Chapter 1: Glowing Darkly
Chapter Text
Snape tumbles out of the fireplace at No. 12 Grimmauld Place and staggers one step forward, then collapses onto his knees. Harry startles out of his midnight slumber in his sleeping roll on the living room floor and grabs for his wand under the pillow. He feels Ron jerk up and do the same beside him and Hermione’s already on her feet, halfway through a stunning spell, red magic sparking at the tip of her wand.
But the potions professor is not attacking, rather he is holding his wand to his head and pulling out ghostly wisps in a stream. Memories. Panting, Snape fumbles for something at his waistline, a pocket. “What in the bloody hell – “ Ron starts. The memories start to swirl into a ball as Snape fights to hold a vial in his trembling hand. In the sparse moonlight coming through the grimy windows, Harry sees a wet glisten on Snape’s chest crossing from right to left. The gash gapes open and as the professor turns slightly in the dark living room, Harry can practically see the flesh and muscle inside still working. He’s wounded, no, dying as he corks the white smoke and sways until he tips onto his side. Snape holds out the vial the smallest bit and his eyes beg Harry. “Take it . . .”
It’s a strange look on a murderer, on someone who has betrayed beyond imagining. Harry is frozen in shock and in rage. “Take it, please. . . “ Snape whispers again. Harry steps forward before he even realizes what he’s doing and Hermione’s saying, “Wait – “
Harry snatches the vial, trick or no. If he can take something from Snape, anything, he will. Even at his last breath. Task complete, the professor heaves his chest as the blood on his chest is shadowed and it looks for all the world like he’s falling asleep rather than breathing his last. Harry whips his wand forward. “You – “
“Harry, no!” Hermione shouts and scrambles to tug his arm down. “We can use him for information. We mustn’t be rash – “
“But Dumbledore – “
“Would want us to spare his life!” Hermione argues with passion. She spins around and crouches to rifle hastily through her magically expanded bag. “Dittany, dittany,” she mumbles to herself, panicky.
“Hermione,” Harry can barely get the words out of his squared jaw, molars grinding together in stress. “You can’t possibly think we’re going to save Dumbledore’s murderer! Have you gone mad? Snape,” he spits the name, “deserves whatever he gets. We’re leaving him.”
“No, we’re not.” Hermione hoists the bottle of dittany up in victory. “We’re going to use him. And fight for Dumbledore the smart way.” She scurries over to Snape’s prone form and pushes him from onto his side to onto his back. Pouring the liquid carefully over the wound from end to end, Hermione begins the process of sparing the professor’s life. Harry is practically numb with rage and his fist squeezes around the forgotten vial. A mystery in itself. What would Snape die to show Harry? It’s probably one last trap, one last way to screw Harry over from beyond the grave so he can die happy.
“But why did he come here?” Ron asks the room. “If he was injured like this?”
“To give me this.” Harry inspects the vial more closely as if it will show him the contents of the memories if he stares hard enough. “They’re his memories.”
“I know what they are, Harry, I’m saying what purpose does it serve?” Ron’s chess brain is clearly at work as the shock of the moment begins to wear off. “Bill has a pensieve for work. We need to know what the hell is going on.”
“We shouldn’t move him just yet,” Hermione warns as she casts some manner of stasis charm over Snape’s unconscious form.
“Screw him. We’re leaving.” Harry makes for the fireplace, leaving all his possessions behind, without even knowing where Charlie’s home is, very ready to leave Snape to his demise. He deserves to die alone. “Harry,” Hermione calls, “Don’t you want to know what Dumbledore’s closest spy knows about You-Know-Who? I’m trying to tell you he could be useful.”
Harry stops. He waits long enough, just enough heartbeats of hesitation for Hermione to begin to lug Snape over to the fireplace before Ron gently shoulders her out of the way and hoists the professor by his armpits.
“Where are we going?”
“Shell Cottage, Tinworth, Cornwall,” Ron explains. He grabs a handful of Floo powder and repeats the words as he throws the powder in and steps in the burst of green light. “Go on, Harry,” Hermione nudges him as she ties the cord of her bag around her waist. “I’ll follow you.”
“Shell Cottage, Tinworth, Cornwall,” Harry parrots and Floos into another dark living room with admittedly more tasteful furniture. Ron is attempting to drag a limp Snape onto the couch and says, “Help me a bit with the feet, mate.” Oh, absolutely not. Bill’s already rounding the corner while he fastens a bathrobe, eyes large as he takes in Ron hoisting a bloody body onto his couch, then larger as he seems to notice that it’s Snape.
“Honey?” Bill calls out and Fleur comes fluttering down the hallway. She gasps in horror. “Not on ze couch!”
Hermione Floos into the fireplace and dusts herself off. Scuttling across the room, she helps Ron with the feet without needing to be asked.
“This is the last thing we should be doing. We should have – this makes no sense! Bill,” Harry snaps rather rudely to the man in his own home. Perhaps he’ll feel embarrassed about it later. “Where’s your pensieve?”
Bill complies without complaint, the receptivity to instruction that comes with wartime. He fetches the silver bowl from another part of the cottage and places it on the dining table. Harry dives in headfirst and eventually emerges from the pensieve with an almighty gasp, tears burning in his eyes. Snape. Lily. Horcrux.
“Harry?” Hermione asks carefully. “What did you see?” He waves her over, too overcome to bother with a verbal explanation. He gestures to the pensieve, encouraging her to look for herself. Leaning forward over the bowl, she becomes absorbed in the troubled memories below.
Snape looks to have stabilized somewhat, from what Harry can make out through eyes glazed with tears. Blood isn’t welling up or spilling over anymore and his chest is steadily rising and falling. Undeserving as he is of it, even with all Harry now knows.
Either Bill or Fleur has made everyone a cup of tea and one floats by Harry’s hand until he plucks it out of the air. He gulps it hot all in one go and holds the warm cup to his chest. Fleur drops a crocheted blanket around his shoulders. The lights in the room have been turned on and the moon is lower in the sky, a genuine fire crackling quietly in the fireplace now.
“What was it then?” Ron finally says. “What was he trying to show you?”
“Everything. Ron,” Harry’s numb and dumb but still has enough wherewithal to remind himself Fleur and Bill are still in the room. Listening to this could be dangerous for them. “You know what we’ve been looking for?” Ron eyes him like he’s crazy but nods anyway like the good friend he is. “I’m . . . “
Harry can’t spit it out. With how many memories Snape had to include to tell his tale, Hermione will be a while yet. He’ll have to buck up. “I’m one of them.”
Ron’s eyes go round as saucers and he shakes his head. “That’s not possible,” he answers immediately, like he can’t even help himself.
“I saw it for myself, Dumbledore was in the memories and explained it all.” Their nighttime hosts both lean forward at the mention of the Headmaster without seeming to realize they’ve done it. “It’s true. It explains everything. Everything.”
His friend is still shaking his head, and honestly Harry’s grateful because he doesn’t want to believe it either, but Ron’s eyes show the quick calculations happening underneath. Harry stands up to pace while Ron wilts in his armchair looking about a million years old as he begins to slow down his thinking, ever more reluctant to reach his logical conclusions. It’s as if all the energy has been sapped out of one friend and into the other, Harry practically wearing a hole in the floorboards as he paces back and forth behind the couch.
“This man,” he points at Snape, “is not who we think he is.”
“You mean he’s Polyjuiced? Think it would have worn off by now,” Bill offers.
“No. I mean he’s been on our side the whole time.”
“Harry, he murdered Dumbledore last month, you were reminding us of that five seconds ago – “
“He did it under the Headmaster’s orders. Unless he’s tampered with his own memories - which I highly doubt and don’t see the purpose of - he was instructed to do it.”
“Why?”
“To prove his loyalty.” Harry halts and Hermione pulls away from the pensieve with a gasp and promptly starts crying. “Oh my god,” she whispers with soft crying sounds she can’t seem to hold in. Fleur zips out of the room, presumably to find another blanket.
Harry shakes his head. It defies belief and he says as much. Hermione asks, “The double agent part or the being in love with your mother part?”
“What?!” squawks Ron in alarm.
“I think,” here Harry gulps because it’s taking a lot in him to pick which thing is worst, “I’d rather focus on the horcrux part.”
“What is a horcrux?” Fleur asks with zero ill-intent. Harry, Ron, and Hermione perk up in alarm. “Nothing!” all three shout.
“I think we’d best leave them to it,” Bill says with truly saint-like understanding. “I’ll make breakfast,” he adds with the moon still hanging in the sky. It’s going to be a long night.
“Let me get this straight,” Mad Eye grouses with an air of mixed disbelief and disparagement. “The Dark Lord split his soul into six pieces to become immortal and then accidentally made a seventh? And it’s in you?”
When Harry nods grimly from the other end of the dining table at Shell Cottage, the auror exclaims, “Pah!” and claims he misses the last war already. Moody hadn’t made it out of the terrifying flight from No. 4 Privet Drive easily. It had been weeks in bed for him, still somewhat on the mend even now, and nobody would imagine he would make for a very good patient, generally lacking any basic qualities of patience. Snape himself is laid up in the guest room. Tonks was able to call in a favor from a mediwitch who she claims will be discreet, but the truth of the matter is Harry can never return to this house once the mediwitch leaves. It probably isn’t smart to linger while she’s here but they put a powerful privacy spell around the dining table and this conversation needs to be had. He thumbs at the charmed coin they used to call the Order.
Remus leans his chin on a fist and sighs very wearily. “Oh Harry,” he exhales like it’s all that needs to be said. Harry looks away from his sad eyes.
“Don’t you think this information is better off concealed? None of us here would betray the Order, but sometimes people discover truths without the intention of the teller,” Kingsley consults. “The fewer people who know, the safer you are.”
“That’s my point. It’s not about being safe, it’s about getting the upper hand. We can’t let Vol – “ Harry is unanimously shushed. “You-Know-Who have another thing that keeps him immortal. It’s the last thing we need.”
“You’re not a thing, Harry. We need to look at all the options,” Hermione says. The midmorning sun casts a glare into both their eyes, both still red-rimmed from disrupted sleep and emotional turmoil.
“What options? It’s pretty clear what we need to do. If there are horcruxes tying You-Know-Who to life, we have to eliminate as many of them as possible and we need all your help to do that. Whatever it takes.” There’s silence all around the table at that.
Surprisingly, it’s Moody who breaks the silence. “Now see here, boy,” he says gruffly, “we’ll be looking into every option. As the girl said. No one,” he adds severely, “is to do anything rash.”
Ron, Harry, and Hermione look at each other. “Alright,” Harry says.
They leave for Hogwarts castle before day’s end.
“IF WE CAN GET TO THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS AND TAKE THE BASILISK FANGS, WE CAN USE THEM TO KILL THE OTHER HORCRUXES WHILE WE FIGURE OUT HOW TO EXTRACT IT FROM HARRY. JUST LIKE HE DID WITH THE DIARY,” Ron shouts over the wind as they fly north on stolen brooms, hoping to confuse the Snatchers and muddy the trail before they Apparate to Hogsmeade.
Harry’s just enjoying the whip and wild of the winds, wanting to do a barrel roll or something of the like, giddy from his third wind after too little sleep and bombshell after bombshell dropped on them.
By the looks of it, Hermione is relieved to have both feet on the ground when they touch down on a fallow pasture, a bit green around the gills. They eat a hasty snack Bill packed them in cheesecloth and collectively take a moment to breathe as the sun fully sets. “Ready?” Ron asks. “Ready,” Hermione answers for her and Harry both. With a crack, they Apparate to the Shrieking Shack.
Hogwarts should be empty for the summer and to a certain extent that expectation is borne out. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sneak down the earthen tunnel, out from under the Whomping Willow, and dash across the open space as fast as they can to the shadows of the castle eaves. Carefully they creep up the stairs to the second floor with disillusionment charms firmly in place on Ron and Hermione, cloak of invisibility draped over Harry. At long last, it fits, he thinks wryly, while they tiptoe down the quiet hallways.
They arrive at the Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom at long last, Harry’s nerves wearing thin at all the sneaking around even with a lifetime of practice. The ghost herself is nowhere to be seen, perhaps pouting in the drainpipes or wallowing in a prefect’s bathtub. Harry hisses “Open” at the sink and it moves in its strange ways to unveil the long drop below. “Alright,” he whispers to a hidden Ron and Hermione. “Down we go.”
He casts a featherlight charm on himself to ease the way down, but it’s still an abrupt landing on the unwelcoming pile of bones, which Hermione informs him he should have warned them about.
“Gosh, it’s weird to think the monster that petrified me is down here.” She still whispers as they climb over the bone graveyard and step down the entryway to behold the basilisk’s own personal mausoleum. Must have been a pretty miserable life, stuck down here all those years. And then to be buried here, too, Harry thinks, is a sad way to go.
His friends gasp as the hulking body of the basilisk comes into view past the double doors. He walks closer, stepping over fetid pools of water and accumulated gunk. “You really killed this thing?” Ron asks in awe and Harry shrugs. “It was that or turn to stone, I guess.”
Upon closer inspection, the basilisk seems to be practically embalmed by the tomblike atmosphere of the Chamber relative to its size. Its lips have peeled back in decay all the same and the three friends make short work of using cutting hexes to remove all the teeth they can find. Harry’s starting to feel antsy and they don’t take time to count, but there’s at least thirty by his estimate. They each put one in their pocket: “In case we get split up,” Ron reasons, ever seven moves ahead when properly motivated, which admittedly is pretty rare. The rest of the fangs go into Hermione’s bag. They leave the Chamber with echoing steps and try to put the ominous feeling of it behind. But as they spell their way back up the long drop, Hermione transfiguring bones into a sturdy ladder, the ominous feeling remains, presses harder on their lungs. Or perhaps it’s just the tiring climb to the top, Harry considers as he huffs and puffs. “No time for it,” he says as Hermione and Ron take a similar moment to get their breath back. Harry tugs the robe back over himself and leads them back the way they came.
The three grind to a halt at the bottom of the stairs as a Death Eater in black robes with a white bone mask now stands at the mouth of the hallway that leads to the side of the castle with the Whomping Willow. Their exit is gone.
Harry can still glimpse the displaced and distorted spaces where Hermione and Ron are huddled on the final steps of the staircase, just out of view. He banks on their stealth and the strength of Hermione’s notice-me-not spells as he tugs on where he thinks one of his friend’s arms is and guides them in the opposite direction. They all hug the wall as they round the corner and slip into a classroom with an open door.
Casting a silencing spell, he hopes it’s strong enough and done properly because he can’t ask Hermione to do it for him without breaking the silence of the castle. Even then, none of them talk as Harry levers open a window set low into the wall.
Tugging on someone’s arm again, he pulls them towards the window to suggest they go first. There’s no way to argue about it that isn’t imbecilic, so he wins an argument for once, which is nice.
One by one, they hike themselves onto the window sill and plop out onto the grass. Either Hermione or Ron stands and sets off down the slope of the hill Hogwarts reigns over and Harry follows them down.
Well, that went better than expected, he thinks, just as the rip in reality of Apparition cracks down like thunder right in front of them.
Chapter 2: A Sudden Surge of Light and Sound
Chapter Text
Influxes of shadowy smoke are all that warn Harry, Ron, and Hermione of the danger before it besets them. Harry sticks his left hand in his pocket and practically prays for the charmed coin to send out the message ‘Hogwarts’ before the Death Eaters can properly materialize.
The Death Eaters are born out of black smoke like deathly roses blooming. Nine, no twelve, no, more –
And then he’s here. Soaring into being, a harbinger of peril and doom, Lord Voldemort explodes out of a sudden abyss and lands with graceful bare feet onto the grass.
They can all spot Ron and Hermione’s forms through the displaced and distorted air around them because they know to look, the two bravely ending the disillusionment spells because it no longer serves a purpose. Harry doesn’t hesitate to pull off the cloak to keep their focus away from his friends. He won’t let them face this alone.
“Harry Potter,” Lord Voldemort hisses in his wicked devil’s voice, red eyes burning in a ghoulish face. It rapidly becomes clear no one’s here to mince words or draw things out in gloating victory. They have business.
Loud cracks of Apparition sound off on the other side of the three friends. Five, then eight. The cavalry’s arrived. Harry can’t turn to look, keeps his wand trained on Lord Voldemort when he can’t even remember raising it. This man murdered his parents. This man took everything. He hates him, oh how he hates him –
“At last,” the monster says, a far worse fate than the basilisk beneath the school. “The time has come to end this battle.” Lord Voldemort raises his wand and Harry steels himself for the fight of his life –
And then Ron boldly cries, “We’ll destroy you! Every last part of you!”
A small part of Harry is proud of this utterly Gryffindor declaration, but the vast majority is struck by terror, somehow heightened to shatter its own record. Something strange passes over Lord Voldemort’s visage then, a shuddering movement of suspicion, then dawning horror as he holds a hand out to wandlessly hold Ron in place and stare deep into his eyes, and Harry realizes, into his mind. Lord Voldemort’s eyes grow wilder and wilder with rage as he quakes in furious fear of death and all that he has seen in Ron’s memories. It’s only a matter of time, Harry thinks, until he sees the full truth of things. The story of how complete his immortality is. Or was.
Harry casts the strongest protection spell he knows. Not over Ron, unfortunately, but over himself. Golden light spills out of his wand to form a glittering shell around him. The time it takes to hold firm and steady are the longest seconds of his life. The spell will last a minute, maybe two, the payoff of a slower casting.
“Harry, no – !” Hermione shouts and begs as he pulls the basilisk fang out of his pocket and stares at it for a moment. He squeezes his eyes shut and makes short work of plunging it into his belly and carving upwards, as deep as it can go, gutting himself like a fish.
The fang rips through clothes and skin to get to the important parts inside. Immediately, he can feel the poison tipping into his ruptured veins and arteries and viscera through the howl of physical agony. It’s the most painful thing he’s ever done, abandoning his friends, his adopted family. But it has to be done. Dumbledore was sure and so was Snape and so it must be the only way because for the life of him, Harry can’t think of a better one.
“NO!” another voice screams, and it’s Lord Voldemort, turning a horrified and rage-filled visage on him. He slices and slashes his fearsome wand through the air to batter at the glittering barrier. BAM, BAM, BAM!
Harry’s a copy of Snape’s posture from the horrible night before, fallen to his knees. Fuck, it hurts, hurts hurts. The poison burns its way rapidly through his body, he can feel it in each vein, each atom, as his very flesh seems to bubble and dance with freakish, incendiary agony. It’s somehow so much worse than last time. His hands cup his spilling abdomen in futility, even though he did this to himself, he can’t help it, it’s instinct to try to put himself back together again. Harry feels his back hit the grass and is reminded of nothing so much as laying in the Dursley’s backyard after a long, hot day doing the gardening. It’s a good way to go, on a high note, about as painful as it gets but so satisfying to get one over on a dark lord and far better a place than a cave or a graveyard or a mausoleum. Ha, he wants to want to say, but it just hurts so bad everywhere that Harry can barely scare up the word in his mind.
It feels like evil, foul substances should be exiting out of his body, something clear to show it was all worth it, that he really was a horcrux in the end. But there’s nothing, and the sense of nothingness grows as his vision begins to tunnel. The booming of furious spellwork around the barrier resounds and it shudders, glow winking out for a moment. The spell is beginning to wane.
A piercing cry splits the air and a vision of flames and feathers swoops across his field of sight. Fawkes invades the golden spelled barrier with incredible speed at the precise moment of a flicker. He glides down to flutter over Harry’s wound, to the place where he decided he was better split open than whole. Still aflame, the phoenix begins to shed noble tears and damn it that’s unacceptable. Harry shoves at the bird’s beak with bloody hands and then they burn with holy fire. He moans in pain but shoves again as hard as he can, batting at Fawkes. He’s getting weaker even as the tears begin to take effect and he loses control of his arms as they simply refuse to lift. His head lolls and his eyes roll shut and he can feel someone grab his ankle as the golden light winks out.
At first, he thinks the light going is his soul leaving his body, but then he pops back into existence in someone’s foyer. “Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” someone is saying, and then there are more people, more voices, raised and loud and angry. Harry hurts everywhere but most of all in his middle.
He feels like he’s continuing to blink in and out of existence, like Apparating every time his eyes close. A bottle is held up to his mouth and he drinks, then coughs at the taste. Harry turns his head and doesn’t want to drink more. He’s made to drink more potions but he’s not sure how much time is passing in between them and there are hands on him prodding and cleansing and tending. Insensate, he drifts through waking and the blackness behind his eyelids as he listens to the voices change.
First there’s more shouting, then screaming and it makes him think of a flash green then a whirl of red hair when he doesn’t want to. There are hands on him again and he groans as someone snaps at someone else and then he’s levitated somewhere else, he doesn’t care, he’s gone.
Harry begins to wake to the sound of slithering. There are soft insect noises and crickets chirp in the distance. The soundtrack of nature is soothing and nearly puts him under. A hand presses down on his chest soothingly, too, and the feeling of it puts him back under for real.
Daylight. It warms his skin and leaves gently rustle and eventually these things make it important to wake up because where the hell is he.
