Even if, admittedly, Sirius did talk a lot.

Harry chose to ignore the question addressed to him. “Let him go,” he hissed.

“Ah-ah,” Voldemort chuckled, shaking his head. “How did he know you weren’t at home? How have you managed to sneak a letter, telling them everything?” he asked, the dangerous glint in his eyes sending shivers down Harry’s spine.

“I haven’t,” he answered honestly. “I only wrote one answer to all of them, and that was on my birthday. No one knew I was here.”

“Well then, how in the world did he know he had to look for you?” Voldemort was getting really, really angry by now, if only judging by the pure hatred latched onto his face. Harry wished he knew how to do wandless shield charms.

“Maybe…” he trailed off, “just maybe, he loved me enough to come check up on me at the only place I could be during summer. You wouldn’t know how that feels, would you, Tom?” He was mortified. He hadn’t meant it for it to sound as provocative as it did, but now there was no taking it back. He had fully prepared to die in those two seconds, but Voldemort merely directed his icy glare towards Sirius, and with a flick of his fingers, gave his voice back.

“Talk!” he barked. Sirius’ face twisted into an expression full of hate and disgust, one Harry had only seen him direct towards Snape. He could understand the reasoning, though.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he spat.

“Well, then, I guess my green-lighted friend will have to do it. He’s quite quick and painless,” Voldemort said, as if talking about the weather, all the while dragging his fingers up and down his wand in that arrogant manner that made Harry see red from anger.

“Pads,” Harry cut in, his voice small. “Please.”

Sirius took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak.

Chapter 6: One Man's Lie

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place had never been a happy house. Growing up, all Sirius could remember were the tutors, who taught them how to be ‘proper Purebloods’, and later on the screaming matches that went down every single day during the summer up until he turned sixteen, which was when he had snuck out to the Potter manor and had never looked back.

It wasn’t much happier now. Sirius looked around the table, the long, worried faces greeting him like old friends. He could faintly hear the Weasley boys and Hermione having a heated discussion upstairs, but it wasn’t clear enough as to get the details of what it was about. Albus Dumbledore was sitting serenely at the other end of the enormous table, right in front of Sirius, stroking his beard with his wrinkly fingers. Sirius thought he could see a faint glint of something in Dumbledore’s eyes, but he was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. Albus had nothing to hide.

“Voldemort has been lying low,” Remus said gravely, swirling around the goblet which Sirius knew contained his usual dose of Wolfsbane. His own nose scrunched up, feeling sorry for his friend, Moony, even after all these years.

“Indeed Tom has, yes,” Albus agreed placidly.

“What do you think he’s plotting? Is Harry in danger?”

“Harry is in no greater danger than he was before, when Tom was actively seeking him out,” Dumbledore answered. “We can’t be too hasty as to assume anything, but I do believe he is getting weaker and weaker as the days pass by. After all, one can only come so far with a body made out of a potion.” Sirius snorted, despite the worry gnawing away at his stomach. He knew Dumbledore’s words were supposed to calm him down, but for some reason he became even more agitated by them.

“Is Harry alright? Have you gone to visit him on his birthday?” he asked, chewing lightly on his lip.

“Yes, Harry is fine,” came the answer.

“As fine as he can be while living with the Dursleys,” Remus muttered under his breath. Sirius bumped their legs together with a wry grin, his own anxiety surely showing on his face. He hated not being able to do anything for his only godson.

Slowly, night fell. As Grimmauld Place became quieter and quieter, Sirius became restless. His instincts told him something wasn’t right, something was terribly, terribly wrong. He thought back to the Order meeting, Dumbledore talking so vaguely about Harry’s wellbeing, the mirth dancing around in his eyes and suddenly Sirius felt his stomach drop.

He scrambled out of his bed, trying to shuffle around as gracefully and quietly as he could, worried about waking Hermione and Remus. He snuck out of the house, onto the street and morphed into Padfoot, Grimmauld 12 disappearing between number 10 and 14. He was a bit lost for a while, turning down the wrong street, but eventually made it to number 4, Privet Drive. Everything was eerily quiet. Sirius wasn’t surprised, given that it was well after midnight now. He looked both ways before turning back into his human form, making sure no one saw him doing so.

Sirius Black hadn’t seen it coming. One second he was getting ready to pick the lock of Vernon Dursley’s house, and in the next he was bound and Apparated to Malfoy Manor.

Harry gaped at him. Sirius had snuck out of his house, while still technically being on the run, just so he could check up on Harry because he had gotten a bad feeling. Harry had never dared to hope that someone would love him so much one day. His eyes stung with unshed tears as he completely disregarded the Death Eaters present in the room and hurried over to his godfather, throwing his arms around his neck in a tight hug. A few moments passed before there was a bright light and then Sirius’ arms came around Harry, enveloping him in the warmth of a parental figure. Harry knew there were several other people in the room, and that Voldemort was probably going to Obliviate his godfather, so he wanted to savor every moment they had together. He didn't even care that he was showing weakness; he had felt so alone these past few weeks, the hug was absolutely worth it, given that he also didn't know how much time he had with Sirius.

“This is all very touching.” Voldemort’s icy voice interrupted them. Harry let go of Sirius, turning around and glaring like there was no tomorrow. “Now, I believe I should teach Black a lesson about sniffing where his nose doesn’t belong,” he grumbled. Nagini slithered inside the room, and Harry felt Sirius stiffen behind him. She slid up Voldemort’s front, hissing something into his ear that Harry couldn’t quite make out, though it sounded bad, seeing as it made the Dark Lord frown deeply.

“You won’t hurt Sirius,” Harry said, his voice leaving no room for questions.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Voldemort replied, his smile holding nothing pleasant. “Though it all comes down to how willing your godfather is to cooperate in order to keep you safe.”

“I will never work together with you bunch of disgusting, slithering, slimy snakes!” Sirius growled furiously, whipping his wand out. Voldemort’s nostrils - and wasn’t it weird seeing him with a nose? -, flared as he flicked his fingers, summoning Sirius’ wand from his hand. Harry felt his mouth go dry. They were never going to survive this.

“That’s rich coming from a man who works directly under Dumbledore.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Harry interjected, his eyebrows furrowed. Voldemort ignored him, though.

“It doesn’t matter to me either way. Either you keep your mouth shut about this and work together with us to keep Potter safe, or I rough you up and return you to the Order in a metal box. The choice is yours,” he said dismissively.

“I know the Dursleys are terrible people, but at least Harry was safe there, far away from you!” Sirius seethed, his voice dripping with venom.

“You’re so unlike your brother was,” Voldemort mused. “I walked right up to the front door, Black, then I opened it and walked in. Indeed, it was very safe, no one ambushed me, I assure you,” he drawled. Harry thought he was trying to joke around, but the notion was so bizarre he immediately abolished it from his mind. He heard Malfoy snort behind him, but decided to pay him no mind. “I will give you fifteen minutes to decide, just so you see how generous I can really be,” he said, turning on his heels and leaving the room abruptly. The Lestrange brothers and Malfoy looked a bit put out for a few moments before they retreated farther back into the room, but didn’t leave.

Harry turned to Sirius and took in his godfather’s appearance. Sirius looked tired and weary, although far better than the first time Harry had met him. The grey hairs suited him and his face wasn’t sunken anymore. He looked healthy, besides his bloodshot and empty eyes. Something tightened in Harry’s stomach. He had always wondered what Sirius looked like with eyes shining from being alive.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” replied Sirius, shaking his head. “I should be the one asking that. Bloody f*ck, Prongslet, how long have you been kept here?” They kept their voices low, although it didn’t do much good, seeing as the room was too big for their voices not to echo off the walls. Harry hoped Malfoy was minding his own business- It sure looked like he was. He turned back towards Sirius with a tight smile.

“Three weeks, give or take,” he answered.

“But your birthday was only a week ago. Dumbledore told me he visited you on your birthday, just like he does every single year-”

“Dumbledore has never visited me on my birthday, Pads,” Harry said with a frown.

“So that means he wasn’t telling the truth.”

“A wonderful deduction, Black,” Voldemort drawled from behind them. Harry didn’t even turn around, only rolled his eyes.

“That wasn’t fifteen minutes, you know,” he scoffed.

“Well, of course it wasn’t. Albus isn’t the only one who can lie,” Riddle scoffed in return, walking up to stand beside them. “So, what’ll it be?”

“We haven’t decided yet because you didn’t give us enough bloody time,” Harry snapped.

“How about now?” Voldemort asked, whipping his wand out and holding it to Sirius’s neck, digging into the skin. Harry felt a shudder course through him. “Is this enough motivation to think a little faster?”

He needed to think fast. He hadn’t been hurt here yet, nor were there any signs pointing towards a future filled with torture, and Voldemort seemed to be ready to kill Sirius if they didn’t give the right answer. But was there even a right answer? And most importantly:

How did he know he could trust Voldemort?

Harry thought about his friends. Hermione’s warm, chocolate-brown eyes, then he thought about how those same eyes would look at him if he chose to side with the murderer of his parents. He thought about Ron, the boy who had stayed at Hogwarts during Christmas holidays in their First Year, because Harry didn’t have a family to go home to. He thought about Ginny, who was so very ready to be there for him at any given time, the same Ginny who had been possessed by the monster standing in front of him when she had only been twelve years old. He looked at Sirius pleadingly, mortified by the thought of losing him, too. There was a deep ache in his chest, squeezing his lungs tight, breaking his ribs and pouring poison into the cracks. Harry’s mouth dried, his heart rate picking up as he stared blankly at the marble floor. How could he ask Sirius to betray the Light?

He would lose Sirius. There was no way Sirius was going to agree to Voldemort’s terms, and then Harry would be so, so alone.

“The clock is ticking,” Voldemort reminded them with a dark glint in his eyes, digging the wand deeper. Sirius gulped. Harry did too.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Harry pleaded quietly. “Hurt me. Kill me, whatever, just don’t… Don’t hurt him. You’ve taken so much away from him already, just leave him be. Please,” he whispered.

Voldemort’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t lower his wand, despite his hand wavering.

“Dumbledore lied… Once. How is that supposed to make me like your side’s agenda?” Sirius asked in a steely voice, not even sparing a glance towards Harry.

“You’re even more naive if you think Dumbledore lied only one time,” Voldemort hissed. “You follow him as if he were a god. Only, he has more skeletons in his closet than you think.” The smirk on his face was all teeth, and danger, and thirst for blood. His red eyes were gleaming as they glared daggers at Harry’s godfather, a sick satisfaction dancing around in them.

“I can’t trust you not to hurt Harry,” Sirius said slowly. “I am not even willing to try trusting you. Why shouldn’t I just run to the Order with the information that you keep Harry here as soon as you let me walk away?” he asked evenly. To Harry, it seemed as if he wasn’t even bothered by the wand held at his throat, ready to fire off an Avada Kedavra at any time.

“Because you either cooperate, or you leave in several pieces,” Voldemort answered simply. “I don’t have time for child’s play, Black.”

“And I won’t stand in front of the monster who killed my best friend and his wife and just say ‘Oh, well, of course I’ll join as a semi-Death Eater. All fine and dandy, when can I get my tattoo?’. It’s not how it works. I’m not Bellatrix, you can’t just seduce me into joining your murder group!” he growled.

“That night didn’t happen the way you think it did,” Voldemort said, his nostrils flaring.

“Didn’t it?” Sirius hissed. “Didn’t Wormtail betray his friends and get them killed? Didn’t I fail them by suggesting to switch the Secret Keeper?” His voice sounded weak now, as if mentally he was in a different place while talking to them. Harry gulped.

“Dumbledore knew you weren’t the Secret Keeper.”

Deafening silence fell. Harry could hear his ears ring as he stared at Voldemort. The Dark wizard lowered his wand at once, boredly twirling it around his fingers. He didn’t look bothered at all, and Harry wondered whether he was being truthful after all. It didn’t make sense.

Why would Dumbledore keep such an important detail to himself and let Sirius go to Azkaban for twelve years if he knew he was perfectly innocent? Then again, Dumbledore had lied about Harry being the safest at the Dursleys’. The teenager’s faith wavered— Was the blood protection even real? He felt so confused. Even if Harry didn’t have that many reasons to trust Dumbledore anymore, he did have enough reasons not to trust Riddle. Well, not so much lately, seeing as he hadn’t outright attacked him or his friends during the past year— Except the mishap at the Department of Mysteries, though Harry hated to think about that particular moment seeing as the DA had failed spectacularly at stopping Lucius Malfoy from getting his hands on the prophecy. At least they hadn’t lost anyone, and that was something Harry had to be really grateful for.

“Well, time’s up,” Voldemort said suddenly. Harry’s blood went cold. “Oh, don’t give me that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look,” he scoffed at Harry, twirling his wand in the air and gentle ropes weaved themselves around Sirius’ wrists like handcuffs. Harry heard the sound of someone choking in the background, though he paid it no mind.

“What are you going to do to him?” he demanded, his voice breaking at the end. He loathed himself for looking so weak in front of f*cking Voldemort, but he felt as if he couldn’t control his reactions.

“No need to worry, Potter,” the older wizard waved his hand dismissively, walking behind Sirius and starting to push him towards the door. “I’m not going to kill your beloved godfather, calm down.”

“But you said you would return him in pi—”

“I know what I said!” Voldemort snapped angrily, throwing the door open as Harry scrambled to keep up with them. “Now, be a good little Gryffindor and go to your room or I will really go through with my promise.” He shot him a meaningful look before grabbing Sirius’ elbow and Apparating.

As soon as he heard the tell-tale crack! of Apparating, Rabastan turned to his brother with his face white as if a ghost had just walked through him.

“Wasn’t that a BDSM spell?” he whispered incredulously.

“I think it would be best not to dwell on that,” Rodolphus muttered back, mindful of Draco eavesdropping on them.

The first thing Sirius noted about the cellars was the fact that it was bloody cold down there. He almost changed into Padfoot just to bear with the heat but abruptly remembered just where he was. For all he knew, there were anti-Animagus wards in place and then he would just get himself killed before time. He tried memorizing every little corner and crack, just in case he got out of there alive and had to tell someone.

Voldemort was awfully quiet, leading him through corridors and then even more corridors. It seemed as if the whole underground part of the Malfoy Manor was just as big as the manor itself. It was so f*cking preposterous, though he wasn’t surprised at all. It was fitting for a Malfoy property. He remembered the dungeons of one of the Black estates and a chill ran down his spine. All those bones and skulls… Not a pleasant memory.

Voldemort ushered him into a spacious cell, and then, to Sirius’ surprise, he Conjured an armchair for him. It wasn’t a bed, but he supposed he would have to make do. It was certainly better than a stone cold metal box. The Dark Wizard left without a word, leaving Sirius to stare at his retreating back until he was out of sigh.

Then, and only then did Sirius allow himself to sit down into the armchair (it was fairly comfortable), and rub his hand over his face. He had been so bloody stupid. What did he even think, sneaking out to go to Privet Drive? He felt sixteen all over again, although the consequences were far more terrible this time than when he used to go to the Potters. If Voldemort went upstairs to de-stress by crucioing Harry to death, it would be all his fault. He inhaled deeply, chewing on his bottom lip.

A few, long minutes passed before he heard footsteps again. His ears perked up and he stood abruptly from the chair, peering out the magical bars.

It was Voldemort. What was he doing back?

“Listen, Black,” he said in a growl upon entering the cell again, carrying a metal box. Sirius gulped. Was he going to be transferred back to the Order in that? Sweet Merlin’s saggy balls. He really was going to die. “I’m not doing this lightly,” he said with a pained expression, holding the box out for Sirius to take. It was heavily decorated, looking expensive and it was bathing in magic. Little zips of electricity traveled up Sirius’ arms when he took it, but it wasn’t actually painful.

“What is this?” he asked cautiously. What if the box was cursed?

“Something of mine,” came the cryptic answer. “Take good care of it. Check everything thoroughly, I will come to fetch you and the box in the morning. After looking through every parchment there is in the box, I want you to give me a final answer regarding the issue we discussed today. If you don’t give me a satisfactory answer, I’m afraid I will have to retort to my favorite green spell,” he said simply, then tapped his wand to the pretty little box, hissing something in what Sirius supposed was Parseltongue. The box glowed for a brief second before he heard a faint lick.

“I won’t join your side,” Sirius gritted out, glaring at the Dark Wizard.

“We’ll see,” Voldemort shrugged. “Do pay attention, yes?” And with that, he was gone.

Sirius stared at the object in his hands for a few more minutes before sitting down onto the ground and opening it. There were a few parchments which seemed like official, Ministry documents, but underneath those and a few trinkets, there was a leather-bound diary. He took it out carefully, running his fingers over the cover. It felt nice under the fingers, though he couldn’t ignore the heavy, dark aura that surrounded the book.

He gulped, and began reading.

Draco Malfoy swore under his breath as he tore through the grounds of Malfoy Manor. It was bloody cold for a summer night, and not even the Warming Charm he’d cast earlier helped him. f*cking Pureblood inbred genes, he thought as his teeth chattered.

The Owlery was on the left of his godfather’s Greenhouses. It was a moderately decorated white building, illuminated by permanent Lumos charms floating around. The owls hated it, but Draco supposed they were necessary if one wanted to be able to read the letters at night. He entered, closing the door behind him and started spying for his owl. Alioth noticed him first, and hooted happily as he swooped down from the highest branch, digging his claws deep into Draco’s shoulder when he landed. The boy winced, and offered his owl a somewhat pained smile. His shoulder hurt like hell. He reached into his pocket for Alioth’s favorite treats nonetheless, and offered them to him. The animal rubbed his beak against Draco’s hair affectionately, and held out his leg for him as he munched on the treats. Draco took the letter carefully, gave Alioth another treat and shooed him away.

He exited the Owlery, not being able to stand the stench — he should really order Pipmey to clean soon —, and made his way over to his favorite Oak Tree. It stood proudly in the centre of the gardens, smiling up at the sky. Draco noted it was a clear night, the stars and the Moon shining brightly. He let out a content sigh as he sat down on the grass, ignoring the voice of his conscience which sounded eerily like his father, and tore excitedly at the envelope. An uncharacteristically large smile lit up his face as he began reading.

My beloved Dragon,

I went stargazing last night, saw your constellation and thought of you...

Chapter 7: Secrets Kept Within

Chapter Text

Remus’ fingers were shaking as he held the note he had found on Sirius’ pillow when he went into his room to wake him up. The four simple words written haphazardly on the torn piece of parchment made his stomach sink.

“What are you doing in here?” Remus jumped at the words and quickly turned around, holding the note tightly in his hand. Tonks was leaning against the door with a soft smile on her face. Remus’ heart skipped a beat and he squirmed slightly, feeling his cheeks go red from the way Tonks was looking at him.

“Just came in to wake Padfoot up…” he trailed off, barely holding himself back from wincing. Tonks raised her eyebrows. They were yellow today, and even though they looked a bit weird, Remus thought she looked beautiful. “What are you doing here so early?” he asked instead, carefully slipping the parchment into his pocket.

“Kingsley wanted to talk with you about something, so I thought I’d tag along. Why, does it bother you?” she smirked, then obviously tried to swagger towards him, only, her feet got all tangled up and she stumbled with a yelp. Remus’ hands shot out as he hurried to steady her, unable to stifle his laugh. She glared at him, though her gaze softened when he circled his arms around her waist and pressed a soft kiss on the tip of her nose.

“What does Kingsley want to talk about with me?”

“They sighted known Death Eaters lurking around Privet Drive late last night,” she said, sighing as she squeezed his shoulders gently. Remus’ mouth went dry.

“Around Privet Drive you say?” he asked, gulping as they started making their way downstairs. Tonks stumbled on the stairs once, but Remus caught her before she could fall. She didn’t answer his question, only shot him a worried look, but the man didn’t mind. Usually, Tonks not giving him an answer meant he would get his answer from somewhere else, which was just as well, seeing as his other source was currently Kingsley.

In the kitchen, the Head Auror was already waiting for them. The dark circles under his eyes and his sunken face showed them how tired he really was, though he tried to hold himself upright nonetheless.

“Where’s Sirius?” asked Kingsley, watching as the pair sat down across from him.

“In the shower,” lied Remus easily. “What’s wrong?”

“The Lestrange brothers have been sighted sniffing around Dursley’s house. I’m not going to lie to you, it doesn’t look good,” he sighed heavily. “I went by their house before coming here, but they didn’t seem to be awake, so I didn’t want to bother them. I talked with Ms. Figg, and she told me she hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary lately. If we can trust her, then the problem might not be as big as we thought. If not, well… We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” By the time Kingsley finished, Remus was frowning deeply. Tonks was trying to provide him with moral support by drawing small circles on his thigh with her fingers, and though Remus appreciated that, it didn’t really calm his nerves.

“And if this really is as bad as the Aurors think… Then what? How much danger is Harry in?”

“A lot more than I would like to acknowledge,” Kingsley relented.

“So why aren’t we discussing this with Dumbledore?” The werewolf caught the grimace that flashed across the other man’s face before it disappeared. “Kingsley?”

“Remus,” Kingsley said his name as if he were a small child, “that should honestly be a discussion for another day.”

“If it concerns Harry’s safety then I rather we don’t postpone the conversation,” Remus hissed, clenching his hands involuntarily.

“It doesn’t directly concern his safety,” Kingsley said placidly. “It’s an issue for another day. For now, we should focus on rescuing Harry from Privet Drive. Without Dumbledore’s knowledge,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Without Dumbledore’s knowledge,” Remus echoed dumbly. His heart began racing a mile a minute, a headache already forming behind his eyes. He squeezed Tonks’ hand tighter in his own, heaving a great sign. Why couldn’t Dumbledore know about their little mission? Especially since he must know about the Death Eaters. After all he was the one to always preach about the importance of the house on Privet Drive being watched at all times during the summer holidays. With a sense of foreboding Remus’ hand flew to the note tucked away safely into his pocket. On top of all that, Sirius was missing, surely up to no good, and no one could know about that one, meaning Remus would have to tear through England to look for his idiotic best friend.

Merlin, Pads, what have you gotten yourself into this time?, he thought sourly.

The atmosphere was heavy in Malfoy Manor. Though it had once been a happy place for Draco Malfoy, right now, a big black cloud of danger seemed to be looming over the estate at all times.

The teen watched the Dark Lord as they all sat in the dining room. He was sitting with a perfectly impassive facial expression, although the glare directed at Sirius Black would have made Draco pee his pants had it been directed towards him. His Aunt Bella was silently sitting in her seat, grinning maniacally at her cousin, twitching from time to time. His mother was sitting next to his father serenely, sipping away at her usual morning tea without a care in the world. Draco often wondered how she did that, seeing as he had seen her do it ever since he was small. It could not have been easy to live with an almost-convicted Death Eater and all of the repercussions of the First Wizarding war. His mother had always been a rock for him, though, and continued to be one. He was truly grateful for that, and hoped she wouldn’t turn her back on him the moment his secret was revealed. Because although Draco had been cradling that one secret carefully ever since the end of Fourth Year, he was sure that one day it would come to light, if it lasted that long. Draco hoped it would.

He also hoped he wouldn’t get decapitated for it. Or worse.

He didn’t have more time to muse to himself, seeing as the entrance of the dining room burst open at exactly seven o’clock, a very dishevelled Harry Potter appearing in the doorway like a madman, Nagini on his toes. Draco could have sworn he saw the snake roll her eyes at him before slithering calmly onto the lap of the now grinning Dark Lord. Draco honestly preferred it when Voldemort was frowning or glaring; seeing him grin was extremely unnerving.

Harry hadn’t slept too much, and he was sure it was visible by the enormous dark circles resting under his eyes. His mind had been plagued by dreams of Sirius getting tortured on the cold cement of what had seemed to be a dungeon; slimy and wet. He had come up with only the worst scenarios he could possibly think of, sure that Voldemort would gut his godfather. Not a single positive thought had crossed his mind last night. He’d felt as if he aged 10 years in the span of a few hours.

Nagini had come into his room at one point and curled up next to him. She had been silent but Harry had still felt comforted by that for some reason. He remembered running his fingers across her scales for hours; it had truly grounded him and prevented him from getting another ‘episode’. He still refused to call them panic attacks; Hermione could be wrong sometimes too.

And now there he was, in the doorway of the gigantic dining room, probably looking like someone who had just escaped from Azkaban, and Sirius was alive and well. He looked grumpy, but still alive, and that was all that mattered to Harry.

“Sirius?” he asked incredulously, ignoring the Death Eaters watching him amusedly. “But you’re— You’re not supposed to be alive!”

“You underestimate the kindness of my heart, Potter. I’m truly wounded,” drawled Riddle, lifting his goblet and taking a sip. Harry continued to glare at him— He was sure the Dark wizard had only kept him on his toes the whole night for the fun of it. After all, he couldn’t bodily hurt him now, could he? Harry was his Horcrux, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make his life as miserable as he possibly could without physically hurting him.

“My apologies,” Harry drawled right back, rushing to his godfather’s side. Sirius looked as if he was in pain, though Harry couldn’t see any external injuries on his body. He plopped down next to him, oblivious to the glare directed at him by the Dark Lord, and began eating without a word as soon as he felt his stomach settle. He knew Sirius wouldn’t want to talk to him about what happened last night right now, in a room full of Death Eaters who couldn’t wait for both of their deaths. Even though he was very interested in what had changed Sirius’ mind when his own still hadn’t been yet, he waited patiently through breakfast. He was sure they would have a chance to talk later.

Half an hour later he was back in his room together with Sirius. He’d spelled the door shut even though he was sure Voldemort could just walk right in if he wished to do so.

“What did he show you?” Harry demanded as soon as Sirius put up an Auror-grade Silencing Charm around the room. He frowned at his godson as he sat down next to him on the couch, staying silent for long moments.

“It’s not something you should be worrying about,” Sirius began, “after all, you’re only a teenager. At your age the only thing I had to be concerned about was getting your parents together,” he finished with a small smile. Harry didn’t understand, not really, and he also felt irritated at being treated like a child once again. He decided to let go in favor of being able to grill Sirius about his parents; he was sick of talking and thinking about Riddle all the time.

“And did you succeed?” he asked curiously, hugging his knees to his chest.

“No, not really. Lily detested your father at first, because he was a stuck-up, snobby, pureblood rich guy,” Sirius rolled his eyes. “But then I did something very bad and James matured. Lily saw that, and finally, halfway through Seventh Year she agreed to date your father. The rest is history we all know.” Sirius’ smile was wistful, and Harry’s heart clenched. He couldn’t imagine surviving after Ron or Hermione’s death.

“Do you think Mom and Dad would be proud of me?” Harry asked quietly. Sirius’ eyes widened almost comically before he scooted closer and threw his arm around Harry’s shoulder, dragging him close.

“I know they are proud of you, Prongslet,” Sirius said determinedly. The confidence in his voice made Harry’s eyes sting with unshed tears of happiness, though he didn’t let them fall. What if with them the momentary happiness felt from Sirius’ words would wash away as well? “I’m sorry you had to grow up without them. I know it isn’t technically my fault, though I do feel culpable. But from now on, I won’t ever let you down, you hear me? It’s gonna be you, Moony and me against the world. Maybe even that wretched cousin of mine, since she snatched Rem from our pact of staying single forever,” he grumbled. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Harry was able to crack a smile.

“Do you think Dumbledore really knew you weren’t the Secret Keeper?” Harry questioned a few moments later. Sirius sighed before answering.

“I know he knew.”

“So why did he let you rot in that place for twelve years?” Harry asked sharply, detangling himself from his godfather, his now-customary glare back at full force.

“I let myself rot in that place,” came the answer almost immediately. “Harry, you have to stop thinking in Dark and Light. The world is much more complex than that, as is Dumbledore. I’m sure he had a reason for not pushing the Wizengamot to give me a trial. Those were dark times, Prongslet. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t get a trial— Anyone even rumoured to be with Voldemort got thrown in Azkaban without so much as a blink.”

“But how is that fair?”

“It’s not. Nothing ever is,” Sirius said with a sigh.

“But isn’t the good side supposed to be fair? How are they doing things any differently than a Death Eater-run Ministry would?” Sirius seemed to be taken aback by that, physically stopping to breathe for a brief moment, then he smiled sadly.

“I have no idea, Prongslet,” he confessed. “Maybe they aren’t doing things any differently, we just think they are because the Minister isn’t a widely known mass-murderer.”

“Sirius…” Harry trailed off. “How do I know if I’m a good person?” he asked, blinking up at his godfather with a frown on his face. Sirius furrowed his eyebrows and sat up straighter, facing Harry.

“What do you mean? You’re one of the best people I know, Harry. And Moony is my best friend, so that’s saying something.” The younger boy knew his godfather was just trying to cheer him up, so he gave him a crooked, almost honest smile.

“One day, I accidentally stumbled upon a Death Eater meeting, I think. I didn’t mean to, I was just wandering around, and in my defence, the door wasn’t locked. Voldemort was torturing Wormtail and at the time all I could think was that he deserved it. But no one deserves to get Crucioed, do they?”

Sirius stayed silent for a long while, leaving Harry to gnaw away at his lower lip worriedly. Just as he had started panicking about Sirius leaving him there without a word, his godfather patted his knee comfortingly.

“I still want to kill him. Does that make me a bad person?”

Harry grinned.

“Kind of.” He dodged the pillow Sirius wanted to throw at his face with a bark of laugh. “He must have been very convincing, for you to stay,” he continued after a couple of long minutes.

“He was. And I don’t feel like Wormtail,” said Sirius quietly.

“You aren’t,” Harry reassured him.

And in that moment, Harry thought everything was going to be okay either way.

He had Sirius, after all.

Sirius, of course, had to go back to Grimmauld Place eventually, but he visited frequently, sometimes disappearing in Voldemort’s study for hours. Harry didn’t know what they discussed during those times, or even if Sirius had turned to the Dark side. He didn’t even know what Sirius told the Order of his whereabouts, but he trusted his godfather to do the right thing.

The middle of August was approaching fast, and Harry was terrified by how comfortable he had become at Malfoy Manor. By now he knew where most of the rooms were and no longer required Abraxas Malfoy’s tour guide services, though he still conversed fairly often with the portrait. Once he learned how to maneuver around the sensitive topics that made his blood boil, such as blood purity, they actually had really good conversations. Narcissa visited him frequently as well, and as the time passed by, Harry felt he wasn’t so miserable anymore. Except maybe for the fact that he was still, essentially, a prisoner, though he knew he could do nothing to rectify that, since it was purely out of his control. And so he decided to make the best out of the situation.

The fact that Voldemort seemed to be deliberately ignoring him made it easier for Harry to feel good. It was as if he was on a long vacation, away from the Dursleys. He didn’t have to keep all of his prized possessions under a loose floorboard — though, he thought the Malfoys would die if there was any wood in their marble floors —, and he could eat any time, as much as he wanted. That, and the gardens were the biggest perk.

Another surprise was how normal Bellatrix was when she really tried. Though it was still disturbing to see her trying to flirt with f*cking Voldemort, right in front of her husband, Harry couldn’t complain about her wholeheartedly anymore. Once, she had even cracked a joke in front of him, which had been equally as funny as it was absolutely mortifying. At the time, he had only laughed because he was alone with her and he worried she might actually try to kill him if he didn't, but later that day, he was able to appreciate the joke. Even if it was about killing Muggles.

Seeing as things had gone ridiculously well, Harry should not have been surprised by the fact that one sunny day, everything went to absolute and utter sh*t. And it had started so good, too.

Alright, Harry conceded that he might have been a bit over-dramatic. He didn’t understand how anyone could remain calm though, when being faced with dueling lessons by Voldemort himself.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, staring blankly at the Dark Lord.

“Do I look like I run a joke-shop?” the older retaliated, glaring down at Harry as he spelled the dueling room’s door shut with a wave of his hand.

“I know how to duel perfectly well!” Harry said indignantly. “Besides, I can’t use my wand. How is that fair?” he grumbled a few moments later.

“Who said anything ever is?” Voldemort snorted, sounding eerily like Sirius. Harry shuddered. “Your not being able to do magic outside the school with a wand is precisely the reason why I want to have this lesson. You will find, Potter, that oftentimes in life it is much easier to just use one’s hands. Now, of course, not everyone is capable of mastering the art of wandless magic, but even a buffoon could do what I’m about to teach you,” he said dismissively.

Harry could only gape at him. He squirmed, feeling utterly uncomfortable in his skin at the moment.

“But what if I don’t want to learn how to do wandless magic from a bloody mass-murderer?” he hissed, suddenly feeling irrationally angry at the dismissive tone in Voldemojrt’s voice. The Dark wizard turned slowly, co*cking one of his eyebrows arrogantly.

“I couldn’t care less, Potter,” he said simply. “No Horcrux of mine will walk around without the necessary means to defend himself.”

“I can bloody well defend myself!” Harry huffed.

“Please, Potter. You only ever cast the Disarming Charm; at this point I’m wondering whether you truly are the great wizard everyone is gushing about or if you’re just a fraud.”

To Harry’s shame, that made him think. Was he a fraud? He didn’t think he was, after all, he hadn’t ever boasted about his powers or his magical knowledge. He never thought he had anything to boast about, really. Besides, what was the point in boasting? Arrogant, proud people always revealed their weakness early on — Being outbested by someone better than them. And since one already knew what they were so unbelievably proud about, it was easy to pretend they were better than them. Harry liked to think he was smarter than that.

“Alright,” he said suddenly. “Let’s do it.” The Gryffindor in him certainly liked challenges, and since his itch for doing something that could be passed as illegal hadn’t been scratched since the end of the school year, Harry found he was actually looking forward to a little bit of mischief. Not that wandless magic lessons with Voldemort were the reason why Harry wanted to get onto Santa’s naughty list, but he supposed they had to suffice.

Turns out, teaching wandless magic to someone with magic as all over the place as Harry’s was, involved a lot of touching. The first time Voldemort had touched his arm to demonstrate how his magic was supposed to flow, Harry had physically flinched away and accidentally blown up one of Narcissa’s priceless, un-repairable vases. They’d had a spectacular row about the no-touching policy Harry wanted to instate. Voldemort was adamant about bodily showing him the flow of magic, with different levels of pressure depending on the spell Harry was learning, insisting that Harry could visualize it better like that when he did it alone. Harry had asked him whether he would have caressed all of his students’ arms and chests had he been accepted for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position all those years ago and then inquired about whether Voldemort thought it was pedophilic or not. He had gotten thrown out of the training room so fast he practically didn’t even realize it, landing on his butt on the cold marble floor of the corridors. Abraxas had laughed at him. Harry never mentioned the no-touching policy again.

After the first three lessons, they’d come to a silent agreement and the touching became less frequent as Harry started grasping the basics better and better. He could cast the Levitating Charm wandlessly now, and took immense amusem*nt in annoying the Death Eaters during mealtimes. Surprisingly, Voldemort let him have his fun.

Of course, it wasn’t always sunshine and daisies. Sometimes, Voldemort came to the lessons already angry, and during those times, nothing Harry did was quite right. Neither of them were known for their patience, though, and so shouting-matches ensued, often ending in Harry’s accidental magic doing damage in the expensive Malfoy knick-knacks.

Today, though, it seemed to be one of the calmer days. It was just as well, seeing as Harry was sporting an immense headache, courtesy of a nightmare from the previous night. He had no idea why he still got them; he was feeling fine most of the time, and considering the situation. He had even answered (albeit a bit lately) Ron’s birthday letter, which Sirius had delivered to the redhead.

“Focus, Potter!” Voldemort barked out again, as Harry couldn’t muster the concentration to summon the piece of parchment from the other end of the room.

“If you would shut up for a f*cking second, I could!” he shouted right back, pinching his nose. It alleviated the headache for a quick moment, though it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Potter, are you not feeling well?” Voldemort’s voice sounded as if inquiring about Harry’s health felt just as bad as Bellatrix’s Cruciatus Curse. The young wizard would have snorted, had he not thought his head was going to split open from the pain.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled. “I just needed a moment,” he added, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders.

“If your head hurts, you should just say so,” Riddle scoffed, shooting a quick, blue spell towards him. Harry almost leaped out of the way, but he didn’t move quite enough to the left, so it hit him square between his eyes. His headache disappeared almost instantly, and he sighed with relief.

“Thanks,” he muttered grudgingly. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to thank the f*cking Dark Lord for healing him. What had the world come to? A month ago he had thought he would die here. “Why do you hate Muggleborns so much?” Harry asked suddenly. The question had been gnawing away at him for a while now, ever since he’d talked about it with Narcissa.

Voldemort stared at him for a long moment, and then sighed resignedly. He motioned for Harry to join him at the only table in the room. Harry did so warily, sitting down in front of Riddle with his lips pursed in a grim line, a frown etched across his face. He knew he would probably never get a satisfactory answer, however, he was still curious.

“I am aware that Narcissa and yourself have already talked about this,” the Dark Lord began. “What Narcissa said is true. I don’t hate Mudbloods, I just simply despise the fact that they will never be able to blend into the Wizarding society well enough.”

“That could be rectified with lessons, though,” Harry interjected. “And don’t call them that, it really defeats the purpose of this conversation.

“Of course,” said Voldemort, choosing to ignore the last part, “They would still be a liability because of their Muggle relatives. Muggles have no business knowing about the Wizarding world, not like they do now. The Ministry allows for the whole branch of Muggle relatives to know about the magical child in their family, and that is simply too much of a risk. Muggles are cowards, Potter, they fear everything they do not know, and they try to destroy it. You know from experience what scared Muggles are like, don’t you? Isn’t that the reason why you are sitting here and not having tea with them while laughing about silly jokes?” he hissed, his red eyes gleaming dangerously. “I want to eradicate all Muggle things from the Wizarding world. Completely crush them to ashes; I do not wish to kill all Mudbloods. Only the ones who pledge more loyalty to the Muggle world than to the Wizarding one,” he finished, leaning back into his seat, clenching his jaw.

“So what happened before you killed my parents, then? What sprung all of these rumours?” Harry hated to admit, but he was intrigued by what Voldemort said.

“One certainly does become insane after one too many Horcruxes, Potter,” came the answering drawl. “We have to protect wizarding blood— All kinds of wizarding blood. Not kill it. I have never killed wizarding children; even I admit that’s a little sick,” he conceded.

“Except when you came for my neck and sprung a little green spell onto me,” said Harry dryly.

“Well, yes. I find you’re an exception from most of my rules, Potter. Quite unnerving,” replied Voldemort smoothly. There was a glint in his eyes that could have been mistaken for genuine amusem*nt— But it couldn’t really, right? This was Voldemort!

Voldemort, who didn’t actually want to kill all Muggleborns, and Voldemort, who looked at Harry decidedly strangely lately.

Harry’s stomach churned; what in the bloody ballsack of Merlin was going on?, he thought as he continued sitting on the chair helplessly.

Chapter 8: Half a Spy

Chapter Text

Sirius was back at Grimmauld Place for the whole week. He still hadn’t explained anything to Remus and his best friend was getting increasingly more and more annoyed with him, which, while it kind of hurt, Sirius could ignore for a little while. He had to, at least until he figured out the best way to break the news to Remus. But how did one tell his best friend that he essentially had to become a spy so that he could stay alive? Even though he tried to keep as much information to himself as possible, there was only so much time before the Dark Lord would go and tear through his mind for the full truths instead of the half ones Sirius had been feeding him for the past two weeks. It was unnerving, having to be in a house full of people he had once considered his most trusted ones, unable to share his biggest problem with them. It didn’t help that Dumbledore came to Grimmauld Place all the time now, but only sat there and stared at everyone with mirth, and something else Sirius couldn’t put his finger on, glinting in his eyes.

Sirius couldn’t remember ever being so grateful for the Occlumency classes his mother forced him to take when he had been only thirteen years old. As soon as he figured out what Dumbledore really did when he looked at him with those inquisitive eyes, he strengthened his shields. At the time it had been solely for the fact that he was a horny teenager and didn’t want his ancient headmaster to know about his wet dreams, but now, Sirius thought it was a matter of life and death. He didn’t think the Order would kill him on the spot but they would certainly throw him right back into his cell in Azkaban if they found out about the newest changes regarding his alliance in the war. Though he wouldn’t say he had gone completely Dark, more like got stuck in a gray area, he knew the Order would definitely not see it like he did.

It was on a starry Sunday night when he decided he would come as clean as possible, to Remus of course. He would absolutely not tell anyone else, he had sworn to himself already. Remus was downstairs in one of the living rooms, no doubt resting. It was only a week before the full moon, and Sirius knew his timing was probably off, but he also knew if he didn’t tell Remus now, he would be taking the secret to his grave. And so, he squared his shoulders and stomped down the stairs, exuding an air of confidence he definitely did not feel. He chanted his usual mantra— Fake it till you make it. He thought it especially applied to his current situation; he would have to fake being confident and eventually he would feel genuine confidence. Not a single fault in his logic.

It all burned to ashes when he made it to the living room. Upon seeing Remus, all of his bravery evaporated and he felt more like a coward than ever. He gulped, mentally slapped himself, and stalked to Remus. The brunet turned his head to look at him and co*cked an eyebrow.

“Pads? What’s wrong?” Oh, you know, Remus, just the usual. I might have kind of, sort of semi-joined a blood supremacist murder group, you know, the same one whose leader killed our two best friends and kidnapped their son? Yeah, that one.

“Something happened,” Sirius began with a gulp, “but I need you to stay as calm as possible, okay? I swear everything’s fine!”

“Well, that’s a bit contradictory, isn’t it?” Remus said, sitting up and giving his best friend his full attention.

“Don’t interrupt me!”

“Okay, sorry, sorry. Continue.” Remus even cracked a grin. Sirius thought he was going to sh*t his pants, despite his friend’s clearly (unusually) amused state.

“Remember when I disappeared for a few hours two weeks ago?” When Remus gave him a nod, he continued with a sharp inhale. “I went to see Harry. Only, he wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean he wasn’t there?” Remus hissed, his whole demeanor changing in a fraction of a second.

“I’ll get there,” Sirius said, feeling the annoyance rise in him. “As I was saying, Harry wasn’t there. Nor was I for a long time, seeing as the bloody Lestrange brothers grabbed me as soon as I changed from Padfoot to pick the lock.”

“You wanted to pick a Muggle lock?”

“You grasped the point excellently, Moony.” Sirius was really getting annoyed now. “Anyway, they Apparated me to Malfoy Manor. Harry was there, in one piece, looking so f*cking underfed I was about to rip out everyone’s throat out and then—”

“Sirius, wait, wait, WAIT! Harry was kidnapped and you didn’t f*cking alert anyone or brought him home?” Remus snapped, suddenly jumping from the couch with renewed energy, though Sirius saw pain flashing across his face for a quick second before the brunet composed himself. The shorter man stayed silent, refusing to look his best friend in the eye. “Why didn’t you tell Dumbledore? He’s been here every single day for the past two weeks and you said nothing! You haven’t even looked at him, don’t think I haven’t noticed!”

“That’s because Dumbledore isn’t who we thought he was!” Sirius snapped finally. He got up from the couch and began pacing in the room, his fingers tangled in his hair as he started ranting. “He has no intention of making our world better, Moony. He even gave his anonymous vote for the WEU to be instituted, which is apparently the abbreviation of the Werewolf Execution Unit under the DMLE! He wants new werewolves to be put down, Moony! It’s disgusting, is what it is,” Sirius took a deep breath before continuing, “Did you know he was also the one to start all that sh*t with Grindelwald? He was the one who gave him ideas and then dipped at the right moment and made it seem as if his faith in Grindelwald’s cause wavered. But it never did; in actuality, it has always been his idea. For the Greater Good— Isn’t that what’s in the DADA textbooks, noted as Grindelwald’s catchphrase? It’s all him. He signed all of his letters to Grindelwald like that.” By the end of his monologue he was breathing in sharp, ragged breaths.

Remus could only stare at his best friend. Had anyone seen him in the state he was, they would have thought he was the same madman who had just escaped from Azkaban. Remus could hardly believe it was the same Sirius who had idolized Dumbledore for more than half of his life, soaking up everything the old wizard said. He suddenly remembered Kingsley, and the way he was adamant to keep the Death Eater sighting away from Dumbledore. Did he know what Sirius knew? But how could it even be true, it just made no sense whatsoever. Remus frowned, plopping down onto the couch once more, massaging his temple with his fingers.

“And just where in the hell did you get this information?” Remus asked, arching an eyebrow.

Sirius bit down onto his lip.

“Voldemort.”

“Voldemort? Sirius, how can you be so f*cking stupid? Does he have Harry? Holy f*ck, he does! And you didn’t say anything!” Remus exclaimed incredulously, watching his best friend with a glare. “Come on, I won’t stand for this nonsense. Grab your wand, we’re rescuing Harry even if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Remus, you can’t,” Sirius said gravely, grabbing a hold of Remus’ shoulders. He felt the other tense up under his touch and he swore under his breath. Remus wouldn’t be this jittery if it wasn't for the approaching full moon. Perhaps Sirius should have thought more about his timing, though he couldn’t undo it now.

Remus’ eyes widened as he looked Sirius straight in the eyes, as if something just hit him like a ton of bricks.

“You’re on his side,” Remus whispered.

“I’m not!” Sirius said stubbornly. “I’m not, Rem, you have to believe me. But until we figure out a way to get Harry to safety— to real safety, not the Dursleys—, I’m gonna have to play the part, don’t you understand? He needs Harry for something, he just won’t tell me what! I have to find out!” He huffed out a frustrated sigh.

“How do you know that?”

“He hasn’t hurt him. He isn’t really a prisoner either— He’s got this big room, he’s not locked in and Narcissa practically forces him to eat. I didn’t see a hair out of its place, if I had, you know I would have sacrificed my life just to get Harry out of there! But he gave me an ultimatum, Rem— What good would I be for Harry if I was dead?”

Remus couldn’t really argue with that; Sirius made a good point. A few good points, really.

“I want to know what made you stop and think before blasting the whole place,” he said quietly, sitting back down onto the couch with a heavy sigh.

“It was some collection of parchments of some sort,” Sirius began. “Voldemort keeps them in a heavily warded metallic box that can only be opened by Parselmagic. They are official, too— I really don’t think he has fabricated them. I saw some disturbing things about officials still working at the Ministry, people everyone knows and whose words everyone holds in high regard. There was plenty of evidence of corruption as well, but I really only focused on Dumbledore. Remus, I have no idea how honest that box is, but if it’s true to the bone, then things are looking really, really bad.” A heavy silence fell after Sirius’ rant. Grimmauld Place felt even darker than it did on better days as the two best friends sat there, contemplating over things.

Remus was the first to break the silence.

“You know, the evening before you disappeared, Ms. Figg reported back to Kingsley saying she had seen known Death Eaters lurking around Privet Drive. Kingsley didn’t want Dumbledore to know about it, and I’m not sure he has told him since.”

Sirius’ eyebrows shot up at that. “He doesn’t trust Dumbledore anymore?”

“It would seem so. Or at the very least he doesn’t trust him with things that concern Harry anymore. We’ve all been dancing around the abuse Harry has been suffering at the hand of the Dursleys for years now, Pads, you know that. We never did anything because it went against Dumbledore’s wishes. I think Kingsley is beginning to crack, and one day he’s going to snap and walk out,” said Remus with yet another sigh. He seemed to be sighing a lot these days. “He hasn’t outright said it, but he had this really weird facial expression when we were discussing increasing the security around the Dursleys’ house, and he didn’t want to comment further on why he didn’t want Dumbledore at the meeting.”

“Interesting,” Sirius conceded.

“Indeed,” Remus said. “I’m not sure if I agree with what you’re doing, Pads, but as long as it benefits Harry, I’m going to keep my mouth shut,” he promised with a small smile, patting Sirius’ thigh gently as a reassurance that he wasn’t actually mad at him.

“Not a word? Not even to Tonks?” he asked, shooting Moony his best puppy eyes.

“Not even to Tonks,” he chuckled.

Sirius exhaled in relief, the letter in his back pocket burning with what felt like guilt from saying half-truths again.

It was late into the night when Voldemort finally got around to sit in his study and mull over plans and goals he wanted to achieve in the next five years. He twirled his quill, biting down on it from time to time (a habit he thought disgusting, but couldn’t shake off), scratching things wildly and making new annotations.

He had to get Potter on his side somehow, and he needed a new approach, fast. Being Voldemort’s Horcrux apparently wasn’t a good enough reason for Potter to betray his friends and family and join the Dark side to rule over Wizarding Britain at the side of Voldemort. He snorted — elegantly, mind you — before dropping his quill onto the parchment, letting the drops of ink fall into it and spread into the little cracks. He watched the little spot of ink latch onto the parchment like a parasite and his eyes gleamed.

Maybe he could latch onto Potter. After all, he knew how to disguise an Imperious from the eyes of the Ministry, he had been doing it since he was nineteen. Besides, it wasn’t as if the curse would damage Potter in any way, he would make sure to lift it off from time to time. Though, lifting it only during the holidays might not be enough to make sure he doesn’t really go mad. His mind suddenly flashed to when they were in the graveyard, Potter tied to Thomas Riddle Sr.’s tombstone. The boy had fought off his Imperious before, what’s to say he wouldn’t do it again?

No, Voldemort needed a better plan. He needed Potter to come to him by himself; though this was far more a difficult plan than simply compelling him to do so by magic, it was his only option if he wanted to make sure Potter wouldn’t betray him later on. He had to make his cause appealing to the boy— But how could he really do that? The sanctimonious Gryffindor would never agree with the way he ran things. Admittedly, he had lost his marbles around 1979, but he’d gained them right back as soon as he absorbed a piece of soul or two. He knew Potter would never agree with him though, unless he was very, very persuasive. Now he only needed a way to do that, and he needed it fast. He thought Potter began warming up to him ever since they’d started the wandless magic lessons, but he could never be sure. Of course, he could have used Legilimency, though he doubted Potter would appreciate that.

His next best thing was Sirius Black. It had been surprisingly easy to convince him to join his side after showing him the contents of the metal box, though Voldemort knew the now-former Order member was still in a bit of a dilemma. The half-assed reports he had been giving him were just as much of a giveaway as his Occlumency shields. Voldemort didn’t like it when his followers practiced Occlumency near him, but he supposed he would have to let it go in the case of Black as to not upset Harry further. At one point he had really thought the teenager would shoot an Avada Kedavra at him the moment he threatened his godfather, and he was thoroughly surprised when nothing of the sort happened. Of course, Harry didn’t have his wand then, but Voldemort, despite his fleeting thoughts of getting killed, knew the boy would never resort to being a murderer. Maybe it was his only luck.

And so, he had to devise another plan, just in case Sirius Black turned his back on him, too. He couldn’t believe he was going to go through with it.

He sighed, Vanishing the spot from the parchment and began writing again. He scratched a few lines and then began writing again, repeating the process three times before he was fully satisfied with the letter. With a crooked smile, he signed the parchment: NZTMFH HSVIDLLW.

Harry’s whole body ached. Yesterday, he had apparently wandered too far off in the manor, ending up in a corridor he obviously wasn’t supposed to end up in, if only judging from the fact that the stairs actually flung him to an entirely different corridor. With no Cushioning Charm in place, Harry had ended up on his back and he had been too proud to tell anyone about the incident since. Hedwig hooted disapprovingly at him every time he moved and groaned painfully, but he supposed he deserved it, so he just let her have her fun. It was decidedly weird, though, being nagged at by an owl. Harry secretly thought he ought to be less surprised every time something weird happened. He had had stranger things happen to him than Hedwig thinking he was one of her owlets.

Harry had been researching Horcruxes for the past few days, seeing as he had nothing better to do. It was unnerving how his only source of information was the book Voldemort gave him; no other book in the Malfoy library seemed to talk about Horcruxes— As if the wizarding population wanted to vanish every trace of it. Harry couldn’t blame them, Horcruxes were nasty business. He couldn’t help but imagine the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle going on coldblooded killing sprees during the summer holidays, only to make more and more Horcruxes, thus ensuring his immortality. Harry often wondered whether becoming a vampire wouldn’t have been a lot easier instead of becoming a mass-murderer. Then, he remembered it was Voldemort, and gave up trying to find logic. He would never be able to get into a killer’s mind unless he was one as well, which was something he wasn’t really keen on becoming, no matter how curious he was about the musings of Voldemort’s mind.

Just as he was about to add another little note to the parchment on his right, the doors opened and Nagini slithered in. Harry had no idea how she did that, and whenever he asked about it, Nagini just gave him a little snake-smirk and winked at him, leaving him without an answer. At this point, he was sure it was a little inside joke of hers and Riddle’s, considering he had asked about it one morning during breakfast and they both just snigg*red. Seeing the Dark Lord snigg*r made Harry so uncomfortable he vowed to never talk at the table again (he had broken his promise ten minutes after making it).

“What do you want?” he sighed, patting the empty space beside him on the bed. Nagini curled up into a ball, and blinked slowly at him. Harry frowned. “Are you alright?”

“Yes I am, hatchling. I’m just tired. Master’s mind was not quiet last night; I hate it when he does that,” she grumbled — as much as a giant snake could grumble —, and tightened around herself. Harry lifted his hand and ran his fingers down her coils. The texture had been weird at first, but Harry spent a lot of time petting Nagini these days so he had gotten used to it. She was cold again, and the boy thought that could be one of her problems as well.

“He’s in your mind?” Harry asked, frowning.

“Of course he is. He’s in yours too, isn’t he?” she asked, sliding closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder. It was a bit uncomfortable, since Harry couldn’t look her in the eyes in this position but he didn’t want her to move if she felt comfortable.

Harry’s eyes widened in understanding. “You’re his Horcrux too? But he said he’s never made another living Horcrux before!”

“That is a little bit offending, indeed,” Nagini huffed, her tongue flicking over Harry’s ear. “Maybe he just meant he’s never made another human a Horcrux before. It is a very big honour, hatchling, if I were you I’d be jumping in joy. Only, I don’t have legs.”

Harry gaped at Nagini. “An honour? He killed my mother! That’s how I became a f*cking Horcrux, Nagini, so don’t tell me I should be honored,” Harry growled, circling his fingers around her and trying to get her off of him with little luck. “Get off of me!”

“I won’t!” Nagini hissed petulantly, thumping Harry on his head with her tail, not nearly hard enough for it to hurt. Harry might have even found it a little bit funny if not for the things Nagini said. “I will ignore your hurt right now, little hatchling, because Master has just told me to tell you you’re needed in the meeting room. I don’t know why he thinks I am a post owl, but I will have to talk to him about it. Now, come, and stop sulking,” she hissed smoothly, finally letting go of Harry and getting off the bed.

The boy contemplated on staying in his room just for the sheer stubbornness (but also to show Voldemort that he couldn’t, in fact just order Harry around as he wanted). But then he remembered that Nagini surely must not be talking about a common meetup for afternoon tea, but rather a Death Eater meeting. Now, though Harry might not have been interested in taking tea with the Dark Lord, he was interested in seeing how he ran things now that he was somewhat sane. Try as he might, he would always be just the slightest bit crazy. Harry didn’t forget the Muggles in the cellars (and neither did he ask Riddle about them, for that matter, but that was an entirely different thing). He got up from his bed, hissing almost inaudibly at the pain, and followed Nagini through the corridors. He greeted Abraxas Malfoy’s portrait on the way, and not long after that the pair of them paused at a grandeur mahogany door. It opened before them, revealing the same room Harry had stumbled upon when Voldemort was torturing Wormtail. He noticed the round, rat-like man there as well, though he sat far away from Voldemort’s seat. He scoffed at him, and even from a distance he could see the man quiver. He deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it, Harry chanted to himself as images of Pettigrew getting Crucioed flashed in his mind.

“Ah, Potter,” Riddle smirked. “How nice of you to join us. Come, take a seat,” he said graciously, gesturing to the empty chair next to him. Harry grimaced, but complied nonetheless, plopping himself down in a manner that he knew wasn’t appropriate. He couldn’t find it in him to care.

He could see the Malfoys, and the Lestranges there, but they were the only people he knew besides Wormtail. He noted Sirius’ absence with a relieved sigh. There were a lot less Death Eaters than he would have expected. On the way here, he had mentally prepared himself for hundreds of thousands of people who just wanted to kill him. It was very different from what he imagined. Of course, the atmosphere wasn’t exactly joyous, but it wasn’t terribly tense either. A man unknown to him scowled at him. He seemed familiar though, and Harry sat there for a few moments, trying to remember when he had seen him. Then, an axe popped into his mind and a frown made its way onto his face— it was Macnair, the executioner who’d ‘killed’ Buckbeak in his third year. Next to Macnair sat a sophisticated, older man who simply oozed aristocracy. The others didn’t seem particularly interesting, so the teenager directed his gaze towards Narcissa instead. He gave her a small smile which she returned with a nod. Draco rolled his eyes at the scene, but upon noticing the look Riddle gave him, his posture straightened and his facial expression became blank. Harry noticed he was clutching an envelope in his right hand, almost protectively. It must be some important letter containing a task, Harry thought to himself absently as he slouched and made himself more comfortable.

“Alright, now that we’re all here, we can begin,” Riddle said again, his smirk turning icy. “Bring us tea, Wormtail,” he said. When the man didn’t comply, Voldemort’s eyes turned red with fury and he snapped, “Now, Wormtail!”

At that, the rat scurried away, making himself scarce in a fraction of a second. If he hadn’t rushed past Harry, his stench following him like a cloud, Harry might have even thought he Apparated.

“My Lord, if I may,” the sophisticated man next to Macnair said as soon as the door shut close.

“Yes, Avery? Have you finally done what I asked you to do months ago?” Riddle co*cked a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Yes, yes of course, my Lord,” the man named Avery said, conjuring a very official-looking parchment from under his robe. Voldemort summoned it to himself and cradled the document in his hands carefully, a feral grin etching itself across his face.

“This should suffice, Avery,” he said finally, after a few moments. Harry’s patience cracked.

“What’s that?” he asked. Avery and Macnair glared at his question while Lucius only sighed resignedly.

“Something that does not concern you,” Riddle said. At that moment, Nagini slithered up his leg and coiled herself around his shoulders. She hissed something into his ear that Harry didn’t hear, though he could have sworn he heard the word ‘idiot’ at least two times. He wondered whether there existed some Ear-Cleansing Spell he could use, because there was no way Nagini had just called Voldemort an idiot. The Dark wizard hissed in frustration (Harry felt Malfoy flinch at the other side of the table), and turned his head back towards the teen once again. “Alright, fine. If you must know, it is a preliminary of a bill I wish to be passed. Avery here has a seat in the Wizengamot. He’s my ticket to slowly reforming the Ministry’s way of running things,” he said dismissively, sealing the envelope. Harry’s eyebrows shot up.

“So, what is this bill about? Making the Unforgivables legal?” he asked, rolling his eyes and slouching into his chair even more. Voldemort’s glare reached new levels of scary at that moment, though Harry wasn’t too bothered by it. He didn’t have the looming threat of one of his family members dying over his head anymore; why should he care about being respectful?

“Naturally,” Riddle drawled. He pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing, “No, Potter. It’s a bill regarding the abuse magical children suffer at the hand of their Muggle care-takers. I want all Muggle families monitored— And I want that to be a law. Hence the bill,” he finished, waving the envelope in his hand before tucking it away safely.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He knew there were no laws regarding that, seeing as no one had checked in on him before he went to Hogwarts, and nor had they checked in on Hermione as far as he knew, but to know it in theory and hear it out loud were two distinctly different things. His heart clenched as he imagined magical kids, so very afraid of their own accidental magic. He imagined the Harry Potters of the world, locked away in small spaces, or sent to the doctors. He wouldn’t put it past some people to perform exorcism on their children, too. To his utter mortification he felt his eyes sting with unshed tears, the bitter feeling of resentment leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“I see,” he said simply, his voice hoarse. Riddle’s lips twitched in an unamused matter.

He ignored Harry for the rest of the meeting. The teen wasn’t bothered by that, though; after getting over the unfairness of it all, he was actually able to pay attention to the things that were discussed. To his surprise, it was an unbelievably polite discussion; not a Crucio or Avada Kedavra in sight. He soon realized the reason for that was because these people were Voldemort’s inner circle— his most trusted followers. Harry supposed he wouldn’t have killed any of them either if he were in Riddle’s place. Interesting questions, such as ‘Should Muggleborns be allowed to breed?’ (Harry voted yes even though no one had asked his opinion), or ‘Should werewolves have safe havens across the magical countrysides where they would be able to roam free, safely, during the full moons?’ (Harry voted yes to that, too). His personal favorite had been the question about gay marriage. Apparently, Riddle didn’t have a problem with mass-murder, but he drew the line at hom*ophobia. Harry couldn’t actually believe his ears when Voldemort informed Avery that all marriages would be beneficial to the magical world, seeing as there was a Fertility Potion which enabled same-sex couples to conceive biological children. Avery had countered him by saying that same-sex couples could have children without marrying each other and that tradition should be maintained. Voldemort had shot a Silencing Spell at him, and that was that; all was well.

When the meeting ended, the Death Eaters promptly Disapparated as if they were one large body performing the spell— Even the Malfoys and the Lestranges. That left Harry alone with Riddle and Nagini, who seemed to be napping thrown across her owner’s lap.

“Is she really your Horcrux as well?” Harry asked after a few beats of silence.

“How do you know that?” asked Riddle suspiciously.

“She told me. Before coming here, we had a talk— She told me you were in her head and that you were in mine, too. I just put two and two together,” Harry shrugged. “Why did you tell me you haven’t made living Horcruxes before?”

“Nagini is a special case. She is a Magical Being, not just some ordinary giant snake. You’re a human, the two are distinctly different.” Voldemort seemed annoyed. Harry loved that.

“Technically, I am a Magical Being, too. You know, being a wizard and all that.”

“I know, Potter.” Riddle rolled his eyes again. They looked crimson red; they are somewhat captivating, Harry thought. He hated how Riddle wasn’t the ugly, snake-like thing anymore. “But first and foremost, you are still human. Besides, Nagini probably wouldn’t survive the extraction either. It’s best not to even try,” he scoffed.

“Who did you kill to make her?” asked Hary quietly.

“Bertha Jorkins,” came the reply without missing a beat. Harry’s stomach clenched in disgust.

After a bout of silence, Harry spoke up again.

“Did you really mean it? What you said about… You know, er, two wizards marrying each other?” Harry knew his whole face was red, if only judging by the burning sensation in his cheeks. He wanted to die right then and there when Voldemort’s eyebrows shot up, seemingly wanting to touch the f*cking sky. Harry was mortified.

“My, my, aren’t we chatty today?” the older drawled. “But yes, Potter, I don’t just throw lies around like they’re candy. Why the sudden interest?”

Harry thought about last year, watching the droplets of water slide down Fred Weasley’s torso in the showers after an especially rough practice. He thought about how suddenly Dean Thomas’ ass seemed to be in his face all the bloody time— and how good it looked. Or Ernie Macmillan’s suddenly very, very attractive smug face. God, how he’d hated himself for the first few months after realizing he liked boys as well as girls.

Of course, Hermione had figured it out in a few weeks. Apparently she had waited for Harry to come to the realization by himself, and then tell them whenever he felt like it (which had been late one night in the vacant common room). Harry knew Hermione would accept him, but he had had his doubts about his other best friend. Ron had taken it surprisingly well, though. Alright, that was a bit of a stretch— He’d been offended he wasn’t on the list they’d named ‘Boys Who Made the Boy-Who-Lived Realize He Was the Boy-Who-Loved-Boys’.

Realizing he had been creepily staring at the floor for a while, he cleared his throat.

“No reason,” he answered at once. “No reason at all.”

Voldemort only smirked like he knew something that Harry didn’t.

Chapter 9: Ghosts of the Past

Chapter Text

Wool’s Orphanage had always been somewhat dull and grey, even on the day of its inauguration. Once a rich woman’s home, now it had decaying walls and sadness rotting through the air. Sad faces floated through the corridors, the years of abuse and fading memories of happier times seeping through the cracks on the walls.

Tom had always thought it was intoxicating. The way everyone seemed to be so bored and sad all the time. At first, he couldn’t believe life could stick so many unfortunate people in one place, though now he could see it wasn’t life. It was merely the parents who’d decided after years of poverty and struggling that they could simply not raise their children anymore. Cries echoed through the lonely spaces every day, whether it was just a new kid or a newborn crying for its mother’s milk that never came.

Tom remembered her vividly. A beacon of light in the darkest places, the brightest moonlight on a dark, cloudy night, seeping through the broken windows. Meredith Jones had been the first and only Muggle Tom had grown somewhat fond of. She was by far the youngest caretaker the orphanage’s walls had seen, tying up her strawberry blonde hair in buns and always having some kind of dirt smudged on her face, usually from playing outside with the younger children. Her calm voice was like a refreshing sip of water on a hot day amongst the sirens of the war and the sounds of guns firing off.

Until it wasn’t. While Tom had remembered Meredith’s voice like chiming doorbells throughout the years, he also remembered the time when the same voice who he used to secretly fall asleep to was marred by hopelessness and pain. He remembered the day the soldiers broke down the oprhanage’s door like it was yesterday, though it wasn’t always like this, like a detailed picture in front of him. For years it had been something like a memory that he’d tried to drown, or an echoing sound from faraway, but ever since he’d absorbed that particular Horcrux, the memory had been the worst nightmare.

For nights on no end, Tom woke up sweating, feeling like he was exhaling and inhaling all at the same time, the walls caving in and expanding, his flesh rotting and his bones aching with a deep pain he knew he should call regret. Because, as Tom later on realized, it was regret and nothing more— Regret he felt towards Meredith for not helping her. Even though 55 years had passed, Tom had never looked for her before, choosing instead to completely seal that part of his life. Now, though, it didn’t matter. The wound had opened again, the flesh started rotting just as it had been doing before the facade of forgetting. He knew he would never forget.

It was half past three o’clock in the morning when he got up from his bed, with yet another sleepless, nightmare-marred night behind his back. He went to his office, sat at his desk and poured himself a generous tumbler of gin, sipping away at it as he stared at the heaps of parchment in front of him, trying to distract himself by devising new laws and bills and whatnot, though with little success. Nagini was still asleep in front of the magically enchanted ever-burning fireplace, probably dreaming about simpler times, and for that, he was grateful. He knew they had a connection and Nagini would often dream the same he did, and the fact that it seemed like her mind hadn't been plagued by his that night pleased him immensely. He hoped against hope that Potter wouldn’t somehow accidentally open their connection and see into his mind, though seeing as nothing like that had happened before, Voldemort wasn’t too worried.

He didn’t know how much time passed before the first rays of sunshine hit the unfinished documents resting on the tabletop, but after what felt like only a mere minute, there was a knock at the door.

“Come!” he said, gulping down the last of his gin and sitting up straight. He was barely able to contain his groan of disdain as the curly hair of one Bellatrix Lestrange came into view.

“Good morning, my Lord,” she greeted him, stepping inside only slightly, no farther than the doorway. “Am I bothering you?” she simpered.

“When are you not?” scowled Voldemort in return, gesturing for her to step inside. She closed the door without a sound and slowly skipped to his desk, sitting down in the other chair. “What is it?”

“My Lord, may I speak freely?” she asked, one of her hands twitching in her lap. He nodded with a sigh, and gripped his wand tighter as soon as the witch opened her mouth. “My Lord, I do not wish to be rude or offend you in any way, however, I have been wondering lately whether… Whether the absorption of the Horcruxes was my Lord’s best idea. I worry, my Lord. You have not been quite the same since then, especially with the Potter-kidnapping. You have not seeked my services in a while now, either. I do hope my Lord knows I am available for whenever he feels stressed…” she said, trailing off and not looking him in the eye.

Tom felt a bile rise up his throat. True, there had been a time when he had lain with Bellatrix, but that had been before his downfall in 1981. He had been foolish, and had needed a tool to make the numbers of his followers rise. It didn't hurt that Bellatrix had always been a beautiful woman, even now, marred by the nightmares of Azkaban.

“Bella,” he started, trying not to let his irritation shine through, “I know there has been quite a few occasions when I had required your… Services, as you worded it, but those times are long gone. They should have never happened, and though I rarely make mistakes, those times are certainly classified as that. You have a perfectly handsome husband, Bella, you should stop seeking pleasure in other places.”

She blinked at him as if she didn’t understand. “Do you not find me beautiful anymore, my Lord? Not satisfying enough?”

“It is not my place to find you beautiful,” he answered shortly. “Now, get out, and let me go on about my day. Do not interrupt my work again just to ask me stupid questions like a clown, Bella. Out!” he clipped.

If he noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks, or the murderous glint in her eyes, well, he still said nothing as he watched her storm out of his office.

Had he been more human, he would have probably felt bad for her. Consciously, Tom knew Bellatrix’s obsession with him was solely his fault, after all, he had been the one to use his charm and good looks to recruit her all those years ago when she had only been a naive seventeen years old girl. In a way, she still was, though Tom suspected that was more because of the trauma of having to sit more than a decade in Azkaban, rather than having brain damage because of the heavy inbreeding that went on in the Black family. Bella had tried to rekindle their ‘romance’ after he had broken out his remaining Death Eaters from Azkaban, even though he’d looked like a human’s and a snake’s lovechild. He’d been surprised, and although at first he had been inclined to go back to their old antics, everything changed after he successfully regained a few parts of his split soul. He’d started to think more clearly, and with his feelings coming back into full swing, he’d seen the toll Bella’s flirting had begun to take on Rodolphus. Thus, he decided to leave them be, hoping that the woman would eventually catch onto what he was doing (for her own good, no less) and stopped bothering him. Alas, quite the opposite happened, and Tom had to have these talks with her with more frequency than he would have liked or would have admitted to. Not to mention that, at times like these especially, he had bigger problems to worry about besides Bellatrix’s school crush that had lasted well into adulthood.

For example, how he had to infiltrate Hogwarts, somehow. Of course, now that he more or less had Sirius Black on his side, and possibly that werewolf friend of his as well, his job was a lot easier than he had anticipated at first. One major problem still remained, though— Who did he trust to be competent enough to carry out a mission so important? The answer was obvious; he trusted no one. Not even those in his inner circle, not even Barty, who had already managed to survive at Hogwarts for a whole year without getting caught. No, it was such a delicate plan, so many things could go wrong, it was only really one person he trusted enough.

Himself.

Harry was getting a bit restless inside the Manor despite their wandless magic lessons and being able to go outside whenever he wanted. He missed his friends and Hogwarts.

Although August was coming to an end, meaning Harry would have to go back to school very soon, he wasn’t sure Voldemort would let him. He still had hope, though, seeing as just a mere month ago he thought he would have died by now. It was reasonable to think just for even a fraction of a second that he would be allowed to go back, but Harry didn’t want to get his hopes up only for nothing to happen. He didn’t know how anyone would explain his disappearance if he really did not get to go back, but there was a slight chance that that had been Voldemort’s plan all along.

Just lure the Order out with his disappearance and annihilate them when they least expect it. Surely, Dumbledore would have groups out searching for him, and maybe Voldemort wanted to ambush them one by one until he got through the entirety of them and to Dumbledore– The ultimate enemy.

Harry chuckled at his impossible musings and turned onto his back. Surely that wouldn’t happen.

He let himself be lulled to sleep, though later he wished he hadn’t. Horrible images of soldiers tearing down doors and screaming children invaded his mind almost as soon as he fell asleep. It took a few moments to make sense of the happenings inside the realm. Harry’s vision cleared suddenly, his fuzzy mind becoming more critical as he felt almost awake. He pinched himself, feeling the prick of pain and furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn’t supposed to feel physical in his dreams, which meant… Which meant he was not in fact dreaming. His stomach dropped at the realization that he was now probably in Voldemort’s head, just like the slimy snake had been when he had implanted those awful images into his mind. He gulped, looking around. He didn’t understand what the soldiers were saying, so he couldn’t make out a thing, but judging by the awfully smug and downright evil facial expressions they wore, it was nothing good.

Harry could hear a soft, feminine, but loud voice pleading with them to not hurt the children, and then he heard gunshots, a bomb — perhaps it had been a grenade — and then he woke up drenched in cold sweat.

Breakfast had never been a pleasant experience for Harry, especially back at his uncle’s house, but even less so at the Malfoy Manor. During the past month, eating with a bunch of murderers, his arch nemesis (namely Draco Malfoy, of course), a snake and Lord Voldemort himself, he was pretty desensitized to the topics discussed. Despite all this, Harry was, for some reason, highly sensitive and uncomfortable that morning. It might have well been the after-effects of the monstrous dream he’d had, or it might have had to do with the fact that Draco Malfoy looked like he was going to throw up any second now. Harry had always suspected he was slightly emetophobic, so the prospect of watching a blond ferret throw up right in front of him was almost more unpleasant than the thought of having sex with the Dark Lord. The comparison Harry’s mind provided did not sit well with the boy, so he decided to ignore his thoughts, which were running a mile per hour, and instead focused on his scrambled eggs.

“Draco, what are you doing?” Narcissa’s voice was dignified, but still too shrill for the early hours of the mornings.

“Eating my breakfast, mother?”

“What did you put on your eggs, Draco?”

“Cinnamon?”

Silence. A pin couldn’t drop without its sound echoing off the walls.

“What?” asked Malfoy with a grimace, tucking into his eggs despite looking kind of Shrek-green. It took Harry a great deal of self control to keep himself from bursting out laughing at the Malfoys’ facial expressions, though he somehow managed to keep his amusem*nt to himself. He forced a few bites of food down his throat as he watched the slight drama unfold, although it tasted like ash and dust.

“I think we have more urgent matters to discuss other than young Mr. Malfoy’s disgusting eating habits,” interjected Voldemort with a glare.

“My Lord, I thought we agreed we wouldn’t talk about business at the dining table,” said Narcissa quietly. It reminded Harry of the way Petunia would talk to Vernon when they got into a fight, though.

“I don’t think I’ve given you permission to talk freely Narcissa, so you will address me with the respect I demand of you, unless you want me to hang you from the ceiling,” he hissed back, effectively shutting up any chatter still going around the table. Harry saw Malfoy curl his fingers tighter around his fork from the corner of his eye. “Now, Potter and Draco have to go back to Hogwarts in less than a month. I expect you already know how to do what I have asked of you,” he said, co*cking an eyebrow towards the blond.

“Of course, my Lord,” came the tight-lipped reply.

“Marvelous,” he drawled in retaliation. “We, of course, still have the matter of Potter,” he sighed, disgusted. There was a glint in his red eyes that Harry did not have the time to analyze, seeing as it disappeared just as fast as it had appeared.

“I’m going back to Hogwarts,” he said solemnly.

“I never said you weren’t,” replied Voldemort. “I like to put education above all, Potter. You can see that in the way I have only attacked you towards the end of the years you spend at Hogwarts,” he added.

“Am I supposed to thank you?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I’d rather you called me a Muggle,” Voldemort said with a sardonic smirk, running his hand down Nagini’s body that curled around him, her head peeking out from under his robe. “Of course, given the circ*mstances and past events that have happened in the last month, your return to Hogwarts is a rather delicate matter, isn’t it?” he tutted.

“I mean, you could always just wipe my memories and send me back to my relatives with no knowledge of what went down,” Harry shrugged.

“You’re extremely sassy this morning. Do not make me hang you from the ceiling, Potter. I will.”

“What is it with your fascination towards ceilings this morning?” Harry grumbled. He ducked out of the way of the flying goblet that was sent towards him.

“Shut your mouth or I will do it for you,” the Dark Lord threatened in return, his eyes flashing dangerously. “As I said, I will, of course, need to make sure you won’t be a tattle-tale and run to tell old Dumbledore about everything that has happened to you here. To ensure you keep our secrets, you will take a Wizard’s Oath and promise me you won’t speak of anything,” he finished simply. Harry’s blood ran cold. He didn’t know what a Wizard’s Oath was, but it didn’t sound fun. No, it sounded atrocious, indestructible, and something he would definitely not do had he actually been given a choice in the matter.

“A Wizard’s Oath is something similar to the Unbreakable Vow, but it doesn’t require three people to do it, nor does it result in death if broken,” Malfoy said as an explanation, with an exasperated sigh as he saw the lost look on Harry’s face.

“What happens if it’s broken, then?” he asked.

“Depends,” said Voldemort. “Although we needn’t worry about it in this case. You will physically clamp up if you want to talk about anything you’re not supposed to— consider that a gift from me,” he said with a smirk.