A tree arches overhead and he’s surrounded by similar specimens, trees and bushes and undergrowth situated under a paned glass dome. It looks nothing so much as like a Victorian greenhouse gone wild. There’s gentle birdsong and . . . slithering? Harry sits up and immediately regrets it. He paws at his stomach, pulling up unfamiliar linen pajamas to probe at his abdomen and the space between his ribs. There’s a wicked line carved up, but it’s livid red and scarred over rather than open and raw. He can’t believe he did that to himself . . .
He’s in a bed. In a greenhouse? The air is humid and welcoming and actually it’s quite nice in here –
There’s a slamming of doors and faster than an eye can track, the monster of Harry’s nightmares bursts through the light foliage and spirits from one place to right in front of Harry’s face in a swirl of black vapor. “What are you doing out of bed?” Lord Voldemort hisses, pressing him back down onto the mattress. “I wasn’t even – hey! What the hell are you – “
Lord Voldemort snaps and a man in black robes hurries through the undergrowth flora. His glasses glint as he pushes them up his nose and leans over Harry to examine the exposed skin. A mediwizard? In Death Eater attire?
“No signs of infection or lingering poison. No sign of head damage,” the mediwizard says as he quickly checks Harry’s eyes and uses a strange implement to blow air in one ear and out the other, an unpleasant sensation. “Hey! Get off!” Harry slaps the mediwizard’s hands away. The man deferentially backs away. “I’d recommend bed rest and a more well-rounded diet.” Judgmental, Harry thinks and then whips around to Lord Voldemort and shouts, “Where the hell am I?!”
The Dark Lord only has to glance at the mediwizard to have him scampering off. He and Harry watch each other silently with mounting fury on both sides until the doors pull closed.
“You are home,” Voldemort hisses, somehow more sibilant than Harry will ever be when he speaks in the language of snakes.
“SCREW YOU!” Honestly, nothing less will cut it. Voldemort really can go fuck himself. He stumbles out of the bed and immediately trips over a tree root – no, a snake. Jesus, there are snakes everywhere. Writhing, hissing, weaving over the ground. Voldemort vaporizes then rematerializes in time to catch him.
He pushes Harry back onto the bed.
“Sleep,” he commands and when Harry patently refuses to comply and looks at him in disbelief, he waves his wand deftly and repeats himself in Latin.
Harry sleeps.
The stirring, slithering, susurrating sounds wake him again.
He has a blanket pulled over him and he can feel the plushness of the mattress where his body is sunk into it. The fading daylight casts long tree shadows in the wild greenhouse and good god there are snakes everywhere –
There’s even one wrapped around the bedpost by Harry’s left foot, snoozing with its head resting on top of the post. He jerks his foot back.
“Is that anyway to treat a guileless creature, Haaaaaaarry?”
Harry jerks away from the right side of the bed, too, where Voldemort is sitting with many lengths of parchment in his lap. His back rests against the headboard but the evil wizard truly towers and makes the bed look small. Feel small. Harry’s in hell.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asks weakly, hoping for an answer either so absurd he’ll know it’s a dream, or so logical he can make sense of everything.
Voldemort eyes him from the side with disdain. “You tried to ruin yourself.”
“No, I tried to ruin you!”
With a malicious hiss, the Dark Lord swerves towards him and shrieks, “There is little difference, you foolish boy!”
“I’m not like you! I’ll NEVER be like you!” Harry shouts at the top of his lungs and honestly it feels good. A wraith made flesh, Voldemort resembles nothing so much as a demon when his red eyes stab into Harry’s and he says, “Never again. Lord Voldemort values life above all else and I have seen that you know of my journey to immortality.”
“Yes, by murdering people!”
“Filthy, useless beings, chosen to serve a higher purpose!”
“You’re crazy if you think you can justify any of it! You’re a monster!” Voldemort seems to tremble in impotent rage as he has spent nearly two decades hating Harry and now he’s not acting on it and it has nowhere to go. It occurs to Harry then that the Dark Lord can’t harm him without harming himself, in a roundabout way. The thought cannot be borne, not for a self-preserving, self-obsessed creature like Voldemort. Harry’s especially satisfied, then, to see that he appears to be pushing the monster’s buttons. He seems to be at a boiling point, so riled up that he’ll surely do something he’ll regret. But then something foreign flashes over him, eyes less glazed by hatred and madness as he steps back from that edge.
“Perhaps, Harry Potter. But we shall in time what will become of us.” Harry’s alarmed by the ‘we’ language and wants to leave the bed rather desperately but his middle is still very sore and it doesn’t seem like sleeping on the ground is going to solve any problems. He will, in all likelihood, presumably be dragged back to bed and possibly lashed to it, which he would rather avoid at all costs. He doesn’t have his wand. He doesn’t know where he is. What he needs, his instincts tell him, is to fight and fight and fight until it gets him out of here. What he must do, his brain informs him, is heal and hatch an escape plan. An intelligent one. A Hermione one, not a Potter one. What would she do?
Gather information, that’s where she’d start. Harry dislikes being sneaky but desperate times call for desperate measures and him trapped in a Dark Lord’s bed definitely qualifies.
Harry glares up at the canopy for a while, watching the sun tilt toward the horizon until the clouds turn orange, then pink, then dove gray as night begins. He spends all this time trying to make his jaw work to ask questions and actually attempt to gather information. By the time he’s even beginning to feel capable of spitting out some words unprompted, a bed tray appears with a startling crack the presumably heralds house elf magic. But no one comes forward, steaming plates of food simply winking into existence. His mouth waters as he takes note of the fact he has no clue when his last meal was exactly and he actually picks up one of the three forks laid out before he realizes he has no idea what’s in the food. “Eat, Potter. If Lord Voldemort was to poison you, surely you see there has been a wealth of opportunity.”
Poison is the least of his worries. There’s all manner of other things a Dark Lord with a vendetta against him could and would dose him with. But it’s food and he wants it and what’s a little hidden potion in his food going to do anyway. He takes a few bites and immediately feels better. Harry glares at Voldemort venomously but is consummately ignored. Voldemort is writing things in a familiar spidery scrawl and Harry hates hates hates that he recognizes it.
He actually finishes a lot of the food and sets the tray aside, watching it disappear again with a crack. Finding himself tired, Harry lays back without prompting. He tries to stay awake but his body is still healing and his eyelids start to feel heavy. Wants to turn and face the other way but doesn’t want to put his back to the enemy. Harry curls onto his side wearily and slides once again into slumber.
Harry spends days like this, crawling in and out of sleep, Voldemort sometimes there and sometimes not. The mediwizard checks on him sometimes and the Dark Lord is present for that. At length, Harry begins to wake with the sun and snooze in the evening, re-establishing a normal schedule even though he’s still sleeping a lot of hours. He hopes to leave the greenhouse, but knows the answer would be no. Wandless, he is zero match for Voldemort, not in a million years.
Instead, he plans. Harry inspects every corner of the greenhouse, snakes be damned. There’s a ward on the double doors that might as well have ‘Harry Potter Can’t Leave’ engraved over the top of them. And Harry’s no ward-breaker. It’s humbling; he still has so much to learn, is just beginning to come into his own.
The ace up their sleeve has totally evaporated, Harry can admit it to himself as he lays in the moss and the grass and by the trickling stream as he rests and heals; Voldemort knows they know about the horcruxes. And they didn’t exactly have any others. This was Dumbledore’s final parting shot at Lord Voldemort, the single one needed to fell him, and the only one they had. But what are the other horcruxes? Where are they? The man’s not an idiot, he’ll have hidden them well in the first place, boobytrapped to the nines, and then moved them now that he knows that they know, at least about Harry anyway. Guarded ten times as fiercely as before. God knows the sacrifices that had to be made just to find a fake. It’s a fool’s errand to try for them now, but Harry’s nothing if not a brave fool. They have no other strategy. There is nothing else. Other than to kill Voldemort’s current body to buy more time . . . that idea has some merit. Who’s to say how fast he’d find a way back to life again this time around, though. It’s a good plan B, he decides to himself.
For entertainment, Harry tries to find holes or vents or weak points to escape through. There are none. Even the little stream that flows through the greenhouse circles back on itself, impossibly. The glass ceiling and walls seem to be indestructible, holding against his limited wandless magic that can be used in a destructive fashion. He practices anyway; never know when it’ll come in handy. The world beyond the glass walls is unclear, the surface a little opaque on the sides, only the curving ceiling panes fully translucent.
Harry bathes in a beautiful bathroom also with walls of paned glass and is always nervous someone will see him. The bath unfurls with great green leaves of porcelain when he steps up to it and somehow that makes him feel welcome. Voldemort doesn’t have any shampoo, so Harry uses soap on his hair. It smells good to him, which is vaguely embarrassing but can be excused by the likely expense of it.
He resists as long as he possibly can, but at length he does talk to the snakes that populate the space. How are so many fed without mice scurrying around? Where did they come from? Do they compete for territory? There are so many things to know about animal life and yet it’s still infinitely simpler than his own story. One snake takes a liking to him, cuddling up when he’s sleeping, wrapping a tale around his wrist or resting his head on Harry’s chest. Harry names him Larry. They laze together in the soft moss, laid back against a good tree trunk and sunning themselves surrounded by lush green life. Nothing better to do, really.
Voldemort leaves books on the bedside. Going by the titles, they’re all magical history and Harry resists temptation for several days before caving to curiosity and intense boredom.
The Dark Lord is rarely present during the day, increasingly less as Harry recuperates, but there’s always an indent on the right side of the bed when Harry wakes in the mornings.
“Why are you doing this?” Harry asks one morning as Voldemort slips out from under the covers.
“What?” Voldemort faces away from Harry but his voice sounds rather staid.
“Staying close. And stuff.” ‘Stuff’ meaning making Harry eat, keeping him comfortable instead of chained in the dungeons. Just because he’s not hurting Harry doesn’t mean he couldn’t make him miserable.
“You don’t feel it?” Voldemort turns and considers him in profile.
“Feel what?”
“Colder. Clearer.” Harry hadn’t expected an honest answer, truthfully. He’s a little taken aback, and returns the favor in good faith.
“No.” The Dark Lord turns away and leaves for the day, Harry thinks, but then he comes back for lunch. They share a meal silently but it’s not awkward. There’s simply nothing to say.
Is this how forever is going to be?
He hasn’t instigated any more fights because he tells himself that’s not what Hermione would do. His leash doesn’t have enough slack for him to go interrogating Lord Voldemort. Sometimes he gets angry and almost shouts or snaps at him when he’s acting imperious or issuing demands, ‘eat this,’ ‘drink that’, ‘lay back down,’ and so on. But then he remembers the long game. No, he’s bided his time enough that he can wait a little longer.
To be honest, it’s becoming one of the more stress-free environments Harry has ever lived in, which makes keeping the peace easier. No excessive chores, no put downs, no rumors or gossip, no drama, no nothing. Sure it’s boring, but it’s also sort of peaceful naturally. Larry keeps him company and that’s enough for now. There’s entertainment in the form of books, and food, and sunlight, and that answers a lot of his needs. He’s never really, upon reflection, taken an actual vacation before.
Maybe that’s why it takes him so long to realize he’s not getting angry anymore. Colder. Clearer, Voldemort had said. Something about this place is having a calming effect on Harry and he’s not sure whether he likes it or not. It’s nice to be more relaxed, but not if it’s disingenuous.
So when he asks, “Can I leave the greenhouse?” some indeterminable number of days into his stay and Voldemort says, “Yes,” Harry’s excited but calm with purpose.
Chapter 3: Turn of the Head
Chapter Text
Voldemort disables the ‘Harry Potter Cannot Leave’ wards and Harry bounces on heels while also feeling steadier than he’d expect. Normally he’s amped with nerves, adrenaline, and a dedication to expect the unexpected because that’s consistently what life has thrown his way. And he has no clue what he’s walking into beyond these doors. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been here. But he does know, that in a way, he is the safest man in Britain, maybe the world. Trust Voldemort to have a perverse sense of self-preservation.
‘Remember, Harry,’ he tells himself. ‘You can’t take on every Death Eater at once.’ He needs to bide his time carefully. Presumably, he’s in Voldemort’s stronghold and there are enemies all around, no matter how incongruous the greenhouse might be for that kind of setting. Wizards can be like that sometimes, whimsical and not even realizing how bizarre some of the indulgences of their own imagination might be. The architecture kind of says it all.
He’s preemptively devoted to absorbing every morsel of information he can and is stumped when Voldemort leads him into a hallway, then opens the door to a clothes closet. Really, it’s a wardrobe room. Practically all of it’s black and basically looks identical to Harry’s untrained eye, but there’s a small section of clothes in maroon, dark green, and blue. Robes, doublets, button downs, trousers. Just a few things of each, but still. Harry turns large, fascinated eyes on Voldemort, who seems to be selecting a robe very much like the looser one he slept in. The man’s allergic to trousers, it seems.
Harry almost chuckles to himself, but avoids it narrowly, not wanting to fight or raise any hackles when he’s about to finally figure out where the fuck he is.
Changing into a fresh set of day clothes, Harry comports himself with typical locker room behavior. The clothing has a little more embroidery that he’d prefer, but naturally he chose what was closest to Gryffindor colors and is mollified by that. It’s nice to wear shoes again, too.
They exit the wardrobe room and walk down the hallway to a small dining room, finely furnished with fresh plates of breakfast food. Harry raises his eyebrows and tips his head at the food. He’s hungry. Voldemort sits. They share a short breakfast, toast and sausage and tea and the like. Voldemort reads a newspaper once he seems to quickly tire of the food, but the headlines are atypically bland and non-descript for the Daily Prophet. Must be controlling the media in a vice grip now.
“Checking for anyone crossing a line?” Harry can’t help but needle, practically sneering.
Voldemort raises a brow and lifts the newspaper higher, a signal that the conversation is over. “You take away the freedom of the people and the people fight back, one of your books said.” Voldemort lowers the Prophet again.
“Insolent boy,” he murmurs, but doesn’t yet seem pissed off. The potential’s there, of course; it’s always there.
“ ‘A time of absolute rule in one man alone has never lasted long enough to build a – a dominion that withstood the test of time, but rarely has one been forgettable,’ “ Harry poorly quotes, a bastardization of one of the smarter-sounding lines from Magical History from the Ancient Greek Perspective. Voldemort’s fingers tighten on the newspaper, wrinkling the sheets with sharp almond-shaped nails. Harry backs off and focuses on his tea.
He’s never been in a situation where he needed to test boundaries like this. Oh, he’s always had to tread carefully. But Voldemort’s practically his own personal experiment at this point. He observes his test subject stealthily as his temper slowly cools, then eventually snuffs out. Harry’s not sure, it’s just that when he really focuses on it, he feels he has a good guess about Voldemort’s mood. Right now, he’s . . . Harry closes his eyes and mentally reaches. Collected. Curious. Mildly irritated?
“What are you doing now, strange thing?”
“Strange thing? Wow, that’s rich,” he mutters under his breath. Voldemort gestures slightly with a hand, as if to say ‘go on.’
“I was just concentrating.”
“On?” The irritation grows, not because Harry can sense it but more because it’s all over his face. A single syllable word sounds strange in Parseltongue.
“Your . . .” Harry tries to think of a lie but can’t come up with a good one. “. . . mood.”
“And what did you discover, my treasure?”
“TREASURE?! What the bloody – don’t call me that! Ever. Thank you,” Harry rolls all the sentiments into one, a knee-jerk reaction that has a Death Eater whipping into the dining room at the sound of a raised voice. Just, god. Why.
“Leave us,” Voldemort commands with dead eyes and a face carved of stone. Harry’s not much familiar with it, largely having only interacted with maniacal Voldemort or calm Voldemort. Stone Voldemort has a different energy entirely; icy and taking the word imperious truly to staggering heights. His voice is very different in English, too. Deeper, less . . . intimate-sounding, like each word is meant to be whispered right in your ear.
The Death Eater makes himself scarce, but it does beg the question of how many are around. And stationed where.
Standing from the table, Voldemort decides they’re done with the meal and honestly Harry is too so he follows him down another hall without comment. They pass through extravagant room after extravagant room and Harry begins to get overwhelmed. In an incredibly suspicious move, the Dark Lord slows his pace and Harry tests out walking beside him for a moment. It feels . . . undeniably and truly very strange, against the very orders of nature. He drops back to shadow in Voldemort’s footsteps again, bare as always in a quirk naturally everyone is too afraid to mention aloud. He’s been getting away with quite a lot among this sycophantic crowd. Harry carefully focuses on that instead of how strange it had been to walk beside Voldemort like an equal and how it had been allowed, on the impossible-to-know meaning of it all.
As they travel deeper in the palatial building, a few Death Eaters pop up, then more. They all bow to the Dark Lord. Those without masks stare at him unabashedly with raw bewilderment and fascination as he silently follows in his enemy’s footsteps. Long game, Harry. Remember the long game, he repeats to himself mentally in his closest approximation Hermione’s voice. Considering how often she talks and nags and explains things, it’s a pretty solid imitation.
They come upon a library unlike anything Harry has ever beheld, books reaching three stories high. “Wow,” he breathes. “Hermione would love this.” Bit wasted on him, honestly.
“Ah, the Mudblood.” Upon seeing Harry’s surely thunderous expression, he softly adds, “Muggleborn.” Voldemort corrects himself. Really, actually. Harry goggles at him more than the library, by far. The man focuses his attentions on a corner of the library that Harry readily assumes has the most evil and foul of magic and promptly ignores him.
Harry stays on brand too and tries to find books on ward-breaking, but every time a relevant title appears, his hand goes right through it. Off-limits, then. He glares mutinously at the Dark Lord’s back and diverts to offensive spells and hexes. He snatches the first five titles that catch his attention and climbs the lavishly carved spiral wood staircase to the second floor. Retreating to the privacy of a darker corner, he tucks into a book and hides back there for a few hours. He has no idea where Voldemort is, all he knows is this is the most freedom he’s had since he got here and he’d be a fool to squander it by failing the test. So he goes against everything in his rash nature and sits there and reads for hours and honestly doesn’t hate it. He’s gotten more reading done in the time he’s been here than he probably did in total at Hogwarts.
Eventually, though, he gets tired of reading and kind of thirsty. Harry wanders down the staircase and finds Voldemort reclined on a chaise lounge, lithe body arranged in repose not totally unlike those marble statues one can find in a museum.
Very reasonably, Harry worries that Voldemort can read his mind and hastily looks elsewhere.
“Bored already, Haaaaaarry?” Sometimes he swears Voldemort draws out his name to mess with his head. It’s working regardless.
“Just a bit tired. And thirsty. I . . . actually like it in the greenhouse?” Voldemort’s face doesn’t do anything but Harry registers a small ding of surprise anyway. “It’s comfortable,” Harry argues defensively.
“The climate suits me as well.” This first blush of pleasure tinting the emotions passing between them alarms Harry and he quickly says, “Well, let’s go then,” and spins on his heel, nearly leaving Voldemort behind him in a total role reversal.
He waits outside the entrance to the library for Voldemort to come around and lead the way, buzzing with nerves. What the fuck is he doing? Waiting like a terrier sitting and staying without even needing to be told, without even practicing. The long game, it seems, is fucking with him. Harry, he resolves, needs to find a way out and fast.
They seem to glide along the extravagant halls, some lined with portraits of what Harry assumes are progenitors of whoever used to live here, because many of them look related, lots of white blond hair and upturned noses and sweet mother of god Harry’s at infamous Malfoy Manor. He stops walking. Harry examines one of the cowering old men in his frame in surprise, Voldemort retracing his steps causing a ripple effect of portraits hiding in the corners of their paintings and trembling as he grows nearer. “We’re at Malfoy Manor,” he says. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes, Harry.”
“Nasty family.” Great-great-great-grandfather whoever is still shaking and doing his best to pretend he doesn’t see them standing there.
“They have their uses for Lord Voldemort and the accommodations cannot be faulted, as you yourself noted.”
“You really do say everything as fancy as possible. Could have just said you like the house, not the people.”
Voldemort’s eyes crinkle at the corners and it almost looks like his mouth is curving just that little bit, but that can’t possibly be right –
A Death Eater enters from another adjoining hallway and drops to one knee. He looks like a face Harry’s seen before. Dolohov? The Dark Lord’s face once becomes stone as he commands the man to report. Dolohov darts a glance at Harry standing just there and this is too good – the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop with impunity and watch Voldemort be questioned, even for just a flicker of a second. Voldemort’s voice cracks like a whip as he tells Dolohov to report again. A third time would not spell good fortune for the man.
“Movement among the vampires, my lord. Three factions have formed, two-fifths in your favor, three-fifths against.”
“And the third faction?”
“A neutral party making up one-fifth of vampires in Great Britain, my lord.”
“Continue to observe the ruling council. Report weekly. Any diplomacy will be handled personally,” he warns with a dangerous, warning edge.
Letting Harry listen to this just solidifies for him that Voldemort is confident he will never leave this place. His feeling of victory fades a bit as he tries not to let it rattle him. He’ll find a way. In spite of the wand issue, and the palace full of watchers and enemies, and the possibility of punishment. It’s never been brought up and isn’t altogether certain what it would look like, but he remains sure that it exists. The alternative doesn’t bear imagining.
Harry shakes himself as Dolohov accepts the Dark Lord’s words as dismissal and thanks him, for what, Harry has got no clue. Dolohov’s the one doing all the work. The man is careful not to look at him as he excuses himself without prompting.
Voldemort turns to look at him, face unreadable and never human, not ever. “I would think you would be joyous to collect intelligence for the Order of the Phoenix to weaponize against me . . . but you are not.”
Startled the Dark Lord can read him right back, Harry blinks rapidly at him and doesn’t answer.
“Strange creature that you are, Harry Potter, I imagine you are torn between leaving and staying. Let us see what I can do to persuade you of your own will.” Harry is taken aback at the bald-facedness of it, his out and out declaration of intent rather than underhanded manipulation and emotional sleight of hand. “I would never willingly join you,” he shakes his head, somber and firm. “You have to know that.”
“Time will tell all and we have all of it two could ever need.” Voldemort steps closer as he nearly croons his words.
“D’you mean to say you think that I’ll, um, live forever? Because, uh, that’s – that doesn’t really appeal to me?” Harry says, sheepish and bewildered.
“That, I have observed,” Voldemort answers, and Harry has to be startled into a laugh. That was nearly a joke. What the fuck is going on in this house? He absolutely needs to leave now. Yesterday. He quiets quickly and hopes nobody heard. This isn’t really a laughter-and-sunshine kind of place. He almost wants to put a hand over his mouth.
There’s a buzzing between them, something warming in Harry, and he’s horrified to feel it. Voldemort is . . . pleased. And it makes Harry feel good. He has time to wonder if the reverse is true, what signals he’s putting out exactly, before his mind slams an iron door shut on the thought.
“You aren’t still angry?” he wondered aloud. Voldemort bristles swiftly, ever ready to dip into the fathomless pit of rage, ever on a knife’s edge between it and zen. One moment in control and the next rather devoid of it. His shoulders flare and make him look bigger. The longer he talks, them more his anger seems to build.
“My fury will never fade; you violated the safety of my very soul on purpose, to spite me, to denounce me, to defy me. Hate me as you will, I will guard your life as if it were my own. As long as you live, you shall never be free of me!” Voldemort proclaims harshly, fist clenched. Never free of him – never alone again. Safe forever. Merlin, he can’t even hear what he’s actually promising. Jesus, Harry needs to get out of here yesterday –
“Well, that’s – that’s good to know,” Harry coughs awkwardly on the last word, not sure what to do. He appears to have denied Voldemort the reaction he anticipated. He comes back to himself after a moment and leans back to examine Harry with a hawkish and furious look, chasing his eyes but not dipping inside his mind as far as Harry can tell. But then again, he could never tell when Dumbledore had done it, so maybe he’s not the best judge. He realizes, with abrupt clarity that this man wants everything from him, even after taking everything, and still he wants it enough that he would wait to ensure his methods were successful. Really successful. And he dreads that Voldemort was right, too – he’s torn in some miniscule but disturbing way and hadn’t even noticed. He had never, not once imagined that Voldemort might have been playing the long game, too.
Harry has a quiet few days following the library adventure. Larry stays curled around him, red diamond patterns outlined in charcoal against a tan backing. He’s cool to the touch and rather cuddly for a snake in Harry’s opinion. Larry doesn’t have a lot of opinions, but he’s still decent company. Voldemort’s kept away on some unknown business, though when Harry wakes at night in between dreams that always seem to be dreamless, he’s there, chest rising and falling in a smooth rhythm. Harry has the most bizarre urge to get closer, lay his head close to hear a heartbeat. He scoots to the furthest edge of the bed and turns his back on his enemy.
Late at night when he has trouble dropping off, Harry has taken to wondering why he isn’t angrier. His mother and father. His godfather. Cedric Diggory. Indirectly, Dumbledore. And those are just the people he personally knows. He’s in bed with a killer, a torturer, a monster. How has he stayed so calm? Relative to his normal anger management problems, he should have gone ballistic from the start. Truly ballistic. Tried to hurt himself again. Done anything, anything to hurt the monster back.
He’s been playing house with the worst kind of person, Lord Voldemort so twisted he isn’t really a person any more. At least, he wasn’t before. Lately . . . there’s a budding sense of humanness, shy of sunlight but undeniable. Less rage, less insanity. Less imbalance. A person underneath the madness. Colder, clearer. Harry himself feels warm, feels murkier in his own wants and desires than ever before. Calm and confused about the how and why. He misses his friends, misses his chosen family, Hedwig, Dobby, Hagrid, hell even stern Professor McGonagall. The way the Dark Lord would have things, he’d likely never see them again, any of them. Harry couldn’t possibly be happy like that. And living forever? Losing all his precious people to time? No thanks!
But would he have to give them up now? Is Voldemort’s wish the same thing as his command?
If Harry asked for something, would he give it?
Harry’s next outing is both more and less successful. They dine quietly on lunch in the dining room and Voldemort brings him to an ostentatious study. Harry gives him an incredulous look upon taking it in; the Dark Lord says it was the least obnoxious one they had. That’s not how he said it of course, but that’s how Harry took it to mean.
Stationed in an armchair by an unseasonably lit fireplace, Harry pretends to occupy himself with reading by turning the page every four minutes while he tunes into every last conversation with Death Eaters reporting on their duties. It’s a veritable goldmine of information, on alliances with Magical Creatures, recruitment numbers, how deep Voldemort’s hooks have sunk into the Ministry – truly, a comprehensive view of their inner workings. The Order is going to weep with joy when he delivers the news, he can imagine the hopeful looks on their faces. They’ll ask how he knows so much, and of course he’ll have to say Voldemort treated him like pet or something equally demoralizing that will explain why he was in the room. Or maybe he can tell them things as they are. That’s not so damning, right? He ingratiated himself a bit, played along so he could earn trust to get the information, to be in the room, have more freedom of movement to hatch an escape . . . which he probably should be working on?
He nearly facepalms in the middle of a meeting, one of a seemingly endless number, but manages to restrain himself. He’s the worst hostage ever.
Then again, hostage might be the wrong way of putting things. It implies Voldemort would trade him for something and Harry is now living in a world where that may no longer be true.
This first time Voldemort brings Harry to the study, he assumes it’s to screw with his underlings, make them sweat. They were, Harry imagines, probably told he’s some kind of weapon and that’s why Voldemort wanted to spare his life, keep him at their stronghold as an ace up his sleeve. It certainly works, if that was the intended effect, his most elite squirming and struggling between delivering the truth and worrying about revealing too much. In general, though, Voldemort is eminently frosty with his subordinates but does not torture them for perceived failures the way one might have expected, the way dreams lead him to believe. Not in front of Harry anyway. He wonders what the Dark Lord is trying to prove with all this, exactly; who he’s trying to prove it to.
Death Eaters approach his presence in the study with studied caution, careful to never address him and trying not to look at him either. After some hesitations with the next few days where Voldemort brought Harry along to work, Voldemort seemed quite ready to Crucio his own people, but never quite reached that threshold; the Death Eaters as a group learned to respectfully pretend he’s not there. Just as Harry prefers.
Their bodies inch closer and closer in the bed and Harry wonders what will come of all this, if he will be able to survive it for all that he is supposed to live forever.
It’s Harry’s opinion that Voldemort shows some signs of restraint in his reckless cruelty by not antagonizing Harry or the Death Eaters or anyone really – and along with it, a sharper edge to his wit and sanity, which feels incredibly more dangerous. Harry wonders about his role in the changes he sees; is he helping steer the monster back towards humanity or handing him the tools for victory? And why and how is it happening?
There is very little time they do not spend together as the days grow a little shorter, sunlight fading a smidge earlier in the evenings. It’s the only estimate Harry has as to his time there, not having thought to mark the days. Voldemort seems to attend some meetings without him or perhaps even leave the manor, Harry doesn’t know and doesn’t ask. He’s beginning to worry Voldemort would tell him – because there need to be roles here and he’s afraid to get them confused. Or he wouldn’t answer and that would tick Harry off for real and then they’d fight and the long game would come crumbling down. There’s a meeting in the evening regularly that he also doesn’t ask about. He begins to regret that when Voldemort adjourns his time in the study for the night and heads in a different direction than the greenhouse. “Voldemort?” The Dark Lord glides down the hall in a sweep of black robes not unlike a Dementor without answering, much like one of the creatures would. He steps into another dining room, this one grimly ornate with one chair in the middle of the table taller than the others, not unlike a throne. Voldemort gestures Harry towards a chair just behind and to the right of the tallest chair. That’s before Harry sees her.
Bellatrix Lestrange looks as demented as ever and her face seems to show no genuine emotions as she claps and clasps her hands and pretends to swoon on to them wistful. Giddy, she exclaims, “Why, if it isn’t itty bitty Potty! The lion’s been tamed, my oh my – “
“Enough,” Voldemort halts her with a word. Everything is painted over in red, Harry can barely breathe for how angry he is, wants his wand so very dearly so he can repay Bellatrix the favor she paid Sirius. It’s an impotent rage; he’s in a room full of enemies, in a palace full of enemies, and practically defenseless. He wouldn’t win and that’s so much worse than the idea of losing his standing or privileges or indeed not fighting at all. But oh how he wants.
“Take a seat, Harry,” Voldemort says and Harry does. God help him.
Chapter 4: Parts of a Whole
Chapter Text
The discussion is long and would be boring if it weren’t for all the sordid details that go into building and maintaining a terrorist wizarding group.
Properties and estates secured – ever expanding to each nook and cranny of the UK. Finances of the operation – with some allegedly coming from embezzled Ministry funds. Loyalties from this family or that – seeming to edge more and more into neutral parties.
Harry soaks it all in like a sponge as best he can while glaring balefully at the wall. Bellatrix Lestrange, just across the room, living and breathing just as she pleases. It’s impossible to focus as the injustice of it all wails and rails against his heart, beating at the bars that surround it. The more he thinks about it, the worse it gets. She doesn’t deserve to live, people like her simply don’t deserve to or perhaps it’s just her specifically. Harry resists the urge to fantasize violently, because that’s not right either, god these people are getting to him –
“Calm yourself.”
Voldemort’s head is turned towards him, tone placid. Yes, it’s clear now he knows the way to tune into the emotions that cross between them. Harry narrows his eyes at him and squares his jaw, saying nothing as he resumes glaring at the wall.
“Mulciber.” Voldemort calls one of his lieutenants in that soft tone he has that always feels like it’s preceding a swift death and Harry can still feel his eyes on the side of his face.
Mulciber pauses, then picks up where he left off on developments with establishing an alliance with the Giants. Harry wants to care and does his best to glue the information to his brain but it’s hard. It feels as though it takes an age for the inner circle meeting to conclude and in that time he keeps his gaze carefully trained on the wall opposite to prevent having to acknowledge the reality that a woman like Bellatrix is allowed to simply walk around when the best kind of people, the Longbottoms, his parents, Sirius, aren’t.
The Dark Lord stands to signal the end of the meeting – shamefully, Harry missed most of it, mind a wash of red hatred – and Harry leaves the room before he can do something he’ll regret. To his surprise, Voldemort doesn’t chase after him, not down the hall, not on the way to the greenhouse, nor into the trees. In fact, he only comes to bed once Harry is halfway to the land of nod, sitting and watching him lose a battle against heavy eyelids. A long-boned hand lands in his hair to comb through the tangles, sharp nails rattling pleasantly against the scalp. Harry chuffs in satisfaction and tucks his face more securely against the pillow. He imagines they both wonder how they got here, wherever will they go. But he’s not alone in it for once and though the cause of most of his ills has a hand in his hair and wants to call him treasure, he finds there are many many fates worse than this.
The next inner circle meeting in the dining room with the throne comes too soon. Bellatrix grins at him and flutters her lashes coyly, a taunt. She doesn’t speak and she doesn’t need to. The message is clear: you have no power here.
It’s intolerable but Harry’s managing the rage alright until a Death Eater plant in the Ministry brings up Muggleborn rights and everyone at the table uses the same slur. ‘Mudblood, Mudblood, Mudblood.’ It gets repeated so many times it feels like an echo chamber in Harry’s head bringing him closer to a boiling point. So ignorant, so heavily invested in their own intolerance, so disgusting –
Fingers tilt his chin toward Voldemort gently. Harry doesn’t know if this is dangerous gentle or gentle gentle. He’s been distracting again. “I permit them their ignorance so that they may accept one they would normally penalize for his blood. It’s a temporary necessity, my treasure. One day they will fall on the sword of their own hypocrisy.” It’s quiet in the dining room but for the soft susurrations of the Dark Lord’s words.
Harry tries to wait for him to finish and it helps that he likes what he’s hearing to a certain extent, but he can’t help but duck out of the hold at the term of affection. He told him not to call him that. It also feels like a massive power play to touch him like that in front of other people when they don’t even really do it alone. He crosses his arms and turns away.
He wishes Voldemort never discovered his ability to speak Parseltongue because he would never be so bold as to refer to him by endearments if anyone else on the planet were able to understand.
“Treassssssurrrreee?”
Something is slithering through the door from ground, an ominous sound on the marble, something truly massive. Lucius Malfoy pales a ghastly white and others twitch in their ornate chairs practically in sync. Dolohov’s lips thin as a stressed twitch ticks in his jaw. It’s like a great big family dinner and nobody wants to be here because everyone’s afraid of what the crazy uncle in the family might say or do. A long, meaty body slips along the floor and round the table. She’s truly gargantuan. This, this must be the snake Nagini. A man-eater, if rumor is to be believed, which Harry usually doesn’t. And maybe also the snake he dreamed attacked Mr. Weasley. It’s unclear; Voldemort has rather a lot of snakes. Perhaps the rumors aren’t so far-fetched after all, he thinks as she glides closer and tastes the air with a flailing tongue, mouth big enough to accommodate questionable protein sources.
It’s him she seems to be looking for, so Harry holds out an open palm in a reluctant gesture of goodwill. For all he can talk to snakes, they’re not really better or worse than other animals.
Nagini glides towards him and rises to flick her tongue at his hand. “Familiar but strange. I know this one,” she says, though unclear whether it’s to herself or Voldemort. She pushes her gigantic head to rest on his palm, but it’s too heavy and the snake noses forward to lay her head down on his thigh instead. The rest of her still seems to shift in apparent interest or curiosity but Harry places a cautious hand on top of her flat skull anyway, there’s really nothing for it.
A pin drop could be heard in that room. Harry glances up to aghast faces. He pets over her smoothly scaled head once only and gives the barest sketch of a smile.
The look on Voldemort’s face keeps him warm all over for a long time.
The meeting takes another hour to wind down and no one gets tortured and yet the Death Eaters only seem more trepidatious. Harry doesn’t know what these gatherings were like before but there’s a general air of assumption that this must be the calm before some furious storm. There were setbacks, unexpected obstacles emerging. Perhaps these were not previously addressed through problem solving and a healthy dose of volunteerism as they are now. They seem to scarcely believe it safe to rise from their seats even after the Dark Lord dismisses them.
“Treasssssure?” Nagini calls out to him as he begins to shift, ready to get up. Harry blinks at her.
“Warm and familiar. You smell like my master,” the great snake observes to Harry’s private embarrassment. He does his best to keep it off his face. “Right,” he says and gingerly lifts her head off his thigh. Nagini shifts with the movement, eerie eyes glinting as she evaluates him. She has now, it appears, had the opportunity to take the measure of his ability to serve as a personal heater. It remains to be seen how that will factor into his worth overall, but for a snake he could see it counting for a lot.
“Why does he hide Nagini? I smell any moons shared and still master sends me away.” Perhaps this is where the Dark Lord picked up the creepy habit of referring to himself in the third person.
“I don’t know,” Harry says at long last. “Perhaps we should ask him.” They turn their eyes on Voldemort as one and it’s an unusual satisfaction to have held out on speaking the language of snakes around anyone this long only to have turned the tables on his enemy.
The energy in the room changes, temperature dropping. Harry keeps his face as neutral as possible, but really he’s not very good at it. He’s not sure how he’s feeling exactly but what he does know is that it feels good to finally have someone on his side in this godforsaken manor. Even if she is an allegedly man-eating snake. It’s a slightly fierce feeling.
Lord Voldemort looks . . . Harry can’t tell what he’s feeling either. But perhaps it’s a little bit fierce as well. He’s silent for a moment, standing towering and intimidating as ever, something flinty in his eyes. One hand rests on the chairback as Voldemort contemplates the pair. Inner circle members stand frozen as they witness the Boy-Who-Lived’s ability to speak to snakes at last, rather than him simply not responding to Voldemort in front of other people as he has done and as good as pretending he doesn’t understand. The Dark Lord never speaks to him in anything else, even in a room full of people, like everything he says is meant for Harry’s ears alone, like everything that exists between them is not meant for others or sharing. Intimate.
“Another speaker, master!” Nagini cries and looks to Voldemort, wriggling in agitation, rising higher on herself and coiled up.
Harry puts his hand on her again, hoping not to agitate her further. She seems a dangerous creature to rile and the people in the room are ashen faced, eyes wide as saucers watching the scene. After being hounded by all these horrible people, it’s a satisfaction beyond imagining to put them on edge for once. Make them scared, heart racing, feet frozen to the floor. Bellatrix’s stricken look of outrage will keep him sleeping comfortably at night for as long as he lives, which is projected to be quite a while.
Perhaps this is why Voldemort kept them apart; to prevent an unholy alliance from forming as it seems to be doing now. Harry feels a strange affinity for her. Is it normal for Voldemort’s pet to voice unhappiness with him? He doesn’t seem the type to abide by a shitty attitude, for all that Harry is sometimes given to sullenness and some days the role doesn’t feel too different.
Harry strokes down her cool scales, larger than any he’s ever seen. He decides to differentiate himself. “Maybe we can speak, uh, by a warm fire? It’s cold in here,” is his best attempt to smooth things over. Luckily, it has its intended effect as Nagini sways back down to the marble floor and slithers over to the door with alacrity. Inner circle members jerk out of the way and Harry follows her with total docility. He can hear Voldemort trailing behind as he finally says, “My treasure and my pet united against me . . . it was wise indeed for Lord Voldemort to keep them apart.”
The snake winds quickly down the gloomy halls, knows the way. She slips into a lavish sitting room, jewel toned furnishings and Harry almost reaches for his wand to spell a fire but then he recalls that he doesn’t have one. Voldemort ignites one with a graceful wave of his hand. It seems an incredible waste he should have a wand while Harry does not.
He reclines in a velvet armchair and allows Nagini to twine around his leg and rest her head along the back of the chair, trying not to twitch. She’s so long she can do both, be in both places at once as she shifts and never quite settles. Nagini watches Voldemort with eyes that nearly glow in the firelight when Harry glances at her.
“You and Nagini are alike, in a way,” Voldemort says with some reserve, back straight and head cocked in private meaning. It clicks for Harry quickly, he’s been waiting for Voldemort to bring up what the others might be for ages, and he rushes to reply, “You mean to say she’s a – “
“Indeed,” Voldemort cuts him off. Harry supposes you never know who’s listening, but it’s his own headquarters and seems a bit paranoid to him.
“Another living creature, wow. I wouldn’t have thought you’d do it on purpose. How long has she – “
“Some years, Harry. She has been faithful to me, a companion of great loyalty,” he explains, though Harry personally thinks she’s a bit peeved at him presently and taken to Harry suspiciously fast. Harry’s been desperately curious about where the others are, what they might be, what hidden meaning each selection has, but knows that’s the last thing he should go asking Voldemort about if he wants him to drop his guard. He’s been patient this long and now it’s actually paid off.
“Nagini likes this one. Not foul and sweaty and stinking of fear,” the great snake announces right by his ear. Yes, imagines that’s normally the state she finds people in when they take her in. She’s truly a beast, but weirdly friendly to him so far and he hasn’t met someone new in so long. It’s nice to be liked, undeniably. “Treasure is warm as a man but not afraid like one.”
“Ah, my sword of Gryffindor made flesh . . . my treasure is afraid of very little,” Voldemort murmurs. Harry truly objects to being called treasure by either a snake or a snake-man but then Nagini flicks out her tongue to flap at his cheek and the gestures lands with him as somewhere between a shoulder pat and a wet willy. He doesn’t correct her, minds it less from Nagini who is really more like a peer to him than Voldemort, Voldemort who sees him as a piece cloven from a whole as opposed to an actual person. Patronizing. Harry has always secretly loved being called brave because it’s the one compliment that he feels he can actually believe, because life made him be, but it’s certainly ironic to be called that by the person who engineered most of the situations he was required to brave for simple survival.
“I’m like you,” Harry explains to her, turning his head to look at her. “We share a piece of him.” By Nagini’s reaction, she’s considerably more thrilled about it than he is. Still, he can’t fault her as a pet loyal to her owner. She doesn’t know any other way.