“Jolly, I’m so grateful,” Harry said. “And what if I don’t want to take it?”

“Killing you would be foolish, but the cellar always has space for one more scrawny wizard,” Voldemort lamented, returning to his breakfast with an air of finality that made Harry’s blood boil.

After that, nothing much was said, much to Harry’s chagrin. He would have loved to talk about it more, seeing as he really had no idea what he was about to be subjected to, and he hated not knowing things that involved him. Dumbledore never told him anything, so he supposed he should be used to it, but it was annoying nonetheless. Deciding that he had enough of pitying himself, he opened up his Charms and Spells textbook that he used last year for his Charms class, and tried finding something about the Wizard’s Oath. He skimmed through it for about an hour and a half, not finding even a morsel of information about it. He sighed frustratedly and looked at Hedwig, as if she could give him advice. She hooted in sympathy, then flew over to him and nudged his nose with her beak. He shooed her away with a grimace, ignoring the indignant sounds she made as he did so. The next best thing would be going to the library, but with a glance at the clock he realized he only had fifteen minutes until his next ‘class’ with Voldemort, if he could even call it that. He groaned. With that, he hauled himself up from his place and tossed his book onto the bed grumpily. Harry grabbed his wand, despite knowing that they wouldn’t use it, and started making his way over to their little appointment.

On the way there, he made it a point to chat with Abraxas Malfoy — well, his portrait anyway – long enough so that he would be just shy of five minutes late. Normally he wouldn’t be so stupid as to try to anger Voldemort on purpose, but after the whole Wizard’s Oath thing he felt it justifiable to rebel.

Surprisingly, Riddle wasn’t mad. He just smirked, flicked the door to a close with his wrist and gestured for Harry to sit down in front of him at the table. The teenager was wary as he did so, scooting a bit farther away than the chair’s original place. Voldemort rolled his eyes.

“I am very thankful for your gracing me with your presence,” he snarked, sliding over a book towards Harry.

“What’s this?” he asked with furrowed eyebrows. Voldemort opened the book, wandlessly flicking over to a specific page he had seemed to memorize. Harry read the title: Playing Around with Promises – A Wizard’s Oath. The wording sounded a bit silly to him.

“Since you looked as if you haven’t ever heard of such a thing before, I have decided to bring the information to you and save you a trip to the Malfoy Library. Everything you need to know about what’s going to go down tomorrow is in there; if your chickpea brain can’t understand something, just ask me. You won’t find this book anywhere else, it was an heirloom and it’s written in Parseltongue,” he said nonchalantly, organizing a few papers in front of him neatly, picking up his quill, all this without looking at Harry even once.

Harry’s brain short-circuited for a second. Was Voldemort willingly offering up free information to him? And how come Parseltongue could be written?

“Ah, of course, I am going to need something in turn,” the Dark wizard said with a smirk, as if he knew what Harry was thinking. But, of course he wouldn’t just give aníthing up without expecting something in return, he had been a Slytherin after all.

“f*cking Slytherins,” Harry muttered. “Fine, I’ll bite. What do you want?”

Riddle was deep in his thoughts for a few moments.

“Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows, Harry?”

The raven-haired boy hated the dark glint in the other wizard’s eyes.

Chapter 10: The Liars

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t consider himself a particularly smart person. He’d always thought that out of the three of them, only Hermione was rightfully graced with that title. After all, she was the one who could recite almost any paragraph of their textbooks from memory after reading them over only once or twice. After being kept away from books most of his life, not even Hogwarts could make reading an enjoyable pastime for him. He didn’t like having to sit and cncentrate on something for so long, and had only read the books he did at the Manor out of necessity, seeing as he very well coulnd’t have gone out to play some Quidditch, as he would have rather done normally. Although, sadly he had to admit that a summer being kept as a prisoner inside the walls of the Malfoy Manor was a much more enjoyable one than being kept locked away in Dudley’s old bedroom.

At the thought of his cousin, he zoned out a bit. There were mixed feelings inside of him regarding the despicable teenager. On one hand, he obviously didn’t want to be happy about the suffering Dudley was going through, but on the other hand, this was Dudley. A boy who had been tormenting Harry ever since he was a little baby, pushing him down the stairs at the school, turning anyone who wanted to make friends with Harry away from him, and always, always gloating about the things he had and Harry didn’t. Thus, it was safe to say that the raven-haired boy did not enjoy the presence of his aunt’s son, but did not enjoy the fact that he was now a bubbleheaded puppet who probably had to do horrible, unspeakable things to himself and his parents while at home. Of course, Harry did not know this for a fact, but he had been in Voldemort’s head before, so it was a safe bet regarding Dudley’s fate.

The Dark Lord clearing his throat brought him back into the present, as he snapped his head up instantly. Internally, he began berating himself. Now, he really did not consider himself particularly smart, but how stupid did he have to be to zone out completely in the presence of such a dangerous wizard, that could have easily killed him without him even noticing? Harry had had an inkling before that he was becoming much too comfortable in the dark wizard’s home, but now he knew for a fact that he was losing it.

“Well, Potter? Regardless of what you might think, I do not have the whole day to duel with you and watch you as you wander off into your daydreams. Do you know what the Deathly Hallows are, or do you need an explanation for this as well?” Voldemort arched an eyebrow, and Harry had to refrain from rolling his eyes at him. Surely, that wouldn’t have been in his favor. “No, I don’t,” he replied with gritted teeth. Voldemort sighed.

“The Deathly Hallows were three highly powerful magical objects supposedly created by Death and given to each of three brothers in the Peverell family. They consisted of the Elder Wand, an immensely powerful wand that was considered unbeatable; the Resurrection Stone, a stone which could summon the spirits of the dead, and the Cloak oof Invisibility, which, as its name suggests, rendered the user completely invisible. According to the story, both Antioch Peverell, who was the owner oof the Wand and Cadmus Peverell, the owner of the Stone, came to bad ends. However, Ignotus Peverell's wisdom in requesting the Cloak was rewarded. Supposedly, the owner of all three Hallows is indestructible,” said Voldemort, spinning his wand between his fingers. Harry’s heart started beating faster upon hearing him mention a Cloak. He gulped. He was sure Voldemort couldn’t be talking about his Invisibility Cloak. “You see, Potter, at first, this was a tale originally told by Beedle the Bard, and passed from generation to generation throughout the wizarding families of Great Britain, and even beyond the continent. Very few wizards actually believed the story, and even fewer believe it now. However, there was once a great, dark wizard by the name of Gellert Grindelwald. He was the one who first voiced his beliefs and set out to gather all of the items to become his possesion.” Riddle then walked closer to Harry. In fact, so close, that he was right in his personal space. He bent down, and painted a sardonic smile upon his face. The teenager stood his ground, not even budging, despite of the rapid rhythm of his heart.

“In the beginning, Grindelwald was not alone. He had a very loyal, surprisingly cunning and intelligent man by his side. With him, he planned to take over the whole Wizarding World, to make places even beyond the borders of Great Britain bow down to him. Do you know the name of this wizard, Potter?” he asked, but without even allowing Harry a moment’s time, he continued, “Of course you don’t. But I will be gracious, and I will tell you, because in order to be useful for me, you need to know.”

“Just spit it out, Riddle. We’ve been chit-chatting about this for at least half an hour now,” he grumbled. He thought he saw a quick, ironic smile flash on his enemy’s face, but as soon as it appeared, it disappeared again.

“His name was Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry could only blink at him. His mind went blank. Of course, he already knew who Gellert Grindelwald was, but only because Hermione had gone on a rant about him before and he had happened to pay attention. His heart churned at the thought of his friends and he coulnd’t help but yearn for them. Yearn for Hogwarts, yearn for his first year there when everything was still alright and they had tea in Hagrid’s hut. Now, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit lost and hopeless. Over the past few weeks he’d received information he didn’t even think was possible, and even though he knew not to blindly trust Voldemort, everything seemed to be true. Right from him being a Horcrux to Sirius being some kind of spy because apparently, the Dark Lord had some type of information that made even Sirius be able to look over the obviously very grave sins of the Death Eaters. But this? Implying that Dumbledore was some kind of evil mastermind on the side of an even larger evil? It was ludicrous. This, Harry refused to entertain.

“I don’t believe you,” he said stubbornly. “What’s your proof to all this?”

“I don’t need proof Potter, these are all facts,” came the dry reply. “The Wizarding World forgave the old fool because he made Grindelwald responsible for everything. But not before taking something from him, something that I believe is still in his possesion and of utmost importance.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Harry snarkily. “Do you really expect me to stand here and listen to you just lie and lie? Wasn’t it enough torture that you kidnapped me and brought me here to the middle of nowhere?”

“Merlin, stop whining like a little brat!” fumed Voldemort. “You are so blinded by the promises of a light future, of something that has cream and cherry on top of it that you can’t see the real world in front of your eyes. Surprisingly, Potter, and I am not one to admit to being honest, but in this situation out of every adult in your life I was the only one who always told you the truth!” Voldemort positively exploded, panting by the end of his little rant.

Harry, understandably, was shocked. He didn’t want to process all of this information, didn’t want Voldemort’s words to be true. He just wanted to curl up in front of the fireplace with his friends and eat stupid-flavored candy. Then, after a fragment of a second’s thought, he realized how weak that sounded. How weak he sounded. After all, he was Harry Potter, and even if that hadn’t meant something to him in the past, it sure as hell did now. Because he, and his friends managed to win battles over his enemy. The very enemy that was standing in front of him. The man who had a piece of his soul inside of him.

And wasn’t that a strange thought? The very thing that swore to kill you, having a piece of him inside of you? Harry shuddered. Something in his chest hurt, his lungs felt too small, his skin felt like a thousand needles were poking into it, and he could feel the blood pumping in his ears. Why did his blood escape his veins? Thick poison replaced them, expanding and bursting inside of him, painting his insides black and gray, a gooey thing that he couldn’t escape from.

He stumbled backwards, his ears ringing and the room spinning. He grabbed onto his hair, almost ripping out a few strands as he tried to breathe through the thick substance coating his stomach and his intestines. Black spots began appearing in front of his eyes, and he started coughing and wheezing uncontrollably, doubling over from the piercing pain in his chest. He wanted to rip out the Horcrux residing inside of him, crush it into his palm, run away and never turn back. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly as needle-sharp pain shot through the scar on his forehead. He wished for this to all just be a bad dream.

And then, out of nowhere, ice-cold calmness washed over him. The poison in his veins dilluted and turned into blood again, the ringing in his ears ceasing to exist. Something tingly caressed his eyes gently, the tension in them disapearing. He felt tired, but he could breathe again, and there was no pain.

He wished to stay in this darkness forever.

Albus Dumbledore was worried.

September was approaching extremely fast, and he still didn’t know anything about the whereabouts of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The most precious gemstone of the Wizarding World of Great Britain, and, in his opinion, the world.

He had plans for Harry. Plans that included him being visibly there, so the fact that the child was still missing, was worrisome. Not even Mrs. Figg reported anything out of order at the Dursley home under Number 4, Privet Drive, so where was he? He couldn’t have vanished.

Dumbledore had even visited the Weasleys for tea, as to gauge their reactions upon mentioning Harry, but Ronald only mentioned that he’d sent him a letter on his birthday. Out of caution, he did not talk any more to Harry Potter, so his letters didn’t risk being intercepted. Not even the Grangers knew where he was, and Dumbledore was quickly running out of ideas. His wand didn’t show anything of the boy’s location, meaning he hadn’t used magic to disappear to wherever he was right now. This was very worrisome, indeed.

He decided to summon Mad-Eye Moody to his office under the guise of having afternoon tea — or some Firewhiskey, in Moody’s case — and ask him a few questions.

“How are the safety preparations for this year coming around, Mad-Eye?” he asked cautiously, sipping at his tea, a concoction made from lavender and sage leaves. It helped keep him calm in these most arduous of times.

“There hadn’t been oublic Death Eater attacks in a while, Albus,” he said, clearing his throat and gulping noisily from his flask. “The Aurors and I, personally as well, am afraid that they have something in store for Hogwarts. To ensure the safety of the students, we have set up camps around the surrounding areas, where Aurors will be stationing during this year. Furthermore, I have spoken with Professor Flitwick and Snape about upgrading the wards around the perimeters of the school. I believe Hogwarts will remain an unpenetrable force.”

“I see,” hummed Dumbledore. “And Harry? Is he safe?” he asked nonchalantly.

“The answer to that will be “No” as long as Voldemort lives, sir,” came the gruff reply. Mad-Eye slurped another one from his flask. “But at Hogwarts, he will be. The Order has been sniffing around Privet Drive more as well, recently.”

“And?” Dumbledore’s arched eyebrow had a perfect curve to it.

“There was nothing out of the ordinary spotted, sir,” Moody replied smoothly. Dumbledore’s insides were gnawing away at him, so he tried using Legilimency. Moody’s walls held up just fine, but he didn’t give any indication of the fact that someone tried snooping through his mind, so Dumbledore only took another síp of lavender-sage.

“Very well then,” he said, standing up. “The school should be ready to open safely by September. Lemondrop?” he offered, a smile gracing his lips.

Something dark was brewing in the air.

Chapter 11: The Deathly Hallows

Chapter Text

The moonlight shone down onto Malfoy Manor like the gentle breath of something far greater than the human mind can process. Draco had always thought that his home was beautiful, from the outside, but from the inside as well.

No matter how gorgeous the manor was, he was anxious to get back to his room. The letter burnt a hole through his pocket, making his heart beat just a little bit faster than what was considered normal. He couldn’t wait to read it— it had been a particularly hard day for him, tiring for no reason other than the training session he’d had with the Lestrange brothers. His father had watched his every moment during the duels and so he couldn’t be lazy and half-ass it, resulting in feeling exhausted like there was no tomorrow. He hated when his father took it upon himself to view and judge his dueling skills. Draco knew it was beneficial for him, seeing as he always had better results when Lucius was there to scrutinize him, but he absolutely loathed the mental toll it took on him to be watched by his father like a hawk.

Now, though, the only thing that mattered to him was to get back to his room to read his letter in peace, behind a closed and magically locked door. No one could find out about this.
His plans, however, were ruined as soon as he stepped foot in the common area he had to cross to be able to get to the staircase that led to his room.

Lord Voldemort was sitting on the sofa, Nagini curled around his shoulders like some kind of luxurious scarf, a glass of what seemed to be high-quality Firewhiskey in his hand. The moment he laid his eyes upon Draco, the youngest Malfoy’s shoulders visibly tensed, his stomach churning. He hated those goddamn red eyes.

“Malfoy,” Voldemort said curtly. “Where were you?”

“Just taking a stroll in the garden, my Lord,” Draco replied right off the bat, without so much as a blink.

“In the middle of the night?” came the inquiry paired with raised eyebrows and a sardonic grin. It freaked Draco out every single time, seeing as he was not used to seeing the Dark Lord’s teeth. Not in a human shape anyway.

“It’s more quiet this way. The peaco*cks have already gone to sleep, so there is no chance of running into them.” Draco gulped. Why was he even lying in the first place? HHe was at the Owlery. He was allowed to have his own private letter, he’d never heard about the Dark Lord reading anyone’s personal business.

“Indeed? Afraid of them, are you?” came the reply. The dark wizard’s voice even sounded a bit amused… Though Draco could be absolutely wrong. It never boded well to assume things about Lord Voldemort. So, he just gave a simple node. “Alright, then. I actually do have a task for you, so I’m glad we met.”

“Of course, my Lord. How can I be of assistance?” Draco would even massage his feet if he asked, just to simply not have to lie anymore.

“When you go back to Hogwarts, I will need someone to keep an eye on the Potter boy without harming him. I can’t very well trust Severus with this seeing his track record of bullying children. But you, Draco Malfoy, are perfect for this,” said Voldemort. “Of course, it won’t be this easy, as this won’t be your only task. I assume you know what a Vanishing Cabinet is, and does, yes?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Your father has recently purchased one of the two last remaining cabinets. We believe the other one, its sister, is somewhere at Hogwarts. I want you to figure it out and fix these cabinets. We are going to need them.”

“My Lord… You don’t plan on raiding Hogwarts? Surely?” asked Draco fearfully, immediately regretting his question as Lord Voldemort’s facial expression changed in a fraction of a millisecond.

“Do not dare to question me again, Draco. It will not end well for you,” he said without answering the boy’s question, sloshing around the whiskey in his glass. “Now, go on. I know you’ve got a letter to read.”

Perhaps Draco would have frozen in his spot because of the revelation of the Dark Lord possibly knowing in detail of what he was up to, but his flight instinct apparently kicked in, because with only the inclination of his head as a goodbye, he took off almost running, up the stairs leading to his bedroom.

There, he locked the door immediately and sat down onto his posh, silk-clad sofa heavily. He felt like he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. He’d known that not even his thoughts would be safe from the Dark Lord, but he’d never thought that he had ever done something to warrant the Legilimency attack on his mind. Of course, the possibility existed, so he’d taken some Occlumency lessons throughout the summer before his Fifth Year with his godfather. He had considered that enough, but now, he wasn’t sure anymore. He didn’t even feel anyone probing at the information in his head, and had the Dark Lord not mentioned the letter, he would have been none the wiser. That caused an extreme wave of worry to wash over him, feeling like he was thrown into a pool full of ice-cold water.

Draco was someone who had a lot of secrets, some of them which could have won him some extremely heavy punishment from his not-so-understanding father. All his life, he had worked diligently to make sure that none of his disgusting secrets made it out in the open, but now it turned out that, Great Britain’s most feared and hated mass murderer had had access to them perhaps all this time. Lord Voldemort had been living at the Malfoy Manor for almost two years now, that was plenty of time to find out everything everyone had kept well-hidden. It was yet another thing that the Dark Lord could hang over his head in order to blackmail him into submission. Not that Draco was stupid enough not to do what was asked of him.

Sighing, he stretched out onto the couch, digging into his pocket to take out the — now somewhat crumpled — letter. A smile took over his facial expression even before he opened it, just feeling the soft parchment paper under his fingers was enough to get him to think about Him.

It was okay. Only a few weeks before they could be truly together. Even if that meant that he’d have to start taking care of Harry Potter, Golden Boy extraordinaire.

Harry’s ears were still ringing after yesterday’s fiasco. It was already evening, pitch black outside save for the moonlight casting its shadow through the enormous windows of his room.

Riddle and him hadn’t managed to finish their conversation about the Hallows, seeing as Harry had promptly passed out after what he’d taken to call as meltdowns. He had had about three in the short month and a half he’d been staying at Malfoy Manor, if he remembered correctly, and it was another thing he had to worry about. Obviously, he took it as a sign of weakness. He had been so good at managing his emotions (more like bottle them up) before Voldemort had taken him from Privet Drive, but now he started to feel more and more like only a shell of the person he was supposed to be. He’d often wondered whether this was some side effect of the Horcrux inside of him, but then again, he’d been living with it ever since his parents died, so it wasn’t really logical that it would start having side effects 15 years after latching itself onto his soul.

Truthfully, he didn’t really want to deal with whatever Riddle had in mind by telling him about the Deathly Hallows. Harry wasn’t even entirely sure that he believed the story; after all, it had originally been a bedtime story for magical children. He didn’t go around believing the tales of the Grimm brothers, or anything that he’d managed to overhear from Aunt Petunia reading to Dudley over the years. Although, he supposed it was different in this world. Maybe magical bedtime stories had more truth to them as the Muggle ones, simply for the fact that everything Harry has experienced so far in the last 5 years, he’d thought was impossible before coming here. So, who was to say that the tale of Beedle the Bard wasn’t true, at least partially? Harry had a lot to consider. Now also including the extremely weird feeling of coolness washing over him every single time at the end of his meltdowns. Before, he didn’t know where they came from, but now, he thought he would have to entertain the thought of it somehow coming from Voldemort.

That was the only logical explanation, as surrealistic as that sounded, if only for the fact that Riddle had been the only other person in the room the last time it had happened. And considering the fact that they had some weird connection due to the Horcrux, it was entirely plausible that his theory was right. And so, he only had one remaining question regarding the situation: Why on Earth would Voldemort help him during distress? It didn’t make any sense. After all, they were enemies. The only reason why Voldemort hadn’t killed him yet was because he had accidentally made Harry a living Horcrux and didn’t want to risk damaging himself during the process of killing Harry to get the piece of soul out of him.

Harry was starting to feel actually kind of desperate to get the Horcrux out of himself, even though he’d finally come to accept his fate before. How was he supposed to go back to school — if Voldemort truly would allow him to do so — and face his friends, putting up a mask as if everything was alright when in fact, things couldn’t be worse.
Actually, scratch that, of course they could be worse. He could be dead. After yesterday, though, that concept seemed more and more appealing to him as the hours passed.

He sighed, deciding to take a stroll outside in the back garden. It was the farthest the wards allowed him to go, and he could only access it through the back door of the kitchen, and Malfoy Manor’s elves weren’t nearly as friendly as the ones at Hogwarts when it came to trespassing their kitchen without stopping to eat something. But, alas, Harry had to make due with whatever he had. He quietly slid on his sneakers, gave Hedwig a pat and a kiss and securing his wand in its holster, Harry took off.

It took him a bit longer than usual to get outside; the elves made a big fuss about him not showing up to dinner and were dead set on forcing some treacle tart down his throat. Harry thought it said a lot about him that these creatures had figured out what his favorite food was after only a month and a half of staying here. Even so, he was adamant about not being hungry, and after fifteen minutes of pointless fighting with Pipmsy, he was outside under the big vast sky. With a plate that contained a slice of mouth-watering treacle tart in his hands.

His original plan was to walk around in circles until he got tired and go back to his quarters, but once he was truly among the roses, he had a change of heart. And so, he laid down his robes onto the damp ground and sat himself down, placing the plate onto his lap. His sweater was warm, after all, Mrs. Weasley had knitted it, but he still felt the chilly air of the night seeping through the cracks of the rows made out of yarn and love. He bit into his tart. However delicious it was, both at Hogwarts and here, the tart he missed the most was the one Mrs. Weasley always made whenever he went to visit Ron at the Burrow. It was Harry’s favorite, and truly nothing could compare to it. Harry wished Mrs. Weasley was there to hug him and give him a few motherly pats on the back, but he wasn’t sure he would ever get to experience that now, that he was enclosed with Great Britain’s current most dangerous wizard.

He sat there, munching away at his dessert, shivering and musing about the future. Voldemort had said that he had every intention of sending Harry back to Hogwarts come September, but the raven-haired boy wasn’t entirely sure that was true. How would he even manage that? Wasn’t it too much of a risk? Surely the Order already knew by now that he hadn’t been at Privet Drive for over a month. He knew he wasn’t the best strategist or even good at deducting conclusions fast, but even he didn’t think he was too dumb to guess Riddle’s plan. Maybe he didn’t even have one. If he managed to keep his kidnapping hidden from Dumbledore, Harry seriously considered switching sides and abandoning the Order. Whoever was smart enough to cover up taking the Golden Boy — he shivered — from his home, would actually be smart enough to take over the wizarding world of Britain, Harry was certain of that. After all, hadn’t he been hearing about the Order’s competence at looking after him for years now? Surely, it must be true. He shook his head with an incredulous chuckle; he couldn’t believe he had those thoughts about Tom f*cking Riddle.

As he gently rid himself of the crumbs left over from the tart he had eaten, he heard a soft crunch. Immediately turning, he noticed a tall figure standing inconspicuously. He recognized the person right away.

“Riddle,” he said icily. He was still feeling embarrassed after his little meltdown yesterday, and not at all ready for another ominous conversation where Riddle brought up things and then never actually explained them to him. In that regard, Harry supposed the Dark Lord was very similar to Dumbledore. Not that he would ever mention that to him.

“Potter,” came the reply. “Rather strange of you to be sitting outside in the dark.

“I was eating a treacle tart,” Harry said defensively, scoffing. He could feel Riddle furrow his eyebrows, even if he didn’t actually see it.

“Right,” the other drawled, inviting himself to sit next to the teenager on the grass. Harry balked at that a bit; Voldemort’s ass voluntarily touching the slimy grass? Unheard of. “Are you feeling any better? That was quite the spectacular show yesterday,” he said, as if he were talking about the weather. Harry choked on his saliva and coughed a bit; did Riddle actually ask him how he was feeling? Had the Earth already stopped turning on its axis yet?

“What do you care?” he asked snarkily, hugging his knees to his chest as if that way, he could shelter himself from the mass murderer sitting next to him.

“Believe it or not, Potter, but another curious thing about living Horcruxes it seems is that if you feel any type of discomfort, be it physical or mental, I can feel it to a certain degree as well. Thus, it is in my best interest to keep you in a good condition. I really do hate headaches.” Of course, Harry should have expected an answer along those lines. That cool, tingly feeling that always calmed him down must have been only another means of Voldemort stopping his own headache, not because he actually wanted to ease Harry’s discomfort in any way. He should have anticipated that, really; he didn’t hold Voldemort to a high standard anyway, so why did the revelation kind of sting?

“Right,” Harry said, repeating one of Voldmeort’s earlier sentences. “Why are you here? Can I really not get even a morsel of privacy in this place?”

“Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t,” sighed Voldemort. “I wanted to finish our conversation. September is fast approaching, and you still haven’t said anything about taking a Wizard’s Oath, so it is my duty to make sure to do everything in my power to convince you of taking the Oath and protecting the many many secrets Malfoy Manor’s walls have seen and heard.”

“I haven’t… I haven’t really thought about all that Oath bullsh*t you’ve told me, simply because you keep offering me new information every time we talk in private but you don’t provide me enough time to make sense of what you’re not saying. Because that’s just the thing, isn’t it? With you, it’s not about what leaves your mouth, it’s about what stays in your mind. And I’m tired of the people around me not telling me anything and expecting me to understand!” he burst out suddenly. Then, he realized what he just did, and clamped his mouth shut. Merlin, he had just treated a bloody Dark Lord as if he were his therapist. Harry thought he really was going positively mental the more time he spent at the Manor.

For his part, Riddle was just staring at him with an unreadable facial expression. Harry could still see that his eyes were red even in the dark, which gave the Dark Lord a new sense of creepiness, but he decided to ignore it in favor of trying to decipher as much as he could from a completely blank stare. Damn Slytherins and their perfect poker-faces, grumbled Harry in his mind. The embarrassment he’d previously felt at his meltdown from yesterday increased tenfold. He had noticed before that it had become less and less easy for him to hide his true feelings whenever he was around Voldemort. Admittedly, he’d been one to wear his heart on a sleeve his whole life, but somehow it felt different when he was around Riddle. Now, he could hypothesize and say it was because of the Horcrux, though only because any other notion of why this phenomenon might have occured was unacceptable to the young wizard.

“I suppose you’re…. Right, actually, Potter. Far be it from me to be a liar,” he conceded. “It must not have been easy for you to be ripped away from your home even though it was a situation no wizard your age should have been in. I understand it was all you knew—”

“It wasn’t all I ever knew,” Harry interrupted. “I know how healthy families work.”

“Color me surprised,” Riddle deadpanned. “That wasn’t the point. I know how evasive that old fool can be, and I should have known you would require more time to get adjusted to figuring things out by yourself, without your intelligent little muggleborn friend. Hermione Granger, was it?” he mused. Harry wondered how Riddle managed to be both apologetic and insulting at the same time, but decided against asking, wanting to get this bit of communication over with as soon as possible.

“I told you about the Deathly Hallows, Potter, because you have one of them. You almost managed to destroy one in your First Year, but thankfully even Dumbledore wasn’t dumb enough to let you do that.”

“And the third?” he asked. Voldemort glared at him impatiently.

“You’re impatient. Like a Gryffindor. We’re going to have to work on that.”

“I am a Gryffindor, though, so I’m not sure what your point is,” Harry replied cheekily. “Do continue explaining.”

“You’re absolutely insufferable,” sighed the dark wizard, though Harry couldn’t hear any annoyance in his voice. “As I was saying, the third Hallow is called the Elder Wand. The wizard or witch who has all of these Hallows in their possession by legal claims, is supposed to become the Master of Death. Seeing as no magic folk has ever wielded the three of them together, there are no transcriptions about what exactly being the Master of Death entails. But according to my limited research and also logic, it’s fairly certain that immortality is a perk that comes with that title.”

“And that is what you desire the most, isn’t it, Riddle? Living forever?” Harry taunted, though it sounded weak. He gulped.

“My Horcruxes grant me that privilege,” he said, then hesitated, as if he wanted to add something. For a moment, it seemed as if he decided against saying it, but then he turned to look right into Harry’s eyes. “I have absorbed all of my Horcruxes, save for you and Nagini. Now, Nagini has a large lifespan, seeing as she’s a magical creature, but you, Harry, are an enormous liability to my immortality. And even though Nagini will probably live to be hundreds of years old, she’s going to die at one point. That means, of course, that—”

“That I need to become immortal in order for you to stay immortal,” Harry concluded silently.

“Why, they should re-sort you into Ravenclaw, Potter.”

“How can one become the owner of all three Deathly Hallows?” Harry asked, ignoring the jab at his intelligence. (Which was perfectly fine, thank you very much.)

“The most difficult part is the Cloak, since it can only be passed down from generation to generation. Of course, wizards outside of the Peverell line can use it as well, but they won’t be the owner of it. You have already overcome that obstacle by simply being born as the son of James Potter,” he said, then continued, “the Stone is not an issue, besides actually finding it. Whoever finds it, automatically becomes the owner of it. Not a very difficult thing to do.”

“And the wand?” asked Harry, somewhat scared.

“It must be won by killing its current owner.”

“Who possesses the Elder Wand now, Riddle? Surely, you must know,” hissed the young wizard. His heart was yet again beating in his ears and he had already started to feel a bit lightheaded. In a millisecond, though, the familiar coolness washed over him as he stared straight into Voldemort’s blood-red eyes. He didn’t get a verbal answer, but with the way Riddle was meaningfully looking at him, it took Harry only a fraction of a minute to realize what the dark wizard was beating around the bush about.

“f*cking sh*t, Riddle, you want me to murder Dumbledore?”

Chapter 12: Images of the Past

Chapter Text

The garden was dark in the night, solely illuminated by the shine of the Moon, and the stars peeking through the foggy clouds.

Harry’s heart rate was skyrocketing, his blood singing in his veins, sending the melody right towards his ear. He was sure he could hear the buzzing of his thoughts in his head going a thousand miles an hour. He wasn’t a stranger to feeling this way, after all it had happened the day before as well. He managed to cling onto a fleeting thought— Maybe Hermione was right and he had some kind of panic disorder he would have to deal with. The next thought was that with the way things were progressing, he wasn’t sure he would get to see his friend again to tell her that she had been right once again. That was terrifying, and funnily the only thing he wasn’t afraid to admit.

“f*ck off,” he managed to get out breathlessly. He heard a low chuckle coming out from Riddle’s mouth.

“Now, I could not very well do that, could I?” he drawled. Harry saw the light blue threads of a healing spell coming right towards him, but he was feeling too weak to protest them. Much to his disgust, the relief he felt as the cooling feeling spread through his chest, loosening the knots that were causing his shortness of breath persisted even after Voldemort’s magic retracted from his body. “Lest you run out of breath and die here, Potter. I certainly wouldn’t want that,” the dark wizard tutted.

“I won’t do it, you know?” asked Harry as soon as he felt he was not going to sound like a very tired walrus as soon as he opened his mouth. “I would never do that. I would sooner hang myself just so you lost a Horcrux than harm anyone,” he said, sure of himself.

“Such typical Gryffindor behavior,” sighed the older man. “You are the first person I have ever met who doesn’t care an ounce about becoming immortal. But don’t worry,” he said, a mischievous smile dancing at the corner of his lips, “I will get you there in the end.”

Before Harry could react, Voldemort Apparated with a silent pop! sound, and the boy was alone in the back of the enormous garden yet again. His heart was still pounding, his stomach turning upon the sight of the forgotten treacle tart which sat next to him. Ever since he had been thrust into the magical world, Harry had found himself in odd, absurd and often disturbing situations, though never this much. He felt so desensitized to it all that as he mulled over the dark wizard’s words, he didn’t feel anything anymore. The space behind his ribcage felt hollow and thick with poison at the same time, and his mind felt numb. He wondered, fleetingly, if they had placed a charm, or some type of other spell upon him when he got kidnapped, but wasn’t interested in the thought long enough to truly care. He knew this should have scared him, but he only continued to stare at the faint outline of the rose bushes in the dark, the slice of tart continuing to be his companion through all of his musings.

Out of nowhere, Harry’s head got flooded by memories long forgotten; until now. He thought back to the last summer before going to Hogwarts, to the insane excitement he had felt when Hagrid had bashed the door of the abandoned hut. He could almost taste it on his tongue, the dust on the floor as he blew the candles on his little makeshift cake he had drawn upon the dirty wooden floor. Then, he thought back to the years he had spent in school with Dudley, wondering just how many liters of toilet water his hair and clothes had absorbed throughout the years at the hand of Dudley and his gang. All those uneaten lunches in the cafeteria which had ended up in Dudley’s stomach instead. All of the new classmates he had tried to make friends with, only for his cousin to alienate them with his harsh words and unveiled threats. The looks of pity on the teacher’s faces. No one to sing to on Mother’s Day celebrations.

Horrified, Harry felt something wet drip onto his hands that were resting in his lap. He quickly wiped at his eyes and gulped; it decidedly didn’t feel like he couldn’t feel anything anymore. He wondered if Dumbledore would have still placed him in the Dursleys’ care, had he known the type of upbringing Harry would have. Or if he would have still sent him home every summer from Hogwarts, had he known that the blood protection would still wear off in time, allowing Voldemort access to his house.

Were the blood wards even real?

The thought cut through Harry like a sharp knife. He could not banish it. He’d had his doubts even in the former years, however, those had always been born out of sheer longing of disobedience. Now, they were real. And he had no idea how to get rid of them.

The halls of Malfoy Manor were quiet, The portraits were doing their own thing in silence, either sleeping or not even being on the canvas, opting to go somewhere perhaps more exciting, The door to the Dining Hall was shut, and no sound left the walls.

Inside, a heated debate was taking place.

“We should simply kill the boy, I say,” said Rabastan confidently. Rodolphus sighed deeply next to him.

“We cannot kill him,” he said flatly.

“May I speak freely, My Lord?” the first Lestrange brother asked, turning towards Voldemort.

“You have been doing so for the past five minutes as well,” the dark wizard said with a sardonic smile, his fingers stroking the length of his wand, a Crucatius curse buzzing underneath his palm, ready to strike if he were to be met with more disrespect.

“Forgive me, My Lord,” Rabastan said with a gulp, and sank back into his chair.

“We will not kill the boy,” said Riddle, ignoring the Lestrange brother’s apology. “It would not serve us well to do so. However, if he does not agree to our terms, we will Obliviate him.”

“And let him go?” asked Lucius cautiously.

“Of course not, you fool,” sneered Riddle. “A full Obliviation. Maybe we’ll stick him into a Muggle asylum afterwards,” he said lightly, watching as Nagini coiled tighter and tighter around the muggle writhing in the corner. The woman’s screams were muffled with magic, but sound was not needed to feel the terror rolling off of her body in waves; the knowledge she was going to die and there was nothing that she could do about it.

“Now, of course, the boy is in a state of uncertainty. This is the time to act,” he continued, “when he is vulnerable. We have successfully managed to isolate him and lull him into a false sense of security with his godfather by his side, but make no mistake; Sirius Black is not one of us. He may not be Dumbledore’s muppet, but he is not one hundred percent behind our cause, like so many of you are. He is loyal to his godson, and for that reason we must force Harry Potter to join our side, by any means necessary,” he finished sternly.

“The Black family has artifacts in their possession which are very much needed, as you all must know. The clock is ticking. It is time to act. We have been in the shadows for a long time, but the time has come to flourish again, and mold our world into a safe, magic-friendly place, where no one censors what type of magic your heirs learn at the school where majority of us have gotten our education. Where children with magic coursing through their veins do not have to be afraid of getting murdered by someone who is below them on the scale of evolution. Where we can truly, honestly bring back the way our Magical World worked before. Anything else?” he looked around, co*cking an eyebrow.

Some of his followers looked a bit flabbergasted. The slow changes their leader had been making for the past few years were still in the walls, not quite out in the open before the public. After Voldemort had regained his body, most of the Death Eaters had expected, or maybe even hoped for him to come back as a raging lunatic, taking the Magical World by surprise and gaining power by every means necessary. They had lost a few of them when the realization that, in fact, that was not going to happen, hit, but it had also gained them followers no one would have ever thought they’d have. Some of them were more powerful than others, but that did not matter; what truly mattered was that each and every one of them served the same purpose, the same leader. It was all they needed. They blindly followed him; and that was what Voldemort needed. Craved.

As he looked around the table, he revered the power he felt by those gazes. Hard, unforgiving glares, but not at him; no. At their enemy. The fire burned inside him, the flames of need engulfing his ribcage making his heart speed up. It was only times like these when he ever felt something else. Or even something at all.

“My Lord…” began Narcissa cautiously after a long period of silence at the long, wooden table. “About our children… What part will they play?”

“Your motherly concern is pathetic, Narcissa,” he said. “If I hadn’t thought Draco capable of surviving, I would not have inducted him. Along with the Zabini boy. You mustn’t worry, they, all of them, will know what to do when the time comes,” he answered with a finality no one dared to question, or even mention anything else about the topic.

“We will convene once again in three days' time, in the same place and at the same time as today.” He rose from his seat. “By that time, the Potter boy should see reason.”

Harry had a few hours to mull over the things and realizations mixing and jumbling up in his head, although nothing felt cleared up. There were so many questions, and no one he could go to to seek advice or guidance. He had never felt as alone as in his enormous prison cell at Malfoy Manor. Not even homework could get his mind off of everything that has happened, and he wished he could have just written to his friends. He imagined how that would have gone down; him spilling onto a piece of parchment the events of the past month, up until when Voldemort had asked him in a very round-about way to kill their Headmaster. The Headmaster Ron and Hermione oh so dearly loved and trusted. Harry was buzzing with anger at the fact that he had had the same love and trust for the old wizard; only, it was ripped away from him. It kind of felt like the time when he was ten and stopped believing in the Bible and God; a moment of bitter clearness. Just like then, he felt lost now.

He was sixteen, for f*ck’s sake. He had been alone for such a long period of time, he should have been able to work through this alone. Make his own decisions. But then again, when had any of his decisions been about himself, and not others? When had they stemmed from wanting to protect himself first, and not put the needs of his friends or the people of the Wizarding World before his own? It was incredibly hard, and even now, all he could think about were his best friends. Would it help in any way if he would pretend to follow Voldemort, or at least slightly agree with his plans? It would have been easy; keep his head down, act, and never look Voldemort in the eye.

Well, easier said than done. He knew it was near impossible, but for the brief moment it lasted, the hope warmed his heart.

A while later, his presence was requested in the Drawing Room. He purposefully took a long time to dress himself and make his hair look acceptable, knowing that it was probably Voldemort who wanted to speak with him, wanting another situation to indoctrinate Harry into his own foolish beliefs. He was not going to succeed. Even if Harry had to die.

Ten minutes later, he arrived in front of the enormous oak doors, and they opened up automatically before him. Voldemort was sitting at the desk on the other end of the room, parchments in front of him, not looking up at Harry even when the doors closed with a bang! behind him.

“Sit down,” said Riddle.

“No.”

“Sit. Down,” he said, eyebrows raised pointedly. Suddenly, Harry felt a little tingle in his spine; it ran up into his head through his neck, whispering for him to follow the orders. He scrunched up his face, and concentrated, remembering his class with fake-Moody in Fourth Year. He didn’t know how much time passed until the feeling overtook him, prompting him to sit down onto the chair in front of his nemesis. Voldemort did not utter a word. Harry shivered in his seat.

The other wizard slid a thick book in front of him.

“This might be of interest to you,” he said calmly. Harry gulped. The tight sensation disappeared from his spine, but he did not have doubts that Voldemort would Imperius him again just to make him open the book. Anger coursed through his veins like an angry flood destroying everything in its path.

“I won’t open it,” he said stubbornly. “Who knows what the f*ck kind of curse you put on it.” That prompted a short, dry, sarcastic laugh.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” he said. “It is a photograph album.”

“I think you would rather die than own a photo album,” came the reply almost immediately. “You f*cking used the Imperius curse on me!”

“Fantastic, we are back at stating facts,” sighed Voldemort. “I did. You would not sit down as I asked you to do.”

“More like ordered me to do,” Harry grumbled. “Great, now I’m here. What do you want?”

“For you to open that album,” replied Voldemort, patient on the surface, although Harry was sure he was fuming on the inside. The slight headache was his first clue. Then there were also Voldemort’s glowing ruby red eyes.

“Surely that must be a joke,” Harry said, flabbergasted. How did he keep ending up in these situations? Why was he allowing this to happen? “I am not going to open the f*cking album.” Harry expected the older wizard to incinerate the album on the spot, but that didn’t come.

Instead, Voldemort exhaled and flicked his finger. The book opened on a page, and a photo flew out of it straight into Harry’s lap. As much as he didn’t want to, his curiosity won and he picked it up. There were four young people on it, clearly not from their time. The photo must have come from the early 1900s or late 1800s, judging by their attire. All four of them were dressed up in dress robes that resembled Ron’s from the Yule Ball in Fourth Year, and they were smiling widely, arms around each other. At first, Harry didn’t understand why Voldemort would show him this, but then his eyes examined the picture better, and he zeroed in on the young boy on the right side of it. He looked almost identical to his father. His heart stuttered in his chest.

“Who are they?” he asked quietly.

“That is your great-grandfather on the far right,” Voldemort answered. “Next to him is your great-grandmother standing right next to my mother and an unknown man.” His answer was just as quiet as Harry’s question. The young boy didn’t know why the word ‘mother’ coming out of the dark wizard’s mouth made his skin crawl. Maybe because he said it with such contempt.

“Your mom was friends with my great-grandparents?” he looked up, blinking.

“It would appear so, yes. I am not surprised; despite Grindelwald already climbing his way up on the ladder, the lines between Light and Dark were not as distinct as they are now. The Gaunts and the Potters were both very respected families, although the Potters more so. The Gaunts were feared. I’m afraid that madness has been rampant in my bloodline for generations. I found it while organizing the shelves.” The information was said without emotion. Harry could read nothing from the facial expression of his nemesis, which unnerved him, almost causing him to crumple up the image in his hand.

“Why are you showing me this?” he then asked, after a few seconds of empty silence.

“Because you need to realize, Potter, that your past, present and future are intertwined more with the Wizarding World than you’d think, and yet, you seek to help those who are enabling it to die. In today’s world, you would not see a photograph like that, simply because it is so frowned upon for a Light wizard to interact with someone who has more Dark in them. You are a self-proclaimed warrior of justice, yet you don’t see the irony in that?” he asked, almost amused. Harry’s heart sped up, and his face scrunching up. He hated how f*cking right Voldemort sounded, but he knew he had no right to talk like that. He killed Muggles for fun, probably fed them to Nagini too; he was in no place to call Harry… What exactly? A judgemental prick?

“You have the f*cking gall to talk to me about injustice?” Harry said, the force of his voice bouncing off the walls. “You instigated a damn war over your own personal conflict with Muggles! You are planning a second war over the same exact reason and you are preaching to me about how we should blur the lines between Dark and Light when you yourself are the reason why they got separated in the first place?” He realized he sounded erratic; the way his breath came out in short gasps and hair stood up on his arms. He couldn’t help it; he was so unbelievably angry he could have strangled Voldemort. A sly grin climbed up Voldemort’s face.

“That started long before my ambitions arised,” he replied calmly, not letting the storm brewing beneath the surface show. “I understand that nothing has been explained to you, and you are still somewhat young, so I will not punish you this time. But I do not take disrespect lightly, Potter. The only reason why I am willing to be so lenient is that you have part of my soul inside of you, and so I wish no harm upon you. Though, I suggest you keep your tongue in check, lest I start to do it,” he finished, letting Nagini slide up his leg onto his shoulders.

Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest. Lest he starts to do it? What in Merlin’s beard did that even mean? He felt a blush creep up on his cheeks, their previous fight forgotten.

“Keep the photograph, Potter, and mull over the symbolism of it,” he hissed in Parseltongue. “I have more important matters to attend to for the rest of the day. I will see you tomorrow at nine in the morning in the dueling room. You may go now,” he waved his hand, as if nothing had just happened.

Harry was too embarrassed to admit his real reaction to Voldemort’s display of Parseltongue, and so he simply stood up, choosing not to lash out. The last time he ever remembered scurrying away this fast from somewhere, Filch and the Basilisk were involved.

Once again, he had a lot of things to work through. He wished things were simpler.

“You know, it won’t work on him,” hissed Nagini in a matter-of-fact voice.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about,” her owner said, scribbling something illegible onto a piece of parchment.

“Liar,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes, enjoying the fact that his body was now capable of producing heat. “You’ll see.”

Voldemort refused to answer, eyes focusing on one of the letters spread out in front of him. He continued to stare at the same line for a long time.

Chapter 13: Fight or Flight

Chapter Text

He was holding onto the picture so tightly he was afraid it was going to start crumpling up. He couldn’t stop staring at his great-grandfather’s face. His smile was almost identical to the one he saw on his father’s face and the one he sees in the morning on the rare occasion he wakes up with a reason to smile.

He vaguely remembered learning something about genetics, some very dumbed-down version of course, when he was smaller. Since Hogwarts didn’t offer muggle biology lessons, he was not sure about the reason behind why his father looked so much like his great-grandfather; all he knew was that he was majorly freaked out by it. The fact that Riddle’s mother looked so much like him, and she was standing just on the other edge of the photograph, only added to the chills that crept up his spine. He didn’t even know why Voldemort gave him the picture, though he was sure it was some extremely f*cked up, incredibly manipulative move on his part; but Harry for one thought that it was not working very well, given the fact that he was only deeply confused and disturbed by it.

The one thing he would admit was that it made him think. He wondered what a time it must have been; Light and Dark still mingling together, not caring of how it would look like. Sure, he was positive that some families still kept to themselves, but it seemed like even some of the bigger pureblood families were up to mixing a bit. Harry was curious of what it would have been like to live back in that time. Would he and Malfoy have ended up friends, instead of him as a prisoner in the boy’s home? Perhaps even the feud between the Weasleys and the Malfoys would not have been that prominent; maybe it would not even exist. Hermione might not have been singled out by her peers for being a muggleborn, and Harry’s status would be non-existent, because there would be no Dark Lord. Well, of course, there was the matter of Gellert Grindelwald, so he scratched that last thought. If he were living in the era his ancestors were, and Grindelwald was running free, terrorizing the nation, he was sure he would get caught up in it somehow, simply because that was his luck. More like the lack of it, he supposed.

He sighed, placing the picture on his bedside table, and rubbed his eyes hard underneath his glasses. How had Light and Dark become so separated, so secluded from each other? What was the catalyst of it all? Was it perhaps Grindelwald? Harry was sure there had been other dark lords besides him, so why hadn’t the separation happen sooner? Or had it, and this photograph was just the exemption from the normal way of life, just another one of Voldemort’s manipulation tactics? Or maybe it was something much more simple:

Life was not black and white. Nobody was that different from each other, not even him and Voldemort.

He groaned, and looked at where Hedwig was hooting at him from her cage.

“Yeah, you think I’m stupid as well, don’t you, girl? Me too,” he said painfully, burying his face into his pillow.

The long table in the dining room of Grimmauld Place was full of order members. Sirius was sitting there in silence, next to Remus, gritting his teeth together. Remus looked too calm for his own good as well, both of them trying to refrain from seeming terrified and suspicious. Dumbledore was at one end of the table, and Kingsley on the other, a hard look on his face, not matching with the headmaster’s mirth swimming around in his eyes. The old wizard’s stance was relaxed as he leaned back into his cushioned armchair, his fingers tapping away to a beat only he could hear. Molly Weasley was sitting next to him, nervously knitting a sweater; probably in preparation for Christmas. Arthur’s facial expression was hard as well, although he looked more comical than serious this way still, but everyone could feel the tension in the air in their own way.

“I have decided to gather you, my dear friends, in order to discuss matters that cannot be ignored anymore,” started Dumbledore, cutting the silence. “As you all know, this year will be one of the most important not only for us, but for our children as well. Hogwarts, just like the whole of our Magical World, is in great danger. Voldemort has laid low ever since his revival, but we all know that was only the calm before the storm. Although all of us have taken some security measures over the past few years, it is time to take more serious action. We have reason to believe that Hogwarts will become compromised during this school year. Thus, we must ensure the safety of our children and their peers.”

“How will we do that?” piped up Mrs. Weasley immediately, upping the speed of her knitting.

“Minerva and myself have come up with new ways to protect the grounds of the castle, and we are working together with Professor Flitwick as he strengthens the wards around the school,” he said with a gentle smile. Sirius adjusted himself in his seat, cleaning his throat and waving away the concerned stares he got immediately after. Remus tensed next to him as well, causing Tonks to hiss as he had accidentally gripped her hand too strong. “And, of course, Severus, who had other arrangements today, has been brewing a multitude of antidotes during the summer, antidotes which will aid us should the worst come to pass,” he then added.

“Will that be enough, Albus?” Kingsley’s voice boomed. “Should I not brief my aurors to be more cautious and to keep their eyes open wide?”

“As you all know, our Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge is doubtful of Voldemort’s return. I do not think it would be beneficial to let anyone outside of our circle know about our plan. We must carefully avoid sabotage of any kind, I am sure you understand, Kingsley.”

“Of course,” said the auror, cleaning his throat.

“Now that the need for vigilance has been emphasized, I suggest we move on to the next important part of our mission: Harry Potter,” said Dumbledore without skipping a beat, and started running his shaky fingers through his beard. His age was definitely visible; gone was the youthful energy he had once had. Though, the authoritative aura was left untouched. Subtle, but always there nonetheless. “I have not shared this with you yet, my dear friends, because I was waiting for the right moment, but I’m afraid young Potter’s role in our fight is far greater than we were led to believe,” he sighed, concern settling into his old features.

“And what role must that be, Headmaster?” said Sirius suddenly, the sharp tone of his voice not lost on anybody.

“We all know what happened on that terrible, terrible night sixteen years ago in Godric’s Hollow, when we lost two of our friends and allies. Three, actually,” he said, shooting a meaningful look towards Sirius, though still evading his question. “On that night, young Potter was attacked by Voldemort ruthlessly, but miraculously, he survived with only a scar. I, myself, have spent the last sixteen years wondering about how that could have happened, you know my curious nature. After many nights spent researching and traveling to find the answers, I have finally found them, unpleasant as they might be,” he said gravely, implying that as the end of what he wished to say.

Sirius stared incredulously at him. Naturally, the fact that he already knew what Dumbledore was about to see was not common knowledge, in fact, he had told Remus only reluctantly as well. But to see Dumbledore treating it as if it was just another meeting, as if the information he was about to utter was not an earth-shattering revelation, punched him right in the gut. All of his impulses and instincts screamed at him to take action, to destroy, to get revenge for what was being done to his godson. He imagined Lily’s and James’ faces, wherever they are, listening to someone they all had spent so many years trusting; talking so nonchalantly about their only son, and how he was going to die. Of course, the Headmaster tried to cover it by showing fake concern, but Sirius now saw beneath the surface. He knew the anxiety in those old, blue eyes was only anxiety for the fight, for everything to go according to Dumbledore’s plan. Not for Harry’s, or the Magical World’s well-being. Nothing was about that, no. The path to Dumbledore’s total control was a well-shaped one. Only, he had one problem: He didn’t know where Harry was. And Sirius swore to not let him find out by any means necessary. Then, and there, sitting in the old, raggedy dining room, he vowed to even take the Dark Mark if that was going to ensure his godson’s safety.

“What did you find out, Albus?” asked Mr. Weasley, a deep frown etched across his face. He was fidgeting with the hem of his too-large sweater, sweat glistening on his forehead. He had a terrible feeling in his stomach. He grabbed Mrs. Weasley’s hand under the table, squeezing it with all his might and feeling his wife squeeze back just as hard, if not harder.

“That fateful night, when Lily and James Potter sacrificed their lives to save our world and the secrets it holds, Harry was the only one to survive. I started to question how. How was just a mere babe able to rebound such a powerful and evil curse? For many years, my search was fruitless, until I stumbled upon a Dark Magic book. The reason why Voldemort was able to come back to life and gain a body again was because of an ancient, evil ritual that only a handful of wizards and witches have even attempted to do in all these years of our world existing,” he began. “The ritual involves ripping one’s soul apart with murder, transferring the fragment into an object, be it alive or inanimate. I am convinced that this is exactly what Voldemort did that night: made Harry into one of his Horcruxes.” Mrs. Weasley was the first one to gasp. Arthur’s throat tightened, and the facial expressions of the other Order members all turned into despair, disturbance, or a mix of the two. Remus’ eyes flashed yellow; with the full moon closing in on them, it was hard to contain his reaction. And even though he knew about all this already, the thought of having to hear it over and over again was just as awful as the first time. He felt Sirius tense beside him as well, the veins on his forehead almost popping out of his skin. He was sure that Dumbledore’s fake-concerned voice made both of them want to crawl onto the walls.

“What does that mean for Harry,?” asked Kingsley cautiously. Moody licked his lips and cleared his throat, waiting for the answer, his eyebrows furrowed. This made him look even grumpier than he usually did, although Remus couldn’t discern whether it was over the new information, or something entirely else.

“No good, I’m afraid,” sighed Dumbledore. “In order for Voldemort to perish, all of his Horcruxes have to be destroyed. The one in Harry included.” His blue eyes looked stormy and worried, lacking their usual mirth, like Dumbledore was actually, truly nervous about what all this meant for the young teenager.

Sirius knew what he was about to say, but somebody was faster, so his protest died on his lips.

“What does that mean exactly?” asked Tonks.

“He means that Harry has to die in order for Voldemort to be defeated,” said Sirius in a low, grave voice. “‘Neither can live while the other survives.’”

Fred retracted the Extendable Ear and looked towards the others.

“We should have listened to Hermione,” mumbled Ron.

All four of them quickly, but quietly scurried back into the room they were using as a big, common bedroom. They locked the door and threw up a few privacy charms, ones they would have only learned from the restricted section of the library.

“They want to sacrifice Harry like a pig in a pagan ritual!” exclaimed Ron in a squeaky, indignant voice. “We must warn him!”

“I agree,” said Fred and George in unison, eyebrows furrowed in the same aggravated manner. “The old coot can’t be serious about this- Killing Harry? How did he even want to execute that? Merlin’s beard,” continued Fred, disgusted.

“I don’t understand,” said Ron quietly, his hand trembling. “All these years, he protected him! He stood up for him, he cared for him— all because he wanted to slaughter him at the end? It just doesn’t make sense. He had countless opportunities to take care of it and make it look like someone else did it!” Ron looked appalled at the things that he said, though he squeezed them out.

“He had to wait,” interrupted Hermione silently, “he had to wait until Voldemort had an actual body he could destroy. That’s why he is putting the plan into motion now. Enough time has passed for it not to be suspicious, it’s the perfect moment in the timeline to start preparing for the war. To start preparing Harry,” she finished, her voice cracking and her eyes welling up with tears.

“And he seems to want the Order members to be in on it,” added George while rubbing the girl’s back. “I wonder if any of them knew of this information before this, or if it’s new to all of them,”

“It would be bollocks if any of them knew anything and didn’t tell anybody,” Ron shook his head. “No, I’m sure mom and dad would have said something about it.”

“There is no point in speculating,” said Fred dismissively, conjuring up a quill and a piece of parchment paper. “What we need to do is write Harry a letter and warn him. It might even be unsafe for him to return to Hogwarts if this is what Dumbledore is planning to do with him,” he murmured.

“I think that’s going a bit too far, no?” said Ron, sounding entirely too unconvinced for someone who was so confident most of the time. George and Fred whipped their heads towards him at the same time, with the same dark look on both of their faces. “What I mean is that Dumbledore won’t just outright murder Harry, will he? He’s far too cautious for that. All I’m saying is, we shouldn’t make the old man to be downright evil, he’s not V… Not the Dark Lord. Right?”

“I think we should still treat this very seriously,” said Hermione, wiping her eyes. “I am with Fred and George on this one. We should also make sure that there is some kind of privacy charm on the letter so not everyone can read it, and, you know. Word it carefully so we don’t freak Harry out more than he has to be,” she continued, trying to remain very matter-of-fact, but failing as her voice cracked once again.

“Harry’s life is on the line here, Ron,” Fred said quietly, and stretched the parchment paper across the desk as they all started coming up with ideas on what to write.

There was a knock on the tall, wooden doors. Voldemort sighed.

“Come in,” he said, not even trying to mask his annoyance at being disturbed. He was currently writing a letter to his acquaintance in the Wizengamot. The fact that he had allies in the Ministry itself, someone who held more than one seat, was something he anticipated happening later. He’d accept it, of course. But he had to be careful. Which was also why he was so annoyed at being disturbed. Writing cryptic letters required a lot of concentration.

“My lord,” bowed Lucius in the doorway before flicking his wrist and closing the door behind him. “There was an intruder on the property. Thankfully, he couldn’t get into the manor due to the wards, but he was delivering a letter for Harry Potter,” he said, after cleaning his throat. He walked up to Voldemort’s desk and placed the letter down.

“Who was it?” asked Tom, picking up the piece of parchment. There was no sender or return address, it was completely blank. He could feel the magic thrumming underneath his fingers, though; and sure enough, when he checked for any enchantments, there it was. He waved it away simply, but there was still nothing on the envelope. So they sent this directly with the intruder.

“It was a house elf, my Lord,” answered Lucius finally. “In fact, he used to be enslaved to me, until Potter freed him during his Second Year,” he admitted bashfully.

“Color me surprised,” said Tom in a monotone voice. “You got bested by a twelve-year-old,” he tutted.

“I supposed I did, my Lord,” said Lucius through his gritted teeth.

“You’re dismissed,” came the immediate answer. Lucius bowed again, and then took his leave.

Voldemort locked the door with a spell, and opened up the letter carefully so it didn’t get ripped. The parchment paper used was not of good quality, and it got further damaged by the privacy spell cast upon it. He stroked his fingers down the length of it, and surely, it soon revealed the black ink.

Dear Harry,

We are writing this letter urgently to warn you. We don’t know if Dobby will even succeed in delivering it to you, but if he does, Harry, you must know something:

YOU ARE IN GREAT DANGER.

We have been staying over at Grimmauld Place this summer, and we overheard a meeting. Dumbledore was talking about how you have part of the soul of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. That means, that in order for him to die and to prevent the suffering of the Wizarding World, you have to die as well. At least, that is what Dumbledore said. We do not know how true it is, since we haven’t had the time to research, but trust us, Harry, we will figure something out. In the meantime, please be careful wherever you are. Do not answer this letter— we are pretty sure it is going to be intercepted. If you want to talk, try to get away, and meet us at Diagon Alley close to the entrance to Knockturn Alley, on the 15h of August, at 5 o’clock in the afternoon. If you are not there by half past five, we won’t wait longer.

We are sorry this is how you find out.

We love you.

Hugs,

F., G., H., R.

He arched an eyebrow, a sardonic smile playing at the edge of his lips. This was delightful. He could guess their names easily, of course. Three of the Weasley offsprings, and that mudblood. Delightful indeed. This little bunch of foolish Gryffindors didn’t even know how much they were helping him. They didn’t have even the slightest idea, which made it all the sweeter to Tom.

The letter, of course, looked like it was scribbled in a rush by a group of people who couldn’t seem to think very straight. There were ink blotches throughout the paper and the handwriting was barely eligible. He could tell that the people that wrote it cared about Potter, and perhaps that was the only thing the young boy he had going for him. It awoke something uncomfortable in Tom’s chest that he chose to ignore for the time being. Foolish things were not the priority.

He rose from his seat, letter tucked into the envelope and Apparated to the third floor of the manor with a quiet pop! sound in his wake.

He had the decency to knock on the door, at least. Potter looked put-out at the sight of him standing in his doorway.

“What do you want, Riddle?” he asked, snarling.

“My, my, this hostility when I haven’t even said anything. You wound me, Potter,” he said. “May I come in?”

“No,” came the answer immediately. “Whatever you need to tell me can be said right here, can’t it?” he asked, co*cking an eyebrow arrogantly. It made Tom irrationally angry. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Very well, then,” he said through gritted teeth, and thrust out his hand. “This came for you today.”

“Why do you have it?” asked Harry, snatching the piece of paper immediately. What a neanderthal, thought Tom to himself.

“I looked it over for curses. There was nothing on it, but for the peace of mind it was necessary,” he lied easily. “Well, then. I’ll leave you to it. You’ll find that this letter will give you a lot to think about. Do try not to give me a headache, will you? I have important matters to attend to.”

“Yeah I’ll try not to hold off your evil plans of overtaking the world with my headaches,” Harry grumbled, then shut the door without another word, not caring how disrespectful that was. Tom smirked, and Apparated back to his office.

He was curious about what was to come.

Harry locked his door with a simple spell, and walked to his bed like he was being taken to his execution. The paper burned underneath his fingers and his heartbeat picked up an unhealthy amount in the time it took for him to walk to his bed from the door. There, he hopped onto the mattress and wasted no time in hastily, but carefully ripping the envelope apart.

The parchment paper it hid was blank. At first Harry’s heart sunk to his stomach, thinking this was yet another cruel plan of Voldemort, but then he started to think— if anybody wanted to send him anything containing sensitive information - and apparently that was all Harry got lately, it seemed -, wouldn’t they try to conceal it as much as possible? A smile spread over his face, and he immediately tapped his wand against the paper, whispering Revelio. When that didn’t work, he furrowed his eyebrows. Of course they wouldn’t make it easy for him. So, he started to rake his brain for whoever could want to send him a letter. Maybe Sirius? But why would he conceal what he wanted to say? He could just always pop over to the manor and tell him in person as well. Except… Except if his position was compromised and he couldn’t come over without it being suspicious or dangerous. Harry gulped, and tried to think of something, anything, any spell that he knew.

Frustrated, he exhaled sharply and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. He looked around his room, searching for a book he could use. That’s when his eyes caught something entirely else but just as useful— the Marauder’s Map! He grinned, and looked towards the letter, tapping his wand against the paper again.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!” he said confidently. He watched in awe as the letters started dancing across the length of the parchment. He couldn’t believe that his idea actually worked. After a small mental celebration, he started reading.

Then, the grin that was on his face faltered more and more with each sentence he read until he stopped smiling at all. The letter shook in his hands, and by the time he got to the end of it he could barely breathe normally. His first thought was that it was not Sirius who wrote the letter, and the second, intrusive thought was that he was going to kill Dumbledore.

That feeling, of course, faded within a second of it appearing and Harry was left with what felt like an extremely deep gash across the entirety of his soul. He imagined it bleeding almost black with fury, and he let out a raspy breath. He read through the contents of the letter just to make sure he got everything right and didn’t misread anything the first time, and then his heart squeezed in his chest for a vastly different reason.

After hearing all this, his friends’ first reaction was to warn him. They even made sure to underline the more important parts, and to conceal everything in case it gets into the wrong hands. They did not even question what they heard, did not even try to reason with anyone, they simply just warned him.

“Oh, if only they knew, Hedwig,” he said quietly, his chest expanding with the love he felt for those most important to him. The thought that they actually didn’t know what was going on with Harry hurt almost as much as the fact that he might not ever see them again. They all had better things to worry about, what with Bill’s wedding and the joke shop, and still. Still, they all worried about him first. His eyes welled up, and he wiped away the tears shamefully. He had never cried this much before coming to the manor. Though, he couldn’t help but be emotional over the care his friends demonstrated.

The next painful thought was that he should not be this surprised at the contents of the letter. It reminded him of the letter Sirius sent before being captured, about the countless conversations of the bad things Dumbledore did. About how he knew Sirius was not the Secret Keeper and still let him rot in Azkaban, despite having the knowledge and power to get him out of there. All the little comments Voldemort would drop about Dumbledore suddenly rang true, and Harry was not quite as confident about defending the old wizard’s reputation as he was before. He had excused a lot of the things Dumbledore had done to him, and to his friends, but outright saying that Harry was some sacrificial pig felt like that hypothetical line he should not have crossed. It hurt Harry, of course— after all, he had trusted him. Dumbledore was one of the first adults who had shown him care and pride, preceded only by Hagrid. It was hard to let go of the opinion he had formed about the Headmaster over the years, even though lately everything pointed to him having a far darker character than he had let on. Yet again, Harry’s head hurt, and his thoughts were jumbled together like a big pile of mush. At this point, he could carve his brain out and throw it in the garbage, because that seemed to be the only thing it was good for. He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

He had two options: stay silent, not say anything to anyone about this ordeal, and die with certainty. Or, speak up, join his nemesis and have a better chance at surviving due to Voldemort not wanting to actually kill him anymore.

He did not want to die. He knew he was only sixteen years old, and hopefully he had a prosperous life ahead of him as soon as the war was over. He wanted to find someone to grow old with, have children and grandchildren he could traumatize with his stories, and be proud of. He wanted to find his profession with no pressure of being the Golden Boy, Savior of the f*cking Wizarding World. He wanted to die peacefully, due to old age or a mysterious disease or something along those lines. Something normal. Not as a sacrifice. But then again, that was quite literally the only thing the Light side needed to succeed. Harry (and he supposed Nagini, as well), dead.

Was that really such an outrageous thing to ask of him, or could it be that not wanting to die, to not even give other people the chance of not having to live under the tyranny of a psychopath was more outrageous and selfish? Harry gulped at the thought, and squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach felt like a popular square at a New Year’s Eve firework show, his blood thrumming in his veins. The dangerous, stuffy feeling returned to his throat, constricting it like a python, and he felt like he could barely breathe. He tried calming down, grounding himself by fiddling with the bedding and the letter, but it didn’t help.

If the signs were to be believed, it was his destiny to die at the hands of the Light side. This way, he could be part of saving an entire nation. Thousands of people would not have to live with a war looming over them, or with evil wizards passing all sorts of absurd legislations, making life even harder for them. Muggleborns who preferred living among Muggles wouldn’t have to die. The Wizarding World would have a chance at returning to its glory from happier days.

The only problem was that Harry did not want to die. The want to survive was embedded into his bones, twisting his insides and the unprompted visions of getting caught and being forced to die were enough to almost activate his flight or fight response. He thought about his friends, and everything they went through together. He thought about the first time he saw Hermione smile after defeating the troll. The first time he played wizarding chess with Ron and the time when they went to Honeydukes. Strangely, the only things he seemed to remember were the happy memories. Even the tragic ones were coated with a sheen of the love the three of them felt for each other. Harry didn’t want to die.

And he didn’t want to continue fighting on the very man’s side who was going to be responsible for his death.

He deserved not to die as a teenager.

He laid back against his pillow and closed his eyes. He took a shaky breath and gulped. The time to make his decision was looming over him. He knew what felt right to him, and he knew what felt right to the whole of the Wizarding World. Only, he wished the two weren’t so different.

The dull headache he felt got soothed by the all too familiar tingling coming straight from his scar, and he felt the gash across his soul close a little.

Chapter 14: Betrayal

Chapter Text

The next morning Harry woke up feeling lighter than he had felt in months. Last night’s thoughts had managed to exhaust him so much that he was able to fall into a dreamless, peaceful sleep. Apparently so much so, that he did not even notice Nagini sneaking into his bed and curling around one of his arms, which was now tingling and still asleep. He tried extracting his limb from the grip as gently as possible, since he didn’t want to wake her up, though he did not succeed. Of course, there was no surprise there, since she was curled around him so tightly it really would have been a miracle if she didn’t wake up.

Harry found he wasn’t as upset as he thought he would be. Finally, the weight of having to make a decision was gone from his shoulders, only leaving behind the weight of his decision. Naturally, Harry was not feeling absolutely calm, but he generally didn’t think that was possible for him. After all, chaos and disruption had followed him ever since he was born, starting off with being thrust into the unwelcoming home of his aunt and uncle. Through no fault of his own, of course, but that was neither here nor there. Except it really was, considering that Dumbledore was the one who had come up with the idea of leaving Harry in the Durselys’ care, and lately it seemed as if the old wizard was Harry’s actual problem, instead of it being Voldemort. Which, after living for sixteen years with the thought of a raging lunatic out to kill him, and that thought being dismantled in the matter of mere weeks, left Harry with a sour aftertaste in his mouth.

“You look like you’re in deep thought, little hatchling,” hissed Nagini, tearing Harry away from his silent musings. The teenager scoffed, and massaged his arm.

“How could you tell? You are a snake, you have terrible eyesight,” he snarked back automatically. He wondered whether he was like this with Nagini this morning because he was unsure about his stance on the war, and he knew she also had part of Voldemort’s soul inside of her.

“Naturally, but my smell is exquisite, and you always smell like rotten eggs when you are worrying about something,” she said, turning her head in the other direction as if offended by Harry’s sarcasm. The boy sighed, and ran his fingers through the unruly locks on his head.

“I’m sorry, Nagini,” he said after a small while. “I was lashing out because I don’t quite know how to feel today.” He might as well use the animal as a Mind Healer. Hermione would be half-proud of him; of that he was absolutely sure.

“Do you ever?” she answered. Touché. “Why are you always so upset, hatchling? Does master treat you badly?”

“Well, he did kill my parents. Which was the catalyst to every single horrible thing that happened to me during my lifetime, so there is that,” he grumbled, sitting up and stretching. His spine popped in an unpleasant way and he scrunched up his nose at the sound. “But I suppose, he doesn’t, no,” he answered quietly.

“What is so special about parents anyway?” she hissed, extending her tongue into the air. “I know he can be angry sometimes, but he is nice to me.”

“Of course he is,” he snorted. “You keep him alive in a way.”

“You do as well.”

“And yet, he isn’t nice to me,” replied Harry sardonically. “Let’s go to breakfast, shall we?”

The dining hall of Malfoy Manor was full of people that morning. Harry was surprised to find Rodolphus and Rabastan throwing pieces of bread at each other, annoying Bellatrix, who was sitting between them, to the point that Harry could practically see the air vibrating around her. Voldemort was sitting at the end of the table, the seat next to him empty as usual. He seemed to be reading the Daily Prophet while sipping on a cup of coffee. At Harry’s arrival, everyone ceased to do what they were doing for a moment before turning right back to it. Riddle set down his paper on the table and motioned for Harry to sit down next to him with an indiscernible facial expression. Truthfully, Harry was not really in the mood to guess the Dark Lord’s feelings anyway.

“Good morning,” said Harry cordially to everyone. Some of them answered him, Bellatrix just shot him a stare and Malfoy inclined his head as a greeting. He looked awful that morning, and Harry almost couldn’t refrain from mentioning that to the blond. Almost.

“Good morning, Potter,” said Voldemort, calling all attention upon himself. “You seem... How to say? Not-so-murderous this morning. Anything particular to greet you in such a marvelous mood?” The Dark wizard’s facial expression was teasing, and Harry felt something shift in his stomach. Mortification, perhaps.

“Nothing in particular, Riddle,” he answered through gritted teeth, taking a sip from his tea.

He felt uneasy sitting next to Voldemort, especially after everything that he had worked through last night. Now that he knew what future lay ahead of him, he didn’t really know how to act around the Wizard. If he started warming up too fast, it would be suspicious and possibly land him or any of his loved ones in the cellars of Malfoy Manor. He certainly didn’t want that, but he also didn’t want things to progress the way they seemed to. The realization that he would have to act like a Slytherin downed up upon him like a cold shower, and he almost groaned out loud. Why couldn’t he just simply enjoy the fact that he would probably come out alive from the war? Although, if everything he had heard throughout his years at Hogwarts was to be believed, Albus Dumbledore was the only person who could get rid of Voldemort. Except now he didn’t have Harry under his thumb anymore, and that meant more difficulty for the old wizard. Harry wasn’t sure he should be so gleeful about that. After all, the chances of being killed by Dumbledore only lowered by a tiny bit. Less than he had hoped, at least.

“Right,” drawled Voldemort. “Meet me after breakfast in the dueling room. I want to get some knowledge back into you before letting you go back to that wretched school,” he scoffed. Fireworks exploded in Harry’s stomach. He was to go back to Hogwarts?

“Which brings me to my point as well,” interrupted Narcissa softly. “My Lord, do you not think Harry should make an appearance somewhere? Perhaps I could take him to shop to Diagon Alley,” she suggested.

“Good idea, Narcissa,” he said with a nod. “You are to be glamoured, and to bring back Potter. If you fail to do so, Draco will lose an arm,” he continued, casually cutting off a piece of bacon in his plate. Narcissa stared at him for a long time, unblinkingly.

“Certainly, my Lord,” she replied finally, tight-lipped. Harry looked at Malfoy sitting next to his mom, already looking paler than usual, with huge circles underneath his eyes. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering just what Draco Malfoy did in his free time.

“I don’t think that’s fair,” said Harry with a scowl.

“Nothing ever is,” said Voldemort simply. “You are to go to pick up your school supplies on the 15th of August at four o’clock,” he added without looking at him, and picked up his paper again, seemingly finishing their brief and unpleasant conversation.

Harry’s breath hitched. He searched Voldemort’s face for something, anything that would indicate that he was lying. It was suspicious, the fact that he let him go that easily and in that specific time-frame. Not wanting to spoil his breakfast, though, Harry opted not to question anything. He would have plenty of time to do that during the day when he inevitably had to go the little magic lesson. He honestly thought that after the series of explosive conversations they had had, Voldemort wouldn’t want to continue them. It seemed as though not only sadism, but also masochism ran rampant in the man. Harry was sure his nemesis didn’t enjoy their classes just as much as he didn’t.

“Malfoy,” said Harry suddenly without thinking. When the blond gazed at him and co*cked an eyebrow, he continued, “I wonder if the Manor has a Potions labor?”

“It does,” came the answer gruffly. “Although if I were you, I wouldn’t touch anything down there lest you accidentally set the house on fire,” he snarked with an upturned lip. It took everything on Harry not to lash out. Instead, he cleared his throat and exhaled before answering.

“I thought we could go over last year’s potions together. To freshen up our memory,” he said. Malfoy, who was sipping on his tea as Harry made his suggestion, choked on said tea and had to gather himself for a good few minutes before being able to breathe properly again.

“You want to study together?” he asked incredulously. “You?”

“Yes, me.” The eyeroll came naturally before he could stop it. “I am sh*t at potions, I don’t want Snape to keep taking f*cking points off of Gryffindor just because of that!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Potter, I have a feeling Professor Snape would take points from you even if you had an O in his class,” snorted Malfoy. Harry repeated his eyeroll at the emphasis on the man’s title.

“Draco, Mr. Potter extended you an olive branch,” said Narcissa sharply. “Besides, going over last year’s material is a brilliant idea. You will do it tomorrow,” she said with an unquestionable finality in her voice.

“All this talk of school made me lose my appetite,” grumbled Rabastan rudely.

“One would think you did not even go to school, Rabastan,” interrupted Voldemort. “Though, I must agree, I find myself growing tired of children’s arguments. Everyone, let us enjoy our breakfast in peace, hm?” he said uncharacteristically calmly, opting to go back to his paper. After that, the rest of breakfast was a silent affair.

Harry took his sweet time dressing up before going to meet Voldemort, trying to avoid getting there early as much as he could. He changed his shirt three times and his pants two until he was on the edge of being late. Despite not discussing at what exact time he should arrive, by now he could guess what time Voldemort would consider being on time. He wondered how sick was that.

With shaky fingers and a stomach that was lifting up and down, Harry arrived to the room they had dubbed the dueling room. The doors opened for him easily, and he found Riddle already there, leaning against the desk and playing with his wand, seemingly deep in thought. At Harry’s arrival, though, he lifted his head and straightened. Once again, Harry was striken by the fact that Riddle was actually not ugly at all when he didn’t look like the overgrown lovechild of a lizard and a snake. He could now understand more easily those rumors he heard about half of the Death Eaters being seduced into joining the Dark side. It was not far off, he supposed.

“Well, what did you want?” he asked without a greeting. Voldemort pushed himself off the desk and took a few steps closer to Harry.