It’s costing him less pride than he’d thought to speak in Parseltongue around Voldemort, and he wouldn’t do it if he thought she would understand English, and then maybe he’s been a little high on his horse anyway.
“Nagini keeps it, close and hidden and safe. Nagini and treasure are the same,” she hisses with some excitement, lowering her wiggling body off the chair back and onto his shoulders with an ‘oof!’ from him. “I don’t know about the same – “ Harry counters, but she’s already curling around to rest her very heavy head on his chest. Christ, she’s cuddlier than Larry and that’s saying something. Voldemort’s shoulder hitch with the slightest movement that suggests he’s reserving a physical expression of amusement, somehow so much more impactful and indicative of genuine delight than the high, cruel laughter he’s come to know from nightmares both real and dreamt.
‘Why did you touch me in front of all those people?’ Harry wants to ask. ‘What are you trying to prove?’ Instead, out of instinct, he elects to stab back; striking out rather than asking.
“I’m not your pet, no matter what comparisons Nagini makes,” he warns Voldemort even as he admires the flicker and flare of firelight playing across his face in an otherwise rather dim room.
Voldemort holds his gaze and says nothing. Except to stroke the arm of the chair once with his thumb and Harry feels so very very stupid then to feel jealous of a chair. He breaks the silence, says, “That’s how you see me, isn’t it?”
The Dark Lord slowly shakes his head, but doesn’t seem moved to speak. Or perhaps able to. Maybe he wants to think of Harry that way, a living breathing embodiment of his own greatness to have and display and put back in his little cage at the end of the day. Maybe he wants to say that he thinks that way, but the truth of it is that he doesn’t, not truly. Maybe he’s as confused as Harry is about whatever the fuck it is that they’re doing.
Instead, he says, “I keep her close to me as a soothing presence, because she is simple in her needs and wants, I believed. I find myself surprised every day that you have a similar effect.”
“Is that why you made me share a bed with you?” Harry rounds on him instead of allowing the fluttering thing in his chest to take hold.
“Quite,” Voldemort allows. He looks placid but Harry can sense the undercurrent of sourness. This is not a man acquainted with being confronted, having a finger pointed in his face or wagged at him in disapproval. The Voldemort fresh out of the cauldron would never have suffered such accusation or lack of deference – utterly mad and drunk on his own power. The Voldemort of not so very long ago wouldn’t have either. Something very, very important has changed and still Harry can’t put his finger on what exactly.
“But you didn’t know that in the beginning. Why’d you do it then? I could have stabbed you in your sleep or something,” he argues, but doesn’t add that he could still very well stab him in his sleep. Wouldn’t do to remind him. The Dark Lord had no way of telling what wandless magic Harry knew and neither could anyone in this manor could have said with full confidence they knew what was in his arsenal.
“You were weak, Harry. One might fear you’d slip away in the night from living to the beyond with little warning.” Well, that’s certainly one way to say ‘I was worried for your health.’ Dark lords, it would seem, have a way of making everything complicated. He makes it sound like Harry was so feeble he couldn’t have possibly fought, when really what Harry is hearing now is that Voldemort wanted to watch over him to make sure he was going to be okay. As a horcrux, perhaps it was in Voldemort’s best interest to see Harry warm and comfortable and tended to. But if all Dumbledore knew was accurate, no wound would have killed Harry beyond the method he attempted himself.
“But I can’t die. Can I?” he says with middling confidence in the claim. He’s had so many near-death experiences, it truly defies the imagination to discover he wasn’t ever in any real danger after all. Again, Voldemort doesn’t seem to want to answer; a strange imitation of Harry when he wouldn’t respond to Parseltongue in front of Death Eaters. “I thought it wise not to test it.”
“You haven’t been getting angry,” Harry observes, a non sequitur trying for mild and placid but probably failing miserably. What was the Sorting Hat thinking, trying to put him in Slytherin?
“No,” Voldemort allows. “I have not.” And even in his terseness, there’s a sense of self-control, of restraint, where before there would be none at all. It makes Harry’s point for him. “What’s happening to us?” Harry asks, so very confused about what this is, where they’re going. Both of them. Angry, crazy Voldemort he can handle. Calm, sort of rational if still absolutely obsessed with power Voldemort is another story completely. He provides the illusion of being predictable, which is so much more dangerous because it gives Harry the false impression that he can relax. Nothing’s settled here. They disagree on everything – the fate of the Wizarding World, the rights of people and Magical Creatures, and the rights of those beings to disagree with a Dark Lord, just to name a few. And they’ve been battling without fighting, Harry through saint-like patience with the process of being held captive and Voldemort through providing the most zen environment possible to persuade Harry to stay of his own will. Diplomacy, really. “We’re discovering our true roles to each other, Harry; not as enemies . . . “
“What then?” Harry challenges, suddenly angry himself. If not that, then what?
“Parts of a whole,” Voldemort murmurs, as if he doesn’t see Harry as that, as if he sees them both as incomplete. Harry glares at him mutinously, embarrassed of his earlier vulnerability and feeling exposed. “Perhaps you saw that I have been unwell more than any other, peering into my mind in dreams and bearing witness to my actions in waking hours . . . “ He trails off again. Madness, Harry wants to say. He’s been plagued with madness. Instead, he lets Voldemort answer to his own words, curious what might be revealed next. “In times of privacy or relaxation, I would keep Nagini near me. A calming presence as the situation suited. But as I came to your bedside and watched you heal, the satisfaction and ease of being near could not be denied. Long have I kept my soul pieces spread to the four corners of the earth, for their own protection and mine, thinking this best . . . I suspect now this was folly, the splitting of my very soul not stirring the imbalance in my mind but rather the distance from the pieces I saw fit to send away.”
“You mean being near them makes you . . . ?” Harry avoids the word ‘sane’ by the barest breath. “Balanced?” he offers.
“Very much so,” the Dark Lord says, capturing Harry’s gaze and then releasing it again as he explains: “It escapes you, Harry, the tenor of your time here from the time before it. My followers fear me still and I hold an iron grip on my rule, on the empire this all will soon become. But the decisions, the rash cruelty without reason or lessons to be learned from example no longer plague my command. I look over my previous writings, from many years ago and from mere months, and decipher little meaning . . . A change has rushed over this manor from the first moments of your arrival and for that they fear you also . . . “
“They probably think I have you under some kind of spell. Or you me.” And privately, Harry marvels that they wouldn’t be very wrong.
“Under your spell,” Voldemort echoes Harry’s thoughts. “Yesssss,” he lingers on the ‘s.’ “I daresay I don’t mind . . . “ He leans forward and the arm chairs are closer than Harry thought and Voldemort’s raising a hand to his cheek, fingers hovering over the skin but not quite touching, stimulating the tiny hairs that lay unnoticed there. The weight of Nagini’s body bears Harry down but still he’s frightened by how much he doesn’t want to move away. Voldemort is leaning into his space still. “And you under mine.”
A thumb lands to trace under Harry’s eye with a curious gentleness, speculative. “Shall we go to bed, my treasure?”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “That’s fine.”
Chapter 5: Defenses Crumbled
Chapter Text
There’s a hum coming from underneath the bed come morning. Harry feels it, a dark buzzing on the edge of his senses as he shifts from dreaming to waking. “Hmmmm,” he says, not minding the sensation but curious. Harry blinks awake and rolls off the bed to crouch and inspect the underside. The mossy earth underneath looks undisturbed, blobs of green rather than brown, but the thrum of dark magic emanates all the same. No, soul magic. Harry peeks over the side of the bed.
Voldemort watches him back, blurry without the benefit of Harry’s glasses but clearly laid up with his reading, probably something evil or other. Neither of them speak for a moment.
“They’re under there, aren’t they?”
“All my treasures in one place, all those that remain . . . “ A thunderous look comes into Voldemort’s eyes and they both seem to be thinking of the ring, the diary. The locket. He doesn’t know how much Voldemort knows, what he gleaned from Ron’s mind in those lightning quick moments, and he doesn’t want to give a tip off if the Order has managed to maintain an upper hand. He jerks his gaze to the left and tries not to give anything away. Retrieving the horcruxes would explain Voldemort’s occasional absences from the manor, but if they’ve managed to find and destroy the locket, Harry has no idea what effect that might have on the Dark Lord. And he was unconscious for the beginning of his stay, so he missed any fallout if the Order made short work of securing and stabbing the real Slytherin’s locket with a basilisk fang. He hopes against hope they’re all safe and sound, if not with good morale.
Harry doesn’t have anything to destroy them with, doesn’t have his bleeding wand. Doesn’t have the fight in him for it anymore, for all the fire that burns in him still crackles on. It has a different aim now, motivations changed, murky, unknown. He doesn’t know himself anymore. But Voldemort apparently thinks he himself does, gambling on Harry’s docility like this.
He still doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, and yet he climbs back up and collapses stomach-first onto the bed anyway. This is a problem for after breakfast. His head rests on the pillow, cheek pressed to the lingering body heat leftover from sleep and asks again, “What the hell are we doing?”
Again, he never does get his answer. Voldemort instead rests a hand on the side of Harry’s skull casual as you please, mussing the already mussed hair, the cool edge of his palm brushing his ear. And to be fair, that’s an answer in itself.
All the horcruxes in one place, now that the Dark Lord is secure in all their safety. Well, all but one. Nagini will be sleeping in her own territory in the manor, a boundary Harry quickly enforced the night before upon observing how cuddly she be. Harry only has an idea of how many horcruxes there are and a sense the battle is there, not in their wands but in their wills – not how far they will go but how far they will bend. And if bending is the name of the game, Harry is incontestably winning. A thumb strokes over the hidden part of his hair and he closes his eyes again.
Breakfast is good, somehow better than usual. The room seems to glow with sunlight pouring through windows, crumpets hotter and butterier than usual, something. Harry sips at a coffee and presses his lips to the mug to feel the residual warmth. “Cold, my treasure?”
“No,” Harry says with a sniff as he drops the mug back on the table. It’s quiet for a moment, then he can’t help but add: “If anyone should be cold, it’s you. What are you, allergic to socks?”
A startled breath preceded shocked laughter, high and strange and something like giddy. “You mock Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter? When it was I who shaped your life, I who keep you now?”
“You don’t keep me, I’m beginning to think I keep you,” Harry grits out. “And I’m not mocking you, I’m simply observing that you seem to be unusually avoidant of shoes. And trousers.”
Voldemort rests back at that and observes him, mouth still etched in an eerie smile. “Warming charms seem to escape the greatest of wizards. Are you one such, Harry?”
“No, I just like normal people clothes. Call me a conformist.”
“Never that, my treasure.” Almost expecting a brush of feet against his own, Harry’s surprised to be left to his devices while they both finish their meal. In all honesty, Harry can understand it. Being barefoot engages the senses better, probably some kind of reminder to himself he’s not a shade anymore. The trousers, he can’t explain.
“I miss going outside,” he observes aloud as he rests his fork against the delicate china with a click. Voldemort eyes him coolly, speculative. Harry’s feeling combative today. Or something close to it. Wanting to confront if not combat. He doesn’t want to hide anymore. “Haven’t had exercise in . . . however long I’ve been here.” Just saying it, he’s feeling more jittery. Day after day of reading, reclining, relaxing in the warm bask of a relatively stress-free environment – eventually it’s going to get old. “Come,” Voldemort says with cool regard, watching carefully then turning his back on Harry fully as he makes for the hall. “Hang on!” Harry hops a bit as he trips on the table leg in his enthusiasm, then rights himself to trot after the man.
It’s only after one of the Death Eaters, who Harry thinks might be Macnair, gives him the oddest look that Harry realizes he’s smiling. He wipes it off his face and scurries after the Dark Lord’s long strides. They come across what looks to be a side entrance, french doors spilling light and Harry’s suddenly in tune with how very ready he is to breathe fresh air. Voldemort waves them open with an effortless motion and Harry stumbles out, down a few steps to stand with his hands on his hips. Taking in his first time outdoors in some time, he closes his eyes on the sunny day and ostentatious display of gardening. None of that matters. Harry breathes in deep again.
“You seem to soak in the sunlight, my treasure. It’s been cruel, perhaps, to keep you away.”
“It’s not like I ever asked, Voldemort.” Harry cracks an eye to squint at him from his peripheral.
“Man need not want for those most basic undeniable requirements of bread and bed. But he is made to beg for them by the cruelties of a society that does not care for his pride,” Voldemort quotes back at him, the words unfamiliar. Harry blinks at him. “It’s from the tome you were perusing so avidly during my meeting with the Carrows yesterday.” His eyes crinkle at the corners and Harry gets distracted enough by that, that it takes a minute for him to realize he’s being called out on his shoddy spywork.
“The brother and sister?”
“Yes, Harry,” Voldemort doesn’t seem irritated or impatient at Harry’s lack of attention to detail. Instead, he seems amused. It’s very possible there were better candidates for the role of sneak here. “They’re to be the new Headmasters of Hogwarts.”
“Seriously? Them?” Harry asks incredulously, unintentionally guileless in his surprise.
Circling him in the crisping grass, Voldemort contemplates his wand, rolling it between his hands. It feels like bragging because he has a wand and Harry desperately wants his own, but in reality it might also be something like nonchalance. “You don’t approve?”
“They definitely don’t seem to have the right character to care for school children,” Harry confirms with full confidence. “Seem a bit nasty to me. You know, you have to be kind to take care of others for a living.”
“Ah, but my followers are not in the habit of kindness nor great generosity of spirit.” Probably a job disqualifier, Harry thinks unkindly.
“What about Rookwood? He doesn’t seem too bad,” Harry offers up. Voldemort’s eyes dart towards him so snakelike and suddenly rapt it takes him aback. “Not that I’ve been paying any particular attention, it’s just that he’s the least beastly of the bunch. Real bunch of winners, you’ve got there.” His voice dwindles until he’s practically mumbling by the end, digging the toe of his boot into the ground to disturb the earth underneath.
Voldemort, he is coming to realize, has never told him no in all the time he’s been here. Largely because Harry rarely puts him in a position to. But, still. That has to mean something. And it certainly seems to as the Dark Lord turns his back on him again and leads him deeper into the garden grounds. Maybe he doesn’t like his followers much either. He’d even called them ignorant last night. Maybe that should mean something, too. Harry follows him into the lavish shrubbery, past geometric layouts of azaleas, tulips, and birds of paradise and all kinds of unseasonal flowers that have no business being in the same climate.
They come upon a gleaming pond, water so clear Harry can see fish of varying scale dart around inside. Harry wastes no time ditching his boots on the finely trimmed lawn and dipping his feet into the cool water, fish surging away. Maybe he splashes a bit on himself in his haste, but it’s worth the disdainful look on Voldemort’s face when Harry turns to take him in, wearing black head to toe on a warm day. He can feel a grin trying to split his face. “Sorry to be undignified or whatever, just, it seemed like the perfect day for this. Used to skip stones out on the lake,” he explains as he roves over the waterline for any. No luck. That is, until a pile is conjured out of thin air, just within arm’s reach at the lip of the pond. Flat, grey, and as perfectly round as anyone could want. Harry looks back again. Voldemort’s already headed down a path through the hedge roses that encircle the pond. “Thanks!” he calls to his back. He skips stones for a while. When the pile dwindles, Harry rolls his trouser legs up high and wades to the other side to fetch the stones. What he would give to master the wandless Accio, he thinks as his sleeve is drenched when he plunges his arm into the pond to retrieve the last one.
It takes him two full run throughs of the pile to exceed four skips and three to tire completely of his entertainment, stones skipping all the way to dry land. It’s taking him less and less time to become weary of each new gift or privilege or freedom. He’s getting greedy, it seems.
“Voldemort?” he calls and trudges out of the water, deciding to stop terrorizing the fish.
Opting against wiggling back into his boots with wet feet, Harry ties the laces together and holds them by the knot as he wanders the weaving stone paths past the hedge roses and into the carefully manicured garden. It’s a maze of sights, colors, and smells from worldly flora, even the odd animal here and there. An albino peacock raises its head to glare at him balefully the other side of a flowerbed and Harry respectfully about-faces in the other direction. Some things seem mundane if extravagant and others seem magical, like the iridescent blossoms on the Japanese maples he can’t help but brush a gentle finger over, only to see it spurt shimmering rainbow sparks. Harry likes that one.
Voldemort is a looming shadow in the gardens, a dark spot on a sunny day no more in place than a Dementor at a tea party. Harry finds him in a more practical area of the sprawling grounds, still bursting with green life but more with the look of future potions ingredients.
He looks to be checking on some manner of plant, Harry doesn’t know, Harry was always mediocre at Herbology. Either angling to be partners with Neville to lean on his expertise or letting the other person pull a lot of the weight on group projects. “What is that?”
Plucking a knob off the hard, tuberous plant, Voldemort describes its properties, names it, seems to know everything about it and the next plant over and the one after that. “You really know everything don’t you? I mean literally, everything,” Harry observes, somewhere between a question and a declaration as he toes back into his boots with dry but now dirty feet.
Derisive, the Dark Lord only says, “Man is limited in knowledge only by his capacity to care for it,” and doesn’t add anything else. Why does Harry get the feeling it’s from the same book as before.
“Just saying,” Harry mutters. “You seem to know everything about everything. I don’t know how you fit it all up there.”
In an interesting twist, he finding himself wondering for a moment if Voldemort might offer to teach him some small part of what he knows, but then again it would be unwise to arm a potential escapee. If that’s even what Harry is. As it is, Harry can’t even get as close a shave as he would like, razor bouncing off if he cuts too close to the skin. Yeah, that’s been happening. He tripped the other day and knocked his elbow against the wall, but hadn’t felt any pain, almost as if cushioned against it. There’s no telling what manner of protective charms have been woven over him at this point, with all that time he spent sleeping early on and how restfully he spends each night even still. And that’s to say nothing of what goes into the food. In the end, Voldemort doesn’t offer and instead they wind their way through the expansive gardens back to the gloomy manor casting a heavy shadow in the bright bath of sunlight.
He doesn’t want to go back inside. Suddenly, Harry’s feeling claustrophobic. He’d loved it inside until he’d finally gotten an opportunity to leave. “I miss flying,” he says before he can think about it. Voldemort stops just before the shadow of the manor. “I’m sorry, I just, we were going back into the house and all I could think about was – “ Harry babbles. The Dark Lord turns to offer Harry his hand. Harry stands there until Voldemort gestures for his hand again with a roll of his wrist.
Harry gives him his hand. Grasping at his wrist, Voldemort twists it to bare Harry’s forearm. He draws his bone white wand down the faded scar line where Wormtail carved Harry open years ago and golden lines of protective spellwork spill out of the skin. No, they’re forming runes, and Voldemort seems to be disabling them, the molten golden letters fading dark like extinguished candle wicks as his wand swishes in careful patterns. Harry comes to the slow but certain understanding that these were binding him here and he hadn’t even noticed. Runes without physical form, magic he’s never even heard of. Even with the wards on the greenhouse, and the Death Eaters in practically every room, and Voldemort initially haunting his every step in the manor, he hadn’t thought . . . well, it doesn’t matter what he thought.
Voldemort extinguishes the last of the golden runes with a final flick of the wand. Harry would probably be compatible with it, he realizes in a sudden rush. Very compatible. He could distract the Dark Lord right now, punch him in the gut even, and steal it. The binding runes are gone, and he’s already outside the manor, and –
Arms wind around him, hands gripping close to secure their bodies close together, the acrid sense of dark magic fogging the air around them, and then they’re off, launched like a rocket into the sky. Winds rip through Harry’s hair and he worries he’ll lose his glasses to them but miraculously, they hold firm. He blinks his eyes open hesitantly, fluttering rapidly to hydrate his eyes in the blistering wind as they rocket through the heavens. Harry’s held to Voldemort’s front in a blatant hug, and a tight one at that. He’s tall enough to nearly hook his chin over Voldemort’s shoulder, but not quite. Still, he can see the bright white clouds slowly moving past and when he turns his head, there’s the rolling hills of Wiltshire, fields surprisingly far along in the seasonal transition from green to brown. He laughs aloud in wonder, skyborne for the first time in what feels like ages and it’s somehow better than even a broom, total freedom of movement, no height limitations, no barrier between them and the open sky. Harry can feel the shocked laughter fall out of his throat but can barely hear it for the roar of wind at the speed they’re moving, a smearing black cosmic trail left smoking behind them. Whatever he can say he expected out of his day, it was not this. ‘Ask and you shall receive,’ he thinks to himself with delirious happiness.
He can feel the drape of Voldemort’s robes ripple and flap around them like great, smoky batwings. The arms hold him snug and it’s too chilly for it with them soaring across the sky like this, but Harry feels the blood in his cheeks anyway. His pulse roars and when he looks at Voldemort, the man tips them to the side and angles them suddenly downwards. Harry laughs again with wild abandon and finds himself slapping at Voldemort’s shoulders, then reeling him closer for warmth. They loop around, doing barrel rolls in the sky and, once Harry discovers he can control their direction by shifting his weight substantially, zig zagging as if racing through an invisible obstacle course.