Without a word, he began firing hexes and curses. The first one hit Harry square in the chest, and he was glad it happened to be the Tickling Hex. After getting over the surprise, he took his wand out and tried to give as good as he got. He mostly had to protect himself, but he got a few hexes in there, though none of them actually reached their target. The spells Riddle was tirelessly firing at him in quick succession grew exponentially darker and more serious. Harry could not even recognize most of them as he struggled with redirecting or battling them off. He couldn’t be too worried though, because the only thing he could suddenly concentrate on was the green light that was coming right towards him.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouted the first thing that came to his mind. Red collided with green. Harry expected for them to bounce off of each other, but instead, it looked as if the colors started fusing into each other. His wand started to shake with the sheer force of the duel, the air around them picking up and a whirlwind coming to life in the room. Harry knew that he could not hold it up for longer; he had to make a quick decision.

With a deep breath and determination, he wretched his wand away and at the same time slammed himself onto the floor, rolling away. The curse Voldemort sent his way blasted off the walls, leaving a smoking, blackened hole in its wake.

“You are f*cking crazy!” Harry screamed, scraping himself from the floor to stand. He was breathing heavily, a sharp pain residing on the right side of his chest with every breath he took. “You would have f*cking killed me just to make a dramatic entrance to the lesson? You f*cker!”

“Calm down,” drawled Riddle. “It was not the Killing Curse, you fool. It was the Statue Curse, nothing too harmful. Although, very curious, the way the spells connected,” he said, pondering. Harry looked at him bewildered.

“You are a psychopath,” he said.

“That is a term that has been used to describe me before, yes,” conceded Riddle nonchalantly. “What harmful curses do you know how to perform, Potter?”

“Right about now? The f*cking Cruciatus Curse, you prick,” he spat at Voldemort, still panting.

“I suppose that would suffice,” nodded his opponent, then sheathed his wand. “Come on, then. Try.”

“What?” asked Harry incredulously. “Abso-f*cking-lutely not!”

“Merlin’s beard, you are as difficult as I imagine a teenage girl would be,” exhaled Voldemort sharply. “Just do it, Potter. I know you want to, and trust me, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for you. If my theory is correct, which it will be, you won’t even seriously hurt me. So, come on,” he said impatiently, motioning with his fingers.

“No.”

“You are stubborn,” came the reply. “Try a less harmful curse then, you wuss.”

“f*cking asshole,” snarled Harry, and raised his wand. “Slugulus Erecto!”

The pastel green light shot out of Harry’s wand, and reached its target. It his Voldemort in his stomach, just as Harry had originally planned, but instead of the other starting to vomit up slugs violently, nothing happened. It was as if the curse hadn’t even reached Riddle at all.

“What the f*ck?” asked Harry.

“You are so crass,” tutted Voldemort. “I have had this theory for a while. I do not believe we can truly hurt each other as long as we are using our own wands, given that they are brothers and of the same core. Not only are they of the same core, but the same phoenix as well! Fascinating, isn’t it?” he smirked, twirling his own wand between his fingers.

“So, basically I am double protected against you?” asked Harry, co*cking an eyebrow. Voldemort really ought to start speaking his mind before scaring the sh*t out of him constantly. “Being a Horcrux, and our wands being brothers... Seems foolproof.”

“Not so much,” came the answer. “I could use any other wand. Or, wandless magic, doesn’t matter.”

“But another wand would not work so well for you, would it? And I assume it is also extremely hard to kill someone using sheer wandless magic. Wordless, perhaps, but I do not believe you about the wandless thing,” he shook his head.

“Good thing I do not need to prove myself to you, correct?” That smirk. “For a while, I wanted to become a wandmaker. Before everything happened, of course. But due to my enthusiasm, my research provided me with lots of information about wand theory. Theoretically, no other wand should work but one’s own. In reality, I am much too powerful for something like that to be a real problem to me,” he waved his hand dismissively.

“I can’t picture you as a wandmaker,” said Harry.

“All you ever knew was me as a Dark Lord. Of course you cannot imagine anything else. Not to mention, you were not exactly blessed with a lot of creativity, Potter.”

“Asshat,” he mumbled. “So you wanted to be a wandmaker. I’m sure you had to be good at Charms, right?”

“And Herbology,” nodded Riddle. “Trees are plants. But of course, because I was an orphan, I did not have too many prospects after Hogwarts.” He looked a bit pained at that.

“I heard you cursed the Defense Against the Dark Arts position,” Harry said.

“Hm, yes,” came a soft chuckle. An interesting cold feeling ran down Harry’s spine at the sound. “I was top of my class. I knew more about the Dark Arts and the defence needed than all of the teachers pooled together. But of course, by the time that I had graduated, that old coot, Dumbledore was already Headmaster. Hence why the curse.”

“You went to Hogwarts during the Second World War, right?” asked Harry curiously. He didn’t know why Riddle was so willing to give up information, but he decided he would milk it as long as he could. That way, he could also avoid talking about which side he was on as well, of course. “How was that?”

“Curiosity killed the cat, Potter,” said Riddle. “Dumbledore was of no help. To him, I was Grindelwald reincarnated as soon as I stepped foot into the school. You are blind, but I am sure in time you will see reason, Potter. I do not think you wholly dumb, though I don’t suppose you are exceptionally bright either. You have potential.”

“Well, gee, Riddle, you sure know how to charm a lad,” snorted Harry.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Again with that smirk and perfectly co*cked eyebrow. Harry cursed him, and cursed the heat climbing up his cheeks unprompted as well. “Maybe some other time. For now, I will teach you more wandless magic. Let’s continue with the curses, shall we? Then, if we have time, we can move onto the healing spells.”

To Harry, that sounded irrationally reasonable from someone who had started a duel without a reason with him just twenty minutes before. And even though it was stupid, Harry felt a lot calmer in Voldemort’s presence after their conversation. The first that didn’t end in a panic attack for him.

He didn’t know what that truly meant for him, but he guessed he would find out in three days, when he would go to Diagon Alley.

Sirius feared his skin would turn wrinkly before its time with the way he had been frowning for the past few days. Not without cause at least, that was for sure. He was still seething from that order meeting. For Dumbledore to publicly come out in front of all Order members, and declare that Harry needed to die sooner rather than later, was ludicrous, and something he never thought would see. He’d always imagined Dumbledore going about it in a far sneakier way, as he usually did. Then again, he truly hadn’t said it himself, but rather let it come out of Sirius’ mouth. That, at least, was on brand.

Though now, Sirius had an entirely new things to be worried about. Kingsley’s facial expression did not hold anything good for them. It seemed as if they were waiting for someone else to come to the tiny attic of Grimmauld Place. Every one of the select few members gathered was silent, sensing that it was not time to talk yet. A while later of biting his nails, Tonks finally stumbled into the space. Remus let out an exasperated sigh next to Sirius, and it took everything inn him not to chuckle in such a serious situation.

“Sorry,” said Tonks sheepishly, scurrying to sit down next to Remus and grasp onto his lower arm. “Got held up on an assignment.”

“I trust everything went well, though, didn’t it, Auror Tonks?” Kingsley co*cked an eyebrow, not forgetting his position as Head of the DMLE even now.

“Of course, of course,” nodded Tonks profusely.

“Marvelous.” The man clapped his hands together, a sound that bounced off the walls and made Sirius’ ears hurt. After spending so much time as a dog, he found his senses sharpened, even if only a tiny bit. It was very troublesome at times. “Let us move on to why I wanted to meet with you today,” he continued without missing a beat.

“Kingsley, shouldn’t we wait for Albus? And Molly, Arthur? What about them?” said Mr. Vance. Sirius didn’t really know him, but he remembered that Vance worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He was one of the reasons why it was now possible for Remus to be able to buy his wolfsbane potion.

“I have purposefully left them out of this,” came the gruff reply. “What I wish to discuss with you all today is extremely sensitive information, but equally as important.”

“Did anything happen?” asked Sirius, his heart thundering in his chest. His first thought was that he was discovered as a double-agent, which, truthfully, he barely was, but he knew what it could look like to anyone who didn’t know all of the details. Which was everyone here, excluding Remus.

“Yes, something did. I do not believe any of you traitors, and I trust your own judgement, but I ask you to hear what I am about to say carefully, and try not to judge too suddenly or harshly,” he inhaled deeply and continued, “Albus Dumbledore must be stopped at once.”

A defeaning silence befell the small attic space. Sirius carefully looked over at his peers. Remus was looking at the floor as if it was the most interesting thing there. Tonks did not look particularly surprised at what Kingsley said, nor did she look very upset. That was certainly something to wonder about later. He expected an uproar, but instead, everyone else seemed to fall deep into thought. As if the notion had already crossed their minds before. Curious, very curious, mused Sirius in his head. As for himself, he tried not to look to suspicious. Truthfully, he should be happy right now. He was not the only one anymore to doubt Dumbledore, he should be excited about that. Only, he was not. Because that meant he would be a triple agent soon instead of a double one, and that was not something he felt even an ounce ready for. It made him sweat a little bit.

“What do you mean, Kingsley?” asked Remus gravely. “That is a heavy thing to sprung onto the members of the Order Dumbledore himself founded.”

“Heavy, but necessary,” said Kingsley. “Recently, I have stumbled upon some very strange documents at the Ministry. I am still not convinced they were not planted, but even if they were, that does not take away from them being official. In his quest to get rid of You-Know-Who, Albus seemed to have... How to put this nicely; lost his mind,” he deadpanned.

“That’s grand, Kingsley, but it doesn’t explain anything,” said Sirius roughly, his heart beating so strongly he was afraid it would rip out from behind his ribcage.

“Well, if you would have let me finish, Sirius,” came the exasperated answer. “These... Let’s call them documents, have shown extensive proof of Dumbledore abusing the power and position he has in the Wizengamot. Over the years that followed Grindelwald’s fall, Dumbledore seized multiple seats, which had not been allowed before. But of course, everything has to bend at Dumbledore’s whim, doesn’t it? I guess even law,” he growled.

“Well, surely he must not be the only one with such sin,” said a woman Sirius did not recognize.

“I am sure not, however, further evidence showed that Albus signed every single one of the decrees and bills that have passed which have made life significantly difficult to live for our Magical Creature peers. What say you to that, hm, Rosalind?” he co*cked an eyebrow. At that, the woman became speechless as well and glanced towards Remus, who kept looking at the floor still. Sirius caught his clenched fists nonetheless.

“Are you sure that we can trust this source of information, sir?” asked Tonks cautiously. “It could have been planted by any Death Eater with the desire to wreak havoc and disturb our unity.”

“I know official documents when I see them, thank you very much, Auror Tonks,” said Kingsley somewhat harshly, though the desperation in his voice was not veiled at all.

“Of course, sir. Sorry, sir,” she doubled down immediately. To placate her, Kingsley sent a tight smile her way.

“Furthermore, we, of course have the problem of Harry Potter. Albus has been lying to our faces regarding his situation for I don’t know how long! He said he had visited Harry a week ago on his birthday, but our reliable sources say the only movement they have seen was from alleged Death Eater. That in itself would be concerning without the added injury of the lie.”

“That could also be to our advantage, though,” said Dedalus Diggle, sitting up straighter in his seat. “We have to install more guards, and wait for the next time someone suspicious shows up. We all know this can’t have been the first time they were there!”

“Then again, Dumbledore did tell us not to have round the clock guardians stationed outside of Privet Drive,” said Kingsley, the suspicion in his voice unhidden and unapologetic.

“Figures,” muttered Sirius under his breath. “What are you trying to say here, Kingsley? Are you trying to stage a ‘coup’ against Dumbledore?”

“Not... precisely,” said the other man. “I was thinking of something along similar lines, but entirely else in foundation. Of course, it would not be foolproof. Change with the help of it might not even be possible until after the war. I suggest we found our own... Side of the war, so to speak. It is clear that neither You-Know-Who, nor Albus are the right fit for our people. In fact, I would go as far as to say that Albus is not a single drop better than You-Know-Who, only, he has managed to flourish behind closed doors, more so controlling eevrything from the shadows.”

“These are very grave accusations to say out loud Kingsley, I do hope you know that,” said Remus serenely, finally rising his gaze to meet that of the man standing in front of them. “You have not presented us with any evidence, aside from what you claim you saw, not to mention that creating a third side would involve hard, hard work, taking the time away from focusing on actual, real things that are already going on. Like, suppose, Albus wanting to use Harry as a sacrificial pig on the altar of war!” By the time Remus ended his tirade, he had risen his voice uncharacteristically high for him. It was clear from his facial expression and his glowing yellow eyes that he was close to feeling murderous.

“I am sorry, Kingsley, but Remus is right,” said Diddle. “I believe you, of course, for we have been friends for many years. I, myself have noticed some oddities in Albus’ behavior in the past few years, but I admit I have chalked them up to his old age. In this case however, I must retract my support. I apologize, Kingsley, you are very dear to me, but I cannot divide my energy enough to be there in two places at the same time. I really do think it would be detrimental to our cause, which is to not bring the Wizarding World to its ruin. And it seems to me that this is a classic situation of a lesser evil of the two.”

Sirius sat quietly, his heart pounding in his chest. He commanded Kingsley for what he was trying to do, but in his heart, and logically as well he agreed with everything Diddle had said. To him, Harry was the most important part of the whole ordeal, and he had to admit that while generally a good idea, it could not be executed well before the war, which was looming over them closer than ever. It would divert their attention from everything they had fought for so far, and Sirius thought the idea to be a bit, if not a lot, misplaced. If Kingsley had suggested this after the war, that would have been an entirely different thing.

For now, it seemed, he had to stay a double agent. Though happy about not having to become a triple one, the threat of death before his time loomed dangerously close to him.

“I appreciate your sentiment, Diddle, but I seriously think that going into war on the side of a cunning man like Albus is barmy,” clapped back Kingsley. “The ways of our current Ministry are not good. Denial, miscommunication and fear cloud their everyday choices, and I fear it is going to be our demise in the long run. Albus cannot change this, but not because he cannot, but because he will not! He relishes this. Fudge is in so much denial about Voldemort’s comeback that Albus could do almost anything as long as it didn’t involve preaching about the war. Do we really want someone like this at the forefront?” he asked, looking around the small group.

“No, of course not, Kingsley,” said Sirius with a sigh. “But I think we should wait. If we play our cards right, we win this war, and Harry survives as well. We just have to really, really immense ourselves into the Dark art of Horcruxes... I am sure you can find something at Grimmauld. Please, Kingsley. Do not make this more difficult for us than it already is. Do not take resources away from what really matters.” He said it in a small voice, but Kingsley seemed to understand either way. His shoulders sagged in defeat and he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, just as quietly.

Sirius let out an exhale. For the moment, everything was alright. Except if Kingsley does not give up his idea, and decides to cause trouble in the future. Sirius wanted to trust the man, after all he had never exhibited erratic behavior, but then again, no signs pointed at Sirius being a double agent who knew where Harry was, and a lot of other things he wasn’t supposed to know, either.

He was f*cked either way it seemed.

Voldemort surveyed the state of his followers. There were a few faces he would deem new, and the fact that not all of them were young, impressionable teenagers or young adults filled him with a weird sort of sense of pride. This was an important turning point to how the things were going to turn out during the fight. There were those who had his almost full confidence, like his Inner Circle, and the ones he deemed to have enough potential, like Sirius Black. Of course, he was nothing like his brother, but then again Voldemort hoped so, because Regulus had died a gruesome death for daring to mess with his Horcrux. Trusting the wrong person was sometimes inevitable, it seemed.

“There are many people outside of this room who believe in our cause,” he started. Everyone fell silent; the silence was almost defeaning. “And in many of them, I have sensed a state of uncertainty. No wonder, I say. We have lurked in the shadows for far too long, my friends, it is time to leap back into action,” he finished with a smirk, twirling his wand. He was the only one standing, as this helped him be able to see everyone’s reactions. Tom was good at reading people, after all, it was what had mostly gotten him this far in life. The eyes of the people present gleamed with excitement at once, some of them even squirming in their seats with delight, one of them, of course being Bellatrix.

“Is it true, my Lord?” asked Rodolphus. “You wish us to step out in front of the masses once again?”

“Yes, that is what I want,” he nodded. “We have stayed in the shadows for the past year as a political strategy. While it proved to be successful in some areas, I do not believe the war can be won this way. We have to show the people in doubt that we are still here, and fighting for what will be the flourishment of our world. And we must do it fast. I have assembled this meeting as a way to gather information and to get you familiar with what the plan will be moving forward. Let us not waste time, for it is not the way we do things. Black, tell us what happened at the previous Order meeting?” he asked, looking directly into Sirius’ eyes. To his surprise, he did not see an ounce of fury directed at him in the dark orbs. In fact, Black looked serene, almost too serene for sitting among the people he claimed to be his enemies.

“I think it would be better for you to see for yourself in this case,” Sirius said, meeting Voldemort’s gaze head on.

Tom co*cked an eyebrow, but indulged, using his Legilimency. He tried not to rip through Black’s mind extremely harshly, just enough to leave a headache. He still didn’t like him.

What he found there was something that he thought should have shocked him, although it really did not. The only fact which was surprising to him was that Dumbledore even shared the information about the Potter boy, instead of moving the threads in a way which would have allowed him to do everything by himself. Anger ripped through him at the old wizard’s feigned concern and sadness. He could clearly see the life, and something deep inside him trembled so horribly he was afraid he would start ripping away Black’s mind inch by inch, though even he could admit that the man did not deserve that. When it was done, Voldemort retracted himself from Sirius’s brain and snarled.

“f*cking hell,” groaned Sirius, gripping at his head.

“Good old days, huh, Black?” said Rabastan with a predatory grin.

“Shut up, all of you,” growled Voldemort. “Hogsmeade will be our first point of attack, a week after term starts at Hogwarts. We do not have much time to waste anymore. I have gathered enough evidence to cause ruin, and ruin we shall cause to all those who deserve it,” he said sternly, not accepting no as an answer.

“And the Potter boy, my Lord?” asked Avery. Those of the Inner Circle snapped their eyes towards the man, and Voldemort saw Bellatrix reaching for her wand. He didn’t pay it much mind, opting to answer the question instead.

“Our priority is getting to Dumbledore. Preferably I murder him, but his downfall is useful even if he remains alive,” he shrugged. “The only thing for now that you must keep in mind, is the attack on Hogsmeade. I will send you all information soon before the day comes. I expect everyone I summon to show up, and if any of you fail to do so, consider it the day you die,” he said, his red eyes glowing. He was no doubt more threatening in his old form, the snake-like look providing him with a terrifying aura. He chose to Glamour himself to have an effect, though it started to become rather bothersome. But, he did not need anyone questioning the change in his appearance since his revival.

“You are dismissed,” he said, then turned to the small group of determined-looking young people. “And welcome to our newcomers, I am sure you will be an asset. Else, you will die. Now, go.”

Pops of apparition were heard afterwards, and Voldemort was left with only those he considered his most Inner Circle. He slammed down into his chair, clearing his throat. For some reason, the memory Black had shown him upset him a great deal more than he thought it would. He guessed it was simply because the prospect of someone harming one of the last Horcruxes he had, was something that enraged him. The Potter boy had part of his soul inside of him, he was a vessel for it, and thus must be kept safe. That was it.

“As you all know, the Potter boy has been our prisoner for the past month for various reasons I have yet to share with you,” he said. “I had hoped it would not come to the need for me to share, but Dumbledore has of course meddled yet again. This is something that must stay hidden from the public, and from anyone who is not close enough to know. If I hear even a whisper of rumor about it, I will not be afraid to torture a confession out of any of you,” he hissed.

“Of course, my Lord. We will swear to secrecy,” said Bellatrix immediately.

“Naturally,” he drawled. “Harry Potter has survived that night because a piece of my soul has latched onto him. Therefore, he must be killed in order to kill me, which is exactly what Dumbledore plans to do and now he has shared those plans with the rest of the Order members. What does this mean, Black?” he said, turning suddenly towards the shaggy-haired man.

“There is basically a ticking time bomb attached to Harry,” Sirius said. “Most of the Order members don’t agree with this, they apparently don’t like killing children, but they also do not like the way you want to run things. Which, you know, figures,” he said with a snarl towards Voldemort.

“Stay in your lane,” he replied dangerously calm. “Indeed. However, I suspect, that not all of the Order members have such close connection to Potter as many of them do. And I must admit, some of them sound more bloodthirsty than I am. There is no doubt in me that this school year, Dumbledore is going to try to get Potter to sacrifice himself for the Greater Good or some such-”

“f*cking asshole,” Sirius bit out, interrupting. Voldemort sighed and annoyedly flicked his wrist towards the man, silencing him with a charm. Black looked to be sulking.

“As I was saying, trying to get Potter to sacrifice himself. This must not happen, of course. My hands are tied, I have to let Potter to go back to school, as there would be too much of an uproar if he disappeared inexplicably. This does not mean we will not be keeping an eye on him. Narcissa, Lucius, your son will be the main pawn in this,” he said, looking towards them. Lucius grimly nodded, while Narcissa only let out a cautious smile, inclining her head towards Voldemort.

“And Severus, my Lord? Surely, he is the most capable one to defend Potter,” said Rodolphus suddenly. Bellatrix twitched next to him.

“No,” he said with an unquestionable finality in his voice. “Severus is not to be trusted any more until he has proven that he can be.” Rodolphus nodded, and eased back into his seat.

“There is another concern...” Sirius said, now that he could speak once again, although he sounded like everything was forced out of him through his gritted teeth. “Some are not pleased with Albus. They... Someone wanted to estabilish a new, neutral side of the war. Completely revamp the whole system and everything,” he finished quietly.

“Is that it?” asked Voldemort with a co*cked eyebrow. “Foolish.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they are going to go through with it. I just shared this because I feel like Harry won’t be safer just because there is going to be another side that goes against Dumbledore. Not because I am one of you,” he spat.

“Of course, little cousin, you could never be one of us,” said Bellatrix with a predatory wink. “You are not brave enough for that, are you?”

“If this is bravery, I don’t know what to tell you, Bella,” he growled.

“Enough of the family feuds,” waved Voldemort. “Your information was useful and much appreciated today, Black. We all thank you, I am sure. You are not needed for the next part, I am certain Potter would enjoy your company,” he said dismissively.

“I have something to take care of,” Sirius said grumpily. Without a word, he Apparated on the spot, without even standing up from his seat.

“What do you wish us to do to ensure Potter’s safety, my Lord?” asked Yaxley.

“You, Rabastan and Rodolphus will all escort him to Diagon Alley in three days’ time. I need you to remain absolutely unseen, unnoticed by everyone. I know for a fact Potter will be meeting up with some of his friends, and you are to follow them and report back to me if you hear anything of importance. If you fail to do so, and Potter disappears or harm befalls him, I will make sure you lose every appendage you have. Understood?” he asked.

“Of course, my Lord,” said Rabastan. “We will not fail you.”

“I suggest you indeed, do not.”

By the time Sirius got back to Grimmauld Place, it was dark outside. He had taken a stroll as Padfoot to clear his mind, his mouth still bitter with the sour taste of betrayal and guilt weighing heavily on his chest.

When he stepped into his room, he found Remus lounging around in his armchair, reading a book. He raised his head to look at his friend as he entered, and seemed to understand everything that had transpired without a word.

“I had to, Moony,” said Sirius quietly. “They are going to hurt Prongslet. I had to, I’m sorry,” his voice broke, tears welling up in his eyes.

“I know, Padfoot,” Remus said, sighing heavily.

“I fear, the time to choose sides is very, very close, Moony,” he sobbed. “They are planning an attack in Hogsmeade, but I can’t tell anyone, because they will find out I betrayed them!”

“It’s okay, Sirius, you only did what you had to do,” he said, grabbing Sirius’s shoulders, forcing him to look into his eyes. “You hear me? Only did what you had to do!”

“I think we are selfish for wanting to protect Harry in the face of thousands dying, Remus.” Even hearing it out loud, it sounded crazy.

“No, Pads, you don’t seriously think that, do you?” Remus shook his head fervently. “We cannot abandon Harry, not now, not ever. We promised James. We promised Lily! We already failed them once, we cannot do it again.”

“You are right,” relented Sirius after a beat, wiping his tears. “You are right. I would take the Dark Mark if it came down to it, you know that, right, Moony?” His facial expression was once again hard as stone, despite his read, shimmery eyes.

“He won’t ask that of you,” said Remus quietly.

“But if he did, I’d do it. For Harry,” came the final answer.

That night, Sirius fell asleep in dog form, curled up in front of the fireplace, with Remus on the sofa not far from him. He dreamt of a green light, and a thud, Harry’s lifeless body hitting the floor harshly.

Chapter 15: Spilling Thoughts

Chapter Text

Cornelius Fudge was sitting behind his desk in his study, deep wrinkles of worry adorning his forehead. He felt gloomy, despite the enormous windows letting in as much sun as possible; even his ceiling was charmed so the sunlight would hug everything in the office. Cornelius was a man who loved the hot weather. He could not imagine anything better than the warmth of the rays of sunshine caressing his old, tired face.

Though at that moment, he could not feel much of that warmth. He gripped the letter so harshly he was sure it would crumple, although that was not a bad idea. Not as bad as what he wanted to do right at this second, anyway; for he wanted to toss the parchment paper right into the fire, letting the flames engulf it and burn it out of existence. He couldn’t stop staring at the contents of the letter. ‘I know about the deals you have been making with resurfacing Death Eaters, Fudge. I assure you, the moment this information leaves these pagesand makes it into the Daily Prophet, you’ll be absolutely certain to lose your position.’ And that was only one sentence of the full, two-page essay laid across him. The threatening tone of the entirety of the letter was not lost on Fudge, though at times it was perfectly well-hidden. He chewed on his lower lip until it drew blood and sighed, placing the paper down with shaky hands. He stared at the signature:

Warm regards,

NZTMFH HSVIDLLW

Even a fool could have guessed that it was some sort of a code. Fudge had never been good at things like that, and it caused him a headache to even think about deciphering it. Not to mention the fact that he had to do an unbelievable amount of damage control as it was, seeing as neither Dumbledore, nor some of the old members of the Order stopped mentioning You-Know-Who. The possibility of his revival being true made sweat beads gather on the edge of his hairline. His eyes slid to the last paragraph the stranger wrote:

‘Of course, if you give me something I want in return, I will refrain from letting everything I know bleed through the pages of the magazines. Pardon Bartemius Crouch Jr. and Sirius Black from their status as fugitives, and I will let this whole ordeal go. You have until the third of September to do it. If you fail to do so, I will tear you along with you to pieces.’

Cornelius snorted unceremoniously. It was obvious that a former Death Eater wrote the letter, though the minister didn’t understand the need for the code. Furthermore, no evidence or specific of any deal with former Death Eaters were shown in the letter, and that slowed his heartrate considerably. It might also have simply been a teenager with bad tastes at pranks, perhaps one of the infamous Weasley twins. He scoffed, crunching the letter between his hands and throwing it into the flames at once, as he wished to do from the moment he started reading it. They were living in crazy times, he knew that, but every manifestation of it being true made his skin crawl still. Truth be told, after they had locked up every wrongdoer following the first war, Cornelius had done his best to recline back into his seat and watch the peace unfold. It had been effective— until now, that is. Over the years they had had hiccups, naturally, what with Sirius Black escaping and Barty Crouch Jr as well. The Aurors were doing their best at capturing them; a pardon would be ludicrous. He clicked his tongue and started organizing the mountains of documents on his desk. No matter, just a foolish prank, he thought to himself merrily.

The flames weren’t able to devour the letter sitting peacefully against the logs.

The weather was beautiful three days later. Diagon Alley was bustling with life and the laughter of the children chasing each other around, annoying the adults who were only trying to get their shopping done as fast as possible. Harry felt for them, truly.

He was stumbling along the street, trying to act as if he didn’t notice Narcissa trailing behind him. Draco had already left them, mumbling something about having to meet someone and dashing off suddenly, so Harry was left with pretending. Not that he had wanted to talk to Malfoy out in the open, but it would have been a good move if he were to change sides. After all, they were allies now, or... Or whatever. This already hurt his head.

To be completely fair, though, Narcissa was extremely good at pretending she was not, in fact, keeping an eye on him. She had stopped numerous times already to window-shop — this was how Harry learnt she liked golden jewelry more than silver —, and twice to chat with other extremely elegant-looking witches. It was amazing, really.

It was five minutes till five o’clock when Harry arrived at the location they had agreed upon. There was a small alcove made out of bricks on the right side of the entrance to Knockturn Alley, and he immediately took a sharp turn to stand inside of it. He seemed to go unnoticed, and only then did he let himself let out a deep breath. In the ten minutes it took his friends to arrive, at least seven suspicious witches walked in front of the alcove, none of them looking at him, andall of them looking exactly the same as each other. A chill ran up his spine, but he couldn’t dwelve on it too much because suddenly, he was tackled back into the brick wall by a short, thin but bushy-haired witch. He held onto Hermione automatically, fisting her jumper in his hand and inhaling her lavender-scent deeply.

“Harry!” he heard her voice, and then he was gently shoved away so she could take a look at him. “You look... You look good, actually.”

“Thanks for the trust, Hermione,” he snorted cheekily. Then, he looked towards Ron, and hugged him fiercely without thinking. Soon enough, two more people joined the pile and for the first time in months, Harry felt like the knot of anxiety in his stomach could ease up, if only a tiny bit.

“No one followed you, right?” asked Harry then. The last thing he needed was someone seeing him.

“No,” shook her head Hermione. “But how did you sneak out?”

“The Dursleys... They, uh, they were away for the day. I managed to pick the lock,” he lied easily, shrugging his shoulders.

“We could drop by these days, leave them a nice sampling box,” said Fred, George nodding beside him more seriously than Harry had ever seen either of them. It warmed his heart considerably.

“That would be nice,” he grinned. Hermione huffed next to him, exasperated, while Ron shared his grin.

“Did you get our letter?” asked Hermione, chewing on her lower lip. This made her look a few years younger than she was, and Harry’s heart constricted in his chest, thinking about the small girl he had gotten to know. He didn’t even know if he’d ever see any of them after this. It was an ugly feeling, thick, and poisonous.

“Yeah, I...,” he gulped, “I don’t even know what to say. Are you completely sure you didn’t misunderstand anything? It’s impossible, Dumbledore would never do this!” he said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. He desperately wanted to tell them the truth, but until he found out where they stood, he knew it would be too dangerous to reveal anything.

“We would not have told you if we weren’t sure, mate,” said Ron, a bit offended. “Why would we lie to you?”

“No, I know — I know you wouldn’t lie to me. I’m just having trouble coming to terms with this, I mean, it turns out I have the literal soul of the man who murdered my parents inside of me. That’s a bit barmy, don’t you think?” At least now he wasn’t lying. Of course, he had already come to peace with it since finding out, but his friends didn’t know that, and it didn’t take away from it being absolutely mental either. “Forgive me for not reacting well to finding out I have to die as a teenager.”

“It’s okay, Harry, Ron didn’t mean it that way,” said Hermione quickly, shooting a sharp glare at Ron whose cheeks pinked as a reaction. “And please don’t be daft, we will not let you die. This is precisely the reason we wanted to meet with you today, we wanted to make sure you are actually safe at Privet Drive. You are, correct?” Her stare was inquisitive.

Harry desperately wanted to tell her that he was so extremely safe at Privet Drive that Voldemort had come bursting his door off its hinges a month and a half earlier, kidnapping him. He wanted to tell them that he was staying at Malfoy Manor, of all places, where he felt safer than he felt almost anywhere else, ironically. After all, he was a prisoner there. Naturally, though, he couldn’t tell them any of this. So, he nodded, trying to be convincing.

“Yeah. The blood wards work,” he added as an afterthought. Merlin, all this lying was making his side itch. “Even if he wants me to die eventually, he wants me to die on hi terms, and I think that means in the midst of some kind of battle, right? I mean, Vold- He Who Must Not Be Named won’t continue to lie low until the end of time, right?” he offered, though a bit awkwardly.

“Surely,” lamented Hermione.

“We overheard other meetings as well —”

“—we shouldn’t have, really, but when has that ever stopped us —,”

“—about how Dumbledore is going to take over even more Wizengamot seats in case You-Know-Who wants to go the political route instead. Harry, he talked about taking over your seat as well, since it is unclaimed still,” Fred finished their thought, with a serious facial expression. It was weird, seeing them like this. All grown up and no jokes. At least if he died, he would be able to say that he saw the twins be serious about something.

What they told him, though, made him furious. He was sure that if they were part of those strange muggle cartoons that Dudley used to watch, smoke would be coming out of his ears and nostrils. He hadn’t had the chance to immerse himself in the politics of the magical world, seeing as there was no material close enough, but he remembered something about the Potter family being one of the most influential pureblood families at one point, thus holding a seat on the Wizengamot, which, Harry thought to be some kind of voting committee. As he stood there, quiet, under the inquisitive stares of his friends, he thought he ought to start reading up on the topic as soon as he got back to the manor later today.

“What’s even worse, is that he is the leader as it is,” said Hermione bitterly. “Of course, before all this, I didn’t think too hard on it. It was just another thing he had gained during his vast lifetime, but now, knowing what he wants to do, the power he holds seems a bit... Excessive. And terrifying,” she mumbled, like she was ashamed to be talking like this about someone they had all considered a protector, a confidante. Harry understood all too well how it felt, given that he had been going through the motions for the past four weeks as well. He wished he could just reach out to his best friend and comfort her, but he knew that it would raise questions. So, he tried to appear more upset and shocked than he actually was. Apparently in the last three days he had developed the skill of not being surprised at any information that might come to the surface about the Headmaster. He wished he could bestow those skills upon his friends as well.

“It’s a bit like a dictatorship, innit?” said Ron as he scratched his head. “Smart, though. This way even if You-Know-Who tried to go the political route, he wouldn’t be able to, since he holds so many seats. He could never overpower him.” Harry almost winced, thinking back to the cold and calculating state Riddle always seemed to have about him. His eyes, ever so analyzing, boring into everything he was even remotely interested in, though that was the only emotion they ever shone. Far be it from Harry to be a full, open supporter, but secretly he thought that if Riddle really wanted to, he could eradicate the whole Wizarding World. Politically or in other ways, it didn’t matter. It was just a cautious hunch the teenager had anyway.

He tried blocking the tall man from his thoughts, needing to focus at the task on hand. Throughout the conversation they had had, it was clear to him that his friends’ resolve, and trust had faltered in Dumbledore, if not in the whole Order of the Phoenix as well. Speculations did not mean they were ready to denounce Dumbledore and change stance. It didn’t even mean they would ever be ready for that, or even want that. For all Harry knew, it could be a trap of the Order. Setting plans into motions. That thought, though, did not feel right in his gut, and so he tried shaking it off himself. He was beginning to fall into extremes, and he didn’t quite like that. Just because he knew his intentions — his future intentions —, did not mean that the whole world was suddenly out to get him. He still had time to fix this mess.

“I...” he started, but his thought got cut off almost immediately. “I don’t really know what to say. All my life, I have been expected to be this... This hero, savior, or whatever. Er, I’m not really sure I can be that anymore, selfish as that might be. I think I have to have some boundaries, and, er, y’know, dying is definitely one of them,” he said, opting to look at the wall instead of his friends. As cowardly as that was, and despite the fact that he was anything but a coward, it was hard to look them in the eye and lie that way. He also didn’t want to see anything negative, their faces falling when they realize Harry wouldn’t be able to save them from the impending doom. They are only doomed if they don’t switch sides, said a voice in his head unhelpfully, and he cursed internally at having an inner voice like that. Even if it was, logically, true. Easy fix. Except, it wasn’t. Not really. “I don’t think I ever was the hero everyone expected me to be,” he added as an afterthought, honest as one can be.

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione in that magical, pitying voice of hers and put her hand on his arm. “It’s not selfish,” she added with a gentle smile, squeezing his biceps.

“Not at all, mate,” interrupted Ron. “I reckon I would feel the same, too!”

“If we thought it was selfish, we wouldn’t have told you,” said George. “We don’t want you to die, either, mate,” he grinned sloppily, ruffling Harry’s already unruly hair. It was a bit harder to breathe suddenly.

“Besides, we will need someone to be the face of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,” said Fred, lightening the mood considerably. “After the war, and everything. We need you to pose in our advertisem*nts, blowing kisses to the witches, we’ve already got all these visions we planned,” he continued. Harry didn’t know if he was joking, or genuinely serious, but he appreciated the comedic relief, nonetheless.

“Yeah, sure,” he nodded. “If I survive, of course.”

“’Dunno mate, we might have to dig you out all the same,” said George cheekily. Harry shuddered, but his chest felt lighter. “We will not let you die, though, you can be sure of that. Even if no one else is on your side, we will be. Kind of like your own Death Eaters.” The way he said it let on that it was a joke, but Harry, Hermione and Ron all scrunched up their faces in a grimace.

“Let’s not joke about that,” said Hermione. “Besides, Dumbledore isn’t our only problem. Charlie, and Sirius have been acting extremely strange lately as well, what with both of them disappearing all the time. Not to mention Remus — he’s been looking constantly like the full moon was approaching for the past couple of weeks! Do you think they might be in on it?” she asked, gnawing on her lower lip, scared.

“No, Sirius would never do that,” said Harry without thinking much, convicted. After all, Sirius had become a spy for him. Not that his friends knew that, of course, but it still counted to him.

“Neither would Charlie,” said all of the Weasleys at the same time, Ron looking more creeped out by that than the twins. “Sirius might also just want to run around sometimes. Just because Dumbledore is a traitor, doesn’t mean that suddenly everyone is, Hermione,” said Fred with a frown.

“We might want to keep our voices down, guys,” hissed Harry, motioning at the people flowing in and out of the alley.

“I already cast a privacy charm,” said the girl. “I know not everyone is out to get Harry, but we have to be careful either way. And they are being strange, even you have to admit that,” she said, furrowing her eyebrows.

“For all we know, Charlie could just have a girlfriend. Why else would he be staying in England for so long?” asked Ron, shrugging his shoulders.

“Sirius once sent me a letter, mentioning how he likes to take strolls as Padfoot because no one bothers him then,” added Harry, lying easily. He would have to talk to Sirius about being more cautious in the future.

“Mystery solved,” said Fred to Hermione, who simply rolled her eyes at him. “When school starts, we have to be more careful. I always hear rumors about Voldemort, and they are not pretty.”

“We could start training,” said Hermione suddenly. “Like an after school club, but in dueling. Surely, it can’t be early enough to start, and Harry, you are great at DADA.” She was casting that hopeful, puppy look in his direction and Harry groaned. More dueling classes?

“Could be useful,” he said carefully, then glanced at his clock, almost wincing when he realized it was almost six o’clock. Narcissa would be getting suspicious by now. “Look, guys, I have to go. The Dursleys will be home soon, and I don’t want them to catch me. I promise I will try to write you, but don’t be worried if I can’t. They have found new ways to keep me occupied this year, and not even the threat of Sirius works anymore,” he lied. Lies, lies, lies. Maybe Harry really should have been sorted into Slytherin.

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione for the third time that afternoon, and squeezed him into a tight embrace. Harry was awkwardly aware of the way Hermione had grown into a woman over the past year. “Be careful! I will try to find ways to get that thing out of you, and we’ll work on it when we go back to school. We won’t let you get hurt, I promise,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Thank you, Hermione,” Harry said, and he had never meant anything more. “You should go first, I will just make sure no one can see me, alright? See you all on the train,” he said, giving a stern nod to the Weasleys.

“Take care, mate,” said Ron, steely facial expression etched across his freckled face.

“Yeah, take care, Harrykins,” winked George, and Harry was mortified at the way he felt the heat creep up his cheeks. When had the twins gotten so handsome? And why was that something Harry was thinking of?

“I will,” he replied. “Now, go. I’ll see you all later,” he said confidently, even though he was not sure about it at all.

He watched them as they left carefully, looking back at him before the disappeared in the narrow alleyway. Harry took a moment to rub his throat, willing the knot to dissipate. He didn’t want to start crying in the alcove of Knockturn Alley, though he felt as if it was out of his control whether he could stop it. The way all four of his friends had seemed so earnest to protect him, not shaming him for not wanting to die so young, even for a second. He knew he could trust them, but their fierce loyalty still touched him in ways he couldn’t have imagined was possible before this afternoon. He shook his head, trying to get out of his funk. He had to get back.

In an entirely unsurprising feat, Narcissa was waiting for him not far from the entrance of Knockturn. She had an unreadable expression, and as soon as Harry arrived next to her, she started walking, the teenager following suit without a word.

“You should be just a tad bit more careful next time, dear,” she said quietly, unprompted.

“They are loyal,” was Harry’s only answer.

“Such loyalty is hard to come by in this world, indeed,” she said, a slight smile apparent on her face. “You need not worry; your secret is safe with me. Let’s go find my son,” she said, and that was that.

Harry’s heart continued to pound in his chest, but he somehow had the presence to cast a slight Glamour on himself, not wanting to be seen as he walked next to Narcissa Malfoy.

They stood in a small, narrow alleyway just off the side of Diagon Alley. There were only a few, fleeting people walking through there, though Draco was not worried about them. He was leaning against the taller man, the large hand against his delicate fingers. He was playing with his family ring, something he once would frown upon, but did not care about anymore. The hands looked a bit off from their original state, but Draco didn’t mind. He was just trying to soak up the peace that was surrounding him, knowing he wouldn’t get to do this for another three weeks at the minimum.

“How are things at home?” asked the man, resting his head on Draco’s. The younger boy hummed, shrugging his shoulders. “That bad, huh?”

“No, they are not... Bad, per se. He is a lot better than he used to be, and my father as well. Of course, this means he is keeping a closer eye on me than ever, so I have to be very careful. It’s not peachy, though, of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Their voices were low, so quiet he was sure they were the only ones that could hear them. Nobody else needed to, either. “I just wish he weren’t living there, Merlin. It would be easier to ignore him,” he grumbled.

“Are you scared, Draco?” asked the taller man amused, snorting.

“Disgusting,” came the reply. “And so what if I am? You would be scared as well if a megalomaniac psychopath was living in your home, plotting against the Wizarding World.”

“I’m pretty sure he is plotting for the Wizarding World, darling,” said the other. “His ideas weren’t all that bad before he lost his wits,” he said.

“Oh yeah, ‘cause you’re an expert on dark wizards, aren’t you?” Draco murmured. “All I’m saying is that I don’t want to fight a pointless war.”
“It isn’t pointless, dear,” came the gentle reply with fingers through Draco’s hair. “Dumbledore must be stopped and you know that. The world will be better afterwards.”

“Oh, what would your parents say if they knew you were on the other side,” sighed Draco dramatically. He waived his fingers through the thick, dark hair. It was weird to see it a different color.

“And that I’m f*cking a much, much younger Death Eater. The tragedy.”

“Only f*cking?” Draco raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“And loving, very much,” said the man with a cheeky grin. Draco kissed it off his face. He was just about to get excited, when the other suddenly broke away from him.

“I think your Mom and Harry are coming this way. I must dash, darling,” he said, and planted a loud kiss onto Draco’s lips, caressing his face one last time. “I’ll see you in September. Be good,” he said, Disapparating. Draco had exactly three seconds to straighten up — no pun intended — before his mother appeared as if out of nowhere. A Glamoured, but to him still recognizable Harry Potter was trailing behind her.

“What are you doing here, dear?” she asked indignantly.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” he answered, the lie on his lips automatic. “I just needed a breather.”

“I see,” she said, pursing her lips. “Good thing I have already taken care of the school shopping,” she added motioning for him to come. He pushed himself off of the wall and fell into step next to Potter, who was staring at him annoyingly.

“What?” barked Draco.

“Nothing, you just... Look more alive than you did this morning.” Merlin, how f*cking unnerving.

“Coffee will do that to you, yes, Potter,” he replied snarkily, jerking his head away from the green eyes.

The road back home was silent afterwards.

They got back to the manor just as the sun started to set. It was a weird feeling, being back, Harry decided. After all, he had left the ground of the Malfoy home for the first time in months, and although it had happened minutes ago, it already felt ages had passed since he ventured out. He also thought something would possess him, and make him try to make a run for it at the last minute, but that hadn’t happened. He had simply just taken Narcissa’s arm as she Side-Alonged him back. It was strange.

He was torn between wanting to speak to Voldemort and going into his room to mull and perhaps shed a few tears over his encounter with his friends, because, honestly, he might have a concussion. Wanting to speak to Voldemort? It was downright unbelievable to Harry, who had indeed lived through weirder times.

“Mrs. Malfoy?” he addressed her quickly, before she could slip away.

“Yes?”

“Could you point me towards Riddle’s study?” he asked, deciding on the spot, a sigh erupting from his lips entirely unprompted by him.

“Of course,” she said with a small smile. Draco had disappeared, yet again unheard by anyone. It must have been a bit unnerving to Narcissa, if Harry had to guess. Then again, Draco lived here and wasn’t a prisoner, like him.

They passed through many corridors and climbed up two flights of stairs, and suddenly it was really quite clear to Harry why the whole Malfoy family was so f*cking fit. Of course they were, if they had to take a proper hike every time they wanted to go somewhere in the manor. After taking the last stairs, they finally arrived in front of the enormous mahogany doors. Narcissa knocked, then smiled at him and disappeared with a pop!. Harry found himself annoyed at the fact that she hadn’t just chosen to Side-Along him to the study.

After hearing the faint voice of Voldemort, Harry pushed the heavy doors open. Riddle was sitting behind his desk, and co*cked his eyebrows as Harry approached him. He set down the documents onto the table, and spelled them so the teenager couldn’t see what they were. Harry almost smirked at that, but he held himself back just in time.

“I must say I’m surprised to see you here,” said Riddle.

“Yeah, you and me both,” answered Harry quietly.

“Indeed,” came the reply alongside a smirk. “How was your outing, Potter? Did your friends enlighten your mind enough?”

Harry’s breath caught on his throat. Of course. Of f*cking course. He shouldn’t have been this surprised, really. After all, it had been Voldemort who had given the letter to him, and to believe that he didn’t look, was really, really foolish, and amazingly on-brand for Harry. He couldn’t even be upset about it, seeing as it was so, so obvious. Perhaps he also got tired of fighting all the time. Not to mention, meeting his friends today had taken quite an emotional toll on him.

“Surprised, are you?” said the older man, amusem*nt apparent on his face. “You shouldn’t be, really.”

“I know,” said Harry dejectedly. “It was... Nice. So you did this on purpose? Told Narcissa to take us at this time specifically just so I could meet them?”

“I thought it beneficial for your, and my sanity as well.” Harry wanted to tell him that Riddle really didn’t have an abundance of sanity anyway. “I do also find myself looking forward to new followers,” he said, nonchalant but sure of himself at the same time. Harry snorted.

“I don’t think they want to join you, Riddle,” he said, trying to sit in a more relaxed way than his back straight.

“They will not have much of a choice in the end, if they wish to stay alive and have a life that is worth living,” came the simple reply. “But let us not fool ourselves with small talk, Potter. Your disposition tells me that your conversation must have been fruitful. You haven’t even cursed since sitting down two minutes ago.”

“You just didn’t hear it,” retorted Harry. “I had a question about the Horcruxes,” he continued, deciding not to stall anymore.

“Oh? Go ahead,” allowed Voldemort, leaning a little bit closer to Harry in interest. It was weird to see something else other than calculation in the red, glowing eyes.

“Where did you find out about them?” This seemed to squash a little bit of that interest in Riddle.

“I had first heard about them from Orion Black,” said Riddle. A cold chill climbed its way up Harry’s spine at the mention of Sirius’ father. It was so weird that Riddle had gone to school with them. He really was ancient, despite not looking it. “And it was ridiculously easy to find them in the Restricted Section in the library. Of course, information was limited. So I went to the Head of Slytherin, and manipulated him into telling me more. Fatal mistake, I am positive that the old fool si still blaming himself about that one,” he sighed.

Instead of answering, Harry mulled a bit on what he heard. He knew that Hermione’s first trip would lead her to the library at the school. There were no hardships in the way of her finding the information, seeing as she was extremely good at finding information about anything she might need, and secretly Harry had hoped that Riddle stole a book or something to gain the information. It was too easy for Hermione to find out this way, though a small flame of hope ignited in Harry’s chest at the possibility of finding a way to siphon the soul piece out of him.

“I know what you are thinking.” Voldemort interrupted his train of thought rudely. “You won’t be able to find anything in the school regarding anything beyond how to make one, singular Horcrux. Do you really think if I didn’t find anything, then you will?” He asked it as if it was impossible. Which, Harry supposed it was, but he still got offended.

“Well, good thing it’s not me then, isn’t it?” he snarked.

“Do tell, Potter,” said Riddle, and it honestly felt like he was teasing him. Harry wanted the ground to open and swallow him whole.

“One of my friends mentioned researching them, see if they could find a way to get it out of me,” he said cautiously.

“No,” came the immediate reply. “They won’t be able to find anything viable, and then you’ll end up dead. Especially not on Hogwarts grounds, Dumbledore has been thinning the curriculum and the inventory of the library ever since he became Headmaster,” he waved nonchalantly.

“Right,” allowed Harry. “And what if she gets her hands on the remaining ones? Except Nagini and me, of course. What then?”

“Futile,” answered Riddle easily. “I have already absorbed all of the inanimate ones. With the exception of the diary, which you very cruelly destroyed in the chamber,” he said, though he didn’t seem all that bitter about that anymore.

“Why can’t you just reabsorb the one inside me, then?” asked Harry, frowning.

“Because you are not an inanimate object, Potter, though sometimes you certainly act like one,” offered Voldemort, spelling his documents back, and starting to read through them, apparently deciding that the conversation was over. Harry had other plans, though. He himself didn’t understand where the sudden curiosity towards the Horcruxes came from, but he welcomed it. This was a chance for him to learn, for Riddle seemed to be chattier than usual and Harry wanted to seize the opportunity.

“What else did you make into Horcruxes?” he pressed on, knowing he was annoying the other. Despite that, Riddle put his documents back down once again — this time leaving them without magic — and looked straight into Harry’s eyes. The teenager squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

“My grandfather’s ring was the first,” the word ‘grandfather’ was said with so much disdain, Harry recoiled, “then came the diary. The cup after that, followed by Slytherin’s locket, and then the diadem. Strangely enough you were next, and then Nagini. Only one on the list wasn’t purposefully made.” He had looked into Harry’s eyes the whole time, and for some reason, instead of mortification, Harry blushed. Those red eyes were certainly unnerving.

“That’s a lot of murders,” was the first thing he could think to say.

“Isn’t it?” smirked Voldemort. “That girl’s, Myrtle was her name I believe, was not on purpose. But I will never deny the truth, I am a murderer. Quite the cold-blooded one.” He said it as if he were only talking about the weather, and something churned in Harry’s stomach, making him feel sick.

“I gathered that from the way you murdered my mother while she was screaming, pleading for you not to kill me,” he said quietly.

“I had told her to step aside three times,” was the only answer Harry got.

“Gee, thanks,” he said darkly, pushing back his chair.

“I am not telling you this to excuse what I did,” said Riddle, maintaining their eye contact. “I simply wish for you to have all the information needed. I do not expect, nor want you to forgive me for what I did at the lowest point of my madness. I will not apologize, because I find it futile and useless. Lily and James Potter were given the choice of switching sides unpunished, just like everyone else. I believe your grandparents even offered them their cottage in France. But they chose to stay and fight the fight. Neither I, nor you can fault them for it. War time is war time, and perhaps you simply haven’t lived enough to understand that.” Everything he said, was said in a calm, calculated manner. No lingering emotions, just facts. Just like telling a bedtime story.

“You’ll forgive me when I say a ‘They didn’t choose the correct side’ won’t cut it for me to forget you murdered my parents,” Harry said coldly, standing up.

“I didn’t want it to have that effect,” said Voldemort. “But it all boils down to exactly that. The same is folding out quietly as we speak. People, even your godfather and your friends, are choosing sides every single day, because they are aware of what is to come. Naturally, only those who believe in my revival. And you, Harry Potter, cannot lie to yourself and go around saying you haven’t chosen a side. You well and truly know you have, and it is not the same as your parents did.”

Harry stood there, gripping the back of the seat. His heart was thrumming a fast-paced beat, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. He gritted his teeth together, exhaling sharply through his nose. Voldemort was still looking at him, his red eyes never leaving Harry’s greens even for a second. Harry wondered whether Voldemort sometimes remembered Lily’s, his mother’s last moments when he stared into them.

“Good night, Riddle,” he said finally, head swarming with thoughts. He pushed himself away, turned, and promptly walked away.

“Good night, Harry,” he heard the faint answer right before the doors shut behind his back.

He staggered back towards his room, his hands shaking. He had actively tried to keep out the thoughts of his parents’ reactions to the way he had just given up on the Light a few nights before, and he was successful, up until this conversation, of course. He wanted to empty his mind, to take a circular saw to his skull and spill out all the thoughts buzzing around it together with the blood until only whiteness and raw flesh, dangling, remained.

The minute he got back to his room he collapsed onto the sofa, bending his head between his knees. He let out a shaky breath, a sob caught in the back of his throat, the happy memories of his friends hugging him long gone. Merlin, why had he started a conversation with Tom, entirely out of his own volition? He should have known this would happen. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he chanted internally.

Despite his lack of headache, he felt the familiar, cool tingling feeling run down from his scar, spreading throughout his limbs, engulfing the nerves running through his body. He threw his head back with a startled, sarcastic laugh, and closed his eyes. Merlin f*ck.

Chapter 16: Amends

Chapter Text

Breakfast next morning was a loud affair. When he first woke up, Harry wasn’t even sure he would want to have breakfast after last night’s row. Well, he supposed it was not truly a row, but he had still felt extremely upset about it when he went back to his room, just like the result of any other conversation he had ever had with Voldemort. It was bound to happen like this, too, seeing as Harry could never forget that the man sitting next to him murdered his parents. Nor could he forgive him for it, that was absolutely preposterous; not that Voldemort wanted him to do that. He had expressed that loud and clear last night, and Harry’s head still hurt. He was getting sick of all this back and forth, but at the same time he did not feel ready to discuss his alliances yet, given that he was sure he would just question them if he started talking to Riddle about it. He felt trapped, and ironically not because he was being held as a hostage of some sorts at the Malfoy Manor. It had more to do with the fact that he was trapped between the two sides of the war, not really actually wanting to gravitate towards either. To others, outside spectators it might have looked black and white. After all, only one side meant sure death for Harry, but as an active participant it felt more nuanced than anything ever had in his short life before this point.

All he wanted was just a little bit of downtime. He wished to sit down somewhere calm where he could think silently. Though Harry was not a fan of thinking lately, he recognized it as a necessary evil. He had to carefully construct each and every step he was about to make going into the school year. The last time the war had felt real was in the graveyard, watching Voldemort’s disgusting overgrown fetus-like body being thrown into the potion, but now, the feeling of a threat looming over him was back. The only difference was that the threat itself was coming from the other side this time.

Bellatrix decidedly did not help with his headache that morning. She was unusually loud, bickering with Rodolphus about the decorations in their rooms.

“All I’m saying is, that if we could kill Kreacher, that nasty little thing, and bring his head here, it would make a perfect lamp holder over the bed, dear,” she said, aggressively cutting off a piece of sausage while her husband exhaled sharply next to her.

“I am not going to risk being seen just because you want an elf head above our bed, dear,” he snarked, pushing away his plate in front of him, looking a bit green at the prospect of being stared down by a dead elf. “Besides, I quite like our current lamp holder.”

“It’s hideous, Rodolphus!” she shouted, stabbing her egg. Harry honestly felt mortified.

“I recall it being a branch of cherry blossom, charmed to be in forever blossoming,” interjected Narcissa with a co*cked eyebrow.

“Exactly my point,” said Bellatrix matter-of-factly. Harry heard Voldemort slowly exhale next to him, but he showed no other signs of annoyance. He thought Riddle would hex Bellatrix into oblivion, but he seemed to let her do her thing, which Harry thought uncharacteristic of him. It also made him feel just a tad murderous, considering that the yapping of the witch made his head hurt more than Voldemort ever could. It was truly an awful morning for Harry.

Half an hour later everyone seemed to be finished, and by that time even Bellatrix quieted down. Most of them were sipping the last of their coffees, so Harry thought it would be an appropriate time to stand up. Riddle seemed to think the opposite, if only judging by the way his head snapped in Harry’s direction almost immediately.

“Potter, stay back a bit,” he said, uncharacteristically quiet and reserved. Harry co*cked an eyebrow, but dropped back down into his seat, ignoring the burning want in him to flee from the dining hall. The others seemed to take this as their sign to leave, because suddenly a lot of Apparition souds were heard and soon, it was only Riddle and Harry. To deal with this, the teenager quickly grabbed a scone from the pile before the table cleared and stuffed it whole into his mouth. Riddle looked mildly disgusted at this, especially when Harry started to talk with his mouth full of scone:

“Why did you want me to stay?” It was muffled by the pieces of scone scattering around the table. Harry didn’t care how petty he was being; Voldemort deserved it.

“I wanted to discuss something with you,” said Riddle ominously, clearing his throat. He pushed his seat back a bit and turned his body so that he was fully facing Harry now. He didn’t seem to be bothered at all by Harry’s crudeness, and the boy found himself infinitely annoyed at this. He thought Voldemort would at least reprimand him, but the man seemed entirely too encompassed by his own thoughts to do so. This intrigued the raven-haired boy, and he found himself slouching a little closer to the dark wizard as he chewed the last remains of his food. Whatever it was that Riddle wanted to talk about, it seemed quite important. Harry decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Go on,” he said, clearly this time.

“I realize that I might have gone overboard yesterday night,” he began slowly. Harry simply blinked at him. “It was not fair of me to talk to you about your parents’ tragedies, seeing as I was the one to make them happen. I will try to refrain from mentioning it again, although there is still a lot of information you have missed out on at the hands of Dumbledore.” Harry thought he would continue, but Riddle was silent for the few minutes Harry waited for him to continue.

“That’s it?” he asked, and when the answering nod confirmed his suspicions, he snorted in

entirely non-elegant fashion. “Is this you trying to apologize, Voldemort?” he asked incredulously.

“How can you call me that so easily?” Harry was met with another question rather than the answer he was hoping to hear.

“Don’t deflect,” said Harry immediately. “Answer me; is this your form of f*cked up apology?”

“I suppose an apology, yes, but f*cked up, no.” The boy didn’t even have time to register Riddle swearing, with the way anger crept up his veins almost as soon as the words left Riddle’s mouth.

“You can’t seriously think this is how an apology works. You haven’t even sad you are sorry!” he said irritably. “That’s the foundation of a successful apology. Besides, what prompted you to say all this? Yesterday you said you would never apologize, so I assumed it would happen that way. What changed?”

“I didn’t expect it to be successful.” Riddle, unsurprisingly, completely ignored his question.

“Merlin you are f*cking insufferable,” said Harry with a groan, and pushed his chair back, standing up. He was not going to stay here any longer and let Voldemort try to what, redeem himself in his eyes? The dark wizard was so out of touch with how human emotions worked that Harry could have cried from frustration on the spot. He was still feeling quite raw from last night, and he felt like Voldemort had simply just added a heap of salt to his wounds. No amount of apologies in the world would be enough anyway.

For what it was worth, though, Voldemort seemed to be a bit taken aback by Harry’s reaction. Seeing emotion shown on the pale face was still something Harry could hardly wrap his head around, seeing as the wizard sitting in front of him was supposed to be a psychopathic mass murderer. Which, he was, as he himself had so kindly reminded Harry the night before.

“Why did you say it then? If you didn’t expect it to go over well?” he asked finally, defeated. His shoulders sagged and he let out a deep exhale.

“Because I felt like I had to,” came the unwilling response through Voldemort’s gritted teeth. He looked physically pained while talking, which gave Harry a small sense of triumph. “I thought you were entitled to some form of explanation.”

“Very generous of you, Riddle” said Harry, feeling overly exhausted all of a sudden. “Just so you know, and for future reference, if an apology is not sincere, then it means nothing. Just like yours didn’t mean anything to me just now. You are getting smarter with your manipulation tactics, I will give you that, however, I do not think I can underestimate you as a person, so I will not be surprised by anything.” With that, he pushed himself from the back of the chair he was leaning on, and left the room without uttering another word on the matter. The doors pulled shut heavily behind him. Still, he felt lighter.

Almost in the same exact moment when Harry left, Voldemort apparated back to his study. He immediately sent a powerful locking spell towards his door, the spell knocking into the mahogany wood with much more force than it was supposed to. Feeling the shelves rattle in the room, Tom inhaled and exhaled deeply, squeezing his eyes together painfully. He couldn’t lose control just because of some foolish things a stupid child had said to him. He could not ever, ever again lose control. He wouldn’t.

He didn’t know what came over him back there, in the dining hall, when he had apologized the Potter boy. It was so utterly out of character and humiliating that for the first time in decades, he got angry at himself. He didn’t remember being this furious at his own persona even when he had accidentally killed that muggleborn girl back in his Fifth Year. He gripped a handful of his hair and grimaced at the sweat he felt gathering on his scalp. He felt dumb, reacting like this. It was an eerily familiar feeling, nonetheless.

He imagined himself as an eleven-year-old boy, standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. At that time, he was plenty angry, just like in the present. He remembered looking over his peers, scowling at the faces he saw. The little excitement he felt inside faded as the minutes passed. He could see Dumbledore, unfamiliar to him back then, looking at him with something akin of a mix between curiosity and disdain. How the old fool had hated him even then. Even as a mere child. Though Tom knew he was not innocent by any means, he couldn’t help but still feel bitter at Dumbledore turning out to be just like every adult in his life he had ever come to know. And then, the Sorting Hat had gone on a tirade in his head for a few minutes, chanting odes about how much of agreat wizard Tom would become, then promptly sorted him into the house called Slytherin. On their way to Hogwarts, Dumbledore had, though unwillingly, explained a little bit about the system in their school, though he had failed to provide much detail on Slytherin. Thus, Tom knew nothing of his house on that first evening.

That quickly changed, though. As soon as they had gotten into the Common Room, a flurry of questions began hurling towards him from his new classmates, but some of the older students as well. Where was he from? What was his family name? Has he been a hidden heir until now? Was his family influential, perhaps one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight? But Tom didn’t have a family. So, he stayed quiet. Soon enough, the other kids scowled at him and left him alone. The insults began only a week later, when everyone had realized that Tom probably did not have a magical background at all, which was why he didn’t tell them anything about his ancestry and upbringing. This had made Tom furious, the walls in their dorm rattling, parchments flying everywhere and candles melting on the spot. It had prompted Tom to try to find out about his lineage. And find out, he did. No one dared to cross him after it came out that he was Salazar Slytherin’s descendant.

By Third Year, he had his Knights of Walpurgis. Each and every one of them had joined him and looked up to him for their own, different devious reasons. Tom remembered having to kill some of them along the way, when he was gathering members for the Death Eaters. Alas, loyalty keeps you alive.

Tom sat down heavily, dragging his ring-adorned fingers across his face. His grandfather’s ring hung heavier today than most days, and he inspected it with furrowed eyebrows. Most things between the end of his years at Hogwarts and his revival were a bit hazy, but he seemed to remember the important things, like how his Horcruxes came to be. His encounter with his family had gone just as he had expected it to. His plans to burst in there and murder everyone in cold blood were ruined the moment he had stepped in there. In a moment of lapse of judgement, he had allowed his anger to get the best of him, and stalled far too long. His father had managed to get in a few cutting words before Tom silently took care of him and the rest of his family. Then, he gave the Gaunts what they had coming as well. Framing his uncle had brought him an immense amount of satisfaction, one Tom couldn’t even believe he would be able to feel.

Tom considered himself a man able to learn from his own mistakes, and so he tried not to let his anger get the best of him, lest he do something rash, like go and take out his frustrations on Bellatrix, like he had done embarrassingly many times before. Of course, that was before he had absorbed any of his Horcruxes. Interestingly enough, the absorption also came to him in a fit of rage. Maybe fury wasn’t exclusively detrimental to Tom.

Instead of dwelling on foolish things, like his past for example, Tom tried to think about that morning’s events. Truly, asking Potter to stay back had been something he had not anticipated before it happened. He was surprised he even went through with it, despite of the nagging feeling in the back of his head that had been there since the previous night. It felt foreign to Tom, nothing like he had ever felt before, but he couldn’t quite put a name to the emotion. It was a strange thing, for certain, the way the Potter boy made him question most things since his arrival. At first, he had planned to keep him away from the school, but soon realized that would be a setback. He needed more time to prepare for the battle that was to come, more time to gather his numbers and to refine everything down to the last detail. Hogwart’s time would come, but it was not now. Not for a few more months.

Potter, though, would certainly be an asset to his followers, if he would come to the realization himself. Tom knew the teenager had been thinking of deflecting to the Dark, but was also aware of the fact that the boy’s heart was not really in it, not by a long shot. The manipulation clearly had only worked for so much, but it didn’t turn out to be enough. Tom should have expected it, really. Though his friends’ faith being shaken by the old fool was definitely something that played right into Tom’s hands, that was not enough, either. At this point, the only thing Tom could think of was to resurrect Potter’s parents and make them talk some sense into him. He winced involuntarily at that; maybe he was the one that needed to be talked sense into. Feeling at a loss was truly foreign to him, and he could feel it ignite his anger yet again.

He groaned in an uncharacteristical feat, and pushed his quills, ink and documents off of his table. The shelves rattled again, and he rolled his eyes. Suddenly, he knew what was wrong with him.

He felt bad about hurting the Potter boy.

A bile raised up in his throat at that notion, his hands shaking where he gripped onto the desk for dear life. The nausea was so strong, Tom feared he would actually throw up onto the marbled floor. He needed a distraction, something that would keep him occupied and something that would take his mind off of this newfound revelation. Sometimes, he truly regretted his decision of absorbing the Horcruxes.

He stood up abruptly, and snapped his fingers. Pipsmey, the house elf, appeared with a terrified facial expression.

“Draw me a bath in my room, and instruct Bellatrix to meet me there, elf,” he growled.

“Yes, Master Lord Voldemort, immediately,” she squeaked, then disappeared. Tom eased back into his chair for a moment.

Yes, this would certainly help him.

A week and a half later, Sirius found himself sneaking out from Grimmauld Place in the late hours of the evening. Most Weasley family members were out, probably back at the Burrow for a bit, and Remus was off with Dora somewhere. Sirius was amused at their relationship; their banter was something that brought a little joy and color into his extremely bleak and dark life. In fact, so dark, he was headed towards the Malfoy Manor in a leisurely pace, sniffing at everything and peeing on a few trees on his way. He couldn’t help it; though he still had human thoughts, when he was Padfoot, he truly resembled a dog. Besides, it was fun to be a bit free sometimes.

He wondered why Voldemort had summoned him. It was still a week before the next scheduled meeting (that he had to be present at, anyway), and a little over two weeks until the attack he had planned in Hogsmeade. Maybe that was the reason the other wanted to meet with him. Sirius huffed, not at all pleased by the notion. This spy sh*t was definitely harder than he had thought; he didn’t know how Snape did it. If he even did it anymore, that was.

He didn’t have to mull over Snivellus, because a few moments later he arrived. He transformed back into his human self, then Apparated straight into the foyer. He ignored the house elves blinking up at him and made his way towards the Dark Lord’s study. He was granted permission to enter almost immediately, and he stepped into the office in a carefree manner, whistling with his hands in his pockets.

“Howdy?” he asked, plopping down into the armchair in front of the desk with a sh*t-eating grin on his face. Voldemort showed no emotion on his face save for a co*cked eyebrow, but that was definitely alright with Sirius. He knew he was annoying him even without a reaction, and that was more than satisfactory to him.

“Black,” greeted the other wizard easily. “Intelligent, as always,” he drawled.

“That’s me,” agreed Sirius, his grin still in place. He was not afraid of Voldemort. He wasn’t during the first war, and he wouldn’t be now either.

“Right,” sighed Voldemort. “I fully expect you to be at the attack we are planning on Hogsmeade. Our target will be the mainly frequented places, such as, The Three Broomsticks, Honeydukes and Zonko’s. We’ll hit Madam Puddifoot’s as well, just to cover all of our bases and because it is most annoying,” he scoffed. Sirius co*cked an eyebrow.

“Will you be going around and murdering people? Because, for the record, I am not down to do that,” he snarled.

“The goal of this is to bring attention to ourselves, to cause as much havoc as possible without doing fatal damage, Black. People are starting to question my return more and more, and I think the authorities have eased back sufficiently. It’s enough that their response time won’t be great, we will have enough time to make ourselves known. You may kill, however, if you so wish,” he added, with a shark-like grin.

“I might, if Snivellus is going to be there,” he mumbled underneath his thick mustache. “Alright, I’ll be there. Only until the authorities arrive, though; I will certainly not engage in any duels with the aurors.”

“That is good enough for me,” allowed Voldemort. “Have you noticed anything strange about Severus’ behavior at the Order meetings, Black?” he asked casually, though the dark look he bore said something entirely different. Sirius clicked his tongue, and cleared his throat. He truly was not sure how to answer that question.

“You see, my Lord, “ he said mockingly, “I haven’t been around enough to know what constitutes as normal behavior for Snivellus. When he is at the meetings, he’s quiet, and looks bored. He hasn’t been there for the last three weekly meetings, though. I always just assumed that he was with you lot,” he shrugged, easing back in the armchair.

“Assumption is the clever man’s doom, Black,” came the answer. Voldemort’s nostrils were flared, and he decidedly did not look as calm as when Sirius arrived. “Very well, Black, I thank you for your time and information,” he said dismissively.

“Pleasure’s all mine if it gets Snippy Snape into trouble,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up.

“Harry is in the gardens,” said Voldemort, looking down at the documents in front of him, scribbling down something. “Personally I think he could use some time with his godfather,” he added after a beat, quiet.

“If even you think so, kid must be in a rough shape,” said Sirius. “What did you do to him?”

“He forgets sometimes that I am not a very good conversationalist when I am honest,” said Voldemort, only rising his gaze for a second. “And I do not think he believes me when I tell him I won’t lie to him when he asks me something.”

“Ominous,” said Sirius, backing up, worry coursing through his veins. “I will slaughter everyone in my path if you harmed him, Riddle.”

“Glad to know it is yet another day without murder, then,” said Voldemort in response. “Go.”

And Sirius went.

The sun was obscured by thin, but grey clouds. Its rays were fighting to shine down upon Harry’s face, and he whispered a quick thank you to them internally. He very much needed the fresh air and the calm. Bellatrix had been extremely annoying that morning, skipping up and down the halls next to his room, her loud cackles audible even to Harry’s room. Bellatrix had woken him up with her shrill voice, and at first, Harry had thought that he was under attack, that Bellatrix finally truly snapped and came to kill him. Of course, nothing of the sorts was happening, but nonetheless, the anxiety of the moment never truly left Harry.

He sat on the grass, not caring about his light-colored jeans and was curling the pieces of grass around his fingers. School was starting next week, and he was pretty confident he would get to go back. Pipsmey, the house elf, had taken it upon herself to bring him new clothes what seemed like every day. Each day, the theme was different. On the first Day, Harry had gotten pairs of jeans, the next, underwear, and today it was sweaters. Each piece fit him as if it were tailored for his body, and it felt extremely strange to be able to wear clothes which had actually fit his body, and not at least three times larger on him.

He was feeling peaceful, despite the anxiety. Narcissa’s magical roses were emitting a soothing fragrance next to him, and the lemon tree nearby glowed with its cheerful colors. Harry tried to soak in these moments, for he knew that is just a couple of hours, he would need to go meet Voldemort for what the other had said was their last dueling session before the schoolyear started. They hadn’t spoken since their argument, and Harry was truly alright with that. If they didn’t speak, he wouldn’t need to get more hurt. It was the perfect win-win situation for him, but clearly, Voldemort had an entirely different opinion. Which was alright, Harry just wished he wouldn’t drag him into it.

His peace was disturbed by a figure dropping down next to him. Harry turned his head so fast he almost snapped his neck, and a grin spread on his face. He threw his arms around his godfather, squeezing him in a tight hug.

“Sirius!” he exclaimed with childlike gleam.

“Prongslet!” Sirius patted him on his back harshly a few times and reciprocated his grin just as widely. “I hear there is trouble in paradise?” he co*cked an eyebrow. Harry snorted.

“Whole lot of trouble and no paradise in sight, Sirius,” he sighed. “Who told you anyway? Voldemort?” he asked, tearing a few blades of grass, squashing it in his palm.

“Yeah, he thought you could use a bit of time with me,” confessed Sirius. “Mind telling me what happened?”

“We got into it a week ago about my parents’ death,” Harry said quietly. Sirius sucked in a sharp inhale of breath but otherwise stayed silent, waiting for Harry to continue whatever he was about to say. “He told me some things... About the war. Can I ask you something?” he looked straight into the grey eyes, and it was Sirius’ turn to sigh now.

“I have a feeling this is going to hurt, but of course. Ask away,” he allowed.

“Is it true that my parents were offered the option to change sides?” asked Harry. It was so quiet, Sirius could almost not hear the question.

“Well, yes. Voldemort knew they were very talented people, besides, your dad was headed up the ranks of the aurors like a spider monkey. He was runner up for the youngest Head Auror in a century,” he answered. “But then again, it was before Voldemort heard about the prophecy. You were about, I don’t know, three or four months old. They were thinking of fleeing to France that time, so they didn’t... Didn’t really think about switching sides. Not that they wanted to, as far as I was aware. A lot of that time was a blur, to be honest with you.” He looked so earnest, Harry’s heart squeezed in his chest.

“Why didn’t they flee, then?” he asked curiously.

“Dumbledore convinced them not to,” admitted Sirius. Harry’s mind went blank for a second, but a beat later he exhaled deeply and slammed the crushed up blades of grass into the ground. “At that time, the Order didn’t have many members. Not enough, really, while Voldemort was growing his numbers day by day. And Dumbledore asked them to stay, and out of loyalty, they did. Later on, a few days before we found out about the prophecy, James told me he regretted that many times. By that point, the attacks were almost hourly. Those working at the DMLE barely had any time to sleep, or eat, or anything. It was ruthless,” Sirius said quietly. He patted Harry’s shoulder awkwardly after the small monologue.

“Did Dumbledore know about the prophecy when he asked them to stay?” was the first thing the boy thought to ask. Sirius shrugged.

“No idea, pup,” he admitted. “I really have no clue. That’s neither here, nor there, though. I know why you are asking me all this, Harry. Your parents didn’t stay because they didn’t love you enough. They stayed out of duty. Just like all of us did. We all had connections elsewhere, ways out of Britain, and none of us in the Order took them. People were immigrating to other places daily. Everyone knew what the fight would entail, each and every one of us knew what we were up against. Your parents included,” he said with a small, sad smile, bumping their shoulders together. Harry drew in a shaky breath and nodded.

“D’you think that if Voldemort didn’t die that night, he would have won the war?”

“Oh, most definitely.” Harry glanced at him, surprised. Sirius shook his head and bit down on his lower lip before answering. “He had numbers. Witches, wizards, magical creatures were on his side. Half of the Ministry was made up of Death Eaters, and those in his inner circle, who are here right now, were exceptionally talented people. Only, they used their talent for the worse. Voldemort had a way of manipulating people, you see. In the years before the war, when everything was just brewing, he seemed like a great leader, even to many of those who ultimately chose the Light. His ideas weren’t half bad, but then, one day, it was just like... Like he snapped, or something. That’s when the attacks started and everything went to sh*t,” he finished, grey eyes distant. Harry was sure Rita Skeeter would describe it using the ghosts of the past.

“Thanks for telling me,” Harry said quietly. “I, er, you know, I don’t think my parents were stupid to stay. They did their best, and in the end, it was mom, who truly made him disappear. Unfortunate that he had other cards up his sleeve. But, Sirius, I have... I have to confess something.”

“Oh?” the older wizard co*cked an eyebrow, surprised. “Confess away, pup. I’m sure whatever you are about to tell me, I’ve done at least ten times worse.”

“I highly doubt that,” chuckled Harry dejectedly. “I decided not to fight on Dumbledore’s side anymore,” he said before he could change his mind. At this, Sirius remained quiet for a while.