Voldemort steers them back towards Malfoy Manor in a long, winding loop staggered by Harry’s impulsive stunts. He weathers the maneuvers with patience, Harry thinks, until he finally gets a good look at the man’s face and sees the open-mouthed feral grin. Creepy, Harry thinks and pulls him even closer.
They land back among the trees at the thick edge of the gardens where taller species dominate, a tremulous drop from flying to floating to landing on their feet in a burst of billowing inky vapor. Harry laughs yet again, delirious and swaying into Voldemort to push him back against a tree for a kiss. He’s pressing forward to touch his mouth to wind-chilled lips and laying his forearms against the trunk for a happy moment before he realizes what he’s done, that the Dark Lord is unmoving against him.
He pulls back in a panic, nearly stumbling backwards in his haste, but long hands hold him steady. Harry’s afraid to look up, hands braced against Voldemort’s chest and even that feels inappropriate – “Oh god, I’m sorry, I – “ is as far as Harry gets before he registers hands drifting up his sides to cup him by the neck and cheek, lopsided. Emboldened by surprise, he looks up. Voldemort’s eyes are strange, a look in them somewhere between wondering and lack of understanding. “You would kiss your sworn enemy, Harry?” he murmurs, resting two forefingers over Harry’s lip and brushing them very gently across, the movement so soft and light it’s barely there. Goosebumps rise all over Harry’s body, hair pricking up on the back of his neck and arms in the best of ways. ‘It was you who swore me your enemy, you bloody idiot,’ he wants to say. Instead, he nods dumbly, struck stupid by the tiny sensation, by the feeling he’s about to get what he wants yet again. Today can never end.
“Then come here, my treasure, and take what you will.” Harry can barely believe his ears, tentative in shifting closer to cozy up to the most terrifying man possibly in the world. He’s disbelieving even as he pushes onto his toes to land the world’s smallest, most cautious kiss to the corner of Voldemort’s mouth. They can’t bump noses, Harry realizes, getting braver when the mouth beneath his parts and himself surging forward. He presses forward more firmly and their lips move together and suddenly it feels so right it scares him. Harry’s the one to dart out a flash of tongue to Voldemort’s top lip, such as it is, then they’re truly tangling. Mouths open, breathing each other’s air, Harry’s own breath hitches when a hand strokes across the back of his neck. Voldemort’s tongue strokes from the inside and Harry hears himself moan. He leans harder on the man, on the very tips of his toes to keep them even, but in his distracted pleasure he wobbles, they part, and Voldemort has to right him on his feet before can overbalance. Huffing a laugh with embarrassment and a touch of self-satisfaction, Harry rubs the back of his neck where it still tingles from touch.
“Er,” he starts and for the life of him has no idea how to finish.
“Hush, Harry, now there is nothing to be said,” Voldemort murmurs. “Between us, things are ever clearer by the day. It won’t do for us to complicate matters with fighting, mixed words, and confusion. Let us be as we are.” He sketches a hand down from the side of Harry’s eye, down his face to drop to his wrist, which he lifts tenderly, drawing his wand to –
“Oh,” Harry says with a start, crestfallen. He hadn’t meant to delay it, hadn’t actually thought of it at all. The runes. When he thinks about it, and indeed he does as he forlornly watches Voldemort revive the binding runes that float there from ashen to shimmering gold, this was his best chance for escape. They’re beautiful and they mean he’s unfree. In fact, he’s watching his best hope slip away every moment he stands there and consents to let Voldemort bring the bindings back to life. Even now, he could do something. Anything. And as the runes flare boldly once complete and fade back into the skin like sugar dissolving into water, Harry knows he’s here to stay.
Chapter 6: Ashes Blown
Chapter Text
Voldemort’s practically giddy the rest of the day and Harry can’t help but get caught up in the excitement. Everything’s changing; who’s to say it won’t be for the better?
Even he’s glowing a bit in the mirror, some strange new vitality about himself he can’t quite put a finger on as he readies for bed. Voldemort had alternately worked quietly in his study and terrorized Death Eaters with his eerie good mood in meetings for the rest of the day, Nagini sunning herself by the window. And Harry’s upset about the hidden runes, really he is, but as they lay down to sleep, he’s helpless not to curl closer, nosing near enough to rest his head on Voldemort’s arm, which is actually pretty uncomfortable. Fuck it, he thinks and puts his head down on the convenient chest below. They’ll cuddle if he wants to cuddle, why the hell not. This is where they are at this point and Harry’s not going to deprive himself. What would that accomplish?
An arm folds around him, makes space by Voldemort’s side for him to fully situate in and he takes advantage, dragging an arm across Voldemort’s torso like a bar so he can’t move. ‘Wow,’ Harry thinks, ‘you really are a bit chilly,’ and does his best to warm him up by plastering himself to his side.
The good, easy mood lasts deep into the next day, where even in mellowing there’s a certain sweetness at the edges where Harry can sense Voldemort’s emotions.
Harry’s drug the couch in the study over to face the fire, back to rest of the room. This way he doesn’t have to compose his face as sordid details of the operation are discussed because he’s terrible at it. He lays across the couch and rests a book on his chest, arms crisscrossed over it while he does what he can to commit all the information to memory. Nagini’s curled up by his feet, snoozing.
Sometimes it takes Harry a moment to place voices when he’s hidden by the couch like this, even after sitting in on so very many meetings. He registers Rookwood’s deep tenor as the scarred man greets his lord and Voldemort doesn’t offer him a seat. “You shall be the Headmaster of Hogwarts School, a reward for your faithful service as my spy these long years. The transition is to be seamless – continue Amycus and Alecto’s works. Do as you think best regarding school punishments. Any substantial changes to the classes or staff require prior approval.” Voldemort’s words seem terse, stern, as if he’s trying to be stony like usual but is actually irritated and perhaps someone who has watched him less than Harry wouldn’t have noticed. Harry barely keeps in his squeak of surprise, clapping a hand over his mouth. Voldemort listened! And did exactly what Harry suggested! But what did he mean by transition? Hogwarts hasn’t started yet, has it?
After a baffled pause, Harry hears the rustle of robes, perhaps a bow, then - “My lord is most generous, thank you.”
“Send in the Carrows.”
Back to back, that’s cold, Harry thinks with slippery satisfaction and a smile aimed at the elaborate wood carvings on the ceiling.
They take dinner in their small dining room and honestly Harry’s just been relieved they’ve never served him treacle tart because it means Voldemort probably hasn’t been peeking into his mind without his noticing. That’s his reasoning, anyway. It’s convenient and he likes it.
He walks into the inner circle meeting feeling prepared for practically anything given how the other two have been riling to say the least, but he isn’t prepared to see Pius Thicknesse standing there with a mellow look on his face like he’s not really all there. “Harry Potter, safe and sound,” he says, mild as you please. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Minister,” Harry greets through gritted teeth, angling his head just so to glare at Voldemort all the more poisonously.
“Surely the Order suspects something of my true level of control over the Ministry?” Voldemort seems unmoved by Harry’s emotional temperature change.
“Yes, well, I suppose I was feeling optimistic,” Harry snaps, feeling this must be a new low. He rounds him to take his seat and nearly stumbles to see Draco there among the gathered. The humiliation is sudden and burning, worse than what used to happen with his scar, worse than anything. Harry averts his eyes and sits, Nagini sneaking into the room as stealthily as an animal of her size can and winding her way around his shoulders, down across his lap, and finally laying her head on the back of his hand on the armrest as everyone else takes their own seats and business begins.
It turns out Thicknesse is Imperiused, Yaxley keeping careful watch over him. When Voldemort was discussing Ministry policies and laws these past weeks, he wasn’t talking about them theoretically or in the future sense. He’s practically Minister for Magic now. Why doesn’t he just take the role? Formally? Isn’t that his dream?
The empire this will all soon become, Harry remembers him saying. Voldemort doesn’t plan to stop with Britain. Christ on cracker, he really wants everything.
Harry does his level best to tune in for real this time, pretending Bellatrix Lestrange isn’t watching him across the room with her madwoman’s eyes, that he didn’t nearly kill Draco Malfoy with his own magic, that he didn’t press his mouth to Lord Voldemort’s yesterday and pray for the best.
Muggleborns, they’re talking about Muggleborns again. Some kind of investigation committee. A registry to note who’s Muggleborn and who isn’t. Could be useful if they wanted to poll people and ask what needs to be changed about how magical children are introduced to the Wizarding world. But somehow Harry feels that is not what they will be using the registry for. He resolves to actually ask Voldemort.
There’s no talk of raids, it seems they’re onto bigger things, the work of building rather than tearing down.
Creature relations are discussed and tabled. Vampires on board, Giants not.
The Order is never mentioned.
Minister Thicknesse mutters placidly about a few things or other whenever anyone addresses him. The gathering gloom of the room weighs heavily on Harry, this sudden understanding that there is no overthrowing this, there is no fighting this. Voldemort has control of the Ministry at every corner, regular people’s hearts in a vice for terror of another attack, the world’s attention on the UK as it fears what might come roaring out of it. The man is immortal, power consolidated, command of the nation’s attention and emotion absolute. People are utterly terrified of him, don’t know how to deal with him – not even his own followers. But Harry does, or at least, he’s beginning to. He knows how to temper him, his cruelty, his madness. Could learn to soothe him, guide him. Show him another way. Yes, their roles are beginning to become a good bit clearer, Harry thinks with a small, budding feeling in his heart that even the chill of the room can’t snuff out.
“Can I have that?” Harry asks with studied nonchalance but jumping up and down with excitement on the inside the next morning. Voldemort’s just set down one scroll of parchment in favor of another and eyes him suspiciously over the desk. Harry had sat down in the seat across from him today rather than in the armchair or couch to the side in the study.
With narrowed eyes, no doubt at the discordant emotions spilling over from Harry, Voldemort gestures for Harry to do as he will with the parchment. Harry picks it up and starts reading.
It’s bone dry and takes him several paragraphs to decipher enough context for him to feel confident he actually knows what it’s even about. There’s no title announcing the purpose of the document or other clues beyond vast lengths of uninterrupted writing, organized only by numbered sections and lettered subsections. So it’s a while before Harry realizes he’s holding Wizarding law in his hands, on the subject of Magical Creatures. ‘To be afforded certain rights and cautiously approached with certain others should timing be opportune’ is a line Harry reads and feels sums up the reading pretty well. Harry’s just glad there’s no ‘party of the first part and party of the second part’ type language in there, like the kinds of contracts Uncle Vernon would bring home some nights in his childhood. There’s sections on different Creatures and subsections for different rights, like voting or school or becoming a Ministry worker. At length, Harry notices that some rights are listed for some Creatures but aren’t mentioned for others – most of the document is describing different things they aren’t permitted to do. The parchment starts midway through Demiguises and finishes at the tail end of the section on Grindylows.
Looking up, Harry finds both that his neck is sore and that Voldemort is already several parchments beyond him. God, can that man read. Freaky. But then, Harry’s always been a pretty slow reader. Compared to Hermione, anyway.
Harry shuffles through the papers to find the next bit of law, Griffins maybe? Voldemort withdraws the parchment from near the bottom of the pile and offers it to Harry, the exchange performed wholly without comment. Harry’s deep into Imp’s territory before he notices Voldemort’s emotions lapping at the shore of his awareness. Behind the sheet, he closes his eyes. Curiosity. Neutrality. A small bit of pleasure? No, that’s amusement, but they feel pretty similar. It’s blooming cotton candy sweet on his tongue, faint but very there. Not fully a ‘laughing at’ precisely, but a cousin to it. He looks up again, lowering the parchment.
Voldemort has his chin rested on his palm, a somewhat casual look on him. “Truly you have no comment? You who one must imagine would champion the rights of all?” His tone strikes somewhere between droll and genuine desire to know, something dismissive in it that makes Harry want to rise to the occasion, to sit at the table and contribute.
“Well, I think it’s a bit silly to treat Werewolves like Grindylows and vice versa. Just because a Boggart can’t vote doesn’t mean a Centaur shouldn’t be able to. Silly,” Harry says again. It feels good to put some of the new information painted on the inside of his skull back on the outside, relieving a kind of an internal pressure.
“Oh?”
“Yes, oh, don’t ‘oh’ me. What do you think?” Even as he’s saying it, Harry can’t believe he’s talking to Lord Voldemort this way, so casually, so abrupt, and still keeping peace. But he’s excited, he’s ready, he’s finally found a purpose –
“What do I think?”
“Yes, what do you think?” Harry’s trying his damnedest to get the ball rolling here but he almost feels teased.
“They’re all mindless beasts, Haaaaarrrry – “ yes, definitely being teased, “ – no more deserving of an education than they would derive benefit from one.”
“So a Werewolf stands nothing to gain from learning about magic and history and everything any other magical person would just because they transform a single night of the month?” he challenges with an eyebrow quirked.
“In the end, the animal will win claim over their better nature and an animal can only be trained to obey, not to think or logic. This is true of many of the beings described here,” Voldemort gestures to the many scrolls of parchment piled on the desk with a spidery hand. “To expect more out of them than they are capable, now that would be cruelty indeed.”
“I disagree. I think you can’t lump them all in together,” Harry counters, working hard not to be heated but also thinking of Lupin, of Buckbeak, of Firenze. “Some Creatures can think and logic, and the quickest conversation would show you that. Would you’ve accepted Greyback as a follower if you truly believed he was an animal and not a person?”
Voldemort tilts his head slightly at him and Harry is again struck by the knowing that one can never truly distinguish between gentleness in this man and true danger.
But Voldemort isn’t angry. He’s engaged, calm, feeling intellectual if put upon by Harry’s antics at trying to parry with him – the weary patience of a genius surrounded by mediocrity. Hermione’s not like that, Harry thinks to himself. She’s not wearied with those around her, she’s electrified by the need to make them see, to understand, to care. And Harry finds himself struck by that same need, to make Lord Voldemort care about people who aren’t human and Creatures who aren’t animals. To make him listen, Harry corrects himself. It would be a fool’s errand indeed to expect Voldemort to genuinely empathize.
“An important alliance to secure my rule over Wizarding Britain. A necessary link to that world, providing access to forces few would wish to face. Even beasts have their uses.” That’s rich coming from a snake-man, Harry thinks very quietly to himself.
“So they do have value, enough to be allies anyway. I’m not saying Trolls would be interested in voting or Goblins would particularly want to hold Ministry positions, I’m just saying it’s not beyond the pale to ask what they would want and try to find a way to evaluate what rights and expectations are appropriate for each Magical Creature rather than just shoving them all into one big legal category that doesn’t seem to mean anything.”
“And how would you propose to evaluate them, my treasure?”
“Get a specialist in, I mean I’m hardly the one to ask, but. Being able to communicate clearly with us would be important. They’d have to care enough about our world to even bother with it in the first place. But I think it’s important to give them the opportunity, you know? Out of respect? And you never know, maybe our next Minister for Magic’ll be a Doxy,” Harry says with good humor, thinking privately that it would still be an improvement on the brainless, spineless specimen currently in office.
Voldemort doesn’t respond to the joke, as expected. No, instead he’s withdrawing back into his reading without response, retreating silently in that intense way of his that Harry has begun to associate with getting exactly what he wants. So Harry doesn’t push, no, far from it; he leans back in a chair designed for discomfort and settles in.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of this new bizarre normalcy, the unbelievable normal that his day to day has become. Meetings, meals, reading, bed. It’s become difficult not to peek when they’re changing in the wardrobe room, just from the curiosity of it. What does Voldemort look like underneath the robes, after all his transmogrification? A body built of will and dark magic alone – what’s the end product? Harry’s inquiring mind wants to know. He saw some of what came out of the cauldron, but in process and not at its final stage. But he does his best not to sneak peeks in those transitional moments between waking up and morning proper, end of day and bed. Tonight, it’s the hardest it’s ever been. He changes lightning quick into nightclothes. That’s his excuse to slip across the room over to Voldemort’s side and take over the task of finishing fastening the togs on the side of his night robe.
Voldemort’s hands hover in either surprise or confusion as Harry finishes the job, then fails to step back to give him space. No, Harry unaccountably wants to be near.
He glances up at Voldemort but it’s impossible to read his face. Even so, Harry turns readily toward the hand that comes up to cup his cheek, palm outspanning it. The Dark Lord leans closer, their heights not so very different after all, for all it feels like he consumes all the space in the room half the time, the effect of malevolent energy emanating in the presence of others. But it’s not flowing from him now, no, it’s a calm and warm energy now, something relaxed. Harry slips out of his half-lidded focus on Voldemort’s mood to find their faces close together. He expects him to say something smarmy or toying like ‘Focus, Harry,’ but he doesn’t. The only tease is in the way his mouth ghosts over Harry’s, breath whispering, lips tracing contact without truly touching. Harry’s lips part in wanting and Voldemort rewards it with a hand wrapping around the back of his neck and squeezing gently. Feeling a sound about to rumble its way out of his chest, Harry makes himself simply exhale instead. His eyes are half-mast again in quiet, strange pleasure, limiting the visual input so he can focus on the other senses sending out such good little signals.
It is so like them to have an exchange of power even in this, as in all things; they can’t help themselves. Together, this is who they are. Proving it, Voldemort’s hand drifts up the side of Harry’s face to brush a thumb against the lightning bolt scar he painted there on his forehead.
Harry nearly jerks out of his hold, the bolt of hot white pleasure of it is so sudden and intense, smothering everything else out. There, and then gone. ‘Sorry’ the fingers stroking at his hairline seem to say. ‘Let’s try that again’ they whisper as Voldemort drifts his thumb slowly back down again, a gentle touch to the scar that sends bursts the best kind of feeling all over Harry’s body. But most of all it’s in his head, right there where they’re touching, the most unusual place to feel such pleasure, with the kind of intensity that’s usually reserved for below the beltline. And yet it isn’t all the way a sexual sensation – it’s a pure kind of good, something almost innocent in it with that dart of raw sexual delight shot through such that Harry feels he could hardly want for anything ever again. It’s comfort in the extreme. It’s the goodness of touch after so long without, of muscle relief after years of chronic pain, of something needed and wanted and never before received. He never wants to leave this feeling, not ever.
Thumb shifting to the side of the scar – no, no, don’t leave, please – Harry comes back to himself panting and feels wet at the corners of his mouth. There are tears in his eyes and his cock is aching like crazy and his heart is racing, every possible positive reaction happening in overdrive. He imagines all the dials in the command center in his head going wild. Voldemort cups his face, wipes at his tears while Harry frantically rubs at the drool accumulated in his stupor, fiercely ashamed. He barely manages to move his arms in time not to be squashed as Voldemort hugs him close, tucks him head under chin, and doesn’t let go.
Looks like being able to touch him now can go a few different ways. Harry wonders how long Voldemort’s been waiting to do that, if he reacted as expected. If he knew it might be like that. He doesn’t feel experimented on, though. He feels – nourished. In his soul.
Hoping Voldemort can’t feel how turned on he is from it, Harry retroactively tries to angle his hips away, but Voldemort tugs him closer, pressed flat to each other. He combs through the back of Harry’s messy hair, traces the shell of his ear with a forefinger, thumbs over his eyebrow, all just to sneak a touch to the lightning bolt scar again. “Ah!” Harry cries out, body bowing as best it can when they’re locked so close together. It’s like being split down the middle with pleasure, different from before. Each touch has had its own intent and this one intends to see him undone, right there on the floor. He tries to hold on but his knees are like water, hands pawing at Voldemort’s back for grip but sliding against the silky material. Then Harry’s on the carpet, a finger still pressed gently to his scar where Harry sways forward to press his face to the thigh in front of him so he doesn’t topple over entirely. And Voldemort stands there for a moment, letting him.
His body’s buzzing with it, the room seeming to move around him, no thoughts coming in or out. His bones seem to quake and the touch seems to transport him both fully into his body and completely out of it. Harry doesn’t even feel like he exists, only the feeling, only the numbness and purity of pleasure, comforting and frightening and blocking everything else out. And then it’s gone. It takes him longer to come back to himself this time, the touch lingering in every inch of him. He cracks eyes open to see Voldemort knelt in front of him, head rested on Voldemort’s shoulder and apparently having been there long enough to warm it slightly. His cock is giving out a couple warning twitches, signaling a very close call. Harry’s properly drooling now. Disgusting. He’ll manage the energy and effort to wipe it off in just a moment. Only one more moment. His chest moves in rapid rising and falling as he recovers from the bout of pleasure, something humans are perhaps not built to withstand.
Voldemort wipes it off for him. Harry can’t see his face and wouldn’t want to. He feels too grateful, too ashamed, too much. He tucks his face into Voldemort’s neck and wishes for nothing at all.