The wind picked up its pace, caressing Harry’s unruly locks more aggressively. He didn’t dare to look at his godfather, too ashamed and afraid to see the disappointment on his face. His heart was thundering its beat behind his rib cage, making his chest hurt and his vision a bit blurry despite wearing his glasses. Harry grabbed onto the grass on the ground, his fingers digging deep into the dirt. He was sure Narcissa wouldn’t appreciate this, but all he could think about was his godfather leaving him after his confession. The silence was utterly crushing, and Harry tried to calm down drawing in breaths in quick succession. Inhale, exhale, inhale.

“What brought this on?” asked Sirius, interrupting the deadly quiet.

“I got a letter from George, Hermione, Fred and Ron,” he answered immediately. “They told me how Dumbledore wanted me to die because of the prophecy. I’m sorry, Sirius, but I don’t want to die, I don’t —”

Sirius pulled Harry against his chest, running his fingers through the boy’s dark hair. His godson put his arms around him as well, holding on tightly, tangling his hands into Sirius’ ragged shirt. Soon, the older wizard could feel the same shirt getting wet with silent tears.

“Don’t, Harry,” he said, holding him even closer. “Just don’t. I would never let anything happen to you. You are not a kid anymore, pup, as much as that pains me. I trust you to make your own decisions. We are family, and family never leaves anyone behind. No matter what. Dumbledore does not stand above what we have, you can be absolutely sure of that.”

The heart-wrenching sob that left Harry’s body jerked them both a bit, and Sirius could do nothing but wait until the boy calmed down. That moment didn’t come for a long time, and while he waited, he did his best to calm Harry down. It all suddenly felt so real. His conversation with Remus flashed in his mind, making him hold on tighter. He had meant what he said, but was ridden with guilt for feeling, even just for a moment, that he was selfish for prioritizing Harry. Sitting there, holding onto his godson who probably had the same feelings, made him feel infinitely old and tired.

After a while though, the sobs quieted down, and Harry leaned back, rubbing at his red, wet face.

“God, I feel like a kid,” he said through a raspy chuckle, sniffing.

“You should be one,” said Sirius with a tight throat. “And you will be, I promise. I’ll go back to treating you like a child as soon as this all blows over.”

“Who’s to say I won’t be thirty by then?” Harry snorted. Sirius grinned.

“You’ll be an overgrown kid, then,” he answered simply. “You know, Harry, you shouldn’t feel so bad about this. Dumbledore is not who we thought he was, and Merlin, you won’t believe this, but f*cking Kingsley wanted to establish his own bloody side, that’s how much trust he lost in the old man.”

“f*ck,” shook his head Harry. “f*ck, this all seems so real now. Sirius, you have to be careful. Remus as well, and Charlie, though I have no f*cking idea how he got dragged into this, but don’t even tell me. Hermione is getting suspicious, and I’m pretty sure the four of them are seriously contemplating changing sides as well. It’s all bloody crazy.”

“War was always this way,” said his godfather. “But I promise we will be more careful. Though I can’t imagine what’s the deal with Charlie, all that fellow cares about are dragons. I think if he could, he would marry one,” he shook his head, amused.

“That’s sick, Sirius,” laughed Harry, surprised. His godfather only squeezed his hand, and they stayed quiet after that.

The raven-haired boy felt a lot lighter after their conversation, despite the heaviness of it. He had the duel lesson looming over him, but not even that could take away from the small sense of serenity surrounding him in the moment he shared with Sirius. He gazed at the older wizard, analyzing the wrinkles on his face. Harry knew he was only thirty-seven, but if he was honest, the horrors of war added at least ten years to Sirius’ appearance. Not that Harry cared, of course; all that mattered to him was that Sirius was next to him, alive. And if Harry had to do anything about it, it would stay that way for many years to come still.

First, though, he had to survive Voldemort.

He had sat in the garden with Sirius for what felt like hours, just in silence, both of them contemplating things separately. Harry’s mind was occupied with his friends, the war, and his parents. It was weird to know they really had had a chance to switch. That not only meant that Voldemort truly wasn’t lying to him, but it had also meant that his parents’ loyalty was tried as well, just like Harry’s. Though, Dumbledore didn’t want them dead, it was an eerily similar situation, and Harry could hardly fight off the guilt he felt at his choice. If he could talk to his parents somehow, he was sure it would make everything all better.

The time of the lesson arrived far too soon, and Harry steeled his expression before entering the room. As usual, the table was pushed against the wall on the far end of the space, all of the valuables perched on top of it and surrounded by a protective ward. They had learnt the need for this only around the fifth lesson, which was frankly an embarrassing amount of time. It also made Harry see Riddle in a more humane light, which bothered him to no end.

Voldemort was standing there, having arrived first, leaning against the table as usual. This time, though, he was not twirling his wand.

“At last,” he said with a smirk.

“What do you want, Riddle?” sighed Harry. “If you want to duel, let’s just get it over with, alright? I’m not in the mood for your games.”

“I never play games with you, Potter,” the wizard replied. “In fact, I tend to steer clear of lying whenever I talk with you. Previous record has shown me, though, that it isn’t always the path I should take.”

“Let’s not kid ourselves here, Riddle — I have never believed you when you said that,” Harry said, contempt dripping from his voice. “Why did you call me here, truly?”

“I wanted to take the chance to talk to you before you immersed yourself in packing,” said Riddle, clearing his throat and coming closer to Harry. In fact, he was standing entirely too close to the teenager, making him squirm. Any closer, and he would be taking up direct space in Harry’s personal aura. He could feel the earthy scent of Voldemort as it was. “There are a few things I wished to discuss, just so there is no surprise awaiting you,” he added after a beat, gazing directly into Harry’s eyes.

“Hurry up, then,” came the irritated reply. This made Voldemort chuckle.

“You have to be seen as your muggle relatives drop you off at the station, just so any lingering Order members know you are safe and sound. This means you have to stay at Privet Drive your last night, or, if you so wish, you could be transported there in the early morning as well. It is your choice,” he continued, but Harry waited for a moment because it felt like that was not all of it. When there was nothing more, he co*cked an eyebrow and replied.

“Right. Are the Dursleys in their right mind? What I’m trying to say is, will they bother me if I go there?” he asked.

“No, your relatives are currently under the Imperius Curse and will not bat an eye at you being there.” Harry shuddered, but nodded. He thought back to the claustrophobic second bedroom of his too-large-to-fit cousin, and involuntarily compared it to the room he was staying in currently. He knew it would be more difficult to go in the morning, but was also aware of the fact that he would be much too anxious to sleep as it was. What was the point in suffering wide awake in the tiny space?

“No, I will stay here and just go there in the morning,” he grumbled. Voldemort seemed pleased by this, and Harry almost backpedaled, choosing not to after a moment.

“Very well, then, we can move on. Of course, letting you go back to Hogwarts is something I have thought through thoroughly. Although I do not believe you would start running your mouth, I have placed a secrecy spell upon you, which stops you from telling anyone about what happened this summer. In case you choose to do so anyway, all that will come out of your mouth will just be a made-up story about a boring summer, suffering the abuse of the muggles.” Harry blinked at him slowly. His anger crept up his body slowly, until it reached his face and he grimaced, scowling deeply with hatred.

“You f*cking asshole,” he said silently. Voldemort waited for him to continue, but when he realized that was all Harry had to say, he covered up his snort with a cough.

“If you behave, I will lift it.”

“If I behave? What the f*ck am I, a dog?” he scowled, rolling his eyes. “Shut the f*ck up, please.”

“My, I was beginning to think I hurt you so bad the other day that you would never curse at me again,” said Riddle with an uncharacteristical grin.

“Missed it, didn’t you?” mumbled Harry, but when the older wizard didn’t regard him with a response, he rolled his eyes. “Besides, you didn’t... Hurt me, or whatever,” he added with an awkward shrug, glancing around the room.

“Of course,” said Riddle in a placating manner. “You have to be careful who you keep close this year, Potter. I have ears in the school, but I am not the only one. Ironically enough, I do not want to hurt you.” And Harry had to give it to him, he was right. This year, he was not the one who wished death upon him.

“I know,” he said, dejected. “I will not let myself be alienated from my friends just because I have to be on your side now, Riddle. I will be close to them until I can’t anymore, and you, of all people, can’t take that away from me.”

“I do not wish to take that away from you, Potter,” came the reply with a sigh. “In fact, what you told me the other day got me thinking. I remember Slytherin’s personal library resides in the Chamber. You are familiar with the place, correct? Feel free to use it. Maybe that bushy-haired muggleborn of yours can find something I couldn’t. You will have to translate for her, though,” he said simply. As if it was that easy divulging information to Harry. As if he trusted him.

“Translate? Why?” asked Harry, confusion slipping into his tone.

“It is in Parseltongue, of course,” hissed Voldemort. Harry jerked back instinctively, his cheeks heating up.

“God, that’s f*cking freaky,” he said without meaning to, and decided to take another few steps back.

“You wound me, truly.” Again, with that smirk. Harry had no idea what had gotten into Voldemort, but it was making him realized that he liked it more when the older wizard was in a murderous rage, instead of grinning and smirking about the place, speaking Parseltongue. The latter seemed weirdly intimate, something only the two of them could share. Harry didn’t think he was on Parseltongue-speaking terms with the murderer of his parents.

“Right, Riddle, woe is you. Anything else you wish to share with the class?” he co*cked an eyebrow. Surprisingly enough, Voldemort was not done.

He reached into his pocket, and for a split second, Harry tensed, thinking Riddle would start an unprompted duel yet again. Instead, all he did, was pull out a ring. It was sturdy, from what Harry could see. Voldemort reached out his hand and Harry took the ring cautiously. At first glance, it seemed to be a signet ring. On the flat surface of it, there was a crest, and underneath it, in tiny letters, the name Potter. Harry’s heart squeezed in his chest, suddenly feeling like all breath got knocked out of him.

“I realize I was out of line a week ago,” said Riddle, interrupting him feeling emotions. “I hope this makes up for it.”

“How did you get this?” asked Harry quietly, twirling the robust ring.

“I have access to a lot of the family heirlooms of a lot of wizarding families. You would be surprised at how many of them like stealing from each other,” said the other ominously. “I took the liberty of placing a few protective charms. I know trouble follows you.”

“That was because of you in the first place,” snorted Harry. He felt strange in his own body, extremely uncomfortable at the feat his nemesis pulled. Harry didn’t know what he was playing at, but he was sure he would find out soon enough. He always did when it came to Riddle. For all he knew, this was another manipulation tactic. He already knew Harry was on his side though, so the boy didn’t understand what he would need to use manipulation for. It could also be a fake ring.

Harry slipped it onto his pinky, and his worries dispersed immediately as the ring shrunk to fit snugly around his finger. He gulped.

“I suppose so,” said Voldemort, dragging him into the present. Harry thought the other looked a bit conflicted.

“This was very thoughtful. Uncharacteristically so. I don’t know what you are playing at, but if this kills me, my friends and family will know,” he said, maintaining eye contact.

“A simple thank you would have sufficed, Potter.”

“You know I don’t have manners,” he replied cheekily, taking a few steps backwards, fully intending on just leaving without a word.

“Of course,” Riddle lamented. “I would watch my back this year, if I were you, Potter.”

“Been doing that since you tried to kill me as a baby,” he replied easily, turning around and walking towards the heavy doors.

“See you on Yule Day, Harry.”

The teenager didn’t answer, only flicked his wrist. The door opened easily, and he slipped out without looking back, his heart thundering in his chest, the ring heavy on his finger.

He supposed he would see him.

Chapter 17: Journal

Chapter Text

Harry frowned at the dark fog that followed the Lestrange brothers as they Apparated away from Privet Drive. He looked to his left and his right before climbing up the stairs. The front door opened easily in front of him, no need for Harry to use his powers. After it shut behind him, though, he twisted the key in the lock. The house was pitch-black, and it was weird not to hear his uncle’s snores shaking the walls. Harry supposed it was because of the Imperius curse, though he couldn’t be too sure. He thought it ironic that his aunt would get her best sleep in years thanks to wizards. Listening to the horrendous sounds coming from his uncle for this long must have been quite traumatic for her. Not that he actually cared.

He retraces the steps he took so many times, walking upstairs to his old room. It is still just as tiny as it was two months before, though Harry’s heart still squeezes. Not in nostalgia, but in, if he was being quite honest, self-pity. He thinks back to his twelve-year-old self, curling up on the minuscule bed, wishing he could be back already in the majestic halls of Hogwarts, the first place he could call home. For the first time in his life, Harry Potter was not feeling that way.

In fact, he was terrified at the prospect of having to go back to the castle so soon. Everything felt so unstable around him, riddled with lies and half-truths, and standing there, in the middle of the crowded room, he never felt that lost. He bent down and forced the loose floorboard up. He rummaged through the messy parchment papers until he found what he was looking for. The old, torn-in-places notebook was glaring at him. He opened it, and started gnawing on his lower lip with his teeth. His handwriting had always been sh*t, it seemed. The childlike scribbling had remained almost the same over the years. Harry remembered Dudley finding out about his journal and reading it aloud to his whole class. It had been the day Harry had stopped writing in it. The thoughts spilled onto the pages were all over the place, fuzzy with anger and despair. The boy felt it all the same, even now. His heart ached for little Harry, sitting in his cupboard like an obedient little boy, and still getting no dinner. His stomach churned, as if remembering the hunger he had felt, and he shut the thin notebook at once. Harry dropped it onto the floor, and with a flick of his wrist, the pages burst into flames. As soon as they were burnt enough, Harry quickly doused water on the spot, not wanting to end up as an arsonist, and glanced at the clock.

He climbed back down the stairs, and with shaky fingers, opened the small door leading to what was the only space he had known up until he was eleven years old. Nothing had changed in the cupboard under stairs, the same sleeping cot still being crammed inside. Even the spiders seemed to be the same ones that had kept the teenager company. There was a bittersweet feeling about it that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He didn’t fit now, but he reached his arm inside nonetheless and scooped up a few of his soldier figurines. He had not had a favorite one in particular, but now wished that he did. He examined them closely, remembering making up wild stories of some brave, foreign soldier coming and sweeping him up, taking him into a sunny meadow where his parents were waiting for him on a picnic blanket, surrounded by food and laughter. He blinked the tears away, and sunk the figurines into the pocket of his jacket. He’d cried enough for five years in the last few weeks. He shut the small door, hatched the lock and turned his back on it, walking over to the couch on the living room.

At six o’clock on the dot, the Dursley family woke up without a word, and life began. Harry watched them from the sidelines, almost expecting them to start hurling insults at him. Of course, that never came, and he settled onto the couch. Vernon even offered him some bacon, which Harry did not accept, and by the time nine o’clock rolled around, they were ready. With dazed facial expressions, they helped Harry load all of his trunks into the car, and they sped off. No one had spoken a word to him all morning, and there was a sick sense of satisfaction spreading through Harry’s chest, one that was scary. He didn’t want to lose all of his empathy, though he felt like his muggle family deserved it, and worse. The drive was silent, and they even helped him get the luggage out. He co*cked an eyebrow when his uncle shook his hand firmly before getting back into the car and driving off without further ado. Harry realized this would probably be the last time he saw his relatives if Voldemort had something to do with it, and the thought strangely warmed his heart. He sighed, squared his shoulders and took off towards the station, pushing his trunk with one hand and holding Hedwig’s cage with the other.

Hermione and Ron were stood in front of the wall between platforms nine and ten, squirming and looking around. As soon as they noticed Harry approaching them, though, their demeanors changed almost instantly, and they smiled brightly at the raven-haired teen. He smiled back at them, the heavy feeling lifting from his chest, and he sped up his steps.

“Harry!” exclaimed Hermione happily, throwing her arms around him and squeezing him close to herself. He hugged her back with just as much ferocity, then turned to Ron and pulled him into a brotherly hug, slapping his back a few times. Ron did the same, and ultimately Harry pulled away and grinned at both of them.

“Your relatives give you much trouble?” asked Ron darkly.

“Just the usual,” he lied, then motioned for them to go through the wall together. Once they did, the teenager was met with the faces of the Weasley family. Fred and George stared at him with mischief in their eyes, and judging from their bulging pockets, Harry was sure they were hiding something. He shook his head at them while being hugged by Mrs. Weasley. It felt weird, being this close to the lot of them once again, but he tried to soak it up as much as he could, for there was a real chance that either this would be the last time he saw them, or that they would abandon him because of his alliance in the war. Or both. Harry honestly did not know which would be worse.

“I see you finally have some meat on your bones Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley with a motherly, well-meaning smile.

“The Dursleys have left me unattended a lot of the times this summer,” he answered cheekily, grinning at her. She exhaled through her nose as if she was about to laugh, but didn’t. Mr. Weasley was just happily standing on the side, a rubber duck peeking out from the pocket of his shirt.

“Well, the train is leaving soon,” she sighed. “You kids be good now, you hear me? And be careful. These are strange times we are living in.” Strange indeed, thought Harry privately.

After making all of their goodbyes and Ron grumpily stuffing away the sandwiches his mother had made, they finally boarded the train ten minutes before it departed. Harry could see Malfoy’s radiant hair from the window as the other boy talked animatedly with his mother, in hushed voices. His father stood next to him, looking around the platform with piercing grey eyes. Their eyes interlocked, and Lucius gave Harry a barely visible nod. Harry, for lack of better action, blinked back at him then did his best to tune into his friends’ conversation.

“So, I did some light reading,” said Hermione as soon as the train left the station, pulling out a huge, ancient-looking book from her tiny bag. Ron snorted, and Harry shared the sentiment. The definition of light reading had not changed for Hermione since their second year it seemed. “But I couldn’t come up with any solution for your predicament, I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, gnawing on her lower lip. Relief flooded Harry, though he was sure it was only partially his own feeling, and more the Horcrux’s. He thought about bringing up what Voldemort had told him last night, but before he could say anything, a tall, imposing figure appeared at the door of their compartment. He looked up and co*cked an eyebrow upon the sight of Malfoy.

The blond boy looked like he would rather be anywhere else other than standing in front of the three Gryffindors, but put on a brave face and nodded at Harry.

“Potter,” he said, pained. “Hope your summer holidays went by relatively boring.”

“Er, yeah, thanks, Malfoy,” he answered, confused. Draco nodded at them once again, and took off towards the other end of the train. Ron scowled and Hermione let out a huff of air. They stayed in silence for a few moments after that, but Harry couldn’t hold it back anymore and erupted in loud guffaws of laughter. The whole situation had been so absurd that he simply had to laugh. He didn’t know what had prompted Malfoy to act decent to him and his friends, but he supposed it was yet another step in a certain dark wizard’s grand plan of taking over the world. Nonetheless, it proved to be amazing comedy, and nothing pointed to that more than the laughter of his best friends.

“Did he get Imperiused or something?” asked Ron, wiping away his tears of amusem*nt. If only you knew, mused Harry.

“Who knows, maybe he just got a sudden burst of need to be decent with us commoners,” muttered Hermione indignantly, still more worried about the book she was holding in her lap. A moment later she flipped through the pages in a quick succession, letting out a frustrated groan.

“I highly doubt that,” snorted Harry, though he knew exactly the reason why Malfoy would suddenly play nice with them. Or at least suspected it.

“I think we have far bigger things to worry about than Malfoy hitting his head,” said Hermione shortly, slapping the book shut with uncharacteristic aggression. Harry tried to focus back on the thing he was originally about to do, and he cleared his throat.

“You mentioned something about the Black family library maybe having something on the topic, Hermione,” he started, “but I don’t think we have access to it right now, considering the circ*mstances of it being the Order headquarters. However, that draws the conclusion that other Dark wizarding families must have such information in their own libraries, correct?” he asked, trying to lean back into his seat and look relaxed.

“Well, supposedly,” answered Hermione, her voice having an insecure ring to it. “Though I am not such good friends with any dark families as to know for sure.”

“C’mon Hermione, it seems Malfoy is in our corner now,” snigg*red Ron sarcastically. Harry grinned at the way the girl rolled her eyes; personally, he thought it was a brilliant pun on Ron’s part.

“Very funny,” said the girl annoyedly, and diverted her gaze back to Harry. “But suppose you are right, what could we even do with that? Unless you know someone,” she said, co*cking an eyebrow. Harry wished he could tell her just how many someones he came to know during the summer, but kept his mouth shut for obvious reasons.

“There is the Chamber of Secrets,” he said finally, squirming in his seat.

“Isn’t that basically just a glorified dungeon?” frowned Ron.

“Maybe, but then again we didn’t really have the time to explore now, did we? We could go down there , and see for ourselves,” he suggested, as if the idea was his. As if he didn’t have second-hand knowledge from a mass murderer.

“It doesn’t sound too bad,” replied Hermione, though she seemed entirely unconvinced. “We just have to be careful not to get caught.”

“I think we will be okay,” said Harry with a laugh. After Hermione’s answering sigh, they stopped talking about serious things, and instead opted to tell stories about their summer. Harry listened to his friends intently, and lied his way through their conversations. Maybe if he held on long enough, Voldemort would lift the curse and let him tell his friends about everything that had happened. Or maybe that was just yet another dream of Harry’s.

The Sorting Ceremony went down without any major hiccups, except for one of the first years exploding a cup out of excitement for getting into Gryffindor. Harry managed not to look at Dumbledore, knowing that the old wizard was definitely suspicious. He busied himself with greeting Seamus and Dean who regaled him with stories of their journey to Turkey, where the two of them and their families spent a week together. It would have been two weeks, but Seamus blew up something accidentally and thus they had to cut the holidays short. The warning Howler he had gotten from the Ministry was mortifying, Seamus said. Harry thought he ought to be more grateful for not getting himself expelled.

The ceremony did not last long enough, though, and soon Harry was forced to look up to the podium where Dumbledore cleared his throat. Every student fell silent, eyes on the headmaster. Strangely enough, the old wizard did not look at Harry. The boy didn’t know if this was on purpose or not, happy to not be faced with the person who would eventually become his murderer if things got bad enough.

“Dear students,” he began, magnifying his voice magically. “Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and to those of you who are just on at the beginning of your journey, welcome to the place you may now call your new home.” His blue eyes were swimming with mirth, and Harry had to gulp down the bile rising in his throat.

“As each year before this one, the Forbidden Forest is out of bounds for each and every one of you,” he warned, looking around the Great Hall. The students in the upper years sighed and some even rolled their eyes while the newcomers hunched in on themselves, obviously scared into obedience. “I am sure the Minister would not be happy with me for doing so, but I must say something. These are dark times that are coming, and not believing so will not help our cause. The stars do not shine without darkness, however, we must be the stars ourselves, for stars remain even when nighttime turns into daylight. Many many years ago, a bright student sat where you now sit. Ate where you now eat; he prowled these same halls, learned the same things you do now. His name was Tom Riddle, though you probably know him as someone else; Lord Voldemort.” Gasps interrupted Dumbledore’s speech. It took everything in Harry not to roll his eyes at the absurdity. He carefully looked at Ron and Hermione, both of them stoic, immersed in their own thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, he sensed someone looking at him. He turned his head carefully and met Malfoy’s gaze head on. With a barely visible nod, the blond turned back towards the podium, disgust etched across his face. Harry gulped, and did the same.

Dumbledore looked straight into his eyes for the next part of his speech. “It may seem hopeless, but Dark cannot claim what Light does not surrender. Thus I propose this to you: Stay vigilant, open your eyes, but open your heart more. For there is no better remedy to darkness than switching on a light,” he finished, the flames of the candles in the hall suddenly brighter than they were before. “I have another important notice to mention before we dig into our scrumptious feast,” he continued as if nothing had happened, as if he didn’t just frighten a dozen eleven-year-olds. Harry wondered how blind he could have been for the past few years, following this man like a puppy. He did not even have time to react properly before the old wizard went on with his speech.

“It is to my deepest pleasure to announce that our beloved Professor Snape will be taking over the Defence Against the Dark Arts post this year, with Professor Horace Slughorn coming back to teach Potions,” he said with a smile. Only Slytherin clapped audibly, the other houses trying to get away with not doing so.Harry frowned; he really didn’t need Snape ruining whatever happiness he had left at Hogwarts. “There has been some slight change to the Care of Magical Creatures post as well; Hagrid will be taking care of the Third, Fourth and Fifth years. I am delighted to announce that one of our treasured students is returning to us, in a teaching position. Please, everyone, welcome Charlie Weasley, your new N.E.W.T. teacher of Care of Magical Creatures!” he shouted with a grin. The door on the left of the podium opened and out came Charlie with a wide smile, waving at the students sitting on the benches. Harry glanced towards Ron and laughed as he saw his friend’s gobsmacked face.

He tried to take part in his friends’ celebration but could not really in good conscience do that as he remembered Dumbledore’s words. While the students clapped and cheered for Charlie, he glanced at the teachers’ table. Snape was looking into his goblet, deep inside his thoughts. His gaze slid over to the headmaster, who was, yet again looking directly at him. Harry forced a smile on his face and inclined his head as a greeting. This seemed to please Dumbledore, if only considering the way his eyes changed. Harry felt sick to his stomach.

With Snape taking over DADA, he was not sure what he could even enjoy during his classes. He had no idea to how much information the professor was privy to, courtesy of Voldemort of course, and so his anxiety sky-rocketed as the black-haired man looked at him and sneered, At least something hadn’t changed.

“So this is why Charlie stayed in England for this long,” Ron groaned.

“How is that girlfriend theory of yours working out, Ron?” teased Ginny with a cheeky smile. “He went crazy over it in the last few days,” she directed at Harry with a roll of her eyes and he snorted a laugh through his nose.

“Shut up, Gin,” muttered the red-head with rosy cheeks and turned to the feast on the table. There was not much talk after that.

“At least we can be sure class will be fun,” said Harry with a smile, placating his friends. This year would certainly be interesting.

An hour later Harry was already in his dorms in the tower, wanting to avoid the rush of the first years coming to their rooms. Most of his classmates were there as well, fooling around with sweets and trading stories about the summer as usual. Harry listened to Seamus’ story about the Muggle girl he had taken out on a date and how she had turned up to the restaurant with her son. Seamus had still taken her on the date which Harry felt was nice of him, but everyone had understood why it didn’t work out between them. After all, the Irish boy was not really father material.

“Hey Harry, where’d you get that?” asked Neville suddenly a little while later as Harry was unpacking his things from his trunk. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion until Neville pointed at the ring on his pinky. He cleared his throat and pretended to be busy with his pajamas.

“Er, just... A gift from someone,” he said. “It’s from Sirius,” he lied easily in a whisper, mindful of Seamus and Dean, who didn’t quite know the extent of his connection to Sirius, who was still a fugitive officially. Neville’s mouth formed an O, and he nodded furiously.

“Well, I’m glad you got it,” he said with a smile that made Harry feel guilty for lying to his friend. “Your dad probably wore it before you, y’know. Usually, the heirs only get it oncethey become the lords of their houses.”

“Like in medieval times?” said Harry, scrunching up his nose in judgement. Neville shrugged in response.

“Sort of,” he replied, neatly unpacking some of his plants and playing them on the windowsill next to his bed. “But I think it can be excused in your instance, mate,” he laughed. Harry echoed his laugh and reached into his trunk once again. His fingers bumped into something hard and leathery and he gulped at the sight of a black journal. He put it back where it came from and shut the top of his case forcefully.

The tower was veiled in silence by the time Harry took the courage to open the curtains surrounding his bed and reach into his trunk for the journal. On the bed next to him Ron stirred for a second at the rustling, and Harry froze with his hand deep in the suitcase. After a few seconds, his best friend simply turned onto his other side and continued snoring. Harry cast a silencing charm over him just to not have to bother with it later, and pulled the diary with himself, closing the curtains.

The leather was smooth, and very obviously good quality, the kind Harry would never buy for himself. He already had a pretty good feeling who the gift was from, but he still opened the little book to make sure. A note fell out almost immediately.

“Potter,

Do not test out the curse. Your face is going to be riddled with horrible spots. We wouldn’t want the Golden Boy to look anything but perfect now, would we?

I admit, this gift is a bit of a selfish one. The diary works the same as the one you stabbed in your second year. Anything you write into it I will be able to answer. Do not fret, it is not another Horcrux. I do hope you have the mind to read this alone, in a secluded area.

If any doubts arise, write to me. I have tasked the Malfoy boy with something important this year, and I wish you to aid him as much as possible. I carry the sister to the journal with me, and will notice your messages as soon as you write them.

Seeing as I am not out to kill you this year, if I were you, I would focus on my studies. Do not let Dumbledore get into your head, he is an old fool.

I expect you to contact me on the first weekend.

T.M. R.”

The note, impersonal as it was, warmed Harry’s chest in an uncomfortable manner. He scoffed at the bit of information Voldemort had conveniently left out before, about the curse he had placed on him, and shook his head. His palm itched to grab a quill and let Riddle now just what exactly he thought about his little gift and note, though refrained from doing so. If he started chatting to the Dark Lord this late, he would never go to sleep and resemble a zombie the next day.

He reread the lines and bit down onto his lower lip. So Draco was up to something yet again, only this time Harry was supposed to help him. He had no idea how to do that, considering that his friends would be like his shadows, as usual. Not that he wanted to spend much time apart from them. He knew very well that this would be their last normal year together, and the guilt ate away at him. Of course, he had no way of telling his friends anything, but withholding information from them still felt wrong. Hopefully if they found something in the Chamber, he could gauge their reactions about the Dark. Maybe, just maybe they would come to the same conclusion that he had. Maybe he didn’t have to lose his family.

His heart stuttered in his chest, his fingers shaking as they traced the words in perfect penmanship on the parchment. Harry’s scar felt funny, not unlike his stomach.

Though he did not talk to Voldemort, Harry still did not sleep that night, the sick feeling of hope creeping up his spine like a horribly long centipede. Hope for something else. Something he could never, would never, have.

The Malfoy Manor was decidedly quieter without the occasional bickering of the two teenaged boys, the silence almost cutting. The meeting hall held only a handful of Death Eaters, only those Voldemort trusted. Somewhat. The exception held only Severus Snape.

“This weekend, in three days’ time, we will attack Hogsmeade,” said Voldemort.

“My Lord, the school year has only just started today,” replied Lucius immediately.

“Don’t get you knickers in a twist, Lucius,” hissed back Voldemort. “I know what I am doing, but if you believe the opposite, you are free to leave this room. I, however, am not sure how far you will actually make it,” he snarled, quieting the Malfoy patriarch immediately.

“Alright,” interrupted Sirius before it all turned into a bloodbath. “I will not harm anyone though.”

“Of course, bloody Gryffindor,” snigg*red Bellatrix maliciously. Rodolphus rolled his eyes into the back of his head behind her.

“That is all,” grumbled Voldemort. “I expect you all know to answer my call when it comes. Failure to show up will result in a lot of pain.”

Everyone disappeared without having to be told twice.

Hogsmeade was quiet in the early hours of the morning. With the sun’s first real rays the shops started opening up, people greeting each other and trading business gossip while they could, while there were no clients still. Madam Rosmerta was the first one to notice the dark clouds in the sky.

“That is strange,” she said to Bilton Bilmes. “The sun is shining, yet the clouds are chasing the rays. I reckon not a lot of students will want to come out,” she sighed.

“I reckon they are still too excited to be with their mates, Rosmerta,” came the reply from the wizard. “After all, ‘tis not even the first Hogsmeade weekend for the younger students, and the older ones are probably still moaning about having to study,” he laughed. The witch agreed, though continued to gaze up towards the sky. The clouds resembled smoke more now, and she furrowed her eyebrows.

“I have to get some butterbeer chilled,” she said with a sigh, trying to shake off the bad feeling she had as she headed back into her pub after saying goodbye to Bilmes. The old wizard tipped his hat toward her and went into his shop as well, flipping the Closed sign around, officially opening up.

It was exactly thirty seconds later that his window burst into a million little pieces as a yellow light portruded the shop, hitting a batch of Dungbombs. Bellatrix laughed maniacally underneath her mask, blasting the same spot three more times before Apparating a bit further away. Bilmes crawled underneath a desk in the back, heaving great sighs as he scrambled around to get to his wand with a heart that felt as if it was pounding out of his chest. He was not quick enough, falling face-first into the ground, cold to the touch.

Voldemort arrived a bit later, his mask concealing his identity perfectly. For a moment, he only stood and took the scene in. He knew they had approximately three minutes before the Aurors would arrive, but in a street as small as the main road of Hogsmeade it was just enough time to inflict the damage he had planned on. He surveyed his followers. Black arrived just after him, almost at the same time as Snape did, and started blasting holes into the ground almost immediately, making sure he did not hit anyone that breathed. Voldemort was pleased, though the Potions master looked awfully out of place. He did not believe he would show up today at the unprompted call. Despite that, the man dutifully turned around and shattered Madam Puddifoot’s window into a million confetti-sized particles with a single swish of his wand. Voldemort could see the residents of Hogsmeade trying to hide behind their curtains, though a few brave wizards and witches ran to the streets to help fight against them. To protect what, he did not know, but decided not to concern himself too much.

“Never thought I would get the chance to fight one of you bastards,” spat a stranger, older wizard, whipping his wand around comically, dodging Rabastan’s hexes and curses rather skillfully.

“Cheeky one, aren’t ya?” bellowed back the Dark wizard, then with a final swish of his wand killed the man, all without uttering a word. Strangely enough, upon seeing the scene, all Voldemort could think about was how Harry was not going to be happy about this. He would have to deal with Rabastan later to make sure not to alienate the Potter boy with their little stunt. What a headache.

Sensing movement behind him, he turned around and petrified the small witch who was sneaking up on him with a simple flick of his wrist. If he calculated correctly, which, of course, he did, they had one and a half more minute to go until the authorities would show up. He grinned beneath his mask. This would send the message he had hoped for. His return would not, could not be questioned now, not after this. He let the others advance, and raised his arm above his head, stretching his fingers towards the sky.

“Morsmordre!” he bellowed, the swirl of dark green and black bursting out of his fingertips, the snake coiling into the bright skyline, darkening it into a stormy grey. One minute.

He caught movement from the corner of his eyes. A dark-robed figure sneaked into the alleyway a little bit farther away from where Voldemort was standing. The fireworks of spells going on in front of him allowed him to pay attention to the mystery figure, though he did not stay unknown for long. Upon the sight of the doe made of silvery mist, Voldemort saw red. His hand shook beside him, and he snarled underneath his mask, baring his teeth in an animalistic manner.

Thirty seconds.

The cloaked figure rounded out from the alley with fifteen seconds to spare, halting as his eyes connected with Voldemort’s. Almost exactly three minutes after the initial attack had started, the red-robes of the Aurors swished.

Voldemort’s face relaxed into a dark grin, unbeknownst to anyone. He moved his fingers quickly, knowing that he didn’t have much time, and bound the other man’s legs together with invisible threads of magic.

The final flick of his wrist ripped the Death Eater mask off of Severus Snape, his face open for everyone to see.

By the time the Aurors could react, the Dark Lord and his followers were nothing but black fog in the sky.

Chapter 18: Casualties

Chapter Text

The first few days of the new schoolyear went by the same as they usually did, without a hitch. Everyone was trying to get back into the grove of studying, seeing as the teachers did not allow them any reprieve, opting instead to assign as much homework as possible. Harry for one tried to stay low and actually focus on his studies, just like Voldemort had suggested. Hermione, as a result, was very proud of him, and did not hold back from mentioning it multiple times a day. On the other hand though, when Ron saw Harry getting a head start on his Potions essay about Felix Felicis, he had turned green. (That was possibly just the light.)

All in all, the first four days went by uneventful, and Harry was grateful. Everyone was mostly preoccupied by the fact that Charlie Weasley was going to teach at Hogwarts, and that took off the usual excitement of the First Years upon seeing Harry Potter. On Friday evening, though, Hermione looked up at them sheepishly. The three friends were sitting in the Common Room; Ron and Harry playing Wizards Chess, and Hermione reading some kind of Muggle classic.

“Should we try going to the Chambers?” she asked quietly. Harry dropped the Knight he was holding and gulped, shrugging his shoulders.

“That’s a good idea, Mione!” exclaimed Ron. “The sooner we get an answer, the sooner we can try to exorcise this thing out of Harry!” he grinned widely, resembling an overgrown puppy. Harry didn’t want to break their spirits, but he really had no hope of finding anything down there. It was true that Voldemort had not been there for fifty years (not extensively anyway), so the fact that he did not find anything should not mean so much, but Harry had a slight inkling that Riddle had researched the spell extensively before actually doing it, and that, naturally meant that he found nothing about living Horcruxes, let alone something about how to get the Horcrux out of them. At the thought of extracting anything from inside of him, especially something that was supposed to be the soul of someone, Harry turned slightly nauseous. He wished the past few months of his life hadn’t happened.

“I suppose it would be better off if we went down on a Hogsmeade weekend, no?” said Harry, suddenly remembering. “That way there wouldn’t be too many students at the castle.”

“It would be a bit suspicious for us not to go,” retorted Hermione. “In past years, we have always gone. I think we should be extremely careful, but go today. Or tomorrow,” she suggested instead.

“During the night?” asked Ron. “Who are you and what have you done to Hermione?” he snorted.

“Oh, hush,” she grumbled back. “This is for Harry. I have done way worse.”

“True,” laughed Harry, his chest warm. Then, he sighed. “Alright, let’s go tonight, then. But we should definitely stop by the kitchens for some snacks,” he said as an afterthought.

“It’s settled,” replied Hermione with a slight smile and turned back to her book, signaling the end of the conversation.

A few hours later the castle donned its robe of silence. Harry and Ron waited until their dormmates fell asleep, and snuck out of the room quietly. They only had to wait a few minutes for Hermione to appear, a small purse at her side. They all shuffled underneath the Invisibility Cloak, which now, with all three of them being sixteen, was a lot harder than ever before.

“Ron, your elbow is in my ribs,” hissed Hermione as soon as they were outside of the Tower.

“Sorry,” he muttered, then groaned. “Harry, mate, you just elbowed my balls.”

“Forgive me,” said Harry, snorting back his laugh. They hurried along the corridors in relative silence, snickering here and there. They managed to get past the portraits without a hitch, and soon, they were inside the girl’s bathroom on the second floor.

Moaning Myrtle was, thankfully, nowhere to be found. Harry made a quick work of opening the Chamber and they slid down quickly. Hermione, having never been down there, gagged a little bit at the hundreds of rat skeletons, but was otherwise fine.