At length though, his knees get tired and it’s time for bed anyway and perhaps they can get away with not talking about it. He thinks that until Voldemort grips the bottom of his face and tilts him to look up. Harry feels like he’s about to fall headlong into his eyes from Legilimency, that’s how intensely the thoughts are muraled there. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Harry liked it enough for two, no, he doesn’t have to think about how much Voldemort must have enjoyed having that much power over him and he certainly doesn’t have to talk about it. But the truth is there all the same. No, he thinks, skimming the surface of Voldemort’s thoughts the way the man might be doing to him. It wasn’t just the power – it was the giving of something good for once, just for this one person, this person who will outlast all others, the people around them temporary like waves breaking on the shore, there and then gone, no, this one will be there for all time, a companion never fading or breaking or leaving –
Then he blinks and the flow of thoughts is disrupted. And it turns out perhaps they don’t need to talk after all. Their lips press together, not sure who kissed who, not caring, and Harry winds arms around Voldemort’s neck to pull him closer, pull him closer always.
Chapter 7: Spilling Moonlight
Chapter Text
They get closer physically after that; inevitable really. The next afternoon finds them reclined on the oversized chaise lounge in one of the more down to earth yet undeniably plush sitting rooms. Voldemort has one leg stretched along the length of the couch and the other folded at the knee and lying flat so Harry can rest his head there and take up the rest of the space unabashedly. He is a little abashed at the position, however. It’s undeniably cozy, couple-y. Something he’s never done before. He wonders if Voldemort ever has either. Nagini’s wound along the arms and back of the chaise and honestly a pet just completes the picture.
Voldemort’s reading, as is constant. Harry’s contemplating his life choices. How did he get here? Does he want to leave? Leaving aside whether he even could, would he? Harry . . . likes his life right now. Impossibly, against every existing odd. What does that say about him? He tries not to think about his parents too much ever really, because he can want them in his life as much as he wants but it’s never made a bit of difference other than to hurt more. But he wonders now what they would say. Him trying to reform their murderer, caring for him, cozying up to him, intimate with him . . .
There’s no telling. Maybe it doesn’t serve him to think like this. Honestly, he’s been working pretty hard not to think about what anyone else would say about all this, about his own role in all of it, of his acquiescence, his lack of fight. His obedience. Malfoy turning up at the last inner circle meeting burst that bubble pretty effectively. There’s a world outside and it’s impacted, in a way, by every touch between them, every word of understanding, of frustration, of opinion. The balance in their relationship hasn’t felt delicate in a while, but maybe that’s a misleading feeling. Maybe it’s more fragile and more important than he ever gave it credit for. Maybe the importance of feeding it, of nurturing it has been so big he didn’t want to think about it. Maybe he’s been so focused on trying to understand why he enjoys their connection that he forgot to think about the ramifications of it changing. But at the same time, if he’s being honest with himself . . . he’s not just in it for the political influence, exerting some reason and humanity in whatever it is Voldemort’s rule will become. The liking it factor cannot be ignored and as much as he’s considering other factors now that his head’s out of the sand, he’s still stuck on it to a certain degree. What would his parents say indeed.
A hand lands in his hair, pads of fingers brushing through, then nails carving their light lines over his scalp, the sharp almond shape of them giving edge. Harry sighs, weary yet pleased. “Whatever are you thinking so hard about, my treasure?”
Harry shrugs, which he knows Voldemort will hate.
“What could have you so troubled? A world where you need not fear for safety, security, and all those most basic needs . . . I would have you without worry or a troubled mind . . . “ He makes it sound as if he expects Harry to be some mindless, carefree birdbrain – a trophy to sit on a shelf. And even in his irritation with that, he knows better than to say he’s thinking of his parents. Nothing good lies down that road.
“Well, you can obviously agree how we got here is pretty complicated. And there’s a whole world out there I can’t just forget about – that’s my home. And I don’t see anyone other than Death Eaters; that isn’t exactly healthy either. Really morbid bunch,” Harry pauses to sigh as a finger traces along his hairline. Who knew that could feel so good? “And anyway, I can’t live here forever forever, just me, the snakes, and you. Humans need more socialization than that. There’s more to life.” ‘Especially immortal life,’ he thinks to himself. They still haven’t really discussed much about that one. The hand in his hair flexes, tugging on strands, but continues to pet. It’s pretty transparent Voldemort doesn’t like to think about him leaving anytime soon, but by his lack of verbal response, maybe he doesn’t like to think about it happening ever. Which, Harry can forthrightly admit, is not great.
“What, there’s a whole ‘empire this will all soon become’ or whatever, but you don’t plan to let me see it?” Harry tilts his head back at an odd angle to look at him. He can tell by the look on Voldemort’s face he wasn’t planning to. What if Harry had just gone along with whatever Voldemort said? Never taking initiative, asking questions, making requests? God, he really could have channeled that level of mindlessness and the scariest part is that he might have even been somewhat satisfied with that lifestyle. It’s basically what he’s been doing up until recently. But Harry’s ashamed to realize it, and doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want Voldemort to realize how close he’s been to getting exactly what he wants this entire time. “Wow,” he says to be contrarian instead, flopping his head back down. “I would never expect that from you. To live in a box, basically. I thought we were just building trust at this point or whatever. I know you’re scared something could happen to me, but that’s just part of living and – and being a person. And I am a person.” Harry punctuates the point by reaching backwards to pet Nagini’s head, sitting on the armrest there. “She may be content to live here forever so you can feel secure, but I’m not. I won’t be.”
Voldemort takes hold of his chin to tilt his head backwards again. It’s difficult to fully discern his expression now, particularly upside down, but it’s clearly displeased.
“We have all the time in the world to discuss this. There is no haste to decide what course to take and prudence must take precedence over rash desire. As to the empire, you will see it from the summit as a man gazes across the range of land and sea from the mountaintop. You will want for nothing.”
“But I miss people,” Harry says, nearly plaintive. Voldemort’s right in a way – Harry’s never had to beg for anything in all the time he’s been here. “I’ve loved other people before I lo– “
He cuts himself in horror, clapping a hand over his mouth. Harry sits up.
There’s a long beat of stillness in the room, a complete silence. It’s like a bomb has been dropped. It’s nightmarish. At length, Voldemort presses down on his shoulders, tugs him back down to rest his head on his folded leg. ‘Easy, Harry’ his hands seem to say with the tender stroking of his cheeks. ‘All is well’ – Voldemort thumbs under an eyebrow and Harry blinks rapidly at its proximity to his eye. Finally, he removes his hand from his mouth, afraid of whatever else will come spilling out. Resting a hand over his heart, he feels his pulse thunder there and tries to calm down.
‘This is fine,’ he tells himself. ‘Everything is fine.’ Or it will be. Hopefully.
And to a certain extent, everything is.
The day passes in relative normalcy, meetings, meals, the sun drooping lower in the sky as the tasks of the day are slowly checked off one by one. Beyond the windows, nature has taken a deep tilt toward night by the time a Death Eater comes to them in the grand hallway on the way back to their rooms to share dinner. Avery, if Harry’s memory is to be trusted. He asks to report and Voldemort tells Harry to go ahead without him. Glancing between them, Harry acquiesces, noting only several minutes later as he’s seating himself that this is properly the first time he’s been unaccompanied personally by Voldemort outside the greenhouse.
Dinner, once again not treacle tart, is delicious and he’s taking a long sip from his goblet when he spies a flutter in the windows. Red and gold and winged, and Harry can barely believe his eyes as Fawkes quietly trills at him from the sill. He levers open the window and Fawkes circles once around the room with wings widespread, then darts back out in a flash of royal color heading north along the side of the manor, keeping close to the ground. Harry’s out of the window and crouching in the grass before a thought can even enter his mind. Fawkes guides him north as Harry creeps quickly along the outside wall under window height, rounding the final corner of the mansion to show him –
Ron and Hermione, right there at the front gate, hiding between the stone pillar of the gate and a towering bush, but there all the same. It defies belief and for a moment Harry is happy. Overjoyed to see his beloved friends after long absence, whole and hale and – extremely unsafe. Terror nearly strikes him down where he stands and he darts across the lawn and pebbled pathway to gate about as fast as he’s ever moved. Golden runes flare on his arm as he grows closer to the edge of the manor wards, spilling out from under the cuff. But Ron and Hermione are equally bound not to enter the wards as unapproved outsiders. Their eyes grow large with excitement as they spot Harry moving through the night, gesturing him closer with frantic waves of their arms. Ron’s practically hopping in place as Harry draws up to them, two feet of distance as the wards repel all three friends and the runes hum where they lay on his arm. “You need to leave. Now,” Harry whispers urgently, so very very glad to see them, and so very afraid of what could happen.
“Mate, we’re here to spring you, we’re not leaving you behind!” Ron whispers harshly back.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, there’re runes holding me in and I think they’re tied to the wards,” Harry says, hoping against hope they’ll throw in the towel and leave to live another day. There’s no time to talk – and Hermione apparently agrees. “I have a solution to that,” she replies and tosses him something. With a Seeker’s reflexes, Harry catches it on instinct. It’s a small stone, every millimeter covered in runes and they flare as his skin makes contact. Lavender light shines through each carved crevice, alarming all three of them as they look back at the manor in worry they’ll be noticed. The golden runes on his arm fade and as he pushes the sleeve up, ash blows off of it in the night wind, protections gone. He looks up at Hermione and Ron in panic, but now there’s a lavender barrier of light encapsulating him, fizzling at the edges with diffused golden rune magic. It pushes at the wards of the manor, overlapping a splintering wall of orange warding made visible by contact with competing magic and the glowing orange patterns only grow higher with every passing second.
Oh, no. This is a worst-case scenario he didn’t even possess the imagination to worry about. Trust brilliant Hermione to find an impossible solution and brave Ron to embolden them both to actually go through with it. But they’re risking their lives for nothing and Harry does his very all to impress that upon them in the moments they have left before doom rains down on them. “Please, please, if you value anything in our friendship, you’ll leave now,” he begs, frantic to see them leave safe and with all limbs intact.
“But Harry,” Hermione starts, wide-eyed with nameless emotions. “You’re free, the stone dispelled the runes, we need to leave!”
Harry shakes his head, nearly unable to say it.
“Come with us, please! You’re not in your right mind!” Ron comes from a whisper to close to a shout. Desperate tears begin to bud in both his and Harry’s eyes.
“This where I need to be, where I have to be, for everyone’s sake – there’s no time to explain, just please believe when I say – “ And then Death Eaters spill out of Malfoy Manor, in a great force growing greater by the second. A deathly howl echoes out from the house, a shriek of unimaginable fury. For the first time in a long time, Harry feels his scar pulse in pain and begin to burn.
“Run!” He shouts at them. Fawkes soars overhead, heeding the warning.
“Harry – !”
“Now!” Hermione looks at him, stricken in sorrow and fear and worry and other unknowable emotions, and his face is probably doing the same, one last look at a best friend. Curses are already being thrown around, rebounding off the protective bubble still fizzling with leftover magic. Ron grabs Hermione’s arm and shakes his head. She gives Harry one last gutting look and pulls a wand out of her pocket to place it on the ground. They’re gone in a crack of Apparition, perhaps the last time he will ever see his friends again.
He’s left bereft, hands still held out as they’d been gesturing, begging for them to leave. The stone is cool against his palm where he grips it with three fingers. He focuses on that instead of the shadowy figure come into being just beyond his bubble of safety, so many feet of malevolence, rage, and fear practically crackling with unused energy. Harry walks the two steps it takes to reach the manor wards, then two beyond it. He picks up his wand. It showers happy sparks, and he feels some undeniable thrill in being reunited with it. Harry takes this moment to breathe. One, two. Freedom, allegedly. He lets himself savor it, just for two more breaths. Three.
Turning, he smiles a tiny but honest smile at Voldemort and tosses the stone over his shoulder into the bushes and walks back through the wards as the lavender-gold light dissipates and the warning orange flare begins to fade. Harry walks right up to him and rolls his sleeve up and offers his bare forearm.
Voldemort’s fury quells and their eyes say such different things that Harry feels Voldemort can barely understand what he’s putting out. Harry’s calm, resolute. Sorrowful at his loss, but firm in what must be done. What he needs to do, what he wants most of all even in spite of so many competing needs and wants. Choice solidified even in his grief. Voldemort’s enraged and Harry can accept this is only the eye of the storm, a false lull. There is so much more of where that came from it’s not even funny. But as Harry nods to his arm and says “Do it,” he knows there’s only one man in the world who can weather it.
He’s exactly where he needs to be.
As the bone white wand lifts, Harry sees a flinch among the gathered Death Eaters beyond. They think he’s going to die. They have doubt he no longer has, couldn’t possibly. Not at this point. Golden light emanates from the wand tip, forming rune after rune in the air, falling to sink into Harry’s skin just as he asked. There’s no more sulking or whining now; he chose this. With each sunken rune, their fates are tied closer together, inextricable now.
The light fades as the final rune applies itself and absorbs into the skin. Harry brushes past Voldemort wordlessly as he rights his sleeve, striding back towards the manor. He doesn’t think anyone in their right mind would turn their back on the Dark Lord right now, but it’s becoming pretty clear now that Harry might not be in his right mind. Passing by the throng of Death Eaters standing stock still, Harry climbs the steps to the manor and steps inside for good.
Chapter 8: In Dreaming
Chapter Text
It’s unclear when he might be able to leave again, Harry thinks as he stalks through the grand marble foyer and down the mazelike halls, maintaining his bearings after so much time spent inside. He’s consigned himself to quite an interminable stay and honestly, he can sort of understand the paranoia he’s about to be subjected to. Did they give him another basilisk fang? Have they discovered more ways to destroy a horcrux? Have they armed him with some knowledge that could mean Voldemort harm? Did he give away secrets of the operation that could send Voldemort’s forces to ruin? There’s a million things that could have just happened to endanger them both. But no, they just wanted to see Harry safe and home. Priority number one. And if nothing else in this world could prove the love between him and his friends, it’s that.
Harry tromps into the greenhouse feeling the storm boiling behind him. His scar still hurts. Propping himself up against a tree in view of the entrance, he plants his feet against the ground and rests his elbows on his knees. Emotionally, he’s exhausted already. But there’s plenty of night left to go.
Voldemort sweeps into the greenhouse, doors swinging shut behind him with an almighty slam, rattling on their hinges as the wards flare back to life over them with a mere wave of his wand. He’s practically trembling in fury, standing there.
“Come on,” Harry says. “Take a look.” He gestures to his eyes. Lit on fire from rage, he nearly expects Voldemort not to take him up on it. They’ve never done this before, not properly through memories past. But Voldemort sits down right there in the loam and moss and stares deep into Harry’s eyes, practically stabbing at him with his furious glare and mute with rage. The touch in his mind is red hot but unburning, anything but tentative. Harry pulls his memory from dinner forward. Fawkes appearing. Creeping around the manor. His friends. Ron and Hermione begging him and him begging back. Him saying this is where he needs to be. That moment of freedom, of unfettered choice. And choosing this. Wholeheartedly. The lingering resentment at having to make an impossible contrasted with the relief of knowing exactly what to do; Harry sends those forward too. He wants to be understood, wants his sacrifice to be appreciated. To be loved.
They part with tears dotting Harry’s eyes again, Voldemort effectively turned to stone, jaw set tight. Why did Harry follow the phoenix if he knew the Order would be waiting for him? If he’s so faithful, why would he entertain it? “I haven’t seen my friends in so long. And I wanted to convince them to leave before anything bad could happen, before someone else found them first.”
Still, Voldemort is silent in malcontent. “I love them and want them to be safe. Not so unlike the way you’re upset right now,” Harry says, glancing down at last as he’s embarrassed at his presumption to know Voldemort’s feelings. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? “You don’t have to trust me. You’ve seen it just now. And you have nothing to worry about. I chose this, didn’t I?”
Harry wants to reach for his face or hands, to have the comfort of touch, but isn’t sure it would be welcomed. Feeling defeated at all the steps backwards this has set them, Harry hangs his head.
Something pokes at his ankle. It’s Larry, come to check in on things and wind his way up Harry’s leg to flick a tongue out at his nose. Harry huffs a small hitching breath akin to a laugh and lets the snake twine around his arm and neck. That’s comfort enough. At least someone still likes him. Harry doesn’t know what else he could possibly do to convince Voldemort he doesn’t mean to leave, to harm, to self-destruct. Voldemort, he is coming to realize, is an inherently insecure being and largely operates off of fear and perception of superiority. And put that way, it’s a mystery they get along at all, Harry an easy-going person by nature and generally pretty humble. That insecurity is probably inflamed to truly incredible heights right now, a receptacle for a piece of his soul displaying sudden agency, exposed to potential threat. Even having seen Harry’s memories, he’ll have his ways of questioning whether they’ve been manipulated in the time it took to walk here, even though they both know Harry can’t use Occlumency worth a damn. He’ll have his suspicions, his misgivings, his doubt. And Harry doesn’t want him doubting, not after the sacrifice he just made. It isn’t fair. Why should he have to give all his trust to Voldemort and expect none in return? Suddenly he’s angry, for the first time in so long during these lulling weeks of close proximity. Even sitting right next to each other isn’t enough to soothe it. It isn’t fair and it isn’t right. Harry’s eyes nearly blaze as he glares at Voldemort.
“Fine. Doubt me all you like, be as suspicious as you please. You’re the one who’ll pay for it in the end when you realize it was pointless. If we don’t have trust, we don’t have anything. You want to walk on eggshells and distrust each other for eternity? Be my guest.”
Harry stands abruptly, Larry hissing in discontent. He stalks into greenery towards the bathroom, intent on a shower to wash off the stink of the day. Hands land heavy on his shoulders mid-step before he can get very far and he stills, angry but listening. They round over the balls of his shoulders, down his arms, gripping him there, then easing their hold. Voldemort’s chest moves against his back as they both exhale. He leans in, cheek pressing against Harry’s. He rubs firmly across Harry’s chest to rest over his sternum, nipple hardening at the touch even through thick material. ‘Not the time,’ he tells it, tries to focus on what Voldemort is saying. The other hand comes up to cup his neck, thumb stroking over the fragile flesh there, back and forth over his adam’s apple, arm overlaid snake where Larry is hanging off. Voldemort’s warmer where they’re pressed together, even if his cheek is cool and the position is a bit strange. Even still, Harry feels held. It’s always a danger with a man like this, to imagine feelings there that don’t really exist, warmth where there’s only cold, but what Harry hears in these gestures is that despite his anger Voldemort’s asking him not to go. Harry breaks his hold and turns to hug him, irritated and needing it anyway. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says to his neck. “Surely you see that if I was going to leave, there’s been plenty of opportunity,” Harry adds in a mutter, quoting back at him.
Understandably displeased, Larry hisses wordlessly at them again and Harry holds out an arm and leans over to let him slide to the ground. Then he circles arms around Voldemort’s waist and simply holds on, leaning his head to rest on his shoulder. He doesn’t try to look at Voldemort’s expression, doesn’t want to try to parse it, doesn’t want to be offended or upset or riled up. What he wants is a bath and a bed. But it’s like soothing a baby almost, not leaving it alone for a moment for fear of upsetting it. Harry rubs up and down Voldemort’s back and knows he’s not going to have alone time for a while. Sighing, he turns to take Voldemort’s spidery hand and walk them towards the bathroom. Come hell or high water, he will get that bath. Or at least a shower. He can compromise.
It'll be a bit weird to bathe with someone watching, so Harry spells the faucet to start running just to use his wand for the novelty of it. And god it feels good. The great green porcelain leaves of the tub unfold as he chooses a bath oil and points Voldemort over to the shower with its walls of stained glass. “Go on,” he instructs, perhaps unwisely bossy. But he’s tired of Voldemort’s dark lord antics for today and is emboldened by that.
Harry strips perfunctorily and sits in the tub as it fills, arms crossed against the chill of the unheated porcelain. It’s hard to make himself leave his wand on the pile of his discarded clothes, but he won’t risk getting it wet. And to think he’d assumed Voldemort had been withholding it all this time. He’d had a mental block on it: too afraid to ask for fear the most likely answer would destroy any chance of maintaining civility, when the long game was first in effect, and then later that it would destroy any potential for true closeness.
The shower still hasn’t turned on. Voldemort’s standing there with this expression that’s probably supposed to be terrifying but at this point barely bothers Harry. “Fine,” Harry says and scoots over in the tub. “Have it your way.” He gestures to the empty space next to him, surprising even himself in this willingness for intimacy, normally shy of anything too couple-y. Always reminds him of how obnoxious other couples can be with effusive displays of affection and makes him feel self-conscious. Against all odds, Voldemort undoes his robe and it’s off just like that, the beauty of simple clothing. Harry’s have all these clasps and buttons now. Climbing into the tub, Voldemort makes no comment on the water being objectively too hot. Instead he gathers Harry close, tugs him to sit between his legs which has Harry blushing to the roots of his hair, and clutches him possessively. Harry holds onto Voldemort’s forearms where they cross his chest, too. The man is doing everything but hissing ‘mine’ in his ear, in emotional uproar this evening, enraged enough that if he starts talking he will perhaps be unable to avoid saying something regrettable. Mute in anger and self-restraint. That’s Harry’s theory anyway.
Lavender scents bloom around them as they sit there as close as two people can be. Harry can still feel the throb and pulse of his scar, dulled to slow steady burn. No, Voldemort won’t be calm again for a while, fearsome creature that he is. And trying to understand Harry’s actions as unimpeachable but battling every fiber of his being shouting that he’s been utterly betrayed. That he’s in danger, in peril, unable to trust the quiet around him or Harry’s calm demeanor.
And to be fair, the plan Hermione and Ron came up with was pretty effective. So effective and sly, Harry thinks as he turns off the tap, that it begs the question how they knew about the runes that bound him here in the first place. How they knew to break them. And it’s quite a coincidence, one must admit, that they and Fawkes appeared the very first moment he was left alone in the manor in all the time he’s spent here. Special protections on the greenhouse, no windows that open, and no vulnerabilities meant he was untouchable. And Voldemort hovering over his shoulder in essentially all the time outside of it provided no opportunity for escape. But how did they know . . . ?
Harry stiffens and quickly covers it by reaching for the soap and turning off the tap. Another spy. It has to be. But who? And then, to himself only, Harry vows to never try to discover who in this house tried to help him. Because if he knows, Voldemort could too and that person wouldn’t survive the night.
That’s what the smolder in his scar points to, anyway. Harry knows better than to try to access his emotions right now – he already has a pretty good guess it’s murderous.
But Voldemort, in his genius, will doubtlessly have already sussed this out and have a list of likely suspects, ready to hunt them down and flush them out by sunrise. Harry plans to distract him long enough to forget all that, at least for a little while. And if the plan is just to sleep on top of him so that he can’t move, well . . . it’s still got a lot of potential. Maybe the spy can make it out in that time. Or come up with a good cover story. Or something. Harry’s feeling grateful, maybe, even with how messy it’s made things and hasn’t helped a bit. Someone out there is looking out for him.
He scoots forward to dunk his head in the water and wants to fling his head back to splash Voldemort with bathwater, but somehow it just doesn’t seem like the night for it. Instead he scrubs the bar against his scalp to lather and rubs the suds through, dunking his head again and washing it all out. Taking off his glasses as briefly as possible, he washes his face with sudsy water, too, avoiding the eyes. Harry soaps himself clean everywhere, in between the sprawl of Voldemort’s legs, watched but not as self-conscious as he thought and feeling he’s where he’s supposed to be. ‘You’re not in your right mind,’ Ron had said, heartbroken and distraught with it. And probably he’s right. But it doesn’t make what Harry’s doing any less necessary; it just gives context to why Harry’s enjoying the sacrifices in and of themselves. He leans back to rest against Voldemort’s chest and tries not to think about the intimate places they’re pressed together, by his own doing, by his own desire, what the others would say – that he’s gone from their rescue attempt to lazing in a tub with the Dark Lord within the span of an hour. Voldemort rests a hand on the side of his neck and strokes fingers there again. He wishes Voldemort would jerk him off. The thought’s sudden and strikes Harry like a lightning bolt. He doesn’t feel hardness behind him, so probably he wouldn’t want to, especially with the night they’ve had, probably just wants to go to bed . . .
But Harry’s having a spot of trouble getting his cock with the program and were Voldemort to get a read on his emotions, he’d likely find a flustered mix of early arousal, embarrassment, and curiosity. Fingers touch the side of his thigh then, just a light touch. Oh no, he really did read his emotions. He might actually get what he wants and he’s mortified but not more so than turned on.
Working to keep his breathing even, he palms Voldemort’s thigh, too. ‘Kiss me,’ Harry thinks. ‘Kiss me, please.’ But they’re already positioned so right for him to have his way, legs shifting, stomach fluttering in anticipation, cock growing redder and harder by the moment. Voldemort traces the line of his hip bone, tender even as Harry can feel the pulse in his scar. How someone can do both at the same time, touch someone tenderly while still so very angry, Harry will never understand. A thumb strays into the thatch of wiry hair at the join of his body, softened and made silky by the water. Harry sucks in a breath, so terribly ready to be touched, but Voldemort spreads a hand warmed by the bath over his midsection where the self-inflicted scar bisects him, holding him. It’s frustrating and weirdly soothing at the time.
The good news is there’s no rush; they have all the time in the world. Harry tries to remind himself of that as his head is slowly tilted back and Voldemort presses his mouth against the exposed skin of his throat, cool and smooth against the flush Harry can feel creeping up and up. He moves his mouth, kissing, setting his teeth gently against the skin. Harry wants him to bite but doesn’t want to ask. Unfortunately, there’s no exact emotion to send out to communicate that and there’s no way he’s going to verbalize it. Or maybe Voldemort already knows, the way he seems to know everything, even when maybe he doesn’t, and denies him just to foil this one small desire. The first time he’s said no.
Fast as anything, Voldemort grasps his cock in vise grip, Harry’s hips thrusting out on instinct, his face surely slack-jawed in the stupidest expression ever. He pumps once, up-down, then holds. It’s almost too tight. Harry’s panting already, head flung back, hands flying to Voldemort’s sprawled legs and gripping just to keep himself from slipping down the tub as Voldemort pumps hard again and pauses. It’s beautiful torture, Harry has time to think, before his brain melts out his ears when Voldemort establishes actual rhythm. Harry’s always getting exactly what he wants these days, it’s just not fair. And it’s just happening quicker and quicker. The sloshing sound of water repeatedly disturbed is so quietly filthy, so patently means what it sounds like. Harry’s just getting more turned on, honestly, and feeling a prick poking at his lower back really doesn’t help. He feels like he can barely get air and that’s before Voldemort reaches for his nipple to brush over it intentionally this time, simple and stimulating. Hearing himself moan freely and the odd echo it makes in the glass bathroom, Harry nearly worries his head is going to explode from all the blood rushing to it, so embarrassed, so well pleasured. Voldemort pinches at his nipple a bit, hand still moving tight over him, and when Harry bites his lip and succeeds at holding in a moan, digs a sharp nail in. “Ah!” Harry cries, hands digging in similarly on Voldemort’s legs, heels slipping on the porcelain under the water.
He feels Voldemort exhale, almost a sigh, feels the puff of breath against his neck. “Please, please, I – “
Harry doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, but he gets it anyway, Voldemort’s fist moving faster over him, hard movements as his nail moves in a cruel circle and just like that, Harry’s spending himself into the bathwater, listening to himself pant as the slap of disturbed water slows and quiets. Maybe he shouted a little, who’s to say. Voldemort still rubs his hand up and down, gentle now while Harry softens, almost as if he doesn’t want to let go. Harry almost doesn’t want him to, either. He releases his death grip on Voldemort’s long legs bent up around him, fingers tingling as blood flows back into them when he flexes. Harry shifts a little in the bath, maybe trying to rub against the prick against his back a bit, testing. Voldemort stills him, rubbing down his arms soothingly and waving a hand at the mess released into the water to Vanish it. Harry takes a moment to rest and recover, before excitement takes hold, an unanticipated rush after exertion.
Turning to look at him, Harry smiles at Voldemort and says, “Let’s go to bed, alright?” He stands to climb out of the tub and wobbles a bit as he levers himself out. Harry grabs a towel, rubbing off as much water as he can, hair wild and surely sticking in every direction after he towels it off. He doesn’t care. He’s got big aspirations tonight, ready to try anything.
Feet padding on the tile, Harry steps around to towel Voldemort’s chest off for him where he stands, then circles him to dry his back, hand lingering low as he drops the towel and walks away, looking over his shoulder as he goes. Whatever his eyes are doing, it appears to put Voldemort on the prowl and Harry practically skips through the underbrush, dodging wildlife and a snake here and there. It’s like a scene out of ancient history, two people chasing through the wilds, knowing exactly how the night will end but delighting in the stalk anyway. Harry makes it to the bed just in time to be practically tackled into it, naked bodies rolling around together, the thrill of mostly dry skin being touched nearly everywhere. He laughs with abandon as a mouth attacks his neck, then his collarbone, biting kisses presses deep into the skin where hopefully they will never leave. Rubbing his hips up, Harry tries to get a better feel for the hardness above, and Voldemort’s focusing on him again, too tall for Harry to get at it that way. He shifts thigh up and presses in, rubbing. Voldemort bites harder.
Palming Voldemort’s bare head, Harry sighs a sigh of unfettered delight. He can’t reach Voldemort’s cock from here, but aside from that he’s very happy. Perhaps Voldemort can feel it too, eyes flashing up at him. The whites are obvious in the gloom and weak moonlight filtered by tree leaves. Voldemort bears lower down Harry’s body and it becomes clear he’s got designs on Harry again, possibly something mouth-related, though Harry may be getting ahead of himself and a bit optimistic. He doesn’t chance it. No, instead he muscles Voldemort over, flipping them in bed in a feat of strength he doesn’t think Voldemort saw coming. Kissing quickly down his body, Harry’s all in a rush to get his mouth on his prick. The musky smell shouldn’t be pleasing but somehow it riles Harry even more, eager. He brushes his lips against the base, and the place where pelvis ends and bollocks begin. Mouthing around the length of his cock, Harry lets his tongue experience freely, doesn’t worry about the fact he has no clue at all what he’s doing and instead wraps his lips around the head and takes as much as he can into his mouth, three quarters of the way to choking and shocked by it. Voldemort is long and slim everywhere and Harry has to slip his hand around the bottom to cover it all. He tests a glance up and the smoldering look on Voldemort’s face threatens to bring a blush back full force, but no, Harry’s decided he’s not going to be embarrassed anymore, not tonight. He bobs his head for a while, tongues the underside as best he can, keeps pace and tries to focus on what feels right. To do what’s coming naturally. And his hand wants to fondle Voldemort’s bollocks, so that’s what he does. The hips trapped underneath him snap up, choking him on cock, and he pulls off to cough a bit. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. The taste in his mouth is weird but falls short of foul.
Hand pressed to his cheek, Voldemort gives him the kind of look his face by all rights shouldn’t be capable of and especially not when he’s still infuriated. But it is and he does and Harry has to scurry up the bed to kiss him right that very moment or else. They tangle tongues, deeper than they’ve gone before, intimate in a way all the rest can’t have been somehow. Harry feels his arse being touched, shivering a little, wanting something he’s never wanted before, never really thought about. Voldemort squeezes and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, too, working so hard not to be ashamed of what he wants right now. Reaching up to stroke his cheek, prompting Harry to look at him, Voldemort gazes deep into his eyes to skim the surface of his thoughts. It’s without asking but Harry doesn’t mind, likes the easiness of it, the absence of barriers between them, all come crashing down. Then Voldemort pulls him into his own mind, right to the very gates that guard it. It speaks to him through the bars: ‘Don’t worry, Harry,’ his thoughts whisper, truly as intimate as it gets. ‘I expect you will have your turn as well.’ Harry startles out of his thoughts at that, gaping at him as Voldemort pats his cheek, patronizing but even that’s still nice somehow. He’d certainly never dared to imagine this either.
So it soothes Harry a bit, to know it’s not all one way or the other, that there’s a freeness here, a free flow of who’s doing what and where. That it doesn’t necessarily say anything about him to have this and want it, too. The wild urges of before have cooled into something more careful, the finger stroking at where his arse cheeks meet slow and purposeful. Tentatively, Harry spreads his legs a bit, and when that doesn’t seem to make Voldemort move things along, rises onto his knees to kneel on forearms by Voldemort’s head, spread wide open by it. He smudges a kiss to the corner of the mouth below him and breathes deeply, trying to stay calm and not to spook like a horse as fingers turn suddenly slick, rubbing over a very vulnerable place on his body. And of course Voldemort’s taught himself how to do that wandlessly, nonverbally, without even so much as a hand gesture. He really does know everything after all. Harry feels wired, nervous, but desperately wondering what it might be like. Only thinks to worry about the nails when Voldemort circles around his arsehole and angles inward. It doesn’t seem to hurt though, just weird and getting weirder, an intrusion that feels like things are poking in where they’re not meant to go.
Exhaling with intention, Harry decides to stick it out, to keep trying. He wants to know. He wants to be closer. Voldemort’s finger moves in and out in short motions, just beginning to breach really. He’s being gentle and Harry should have known he had it in him but still hadn’t expected as much, honestly. Such a fierce creature, he seems like he should be cruel and take everything he wants all the time. But Harry’s come to know that’s not the whole of it, not entirely, and his point’s proved as the finger twists deeper, easing in and curling a bit. He thrusts a little firmer that way and curling more, pressing in until he brushes against something very very good. Harry gasps, jolting and rocking forward. “Wow,” he says, turning surprised eyes on Voldemort, blinking. Voldemort thrusts in again like that and takes a few strokes to brush against it again, no telling whether he’s missing on purpose or not. It’s only fair if he is, Harry thinks, considering all the times he’s laughed at Voldemort behind his back. Teasing each other can be good, not mean-spirited, can be soft, friendly.
Voldemort sneaks another finger in and it takes a little time to get there, manipulate the tight flesh to a more tractable state, flex the way they need it to. But Harry’s ready, he’s wanting, and he’s left blinking again down at his prick in surprise when he feels it filling again. Expecting a smirk, he’s similarly surprised to see a pleased baring of Voldemort’s teeth instead. Something a little wild lives on in him still and his stalwart silence just adds to that sense. Again, Harry thinks it started and persisted as a means of keeping him from saying something in anger he won’t mean, not really, but now seems like something freeing. Not needing to intellectualize, amuse himself, put on a certain air to create the typical theater of sex. He’s not an actor, he’s a wizard, and something a few touches beyond human but a man nonetheless.
Two fingers press in again and again and Harry can’t help but imagine what the drag of Voldemort’s cockhead might be like there, stimulated by the thought. They curl and hammer home right where it’s best three times in a row, where everything’s just golden, and Harry cries out, cheek fully mashed into Voldemort’s, probably right into the man’s ear. But there’s no complaint, no, Voldemort’s withdrawing his fingers, rubbing on the way out. Harry feels wet and open where it’s unfamiliar, legs still spread wide and available to the night air, suddenly very vulnerable, but thankfully Voldemort tips them back over and spreads out to cover Harry’s body entirely with his own. His body’s cool and smooth and he combs a clean hand through Harry’s doubtlessly wild hair, kissing and tonguing Harry until he’s open and wet there, too. He brushes a thumb against Harry’s nipple, the sore one, and that’s good, too. Soothed and comfortable again, Harry permits Voldemort to kneel up a bit and grab himself to steer closer to their shared goal, spreading his own legs again to bend his knees and fold himself in a way he hopes will be helpful. Voldemort guides himself in, head popping inside the hole to –
Absolutely split him in two. Fuck, that’s uncomfortable, Harry trying not to make a face. Maybe they should have added another finger. Voldemort starts to pull out, and Harry grips his shoulders and says, “No, no, stay, just,” he flaps a hand. “Give me a minute.” Voldemort takes this opportunity to watch him with sharp eyes, assessing, then diving down to tease at his neck with his mouth. Harry breathes, shifting a bit and regretting it. To distract himself, he rubs the shoulders above him instead, smoothing across the skin. He focuses on the suction of Voldemort’s mouth on the join of his neck and collarbone, the sharp nip he leaves there. The skin is starting to feel sore and used but Harry doesn’t mind. Inspired, Harry reaches up to test a finger against his own nipple, tracing a circle, then pinching. It’s good, so he pinches harder, pulling on it with the limited give that it has on the skin. That’s even better.
Glancing down to observe what Harry’s up to now, Voldemort sends him a searingly pleased look and dips down to lick the tip of his nipple exposed between Harry’s fingers. Harry’s breath hitches and Voldemort does it again, then bats his hand away to bite down. “Ah!” That hurts too, but Harry is less bothered by it and is humbled to find it’s actually thickening his cock, totally inexplicable. Harry smooths a hand down Voldemort’s torso, whose hips thrust in response, something welcoming in the gesture that honestly isn’t wrong. Harry breathes out harshly. It’s not as bad as before, cock slickened and the pressure on his inner walls somewhat eased. He bears down a little and tries to shift helpfully, which still hurts from the drag he’d so looked forward to, but he sticks it out. “Come on,” he says, quiet but challenging. “Show me what you’ve got, then.” Firm and intent, Voldemort pulls away to thrust back in deeper, then deeper still. There’s a lot of him, narrow but lengthy in all ways, and Harry has the sudden and odd worry he doesn’t run deep enough to fit all of him inside. But it’s a false worry, disproved as Voldemort pushes deeper inside with each buck until his hips are flush to Harry’s. He feels a blood flood into his cheeks at the sensation, strangely embarrassed at this juncture of the night. He’s full up, no doubt about it. Voldemort’s expression is patently wicked as he drags himself nearly out all the way to slam home again. And again, perhaps Harry shouts, perhaps he doesn’t. There’s only one witness and really that’s not too bad.
The pain’s easing, mixing with a peculiar pleasure at being stuffed full. The drag is alright, now, actually, stimulating him from the inside, a slow tip from neutral into pleasant as he adjusts. It’s almost relaxing compared to the scar touching business, to be honest. Voldemort thrusts all the way in, then sits up to angle Harry’s hips differently. Harry does his best to hold himself that way and stay still the way Voldemort seems to want him to. Moving again and keeping ahold of Harry’s hips, Voldemort drags him closer and slams in-and-out-in-and-out, as if he’s forgotten how to be gentle and Harry’s very coincidentally forgotten to care because his cock is brushing over that hotspot, very good and only getting better.
His chest heaves and it’s hard to breathe, to stay still, wanting to squirm and thrust down. Soon, he can’t help it and he shifts his hips down as Voldemort slides in hard. Voldemort shouts a short, rough sound and moves harder. He’s cutting loose now, taking and giving and providing. Harry’s skull drags further down the bed as he throws his head back, body tense and primed for more pleasure. He wants desperately to touch his cock and so he does, struck by the immediacy of how very good it feels. Struck by competing desires, Harry fights to strip his cock slowly enough he won’t come. He feels his hole practically flutter and moves his hand even slower, this close to torturing himself instead of waiting for Voldemort to do it for him. A moan is inevitable and once he starts he can’t seem to stop. Voldemort thrusts tirelessly, surprisingly athletic given how sedentary he can be. He grinds his hips in a mean circle just when Harry’s adapting to the brutal thrusting and god it’s good. Harry pants, this close to tears, the best kind, already making the right kind of sounds in his throat that fall freely from his mouth. It’s impossible to hold off anymore. He pumps himself fast, hard, grip tight the way Voldemort’s had been and his other hand darts to his nipple to pinch mercilessly and is coming before he can stop himself, spilling all over his stomach, nearly up to where his hand still grips his own chest. Panting and weary, Harry is still motivated to shift his hips down and right to give it back to Voldemort, meeting him in the middle. He’s limp but moves his hips anyway, body relaxed and coasting. Lifts a hand to stroke his cheek and look at him the way he wants to all the time, too worn out and blissed to say something clever or snide. It’s horrible and twisted and disturbing, Harry knows, knows it well, but he loves this man. And he’ll spend his very long life getting over it. And maybe that’s not so bad.
Voldemort comes, Harry can feel him spill and his body tense and thrust through it still, slower and shallower until he’s nearly out and not moving at all. Exhaling and totally ready for sleep even though he understands intellectually it’s very important for him to wash himself again, Harry sighs through his nose in quiet satisfaction. The head pops out with a final slick little sound, sounds Harry’s been working very hard to successfully ignore for fear he’d die of mortification.
Beautiful being that he is, Voldemort rolls onto his back and waves a hand lazily. All the sweat and spend from bed sport and the dirt and grass on their feet from their run through the greenhouse disappears. Harry splats a hand on Voldemort’s stomach then, very pleased, and if he didn’t love him before he definitely does now. He feels it very loudly and really without any effort at all, he knows he’s been heard.
Chapter 9: Full Aflame
Chapter Text
It’s a strange way to wake up, surely, morning light spilling through the windows of a greenhouse gone wild, quiet slithering around, the hum of dark magic emanating from beneath the bed as always. It doesn’t feel strange. A small bird call, then the flap of little wings, bushes rustling. Harry rubs at his face and flops onto his other side, flipping the pillow to the cool side in one movement with the deftness of practice. He exhales heavily, content and yet wanting to sleep still. Waiting for fingers to sift through his short mop of hair, Harry partially drifts off listening to the subtle nature sounds that comfort in their familiarity. At long last, the brush and rustle of human movement filters through, soft steps of bare feet on pillowy moss and grass.
The bed shifts with changed body weight and a hand does indeed land in his hair to card through the many tangles. “Mmmmmmm,” is about as verbal as Harry feels. Tugging hard on the hair in his grip, Voldemort pulls Harry’s face out of the pillow and is very clearly about to rudely tell him to wake up, when Harry cracks his eyes open and waggles his eyebrows as best he can, cracking up. Voldemort drops him and stands from the bed. “Wait, wait, wait,” Harry stretches across the bed to hang on to the man’s robe, still laughing. “Come back, I was only teasing. I’m up.” He pulls Voldemort back to bed, to sit facing where Harry’s still laid out on his stomach. Harry fetches his glasses from under his pillow and puts them on. Resting his head on folded arms, he asks what the plan is for the day. Honestly, he’s torn between expecting to be locked in here all day or being towed everywhere with Voldemort, under constant supervision. Or locked in here all day under Voldemort’s constant supervision. Some combination of that.