“So... What now?” asked Ron when they arrived at the decayed corpse of the Basilisk. Harry shuddered and stuffed his cloak into the front pocket of his jumper.

“We could try going in there,” he answered, pointing towards the two entrances below Salazar Slytherin’s enormous statue. They all lit up the tip of their wands and made their way into the empty space. Upon entering, they discovered several doors. The first one led to a small, ancient looking bed.

“He slept here probably, a thousand years ago,” Hermione said quietly, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“And who knows what else,” snigg*red Ron, earning a slap on the back of his head from the girl. They continued on, mostly stumbling upon small closet-like spaces, likely there for deterring any curious but unwelcome guests. At the end of the narrow hallway, they finally found what they were looking for. They pushed in the wooden door which looked the exact same as the other ones, and found a large space.

The three of them whispered Lumos Maxima in unision, and the space brightened around them. Hermione lit the candles perched on the walls so that they could finally see without their wands. Rows upon rows of books were nestled along the brick walls, a thick layer of dust resting atop of them. All of them looked ancient, true to their time. Hermione’s eyes were bright as she looked around. She was the first one to venture close to the books, running her fingers across the length of their spines. She took one out randomly and furrowed her eyebrows.

“What’s wrong?” asked Harry, concern coloring his voice.

“Nothing, just... Harry, I think these are written in parseltongue,” she said as she gulped and looked up at him. He reached for the book and Hermione dropped it in his hand with ease. She was right. Somehow, despite never having seen it written before, Harry understood the words painted across the leather cover. Encyclopedia of Poisonous Herbs was written in golden letters.

“Not what we are looking for,” he said, shaking his head and put the book back into its place. “Maybe it would make most sense if I’m looking for them alone,” he grinned.

“Probably, mate,” answered Ron with a gulp, watching a spider on the wall intently.

“We should take some Basilisk venom,” said Hermione suddenly. Ron looked at her as if she had suddenly grown seven other heads. “What, Ronald? Grow up, it’s a valuable ingredient. Come on,” she said, tugging him out of the library.

After they left, their voices fading as they got farther and farther away from him, Harry looked around the room, just taking it all in. He felt a weird connection with the place, as if something in the walls was calling out to him, inviting him in. He loahed to think that he had taken Voldemort’s advice, but here he was. Just how many nights had Riddle spent here? Harry guessed not many after the attack, but instead of that making him grieve for Myrtle, it made him think of a fifteen-year-old Voldemort, attending Hogwarts while there was a war raging on in the Muggle world, losing a place of comfort. It made him feel strangely sorry for the old wizard and he had to shake his head to pull himself together. He was a mass murderer and Harry was looking for ways to break their weird, accidental connection. No time to get sentimental.

And so he got right to work. He searched each shelf with inquisitive eyes, utterly focused on his task. It took him little time to realize the way the books were categorized, which helped him look in the right places. A little while later his friends returned, though they sat down onto the floor and let him search for the book alone. Each one was written in Parseltongue, without exception, and Harry wondered how much time it must have taken Slytherin to translate all of these. This, of course, was only true up until he stumbled upon a script from a more recent year, the initials T.M.R. written with immaculate penmanship on the bottom right corner of the first page of the tome. Of course Voldemort would be pompous enough to translate books into Parseltongue. Harry had no doubt he even incinerated the original texts.

It took him so long to find even something that by the time he did, Hermione had fallen asleep on Ron’s shoulder as they sat on the cold floor. The redhead blushed when Harry noticed them, so the boy did not say anything. Together, they gently woke the girl up and huddled together around the book. The Tempus charm showed that it was already close to three o’clock in the morning, and Harry guessed that if they wanted to get through part of the book now, they would be done with half of it by the time breakfast was served. He said as much to his friends, who both squared their shoulders and listened to him translate the book intently. It took him about half an hour to get used to switching from reading Parseltongue to speaking English, with a few funny hiccups along the way. Their laughter and joy died in their throats as the book progressed.

First it had only been general information about the ethymology of the complex spell cast, but as the paragraphs multiplied and the pages passed, the author went into uncomfortable detail about how it felt to kill another human being. Given that the caster and author was Herpo the Foul, they should not have hoped for anything good. Still, Harry had to stop for a bit in the middle of a particularly nasty paragraph which described the way Herpo killed his victim in an excruciatingly vivid manner.

“This is disgusting,” said Hermione, a bit green, toying with the hem of her sleeves.

“At least he only made one,” said Harry. “Voldemort made... Probably multiple,” he corrected himself quickly, remembering that he actually had no idea how much his friends knew about the Dark wizard’s ventures into the magic of Horcruxes.

“I would not put it past him, no,” replied Hermione. She cast a Tempus charm and groaned when she saw that it was already time for breakfast. “I think we should go up and eat something. It’s already almost eight.”

“Merlin, we have been here all night,” said Ron with a groaned, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “I agree with ‘Mione, plus, someone could get suspicious.”

“I bet the others have already noticed that we weren’t in bed,” grumbled Harry, setting the book on one of the tables, running his fingers through his already messy hair. “Let’s go, we don’t need Filch seeing us as well,” he sighed.

Fifteen minutes later the three friends stepped into the Great Hall. The students were buzzing with excitement, and the teacher’s table was unusually empty. Harry glanced around and locked eyes with Malfoy, who looked like someone had just told him that his pet peaco*cks had died. The Slytherins around him were all reading the paper, probably getting the latest gossip. He averted his gaze, and sat down between Ron and Seamus.

“Where have you lot been?” asked the Irish boy indignantly.

“None of your concern, Seamus,” clipped Hermione harshly, buttering her toast in a matter-of-fact manner, unique to her. “Why, did anything happen?” she asked suspiciously, looking around the worried faces of the Gryffindor students.

“Death Eater attack in Hogsmeade this morning, only an hour ago,” said Dean in an uncharacteristically grim manner. The Earth stopped spinning around its axis for Harry.

“Merlin’s beard!” exclaimed Hermione, her voice cracking. “Where? Is everyone alright? Give me that!” she snapped, ripping the paper from Seamus’ hand.

“Merlin,” shivered Ron, mortified as he read over the girl’s shoulder.

“Did they catch anyone?” asked Harry, trying to hide the way his hands shook.

“Snape,” said Neville. “It’s all over the paper. That’s why Dumbledore is not here, I assume he is trying to vouch for him or something,” he shrugged, weirdly unbothered.

“Merlin, I always knew something was wrong with that one,” said Ron, pushing his biscuit around his plate sadly. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy leaving alone. He jumped up from the bench without further explanation and rushed after him, seeing red.

He caught up with the blond boy on the corridor leading to the stairs towards the dungeons. He circled his fingers around his thin wrist and dragged him into a broom closet, waving the door shut and locking it with a flick of his wrist. He didn’t have enough time to rejoice in the fact that his unnerving lessons with Voldemort had paid off because he remembered what the man had done only an hour ago.

“Did you know?” hissed Harry angrily.

“Do you always whisk boys away this way, Potter? Merlin, at least buy me a butterbeer first,” came the reply. “And no, I did not. What’s it to you anyway? Changed your mind?” he said, venom dripping from his voice, wand digging into Harry’s side.

“f*ck you, Malfoy,” he answered, pushing his wand deeper into the other boy’s chest in return. “I thought you knew something.”

“If anything, you are the one He keeps the closest,” said the blond, bored. “So what if they blew up Hogsmeade? That blithering fool, Bilmes, had it coming for him. Joke shop, my arse,” he snarked.

“Does this not bother you at all?” asked Harry incredulously. “He gave up your godfather!”

“Oh, don’t act as if you are not jumping from joy inside, you hypocrite,” said the other bitingly. “Snape was a traitor, godfather or not. It was a respectable move. It’s what I would have done.”

Before Harry could reply, the door was pulled upon forcefully and Charlie Weasley stared down at them with a co*cked eyebrow.

“And what is the meaning of this?” he asked sternly, shooting Malfoy an undecipherable look.

“Potter being an uncultured oaf, Professor,” Malfoy said instantly, emphasizing the title. Harry looked between them with furrowed eyebrows. Was he knocked stupid by the news of the attack, or were Charlie and Malfoy really flirting in a weird, disturbing way? “He handled me in here like a brute.”

“Very well,” said Charlie lightly. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”

“You’re not serious, right?” asked Harry, shooting the Weasley a deadpan glance. “Your mom is knitting me sweaters.”

“And I am deducting ten points from you. Wonderful, isn’t it? Just like real family,” said Charlie with a sharp grin. “Move it, Harry. Malfoy, stay back, I need to speak to you about your assignment.”

Harry did not point it out to them that they had no assignment. Nor the fact that Malfoy was not even in Charlie’s class. He simply he pushed his way past Malfoy angrily and took off towards his dorm.

He was seething the whole way back to the Gryffindor Tower. He was sure that if he were a cartoon character, steam would be coming out of his ears. The students on the corridor looked at him weirdly, scrutinizing him and Harry wished he could shrink in on himself and disappear. The Fat Lady giggled maliciously while letting him in and he had half a mind to punch a hole into the portrait. He held himself back successfully and did not stop in the Common room, not even when Ron and Hermione called out his name. He shut the curtains around his bed, cast a few privacy charms and pulled out the journal from his trunk. The cover was just as soft as the previous night, and he didn’t hesitate as he took a quill and started to write.

‘f*ck you.’ It was a strong starting message, but it was to the point and honest at least. He knew it was still what most people would consider early on a weekend, but he was sure Voldemort was currently celebrating his success in Hogsmeade. Harry had heard on his way back to his room about the tragic death of the owner of Zonko’s, and his heart squeezed in his chest. The other wizard had promised him there would be no more unnecessary casualties, yet here they were.

‘Eloquent as ever, Potter.’ The reply was written in the same smooth handwriting which was on the note Voldemort had left Harry. ‘I must say, however, that I did warn you.’

‘You said there would be no innocent people dying,’ wrote Harry with fervor, his already ugly handwriting resembling scribbles rather than letters.

‘I did not do that, and this is a war, Potter. Innocent people have died, and will die, both at our hands and at the Order’s hands. If you cannot accept this fact, I suggest you hole up in a cave and spend the rest of your remaining days scavenging for berries and whatnot.’

Harry rolled his eyes and exhaled, wiggling his body to get in a more comfortable position. He wanted to reach through the journal and strangle Voldemort with his bare hands.

‘I wish I could do that, dickhe*d, but someone made me the Boy Who Lived and now I cannot just become a monk somewhere in the mountains.’

‘I wonder who it was.’ The response felt way too cheeky for Harry’s liking, and he held back from ripping the journal to threads. He would have to get some type of closure right now, because it was only morning and the first day of the weekend, and he still had to meet people and hold up a façade.

‘Was what happened to Snape intentional?’ he decided to ask instead, knowing that Voldemort would not explain anything to him. He could just hope that he was satisfied with the way this attack turned out, and leave the population alone for a little while more.

‘Possibly the most intentional thing I have done in a while,’ came the instant reply. Harry wondered if Riddle was holed up in his study now, leaning over an identical journal. Shouldn’t he be celebrating instead of humoring him?

‘I can’t say I am disappointed,’ wrote Harry honestly. His chest felt lighter afterwards, and he was glad that the words got erased shortly after.

‘Glad I could be of service,’ Riddle wrote. ‘I do not have much more time to sit and chat, Potter. Regarding my note in the journal, the task of the Malfoy boy is of utmost importance, and one you will not like. Despite all this, I ask you to aid him. He will tell you everything you need to know. I must go now, but Potter, be careful of who you surround yourself with.’

Harry didn’t bother writing anything back and closed the journal with a small thud. He stuffed it underneath his mattress and leaned back on the headboard of his bed. He dragged his hands down his face, rubbing the skin red and his eyes until he saw stars dancing around his vision.

The rest of the day seemed to go just as one had imagined it would. For the first three hours, Harry refused to leave his bed, the curtains remaining closed the whole time. He had sent various messages to Voldemort in that time, only some of them non-threatening. No response came through, though, and he gave up after the first few attempts. He sunk the journal back into its place and decided not to take it out until the holidays.

For the rest of his time behind his curtains, he wondered. He tried to think about what this would mean in the future, how this would affect his life now. After all, Snape had been a known Death Eater in the first war, and it was doubtful that enough people had forgotten about his past. Harry thought it doubtful that Dumbledore would just sit and do nothing, as well, considering that Snape had been his precious staff member, the one he did not fire throughout his years of relentlessly bullying schoolchildren to the point of some of them having their boggarts appear as Snape. Surely, the old wizard would at least try to get him out of Azkaban and to clear his name. Harry scoffed, and turned to his other side, burying his face into his pillow. It was not worth his energy. He wished he could do something with this, twist it in such a Slytherin way that it would help him get revenge for all of the years Snape had spent terrorizing him and his friends. His head started to hurt from all the thinking. And disappointment in himself at the thoughts he was having.

A while later, though Harry was not sure exactly how much time had passed, he decided enough was enough. In the past he had never allowed himself not to be there when anything happened, and he didn’t want people to start suspecting anything. He threw off the duvet and rubbed his face tiredly. Upon opening his curtains, he saw Ron sitting on his own bed together with his brothers, all three of them looking far more brooding than usual. All redheaded heads turned towards him when they noticed the open curtains, and Fred was the first one to start talking.

“We were starting to wonder whether you had suffocated under your blanket, mate,” he said with a cheeky grin, and Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest for a second.

“Bit too much to deal with everything today, yeah?” asked Ron in a perhaps uncharacteristically empathetic way.

“I suppose,” sighed Harry and rubbed his face yet again. He was glad he wasn’t prone to acne, otherwise his face would have ended up looking like that one muggleborn girl from third year. “Maybe we should go and find Hermione for this conversation,” he said after a moment of silence.

“Excellent idea, Harry, mustn’t leave our brains out,’ said George with a grin mirroring Fred’s, and with that, the quartet left the dorms, Harry being careful to draw the curtains around his bed after himself.

They found Hermione in the secluded area of the library, reading the old, gigantic tome they had brought back from the Chamber of Secrets. His friends had told Harry it was already almost time for dinner, and he wanted to talk to them before that, knowing they would not get to enjoy the food in the current circ*mstances. They needed to talk and help each other get the stress off their shoulders.

“Are you feeling better, Harry?” asked Hermione with a gentle smile, shutting the book and placing it carefully on the table.

“Much,” answered the boy, and sat down next to her. The others followed suit, and soon they huddled close together and cast a number of privacy charms around the area surrounding them, not wanting anyone to hear what they were up to.

“Professor Dumbledore in not at the school anymore, not since the attack happened and the news got out,” started the girl. “The students were ordered to stay in the castle for the time being, and all of our Hogwarts weekends got canceled until further notice. All the better,” she muttered darkly.

“First reports say two died, and several more got injured,” continued Fred, looking Harry in the eyes. The raven-haired boy tried to hide how ashamed he felt for curling up under his f*cking blankets all day instead of doing something. He had to shake the heavy feeling and start being productive, otherwise this world would turn into something he did not want to live in any more. “One of them was the owner of Zonko’s, and the other was the great-grandfather of a student here, although no one is sure who. The Order have not come forward officially so far, but considering Dumbledore is not here... Well, it is safe to say they will get involved nonetheless.”

“Right,” answered Harry, straightening his back. He wished he could share everything he knew with his friends, knowing that it would make everything go by smoother. They would be precious allies, and so Harry made a mental to-do list, his first task noted as talking to Voldemort as soon as possible about lifting the curse. Once he did, he would have to devise a plan to attract his friends to the other side. He could only hope and pray that the Order, and especially Dumbledore, would do something so outrageous that it pushed them over the edge.

“Well, it is clear that the Minister can’t smooth this over now,” he answered, sighing. “Snape is well-known; he’s been the Potions professor since the end of the First War, there is no way they can lie their way out if this. He was there, clear as day, and I bet Dumbledore is away to try to get him out of it,” he snarled.

“You know, I am not sure Professor Snape was there to help You-Know-Who,” said Hermione carefully. “After all, he is a spy for the Order. For all we know, Professor Dumbledore sent him there.”

“You are right, but look at what happened to Sirius. Everyone knew he was a high-ranking Auror, that he was part of the Order, and yet, everyone believed the news about his betrayal in a heartbeat. Snape was a known Death Eater, what’s there to say the people will believe him being a spy? Everyone tends to be more cautious with news about bad people turning good, rather than good people turning bad,” answered Harry immediately.

“Then again Sirius did not have the protection of the most powerful wizard alive,” said Ron. “Dumbledore is there right now, defending Snape. He will get out of this.” Harry grabbed the opportunity that presented itself by the throat.

“And why wasn’t Dumbledore there for Sirius, then?” he snarled. “Sirius was nothing but a Light Wizard, meanwhile Snape voluntarily chose to follow Voldemort, and even after deflecting to the other side continued to bully anyone and everyone in his life, including schoolchildren. For f*ck’s sake, Neville is terrified of him! Why would Dumbledore protect such a person?” Harry spat heatedly, shutting everyone up.

“That’s true,” muttered Ron like someone who just had an epiphany. “And anyway, it’s not like we can trust Dumbledore anymore. He wants to sacrifice Harry. We are on our own now,” he shrugged, simple as if talking about the weather in Scotland.

“Maybe we aren’t,” countered Harry quietly.

“What do you mean, mate?” asked Fred, furrowing his perfectly-arched eyebrows.

“You have to trust me,” said Harry, standing up. “Let’s wait for further news on the matter. In the meantime, I have to take care of something after which hopefully everything will be a bit clearer. I will see you tonight, don’t wait for me at dinner,” he said hurriedly and turned to leave.

“But you haven’t eaten anything today!” exclaimed Hermione. Harry just kept marching on, taking the stairs down towards the Slytherin Dungeon.

The Dining Hall in Malfoy Manor was lively with the sounds of celebration. Voldemort sat at one end of the table with Nagini draped across his lap, looking at his followers drinking and sharing stories, buzzing with the adrenaline of the attack. Only Black was missing, most likely at an Order meeting.

Voldemort was pleased with himself, despite upsetting the Potter boy. The attack was a success, now he just had to lay low for another little while and watch the events unfold. It was the old fool’s time to shine, to try to protect what was left of Snape’s dignity. If the idiot had not been stupid enough to be seen, he would be here, celebrating and acting like nothing ever happened. The Dark Lord was glad, though. It was better this way, even though his plan had to take a little detour. The en would all be the same.

The journal felt warm in one of the many pockets in the folds of his robes. Potter had not answered him, but he didn’t mind. He had no patience for emotional teenage boys who resembled teenage girls more. He had to focus on the task at hand. The deflection of Potter would happen naturally, he was sure of it now. Snape’s betrayal would help the teenager in his cause as well.

“There was an owl from Draco, my Lord,” said Narcissa, appearing next to him suddenly. She slid the piece of parchment into his palm, and Voldemort took it.

“My Lord,

Potter sought me out this evening. He said yes. We shall be ready by the end of the winter holiday, my Lord.

D.M.”

He acknowledged the information with a nod and Vanished the letter. Standing up, he surveyed the crowd one last time before Apparating from the hall with Nagini around his shoulders. In his study, he let her slither in front of the fireplace while he sat down, procuring the journal from under his clothes.

‘Potter — Good luck with your task. My apologies for the casualties. Good night.’

‘Good night.’

Chapter 19: A Cabinet, a Diary

Chapter Text

Emotion was palpable in the air the next morning in the castle. Harry kept his head down as he, Hermione and Ron walked to the Great Hall for breakfast, none of them eager to talk. The silence between them hung heavy, purposerful. Harry had bitten his cheek raw inside his mouth, tasting the coppery taste of blood on his tongue.

The other students were also strangely subdued, like everyone had finally realized that what Harry had been talking about for the past few years was not just hodgepodge, but instead the reality all of them lived in. War.

He tried to catch Malfoy’s gaze, but he didn’t see the mop of shiny blond hair anywhere. He plopped down next to Ron, half-heartedly poured some pumpkin juice into his goblet, and avoided everyone’s eyes like the plague. A few seconds later, the flurry of owls burst into the hall, dropping the newspaper onto everyone’s plates. Ron wasted no time in opening it, skipping over the enormous moving picture of Snape on the front page of it. The Daily Prophet ran the story through five pages. The article opened with a rundown of Snape’s horrible childhood, his abusive Muggle father and his early academic career. The words reeked of bias, highlighting Snape’s accomplishments and completely ignoring the part of his life where he’d willingly joined Voldemort in the First Wizarding War. Harry wanted to barf. The end of the article, though, was the truly nausea-inducing part: Dumbledore’s statement.

“Professor Snape has been a devoted follower of the Light for the past decade, proving his loyalty over and over again. The unfortunate incident which came to fruition the previous day was simply yet another instance of his bravery, for I can say that he has acted under the orders imposed upon him by the Order of the Phoenix. That is all I shall say on the matter, thank you.”

Harry scowled and sat back onto the bench, stopping to lean over Ron’s shoulder. Both the redhead and Hermione were wearing matching worried expressions.

“What if he really was just acting on the orders of Dumbledore?” asked the bushy-haired witch.

“Why wasn’t anyone else there, then? And how did his mask fall off?” questioned Harry, knowing full well that he already knew the answer. It was a strange thought, that he had inside scoop on things so many people couldn’t even wrap their heads around, and he had no idea how to feel about it, really.

The past few months had felt like just a flurry of erratic emotions, from survival mode, to anger, to panic, to sadness, back to survival mode, and it all beginning yet again, like the most devious cycle from Hell. The worst part was that he could not even talk to anyone about his struggles, not anyone who could listen to him properly. Now that he was back at Hogwarts, he didn’t even have a way of contacting Sirius. He knew his godfather had to lie low, for although he couldn’t be certain, he had a hunch that the man had been in Hogsmeade on the day of the attack. It just seemed like the sick thing that would be on-brand for Riddle to do.

“He’s getting a trial,” said Hermione, downing the last of her tea like a shot of Firewhiskey. “Hopefully, we will get answers then.”

“None of the other Death Eaters got proper trials,” said Ron pensively. “We should focus on the whole… Harry thing, though. There is nothing we can do about the Snape situation,” he finished diplomatically, a feat so uncharacteristic of him that Harry started to worry whether he had been Imperiused or something.

“You are right, Ron,” answered Hermione. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I combed through more of the translation you gave me, Harry,” she continued, glancing at him, though if her face was any indication on how she really felt, it didn’t bode well for Harry.

“I guess you’ve not got any closer to the answer, huh?” he asked, and was surprised at the way it almost felt like he was... sad. It must be the Horcrux’s feelings, he thought, it doesn’t like it when we talk about extricating it.

“No, I’m sorry,” she sighed, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “I’m assuming no one who has ever made a Horcrux would want to get rid of it afterwards, so it makes sense that we wouldn’t find information on it so easily.”

“I guess you’re right,” he sighed. His skin was itching to talk to Voldemort. “I have to do something before class, but I will see you there,” he said suddenly, the diary growing hotter in the pocket of his robes by the second.

“Harry!” He heard the girl’s indignant exclamation, but he was already halfway out of the Great Hall, his legs moving fast.

He found a hidden little alcove on the way to his first class of the day, which seemed to be an ideal place to pull out the little book resting in his pocket. There weren’t too many students loitering around, most of them opting to leave for class at the last possible minute. When he opened it, the page was not blank.

I want you to show the Malfoy brat the Chamber. You must not be overheard, as what you are doing requires the utmost secrecy.

Harry rolled his eyes, sitting down, and pulling out a quill from one of the many pockets of his robes.

Good morning to you, too. I can take him there, but his sensibilities might take issue with the fact that the place smells as if there was a dead, gigantic snake decomposing there. Oh, wait.

You fashion yourself a humorist, Potter. Let me remind you: I. Am. Not. A. Patient. Man. Do what you are told.

You are an asshole.

He promptly shut the booklet after, took a deep breath, put it away, and started walking to the Potions classroom.

The day went on and on. Harry could not pay attention for the life of him, and he knew it was bad because Hermione, instead of whacking him in the head, was sending him concerned looks. Perhaps this was the reason why, come the DADA lesson, he silently, and maybe out of insanity, opted to sit next to Malfoy. The blond boy looked up at him with startled eyes as soon as Harry plopped down into the seat next to him.

“What are you doing?” he hissed angrily, looking around at the faces of the students who all, somehow, looked constipated as they saw the two of them next to each other.

“Inter-house unity,” chirped Harry merrily, slamming the tome they called their textbook, onto the desktop heavily.

“So, your past traumas have finally caught up with you, and you’ve gone insane,” concluded the blond with a nod.

“Bit insensitive saying that to someone who was kidnapped over the summer, yeah?” Harry grumbled.

“From your abusive relatives, might I add,” scoffed the other. “They are also Muggles.”

“Ah, yes. The darkest creatures on Earth,” quipped Harry. “I want to show you something after school today. You should meet me in front of Myrtill’s bathroom,” he continued, his voice barely.

“For what?” asked Malfoy, annoyed.

“So I can show you that thing I was literally just talking about a second ago. Merlin, keep up, Malfoy,” he sighed, pulling out parchment paper and a quill that had seen better days, out of his bag. He purposefully avoided his friends’ gazes, knowing what he would find. His chest suddenly felt too small to accommodate all of his bones, but he took a deep breath to expand the space. It worked, somewhat.

Malfoy did not get a chance to answer him, interrupted by the arrival of Charlie Weasley. It took Harry’s brain a quick second to catch up with the fact that Snape was, as of that moment, still in Azkaban. The glee he felt was short but impactful.

“I wonder what your mother would say if she knew you fancied a Weasley,” he whispered across their desk, noticing Malfoy’s blush. He got a weird look in exchange, but nothing more.

His chest still felt lighter.

The dungeons of the Ministry of Magic smelled like decaying corpses, Albus Dumbledore noted immediately as he got off the elevator, flanked by Tonks and Kingsley. Even as the Chief Warlock, he was not granted permission to be down there by himself.

Severus Snape was housed in the last cell on the long, long corridor. Albus noticed immediately how the small space had nothing, but plywood shaped in a rectangle, presumably acting as a bed, and a sink, no toilet. No light, either – in fact, the only light was coming from the narrow corridor. It illuminated the magic-muting shiny, black bricks the dungeon was built out of. Severus looked greasier than usual.

“Albus,” he hissed immediately, grabbing onto the bars. “You have to believe me, I did not betray you!”

“I know,” said the older man placatingly, eyes twinkling. Tonks and Kingsley were giving them some space. Albus leaned closer to Severus, looking into his eyes. The mental barriers of the man immediately blocked his attempts at Legilimency. He smiled. “What happened, Severus?” he asked, voice low.

“I believe my position has been compromised,” drawled the man. Albus wanted to roll his eyes but refrained from doing so. It would be uncouth. “The Dark Lord bound my legs together and ripped my Death Eater mask off. I believe he orchestrated the surprise attack solely for this purpose, seeing as I was not notified of it happening beforehand. He must have found out about my… Extracurricular activities,” he finished, face a mask of indifference, although he was anything but. Dumbledore tasted the words in his mouth, ashen.

“I see,” he answered. “That is rather unfortunate. I’m afraid you were perhaps our only way into the viper’s den. Our plans may have to be accelerated,” he hummed.

“Is the boy ready, Albus?” asked Severus stonily.

“He must be, now,” he replied, stroking a hand down his beard. “I shall come to your trial, Severus. The Minister has assured me that they are getting their last ducks in a row before you are to go on. You will be out in a jiffy, my boy, fret not.”

“I dared to assume so,” came the haughty reply. “There is something else, Headmaster.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore asked, co*cking an eyebrow. “What is it, my friend?”

“Mind, my eyes might have been playing tricks on me… But Sirius Black was there.”

Harry watched on the map as the dots representing Malfoy moved closer and closer to him. It was close to midnight; the castle was deserted, but even with the prefects having already gone to bed, Harry did not want to risk being seen by anyone. The map showed him that Myrtle had gone off with Peeves- Harry really did not need any distractions.

“Potter?” hissed the snotty voice. Harry took off his Invisibility Cloak before Malfoy could have a breakdown, and, making a beckoning motion with his fingers toward him, he carefully pushed in the door of the lavatory.

His heart was pounding in his ears, breath coming out in short puffs. He decidedly did not want to be doing all this, especially not for Voldemort. But then he thought about his meeting with his friends, their simultaneously outraged and concerned faces when talking about Dumbledore’s plan to use him as a pig for slaughter, and justified it like that. He was doing this so that he had bigger chance at surviving the war. It didn’t have to mean he was Dark.

Malfoy was looking around in disgust. It was somewhat warranted, Harry mused, given the state of the bathroom. He supposed Myrtle terrorized the House Elves as well, to the point that they might have given up coming in here to clean, having to deal with the screeching of the ghost not worth the hassle. Then, he privately reminded himself, that Tom Riddle was the only reason why Myrtill was here in the first place.

“What are we doing here?” asked Malfoy indignantly, with a hint of innocent curiosity.

“Riddle thinks we need a secure place to lay out our plans. To research the cabinets,” he said slowly, stepping up to the sink with the little serpent etched into it. “You can’t tell anyone about what you see here today,” he said sternly, frowning.

“Oh, no. I was hoping to go around, boasting about the extremely f*cking secret thing the most fearsome Dark Lord, who, might I add, would kill me if this got out, tasked me with!” Malfoy whisper-shouted, turning quite red in the face. “Are you f*cking stupid?”

“Do you think your mother would wash your mouth out with soap if she heard you talking like this?” Harry mused, glad that he could rile Malfoy up. It gave him a chance to ignore the roaring of his blood, the shakiness of his hands, the tightness of his intestines in his abdomen.

“You’ve been mentioning my mother quite a lot, Potter, don’t you think?”

“Oh yeah,” said Harry, slowly leaning against the sink, the edge of it digging into the small of his back. He was glad for the reprieve that goading Malfoy meant. “Do you fancy Charlie?”

“I do not fancy Weasley!” snapped Malfoy, seemingly losing all of the patience he carried.

“Professor Weasley,” teased Harry cheekily. “I could put in a good word for you, you know? Now that we are friends or what not.”

“Potter, we are not friends,” the other said with an undignified snort, so out of character. “I am civil with you because I do not wish to be beheaded. That is all there is to it. Now, will you show me whatever it is that is so important to our Lord here?” he scoffed, wrinkling his nose.

“Your Lord,” corrected Harry. “And sure. Focus,” he said the last word mostly to himself as he turned back around, and hissed in Parseltongue toward the sink.

The structure started rearranging itself with a heavy squeak, twisting, turning, and replacing the tiles until the all too familiar entrance showed up in all its glory. It was yet again the simple staircase the Chamber had shown to Ron and Hermione, instead of the god-awful Slide of Death, as Harry liked to call it.

He ignored his exponentially rising heartrate and blood pressure as he beckoned Malfoy over. The blond was slack-jawed, awe and trepidation shining his eyes at the same time. Harry took the lead, rushing down the stairs into the Chamber, where the air was still cool if not a bit dusty. He trusted Malfoy to follow him, and took the turns that would lead him to the carcass of the Basilisk, on purpose. He heard the moment the other saw the snake, amused by the hitch of his breath. Harry personally thought that the Basilisk did not look very scary; more disgusting, really, with all the decaying flesh.

“What is that?”

“A Basilisk,” said Harry cheerily. “The King of Serpents. Slytherin kept her as a pet.”

“A pet? And how do you know it’s a she?” he scoffed.

“There is no rage like female rage,” said Harry with a small smile, briskly walking over to the space behind the statue of Salazar Slytherin. After a moment, he heard the pattering of Malfoy’s feet following him.

The room was still littered with the trio’s research on Horcruxes, and Harry scrambled for his wand to organize it before Malfoy could read any of it. The parchments stacked themselves neatly into a pile, flying into a chest which was sitting against the corner wall of the room.

“So, this is the Chamber of Secrets,” said Harry, clearing his throat.

“It really exists.” He could hear the wonder in Malfoy’s voice, and he scoffed. The blond had no idea what horrors Harry had had to go through just a few meters away, when he was only twelve years old. “It’s… It’s wonderful, Potter. And you have access to this because you are a Parselmouth, yes?” Malfoy’s tone did not show condescension for once, only true curiosity. He didn’t know why, but it made Harry blush. He could only nod in response.

He felt as if everything in his world had turned upside down in the past few months. He tried not to stop and think about it, because he was sure he would lose his mind for good. He had gotten so close to it during his stay in Malfoy Manor, that he had hoped Hogwarts would bring the relief it usually did. Riddle had different plans, and Harry was incapable of saying no.

He could, of course, always go to Dumbledore. Let the old man into his mind, the consequences of Tom’s curse be damned, and show him what he had gone through during the summer. Dumbledore would have no choice but to believe him, and maybe once upon a time, not even too long ago, Harry would have believed and hoped that the older wizard was going to do something.

Present Harry was smarter, though, and knew that it would only make him arrive at the slaughterhouse faster. He mustn’t let Dumbledore know, because he would use him as a weapon— not that he hadn’t been doing that for the past sixteen years. Harry scoffed to himself, and forced his mind to focus on the task at hand.

At least by helping Riddle he could somewhat ensure he wouldn’t die. The Dark wizard had had many opportunities to kill Harry over the summer — without anyone knowing ­—, yet he hadn’t done it. Harry could allow himself a small shred of trust, he decided.

“So, erm, I haven’t had time to look up the cabinet,” said Harry carefully. “But as I understand, it’s somewhere here in the castle.”

“Yes,” replied Malfoy curtly, caressing the spines of the books on either side of the small space. "More precisely, the sister cabinet is somewhere in the castle. The other one is already at the Manor.”

“I see,” said Harry carefully. He got the map out of his pocket, and plopped down onto the floor, opening it and smoothing down the edges. “We could start by looking at the map, see if there is some hidden room—”

“Potter,” interrupted Malfoy urgently. “That’s it! I have read in Hogwarts: A History that there is a room called the Room of Hidden Things. It must be there!”

“Well, that was easy,” drawled Harry, tapping his wand onto the Marauder’s Map. He stared at it for a while, tracing the lines of the drawings. “I can’t see it anywhere. Can you?” he asked, turning the paper toward the blond.

They looked for a few minutes, staring at it, turning it this way and that, but ultimately to no avail. Harry put it away, biting back a frustrated groan. He cast a Tempus charm, and silently cursed to himself when he saw that it was almost one in the morning. They had only been down in the Chamber for an hour, but in his physical and emotional exhaustion, it had felt like five years.

“This is pointless,” hissed Malfoy, dragging his fingers down his face, which was so uncharacteristic, it made Harry feel extremely put-out. “I say we spend the week doing individual research and reconvene at the weekend. I will ask my father if he has any idea.”

“Why did Voldemort task you with this? And what does he need to connect these cabinets for?” asked Harry, only just now realizing that he had not asked the important questions during their initial meeting, jumping straight to acceptance. How utterly stupid, he thought. What if this is going to kill his friends?

“What, do you not think me capable enough, Potty?” snarled Malfoy, getting up at dusting down his robes. “And what makes you think I am privy to that information? I do as my Lord says, and I ask no questions, unless I want to lose a limb,” he muttered.

Harry got up as well, a frown etched across his face.

“I have no idea how you can follow someone like that,” he retorted, heat seeping into his voice.

“Ask yourself. You’re no saint,” came the reply.

Their journey back was spent in complete silence.

The amber liquid bubbled and danced in the glass as he wiggled his fingers.

Nagini was curled up at his feet, warming charm glowing around her scales as she slept. Despite dawn tickling the edges of his window, Tom was wide awake, and had been since the previous night. His desk was uncharacteristically messy, paper strewn everywhere, unfinished letters to various officials waiting for his signature or last sentence, and though it bothered him deep within, he could not make himself organize everything.

He let the liquid drop back into the glass, took a sip, and Vanished it, gagging. Lukewarm Firewhiskey was the worst. He sighed, pulling the latest edition of the Daily Prophet toward himself, deep in thought.

Severus Snape’s ashamed face greeted him as he was being dragged away by the Aurors. Tom knew them— Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Both members of the Order of the Phoenix. He scoffed, pushing the newspaper away from himself.

Snape was set to sit trial sometime next week, no doubt with Dumbledore’s full support at his back. Tom had no illusions about sending the greasy old bat to Azkaban— he’d known he would never be jailed. It had never been about that.

He had still sent a message. One that had been received clear as day.

A knock at his heavy oak doors tore him out of his musings. He waved his hand, opening it, and Bellatrix stepped in, face solemn.

“What do you want, Bella?” he asked, his annoyance seeping into his tone. “It’s too early for you.”

“My apologies, my Lord,” she said, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she took a step inside, disturbing Nagini’s sleep. She gulped at the snake blinking at her. “I wanted to deliver this myself.” She handed him a letter. On the front, it had Lucius’ name.

“Why are you giving me Malfoy’s unopened letter, Bella?” he snarled, ready to set it on fire.

“Just look at who it’s from,” she urged him, evil grin taking over her face.

He flipped it and schooled his expression into careful neutrality. He tore it open, reading the scrawly handwriting. Had he been a lesser man, his eyebrows would have climbed high on his forehead. The only indication of his surprise was a small exhale.

“How curious,” he drawled, lips thinning into a devilish smirk. He glanced up at the woman, setting down the letter gingerly. “Thank you, Bella. This shall be most… Amusing,” he said slowly, folding the paper into a perfect rectangle.

“Will you accept, my Lord?” she asked, her eyes glinting maniacally. “It has been such a long time since I got to play with newbies.”

“You are so juvenile, Black,” he said. The diary in the pocket of his robes grew hot. “Get out. I need to finish my work.”

“But, my Lord—”

“Out.”

He withdrew the black notebook only after the door was securely locked. A new message awaited him from Potter. A strange sensation spread in his chest. He frowned; perhaps it was a delayed heartburn from the Firewhiskey?

Tom pushed it into a far corner of his mouth, reading the words on the paper.

I don’t know how you think we are supposed to find that cabinet, but you must hold Malfoy’s intelligence to a higher regard than it deserves.

He picked up his quill and began to write.

I shall give you a hint, purely out of the goodness of my heart: It is not in the Chamber.

If you know where it is why don’t you just fix it yourself? Genius.

The point of having minions is that I do not have to do the menial work. Go to sleep, Potter. It's too early in the morning.

There was no answer. Tom’s smirk softened.