So he’s aghast when Voldemort says, “Today, all plans align. We move on the Ministry and the Wizengamot will elect me to a new,” here his mouth quirks a bit, easily the evilest thing Harry has ever seen him do, “more permanent position.”
“All that today?” Harry asks, wide awake now. That definitely wasn’t on the agenda yesterday.
“All to be done in a day, yes, my treasure. It’s clear the closing moves must be made, given false loyalties – “ his eyes practically burn to look at, yes he absolutely knows, “ – and the faltering efforts of my dissidents grow weaker by the hour.”
“Alright,” Harry says mildly. “But I want it on record that an empire is a stupid idea.” Now’s not the time to mince words. He wants it in bold print. “It’s been tried about a million times and never works out well. I think Great Britain’s plenty, don’t you? We’ve already got all the food, and a queen,” he yawns and doesn’t bother to cover it with a hand. “ – and plenty of politics and people to bother with. More rule, more stress. And life’s too long to have extra stress,” Harry informs Voldemort with a hand patting on his thigh, then resting there. He blinks away the sleepy in his eyes and when that doesn’t work, rubs at them with his fingertips.
And promisingly, Voldemort doesn’t substantively respond to it, in favor of helping him rub away the last traces of sleep with a thumb. Harry will never be fully comfortable with having a sharp nail near his eye but he can appreciate the effort. His lips tip up as he says, “Well, shall we get started? Sounds like there’s a lot to get done.”
He rises to stand and make for the wardrobe room, forgetting Voldemort hasn’t even clarified if he’ll be leaving the greenhouse, ever really, forgetting his own nudity, and most especially forgetting the physical toll last night’s activities have taken. Immediately, he stumbles as the soreness in his backside and lower back yell at him to hang on a minute. Voldemort, good fellow, catches him before he can fall flat on his face and sits him back down on the bed. “I have little talent for the healing arts,” he explains as he retrieves a couple vials of potion by the bedside and proffers them, “but a Potions Master on hand solves many problems.” Popping the corks on both, Harry guzzles one, then the other without even pausing to inspect them. Whatever’s been going in the food has only filled out his cheeks, make him feel good, rested, and at ease. Or maybe that’s the horcrux bit. Hard to separate it all out, really. The point is, it’s a bit late to start eying the potions and drinks now.
There’s quick relief to the pain and soreness, tension alleviating and a bit of numbing in effect, too. Harry stands more carefully now, more aware of his body and steps as he steers himself through the underbrush to the entrance. Absently, he calls over his shoulder and flings an arm out at the warded entrance to the greenhouse, “You’re going to open that, right?”
The wards over the door flare and fade, disabled. “Thanks!” Harry pushes the double doors open and strolls into the wardrobe room in search of an appropriate outfit, naked as the day he was born. Then he realizes he knows nothing about clothing and doesn’t really care much about what looks good with what. Dear god, he thinks suddenly. He’s forgotten his wand. In all the rush and tumble and thrill of last night, he’d completely forgotten he has one now, gone so long without he was just about used to the absence. Harry spins around, ready to sprint to the bathroom to look for it, but Voldemort’s towering in the doorway, holly wand held out. “Oh thank Merlin,” Harry exhales, taking it and brushing a kiss against his cheek on his tiptoes just to do it. “Can’t believe I bloody forgot . . .” Rifling back through the options of suede and cotton and leather, Harry’s relieved again to see Voldemort pluck something velvet but sturdy and maroon with little gilded touches. There’re layers, of course, and Voldemort hands him the hanger only to glance back at him and add a black bottom layer with a high collar. Harry looks down at himself. If his neck looks anything like his collarbones, he’ll be terribly glad to have a high collar, yes. It looks like an animal attacked him or something.
Harry slips into his clothing, grateful for the potions’ work as he hops into one leg of the trousers and then does the other. That definitely would have hurt, just now. Straightening his clothing, he peeks at himself in the mirror and catches himself looking longer. He looks good. Has to finger comb his hair a bit to get it to calm down and tug on his collar a little to make sure it won’t shift around too much while he’s moving. That would be . . . unideal. Finally, at long last, he has a wand to tuck into his deep pockets.
With an extra layer on, Voldemort looks sharp. Spooky. Dapper in a nightmarish kind of way. Harry leans back against the wall to take him in, arms crossed. He feels unaccountably pleased. It’s all going to be alright.
That is, until Voldemort steps into a pair of boots and Harry’s assigned the extremely difficult task of not laughing at him. He turns his back and tries to keep his shoulders from shaking. Were he to tap into the emotions across the small room, he would doubtlessly sense a spike of irritation, of insult. A body draws even behind him and hisses in his ear, “You wouldn’t be mocking your lord, would you, Harry?”
He laughs out loud at last, tilting his backwards to look him in the eyes when he says, “You’re not my lord, you’re my . . . whatever you are. And I’m not mocking you, I’m just – “ Harry cracks up again. “Proud you overcame your allergy.” He ducks his head and exhales, trying to overcome the nervous urge to keep laughing. Absolutely everything’s about to change and Voldemort putting on shoes just seems to herald it all the more, better than just about anything. He reaches back to find and squeeze Voldemort’s hand, calming back down. “There’s a lot to do today, best get started.”
Appearing to take that at face value, Voldemort sweeps out of the room to pause in front of greenhouse doors at the end of the corridor. Nagini slithers in from the access point to her chambers right on time, Harry and Voldemort having missed their typical schedule of meeting her in the study. “They don’t come as they should, so Nagini must come to them. Where is my meal of swine and rodent? Crunching, bleeding, squealing . . .” Voldemort ushers her into the greenhouse, “a temporary measure,” he assures. She’d perhaps prefer the chamber she’s whispered to Harry about, dark and cool and beneath ground level of the manor, in favor of sharing space with all other snakes. She talks about it like it’s the Ritz Carlton but he’s imagining a place covered in slime, filth, and old animal bones and honestly thinks he’s probably not too far off the mark. At first, she’d had to take Harry replacing her role with good grace, but she’s actually quite come around to having her own domain. The doors shut behind her and Voldemort waves his wand enough to conduct an entire orchestra, malevolent magic streaming out his wand in intricate patterns that weave over and over each other. The structure of the greenhouse itself, Harry well knows, has been given every protection and reinforcement imaginable. It takes some time for Voldemort to ward it, guard it, and boobytrap it to his desire. It’s only his soul, after all. The double doors thrum with oozing dark magic, malign to every degree.
Like a spectral vision of death, Voldemort ghosts down the corridor with billowing robes, something a touch more flaring and dramatic than usual. Harry has to shake his head and follow, jogging to catch up as they bypass the dining room. Guess no breakfast for today. He draws even to Voldemort’s side as the doors to the rest of the manor bang open with a fling of his hand. Harry has got to learn how to do that.
So it’s together and side by side that they stalk down the halls, Voldemort calling out to Mulciber who immediately attends to him. “Prepare for all my forces to gather. The Creatures need not be called forth yet, but have them at the ready. We move on the Ministry at noon. Inform Yaxley the Wizengamot is to assemble for a vote at the same hour.” Inform is probably code for ‘make it happen.’ A tall order on quite short notice, and they probably don’t even know what matter it is they’ll be voting on, but then Voldemort’s wrath does have a way of motivating people.
But forces, Death Eaters, Creatures . . . Harry restrains himself from tugging on Voldemort’s sleeve, all but doing it as he says, “Let’s make it bloodless, alright? What a message that would send . . . an unchallenged rule.” Yes, Harry’s getting to know him quite well. Voldemort doesn’t even look at him as another Death Eater offers a bared Dark Mark for him to press his bone white wand to, and the scary part is Harry doesn’t need him to. It doesn’t matter if Voldemort listens to him or not, now, it’s all in his hands. What will be will be. And Harry worries he’ll be by his side no matter what. It’s not a happy thought exactly; more of a sureness. He feels his stomach drop a little. Voldemort does look at him then, long enough to pull him into his own mind, close enough to the gates for feelings to slip out. There’s a sureness there, too, not a bad one. A promise.
Harry blinks and slips back out of his mind, not liking doing something so personal in front of Death Eaters as they begin to cluster in the grand hallway, a main artery of the massive household. Voldemort takes this as a cue to sweep down the hall to a ballroom constructed of dark marble veined in white. Very appropriate. Harry follows relatively dutifully as Voldemort establishes himself on a throne at the head of the room. Panicking, Harry finds a nearby wall to lean against with arms crossed, desperate to find an appropriate place for what proceedings may come before Voldemort can make him sit or stand anywhere embarrassing. Like the arm of his chair. He wouldn’t . . . but Harry will never in a million years chance it. Voldemort doesn’t have time to be wry with him at the sophomoric antics, busy holding court even if that’s really just to sit silently and look menacing. But really, it’s not his most menacing or malevolent. It’s more a sense of absolute control, something fearsome in the absence of doubt, any doubt at all. Harry can see how people would want to follow someone like that. Even if all his ideas are dumb.
The crowd of followers grows, swelling over the hour until it’s more black cloaks than Harry’s ever seen in one place, discounting Hogwarts. In muted Gryffindor colors, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Many wear masks and many do not. So many unfamiliar faces. Harry does his best not to focus on that and instead on preparing himself mentally for the day ahead. Except he has no clue what to expect. He’s never . . . stormed a government before. Overturned a body of law. None of his extensive reading the past however-long-he’s-been-here has given him an idea of how this might go. Usually these things are quite violent or lengthy or messy. But he’s just asked that it not be, so perhaps? It might not be.
Voldemort coordinates with members of his inner circle from the seat of his throne, what defenses the Ministry might surprise them with and which ones to out-and-out expect. But they have many Aurors current and retired among them, and a former head of the department besides. There’s going to be little surprise there. How to transport the giants, vampires, and Dementors en masse to the main Ministry atrium should it prove necessary is another featured topic. Harry can only pray it doesn’t prove necessary, now. ‘My lord’ they call Voldemort, more deferential than ever, voices eager but soft, sensing the change in the air, the crackling potential. He wonders what title he might take next, what new height of dominance he might try to establish and what word might describe it best. On the cusp of achieving his life’s dream but not drunk on it; resolute.
This is the wizard who’s a breath away from ruling the country, with or without Harry. So he’ll be with him. Because he wants to be, because this is where he belongs now, and where the world very much needs him to be. And it doesn’t feel so bad, even if he hears his own name whispered and echoed around the room and each repetition of it feels like, in a very weird way, an insult to his parents.
Or maybe that’s Harry putting some of his own baggage out there. It’s been a strange week.
The Dark Lord’s talking to all gathered now, about greatness and finalization of their rule and the grandeur of the Death Eater vision. It’s all bullshit and even knowing a small corner of Voldemort’s thoughts, he wonders how much of it Voldemort recognizes as bullshit. Concessions to the beliefs of the ruling class rather than what he actually thinks and believes, just to gain power. How much the genuine has mixed with the falsities and whether they can be separated out again. Whether he even cares to. Or if he’ll just take on board whatever Harry says as a fair counterbalance. Now that Voldemort will supposedly have all the power he likes, those concessions probably won’t need to be made anymore, not really, not fully. And he flexes so easily to accommodate Harry’s opinions, it’s as though he doesn’t have too strong a feeling about many of the issues at hand at all. Conviction, but exclusively in himself. Self-serving, wanting only power itself. But this is the man Harry’s chosen to stand by and guide, so he’ll have to do what he can to work with it.
Regardless of the man’s private thoughts on the ideology – most of which he probably does believe in at the end of the day and Harry’s just trying to soothe his conscience at this final, permanent step that can never be taken back – his followers are rapt, almost seem hypnotized by the words. This is it, the sum of all their efforts, decades of suppression by the law and the sensibilities of decency and social acceptability even as they reigned over councils and courtrooms and boardrooms and some of the highest government positions to be had. War and jailtime and hiding.
It's nauseating. Harry wonders what on earth he’s done, but calms his racing heart by taking a breath, then another. And keeps at it. Remembers the way he felt this morning in bed, and in bed last night, too. At the gates of the manor and of Voldemort’s mind.
There’s peace in that, love in that. Something better to build a reign on than the nonsense Voldemort is currently spouting, something Harry will push and push and push to keep at the fore. Love over hate, peace over war, kindness over cruelty. Harry’ll show him how it can be and it’ll be the work of his man to attempt to withhold cruelty from others, the work of a lifetime if not several, even if he can never reflect that kindness back. He’ll have unlimited power over their little corner of the world to pacify him, anyway.
At last, Voldemort stands, all falling to their knees without prompting. Sweet Merlin, Harry’s participating in a cult. Or humoring the leader of one. This is his reality. As Voldemort descends the dais, he casts a hand out at Harry, gesturing for him. He didn’t mention him in his speech. He didn’t need to. Harry’s presence said it all. Heart in his throat for all that he’s committed to his course of action, Harry fights to stay calm and resolute when he comes to Voldemort’s side and they fall into step, Death Eaters parting to make way. He doesn’t look down, no, he doesn’t want to see their faces, their expressions, their adoration and unadulterated delusion for the man who sleeps beside him. It’s too much. He’s hoping Voldemort isn’t attuned to his emotions right now because he doesn’t want to be a distraction to all that needs to happen today – he wants Voldemort as calm and relaxed and happy as possible to prevent unnecessary bloodshed. Really, no bloodshed at all would be great. Spectacular, actually. Harry tries not to let his nerves steep his mood into something even worse. It feels like an emotional hurricane is swirling to life inside him. Voldemort leads them to the foyer with its four grand fireplaces, perhaps designed to accommodate crowds of guests for lavish parties. Inner circle members position themselves two to a fireplace and some Death Eaters look to be filtering into nearby rooms Harry knows have fireplaces, others at the ready to follow one after the other into transport.
Distracted by all the movement and crowding of bodies, it takes Harry a moment to realize Voldemort is holding out a hand. With pause, Harry rolls up his sleeve and offers his forearm. Golden runic magic breathes to life again, runes fading to full extinguishment as Voldemort dispels them. It goes too fast, Harry’s not ready for what happens next. He’s beginning to realize he’ll never be ready.
A twinge low in his body registers, an ache starting to bloom again in his backside as he turns back to face the fireplace. Just before Voldemort can reach for the Floo powder, Harry stops him when he says, “Actually, you don’t happen to have any more of that potion, do you?” Voldemort looks at him, unamused, but still he pulls a vial out of his pocket like an old-timey two-bit magician at a roadside carnival, just like that. Always so very prepared. Popping the cork, Harry tips it into his mouth and gulps it in one go. He pockets the vial and laughs to himself a little at the craziness of the situation, shaking his head. “Alright,” he says to the man, not looking at him or anything really. He’ll do it now, or he never will.
When Voldemort reaches for the powder this time, Harry doesn’t stop him. No, he grabs his own fistful and follows immediately after him as Voldemort shouts their destination. Out of the green flames, he steps into the grand Ministry atrium, offices towering above lit but empty. The roar of the Floo network and traveling Death Eaters echoes along the walls in the towering space. There are many people that need to travel for all to be present, the work of a minute or two rather than seconds. They aren’t pleasant minutes for Harry Potter. What has he done? This is the height of insanity. Insanity in its purest form.
“Be strong, my treasure. Be resolute,” Voldemort’s telling him and all Harry think is ‘resolute in what? That I can miraculously convince you to change everything about your ideology? That I can miraculously fix everything myself?’ He feels like a spooked horse for real now, in fight or flight, alert and sweating and scared. Harry copies Voldemort when he turns to face the fountain that dominates the space. His pulse is racing, face numb, hands twitching with the need to act but instead he feels frozen with fright. Walking forward with inky robes flowing in his wake, Voldemort leads them into the chamber proper, rounding the fountain. Somehow, Harry makes his feet move to stay by his side. The rest of the atrium lies before them, the warm glow of the abandoned offices above an empty comfort. They stride across the atrium, Death Eaters silent after their lord’s example, the thud of many boots of the floor echoing in the odd acoustics.
There are no Aurors guarding the entrance to the Wizengamot’s formal chamber, bought and turned and cherry-picked to loyalty to the Dark Lord. Harry’s been paying attention to enough meetings to know that. No defenses appear to be springing into place, no alarms or traps. It’s as though the entire building sits empty for the first day in its entire career of housing the government.
A dark shadow floats across the ceiling, Harry’s Seeker eyes catching it early. He catches Voldemort’s arm and points up. The deep shadow drifts closer across the ceiling, part of a larger emerging mass. Two more split off from the horde and as the boldest of them drifts slowly down from the ceiling, Harry very sure they’re Dementors until spindly black tendrils emerge. As it comes closer into the light, it looks like nothing so much as a massive shroud come to life, radiating the kind of animal bloodlust and menace man can only aspire to. The whole of the Death Eater forces grinds to a halt as Voldemort harshly informs them all: “Lethifolds!”
Black tendrils sprout from the bottom of the dark Creatures, moving slowly and yet death is in the air. They’re soundless and many, nine, ten. Floating down from the ceiling in no particular hurry. And they don’t need to be. Harry wracks his brain for all he knows about them. Hermione had been reading on Creatures, non-beings, beasts. Sort of like Dementors, but extremely violent. One of the most dangerous beings in the world. Vulnerable to . . . the Patronus. Only the Patronus. A crowd of dark magic users, the Death Eaters are firing stunners and freezing spells at them, a riot of color. Voldemort is not. He already knows what Harry knows, that this is not the kind of fight Death Eaters can win, not against a horde of extraordinarily deadly Creatures whose only weakness is one of the greatest and most powerful light spells known.
Even with all his misgivings, the terror striking at his heart that he’s made the wrong choice, put his faith in the wrong thing, Harry knows he hasn’t put it in the wrong person. They will learn together, they will grow and they will change the world for the better. There is nothing left to ask, to say, or negotiate. It is time for action.
As the boldest of the Lethifolds comes upon them, tendrils reaching, shroud body rippling to strangle and choke and feed, Harry draws his wand and thinks of his parents in the Mirror of Erised, his trusty happiest memory. And knows it is no longer enough, no longer the truth. No, the truth requires that he remember pulling Voldemort closer, closer always, realizing they will always be together. Whether he wants to be or not, he’ll never be alone again and that’s his life’s dream come true. He holds both memories together, not choosing, not competing, flying in the face of everything Lupin taught him at a moment when he can’t afford to hesitate, and casts the spell.
“Expecto Patronum!” White erupts from his wand, so heavy and blinding it nearly forms sound as it builds up on itself to echo wave after wave across the atrium. Blasting the Lethifold encroaching nearly upon them, the beast screeches a horrible cry like it’s about to die and still Harry holds onto the spell. He wants to incapacitate and disband, not harm. All he knows is that this is the only thing that can combat them, the only chance any of them have for survival. The charm sends white waves towards the other Lethifolds separated from the herd, which cry and shy away, hounded by it. The dark mass of them still cling to the ceiling, more left untouched by the charm. Harry flicks his wand again and channels all of his thoughts, all of his will into that feeling, that knowledge of never being alone again in all time he has left on this earth, and lets go. The stag charges out in full force, springing into being four times the size it’s ever been before. He canters around the cavernous space, chasing the Lethifolds ruthlessly and charging into the aggregation of them fearlessly. The screeching is unearthly and the creatures disaggregate to fly across the room at speed, coasting and racing across the walls to take to corners and nooks and crannies where it’s dark and safe. The stag chases them even still, until they’re cowering into spaces so tight there’s no light at all and all is quiet. He turns to look at the witches and wizards gathered there as the smoky white light that composes him fades and steadily dissipates. And then he’s gone.
Harry turns to Voldemort in the silence, just to take him in, already tipping his head gently at the Wizengamot doors and darting his eyeing meaningfully in that direction. Nothing left to say.
Voldemort knows better than to brush the backs of his fingers down Harry’s face, but Harry doesn’t have to be attuned to him at all to know he wants to.
It doesn’t bear mentioning that Lethifolds are only found in tropical climates, that the Ministry itself would never have mounted such a hazardous defense, that there are only one or two individuals in the world who could have the connections, means, and motive to orchestrate such potential for decimating Voldemort’s forces in one fell swoop. Who would have the strategical skill to specifically design a defense to thwart a group of rogue dark wizards. Who would have the willingness for the resultant carnage. It’s done.
Together, they walk to the grandly carved doors. With a characteristic wave of his hand, Voldemort flings the doors wide open and together they step inside.
The whole of the Wizengamot is gathered within, exclaiming at the sudden entrance, perhaps frightened by unearthly screeching and lightshow under the door. Being called here on urgent business to vote on a matter that has never been discussed before the government. “Harry Potter!” some whisper in shock. Some members look like they are witnessing doom dawn on the horizon, some thrilled but bewildered, others shrinking in their seats. Voldemort and Harry stand before them side by side and as Voldemort opens his mouth to present his nonsense and bullshit and delusions, Harry stands calm at last. Be strong, he thinks towards the man beside him. For he is a man. Be resolute.
Make me proud.
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